Page 16 of Tempting the Highland Spy
She turned to Jones. “Very well. I’ll do whatever it takes. But you will not involve my aunt. You must promise me that she will be provided comfortable accommodations for as long as this takes.”
“Consider it done,” Jones said. “Bradshaw, arrange for rooms for Mrs. McTavish and Miss Winters at the Therrimen Hotel.”
Harrison cocked a brow. The Therrimen was considered one of the finest establishments in Edinburgh, perhaps in all of Scotland. The American was sparing no expense to get what he wanted.
Mrs. McTavish’s face contorted in dismay, and she touched her embroidered cloth to her eyes. She turned to Jones. “What are you going to have her do now?”
Grace squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. A wan little smile danced on her lips as she nervously smoothed her skirts. “It’s nothing to worry over, dear. I am going to work again. For just a little while longer.”
…
The regret in Aunt Thelma’s eyes nearly shredded the last remnants of Grace’s composure. Despite her aunt’s less-than-honest ways, she was a good-hearted soul who’d taken in Grace and Claire when they’d needed her most. After the death of their parents, her aunt had soothed Grace’s frightened tears and raised Claire from a toddler with an instinctive gentleness. The widow had done what it took to provide for the girls who’d been unexpectedly thrust into her care. She’d kept a roof over their heads with her beauty, her charm, and the unsavory techniques she’d learned from her husband, an accomplished swindler whose final attempt to cheat a man at cards had ended with Aunt Thelma in widow’s weeds.
Now, she appeared utterly heartsick.
Aunt Thelma’s instincts had always been keen—other than in those moments when the temptation to snare another expensive trinket or two blunted her perception of risk.
At least the men did not intend to separate Grace from her aunt. Not yet. Jones had requested a block of rooms at the swanky hotel. They’d certainly be staying in style. Would she remain in Scotland to complete this job? In any case, she would do what she could to set her aunt’s mind at ease, to assure her that her blunder was not the cause of their predicament. Grace had seen the determination in the American agent’s expression. No matter what it took, he would have found a way to induce her to take on this job. Aunt Thelma’s ill-advised attempt to claim the count’s fancy watch had only made Jones’s task that much easier.
As he escorted Aunt Thelma from the office, the agent named Bradshaw conducted himself as a gentleman, his compassion a marked contrast to Jones’s look of triumph. She’d express her gratitude later.
Harrison held his expression guarded as Aunt Thelma and Agent Bradshaw departed. He’d said little during her exchange with Jones and his brother, regarding the unfolding scene with what seemed genuine surprise. Unless he’d developed superior acting talents, he had not been involved in laying this trap for her aunt. At least that was some comfort.
His arms folded over his chest, he leaned against a bookshelf with a casualness that contrasted with the tautness of his jaw and his hard gaze. “At some point, I presume you will inform me what role you expect me to play in this scheme.”
“Of course,” Simon said, opening a portfolio on his desk. “Miss Winters, please, take a seat.” He motioned her to one of the wing chairs. She swept her skirts to the side and settled onto the Chippendale. With a shake of his head, Harrison remained on his feet.
Simon removed a photograph from the cordovan leather folder. Grace stared down at the image.Belle Fairchild.Why on earth did he have a portrait of the New York heiress?
He tapped a finger against the image. “Do you know this woman?”
“Of course, I do. She’s very active in the New York art world.”
His brows pressed into a firm line. “I understand you set about making her acquaintance?”
“You might say that. Though it wasn’t a challenge. You’d have to be living in some remote cave to escape the chatter about Belle.”
“What type of chatter is that?” Jones asked.
Grace shrugged. “The usual—a bit of gossip, nothing more. Some found her eccentric. I think she’s quite charming.”
“Would you consider her to be sane?” Jones’s question seemed to come out of nowhere. How very odd.
“That goes without saying,” she said. “Belle has her quirks, as we all do, but she possesses a kind heart.”
He nodded and shot Simon a speaking glance. “How did you make her acquaintance?”
“I suspect you already know the answer to that question, but I will give you the confirmation you desire. I first met Miss Fairchild when we were bridesmaids in a Manhattan wedding—as I recall, an heiress wed an heir to an even larger fortune.” She offered a wry smile. “It was a match made in heaven’s boardroom.”
“And quite a lucrative opportunity for a thief,” Jones added.
“You could say that.” Grace kept her tone light. The jewelry she and Aunt Thelma had gotten their hands on during the wedding reception alone had paid for a year of Claire’s boarding school and financed much needed repairs on her aunt’s modest home.
Simon’s eyes narrowed. “As I understand it, you’re a professional bridesmaid.”
“Among other things. You might say I’m very good at being needed. Aunt Thelma has a knack for finding opportunities where a woman is in need of a friend. Or, in the case of a bride-to-be, a listening ear who doesn’t mind wearing scratchy white lace and holding a silly bouquet. Wealthy women are often rather isolated. That’s where I come in.”
Simon tapped the photo again. The gesture seemed nervous. Impatient. “What was your impression of Miss Fairchild?”
