Her mother waved at her distractedly, and James instructed the coachman to drive.
Once the carriage was underway, James looked at her quizzically. “Ye don’t want to stay and hear any more of the gossip?”
She shook her head. “It will take them ages to come back to the house as they’ll want to see my brother off and gather any last morsels of information. I, on the other hand, see this for what it is.”
“What’s that?”
She raised her brows. “A distraction.”
He grinned at her. “So it is.” James pulled her close, enveloping her in his warmth and security. “And just the one we’ve been hoping for.” He bent and kissed her, and she knew there would be many, many more in the years to come.
Pre-order Duncan and Ines’s book, The Highlander’s Excellent Adventure, now. Available everywhere September 2020.
If you enjoyed Kisses and Scandal, read the book where Lady Philomena is first introduced.
Counterfeit Scandal
One
Bridget Lavery moved among her students, observing their penmanship. It was her last class of the day and comprised of about twelve girls ages eight to ten. Officially, she taught art, reading, and penmanship.
Unofficially, she taught counterfeiting.
What was counterfeiting currency but the melding of art and penmanship? These pupils were too young to try their hand at actual counterfeiting, but they were learning to copy the styles of writing on various bank notes issued by England, as well as other countries.
“That’s very good, Susan,” she said as she peered over the shoulder of a thin blond girl. Most of the work in this class looked rough and unrefined, but Susan’s hand was exceptionally steady, and she had a good eye for her age.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lavery,” Susan said, smiling up at her. The little girl had blue eyes, and whenever Bridget looked into them, her chest tightened. Susan’s eyes were almost the same blue as James’s. He would be the same age as the youngest girls in the room too. Just eight.
When Bridget looked at Susan’s blond hair, she wondered if James’s hair was still blond, or whether it had turned darker like her own.
Bridget forced herself to keep moving, to continue nodding and smiling at the girls’ work, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in memories of a smiling toddler, arms out as he wobbled toward her on unsteady legs.
“Mrs. Lavery?”
Bridget blinked and glanced quickly at Abigail, whose hand was raised. “It’s past four o’clock. May we be dismissed?”
Bridget looked at the small clock on her desk. It was indeed almost five minutes past the hour. How careless of her! She had made the girls late to their pickpocketing class with Mrs. Chalmers.
“Of course. I am so sorry. Gather your materials, and we will continue with this practice next time we meet.”
Efficient as always, the girls were filing out the door within moments, a sea of blue in their school dresses. As soon as the last girl filed out, Bridget gathered her personal items and rushed to follow. This was the worst possible day to be caught daydreaming. She had an appointment at half past four near Covent Garden, and she did not want to be late. She stopped by the room she shared with Mademoiselle Valérie Gagne—who taught French and accent modification—pulled on gloves and a hat, and rushed down the stairs, past a ballroom filled with older girls practicing sharp kicks to hay targets, and out the front door.
A few minutes later, she was jostling among the crowds on Piccadilly, wary of pickpockets, ignoring the cries of hawkers, and trying to stay clear of carriages with overzealous drivers. The boarding house was farther than she would have liked, but she couldn’t afford any of the rooms in Marylebone. She’d investigated every vacancy. She located the street she sought, turned right, and slowed. The street was not as busy as many of the others and not at all what she would call safe. People sat in doorways and watched her pass. As she was dressed little better than they, though her clothes were cleaner, they mostly ignored her.
Bridget carried a knife in her pocket just in case. She’d never had to use it. On occasion, she’d had to pull it out, whereby the lad—almost always a young boy or boys—accosting her decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Usually, she never brought blunt with her when walking alone. Today, she had a shilling tucked in her glove. The rest of her savings was safely hidden back at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy. Bridget doubted even Valérie could have found it, not that Valérie would ever steal from her.
But Bridget didn’t trust anyone.
Yesterday, when Valérie had been teaching and Bridget had an hour’s break, she’d locked their door, pried up the floorboard, taken the money out, and counted it. She had twelve shillings and six pence saved. It wasn’t much, considering, but she hoped it would be enough to rent a small room in a boarding house. Once she had a room, she could claim James again—if she could find him.
She studied the numbers printed on the buildings until she found the one she sought. A Mrs. Jacobs had advertised “clean, furnished rooms at affordable prices.”
Bridget tapped on the door and waited until a woman with messy brown hair and a dirty apron pulled it open. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Jacobs. I sent a note inquiring about the room for rent and was told to come at half past four.”
The woman’s eyes slid down Bridget and back up again. “And who are you?”
“Bridget Lavery. Are you Mrs. Jacobs?”
“I am. Do you have a husband?” Mrs. Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not running a bawdy house.”
Bridget felt her cheeks color. “My husband is dead. I teach at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy in Manchester Square. You may speak to Mrs. Brodie if you’d like a reference or proof I’m not a harlot.”
Bridget hoped the headmistress was in London at the moment. She often traveled, and she hadn’t seen her for a few days.
Mrs. Jacobs opened the door wider, nodding. “The school don’t give you a room?”
“It does, but I have a young son, and the academy is for young ladies. If I want him to live with me, I must procure my own lodging.”
The door inched closed again. “Boys can be trouble.”
“This one won’t be.”
The two women eyed each other for a long moment, and then Mrs. Jacobs stepped back. “Come in, Mrs. Lavery. I’ll show you the room.”
Mrs. Jacobs led her through a dark common room and up a staircase with worn carpet. The subtle scent of mold and cooked onions lingered in the air. At the landing, Mrs. Jacobs continued to the second floor. Bridget frowned. She had been hoping for a room on the first floor, as the top floor would be hot in summer and cold in winter.
“The men’s rooms are on the first floor,” Mrs. Jacobs said, as though reading her mind. “The women are up here.”
The second floor was dark, and Bridget squinted as Mrs. Jacobs led her to the end of the corridor, pulled out a large keyring, selected a key, and opened the door.
She motioned Bridget inside, and Bridget walked in cautiously. The room was small and dingy. It had a bed, a table with one chair, and a basin with a pitcher. “I thought the advertisement said the room was furnished.”