Page 23 of Tempting the Highland Spy
Chapter Seven
When Grace had been a very young girl, her mother had urged her to take her castor oil in one foul gulp.Over and done, Mama gently coaxed. Despite her revulsion, Grace had dutifully choked down the awful-tasting stuff. Her mother had been right. It was better to get unpleasantness over with and move on to what lay ahead.
As she took in the plain, weathered brick building that housed Simon MacMasters’s office in the light of day, she considered Mama’s words.Over and done. Yes, that’s what she would do. She would keep her chin up and get the job done. As was the case when she’d been a child with a tummy ache, she had few options, none pleasant. She’d simply have to put up with the revolting taste of the task ahead and keep her thoughts focused on the future.
Squinting, she stared up at the three-story structure from her place in the carriage. A hint of sunlight peeked through the crowds, and she blinked against it. Nestled in a history-rich city that boasted its share of striking architecture, this particular building was surprisingly nondescript. Was that by design? After all, this place would draw little attention from passersby. No one was apt to guess that Simon MacMasters, a barrister of unremarkable success, was actually the chief strategist of a covert organization that had ties to the Home Office and the Crown. Mr. Jones had actually seemed impressed by his achievements, a rare thing for a man who appeared to be built of arrogance and a brash sense of duty.
The young agent named Bradshaw had arrived at the hotel shortly before noon to transport Grace to this outwardly ordinary place where decidedly unusual business was conducted. Aunt Thelma had stayed behind at the hotel. The less the woman learned of their plans, the better. She’d been told only enough to ease her mind over Grace’s well-being.
The driver of the carriage rambled along at a brisk pace. She recognized the old gent from an earlier journey through the Highlands. Fergus Royce had been pleasant enough as he greeted her with a tip of his bowler hat.
“Aye, I hadn’t counted on seein’ that bonny face of yours around these parts,” he’d said with a broad, craggy-faced grin before taking his place on the bench.
The distance traveled was mercifully brief. Mr. Bradshaw had maintained a cultivated reserve, careful to act the gentleman during their time unchaperoned in the coach. At least these men treated her with respect. She could not say the same for some of those who’d paid for her unique services in the past. She’d grown accustomed to cutting looks from the highbrow gents and ladies who expended considerable sums for her larcenous expertise, their silent condemnation for the sins she committed on their behalf.
“You’ll be getting well-acquainted with Fergus’s skill with the reins. He’s one of the best drivers in the business,” Mr. Bradshaw said, breaking the silence. “He’s been handpicked for this mission by Simon MacMasters—quite an honor, I’d say.”
“I am well-acquainted with Mr. Royce’s skill, if that is indeed the name for it.” She managed a small smile. “At this point, I feel as if my back teeth might soon rattle out of my head.”
His mouth curved up, a mere hint of a grin. “If we’re ever in trouble, you’ll see what I mean.”
As the carriage rumbled to a stop, Grace remained thoroughly unconvinced of Mr. Royce’s talent for guiding a team of horses. Rather, she gave silent thanks as the jarring motion of the coach stopped. Touching her fingers to her jawline, she gave the area a little massage, assuring herself all of her teeth remained firmly in place.
The agent escorted her from the carriage into the office. With a tiny tug, she lifted her ebony wool skirt so the hem brushed her ankles as she mounted the steps. As Mr. Bradshaw rapped upon the door, an unusual rhythm she surmised must be a code, she smoothed out the fabric. Nervous energy coursed through her body, and suddenly, her high collar was too tight, the lace scratchy against her skin. Reaching up, she adjusted the cameo at her throat.
The door opened, and Simon MacMasters ushered them inside. A quick glance around the room confirmed that Harrison was not present. She let out a low breath. Not quite relief. But an emotion she could not hope to define.
Mr. Jones stood by a window, appearing to keep watch. He spared her a glance, but said nothing as MacMasters offered her a seat.
“I trust you slept well, Miss Winters,” he said as she swept her bulky skirt to the side and settled onto the cushioned chair.
“I’d be lying if I said I did. But that doesn’t really matter now, does it? We’ve no need for pleasantries neither of us really mean.”
“You are direct, aren’t you?” MacMasters said. Not quite as tall and lean as his brother, he bore a striking similarity to Harrison. With his carved jaw and eyes that gleamed with a dynamic intelligence, he was a handsome man who carried himself with an air of fierce self-control. Simon MacMasters was not a man to give freely of his emotions. Grace read that truth about the man as clearly as if he’d written it on a banner and displayed it on the wall.
“I try to be, when the occasion allows for it. There are many times when I’m forced to withhold my honest observations. In my line of work, agreeability is a prime asset.”
He nodded his understanding. “You’ve mastered that art.”
“Through necessity, not by any whim on my part.”
She sighed. Why did it matter to her that these men understood the reasons for her deceptions? They didn’t care about her motives. They didn’t give a damn that her conscience troubled her. All that counted in their eyes was that she put her unorthodox skills to good use for their benefit.
Jones turned to her. “Let’s get on with what we’ve come here to do—you’re prepared to undertake this mission?”
“Yes,” she said. “Now, may we get on with our business?”
“Of course,” MacMasters said, glancing past her to the door as another series of raps broke through their terse conversation. He turned to the door, opened it, and spoke to the person who stood just beyond the entrance. “You’re late. We were expecting the carriage to arrive more than an hour ago.”
“Bugger off.” Fergus Royce strolled through the threshold, his craggy chin at a cocky angle. “Ye’re bloody lucky to have me.”
“Now that is a matter for debate,” MacMasters replied drolly as he peered past the skeleton-thin driver to Harrison. “I see you finally decided to join us.”
Harrison’s cold gaze settled on his brother. “I second Royce’s sentiment.”
Grace’s heart thudded wildly. She’d been so certain he wouldn’t come, so positive he wanted no part of this endeavor—nor any other that involved her, other than seeing her behind bars in a cold, dank cell. Why in blazes was he here?
Something that might have been amusement played on Mr. Jones’s full mouth as he turned to Harrison. “I assume you’ve made your decision.”
