Page 9 of Never Kiss a Scot
Edmund repressed another shudder. Now he was grateful for Miss Lennox’s rejections. Hugo’s plan no doubt would have made them both miserable, and money could compensate for only so much in life.
Whatever Waverly was planning, Edmund wanted nothing more to do with it. He preferred staying alive. Waverly had protection from the Crown, it was true, but Edmund had no such luxury. And if someone died from Waverly’s games, well, Edmund might be the one to hang for it.
“Should I assume our business is concluded then?” Edmund asked quietly.
Waverly stroked his chin, his black eyes looking at something in the distance that Edmund could not see, and for a moment he feared he might have to repeat his question.
“Yes, I am done with you. My office will tender a final payment in the morning, and I will see no more of you.”
Edmund couldn’t agree more on the last point. He hastily retreated into the crowds, smiling at his good fortune. Another thousand pounds would be lining his pocket, and all he had done was chase Joanna Lennox into the arms of someone else. Lady Fortune was smiling upon him, at least.
He tried not to think whether or not Fortune would soon frown upon Miss Lennox.
Hugo stoodat the edge of the ballroom, lurking in the shadows kindly afforded by an unlit lamp in his corner of the room. He watched the oblivious couples dance. His wife was out there tonight, no doubt dancing with some fool. He didn’t care if married ladies weren’t supposed to dance except with their husbands. His wife enjoyed dancing, and since he could not give her the time for a dance, not while seeing to his plans, he was content to let her have her amusement wherever she could find it.
A flash of pale-blond hair caught his attention, and he had to keep his heart from racing as he saw Ashton Lennox on the dance floor, his Scottish bride in his arms.
My prey…so close. He had to keep himself from reaching for the small blade he kept on him at all times. The dagger that he dreamed nearly every night of plunging into the hearts of every last member of the League of Rogues.
Only a few days ago they had held the key to destroying him in their hands, and yet they had chosen to burn it. He still could not reason out why. Not that it mattered. He would not stop; he would not show mercy.
I will bring you down, one by one, with a death of a thousand cuts.And one of those cuts will be Joanna Lennox.
All he had to do was let it slip to the right Highland clans that Lord Kincade’s father had betrayed his countrymen, and that the Englishman who had helped him was Ashton Lennox. And he knew which clans held their grudges for generations.
They would kill Joanna, Lord Kincade, and likely Ashton as well. Even if Ashton somehow survived Highland justice, losing his sister would destroy him. The sweet irony would be that Ashton himself had just destroyed the very evidence that might have saved her.
And no one will be the wiser that I played a part in any of it.
It was so easy to be the devil at times—so very easy.
4
Joanna slipped into the silent, still house. Everyone was likely still at the ball. Her shoulders dropped in relief. She would have some time alone to collect herself after the disaster she’d created after that last dance with Brock. She thanked the footman who met her at the door and snuck down to the kitchens where their cook, Mrs. Copeland, was kneading some bread for the next day. The cook’s dark-brown hair, streaked with gray, was tucked beneath a white cap, and her cheeks were red with her exertions as she kneaded dough on a counter.
“Miss Joanna!” The cook grinned and retrieved a small wet cloth to wipe the flour off her hands before she hugged Joanna. Mrs. Copeland was like a favorite aunt to her. She’d always taken good care of the Lennox children and had been their cook for more than fifteen years.
“Mrs. Copeland, do you have any peach tarts?” Joanna glanced about the tidy kitchen, hoping to find at least a little something to eat before bed. She, like some ladies, was often too embarrassed to eat at a ball. She wasn’t plump by any means, but she was very conscious of her figure, and it seemed a bad thing to appear to hover about the refreshments when men were watching.
Mrs. Copeland chuckled. “Do I have peach tarts?” She walked over to the cooling rack and lifted up a blue-and-white plaid cloth off the plate, revealing several glistening, sugary peach tarts.
“Take as many as you like.” Mrs. Copeland winked at her. “And there’s a bottle of sherry in the cupboards if you’d like a wee nip before bed.”
Joanna grinned and fetched the bottle. “Only if you have a glass with me.” She retrieved a couple of small sherry glasses and filled them. Mrs. Copeland put up only a small protest before taking her glass, her hazel eyes twinkling. It was a post-ball ritual to have a tart and a glass of sherry with the cook.
“Now then, how was the dancing?” Mrs. Copeland asked after Joanna daintily cut into her tart with a fork.
“It was…”
Divine.
Wretched.
Dancing with Brock had been simply wonderful, but what had happened afterward… Shame burned the back of her throat, and she blinked away tears.
“What’s the matter, dearie?” Mrs. Copeland patted one of her hands. “You look ready to cry. I thought balls were supposed to be wonderful.”
Joanna banished the tears. The last thing she wanted was to appear foolish. Even though she’d been friends with Mrs. Copeland most of her life, she had never dared to tell anyone in the house her troubles with suitors—or the lack thereof.
