Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(12)

Celia tugged at her overskirt the fallen chair had pinned to the floor and heard the India cotton tear—her mother would have a thing or two to say about that. Two footmen materialized beside her, untangled the skirt, and righted the chair.

“Are you well, my lady?” Rivers asked from below.

“Yes, yes.” Celia jerked her skirt into place, plunked onto the chair, and thrust her high-heeled slippers onto her feet. She continued her journey down the last flight more sedately, praying her shoes stayed on her feet.

Celia knew Mr. Finn watched from above even before she reached the ground floor and looked back up. He stood four floors above her, his large hand gripping the gallery railing, his dark red hair loose and tumbling about his face.

He remained unmoving, not acknowledging her, but Celia knew he knew she’d been listening at the door. Knew she’d heard all he and Lady Flora had discussed.

But he did nothing, said nothing. Celia sent a smile upward and lifted her hand in a brief farewell. “Good morning, Mr. Finn,” she sang out, then she turned for the front door, striving to move with dignity.

Mr. Finn did not answer. Celia felt his eyes on her as a maid helped her into her wraps and she ducked out of the house.

A sedan chair waited on the pavement—because of course a duke’s daughter could not be allowed to walk the hundred feet around the square to her father’s house. Celia thanked the bearers for waiting, and the footman who helped her in, and the second footman who came out with her portfolio and tucked it into the chair beside her as she settled herself.

Celia glanced up at the house, finding the window that would give onto the fourth floor studio. She couldn’t see anything but sun and clouds reflected on glass, but she knew in her heart that Mr. Finn watched her go.



Once darkness settled on the streets, Alec Mackenzie departed Lady Flora’s house through its back garden and entered a plain black coach at the end of the mews. Not long later, he left Mayfair and then St. James’s behind, the coach heading eastward along the river.

At Fleet Street, Alec descended from the coach and melted into the lanes south and east of it.

He’d dressed in dark breeches, plain coat, and sturdy shoes, and pulled his hair into a tight queue, letting the darkness and his hat hide the red of it. Thus garbed, Alec looked like every other working man walking these streets. He was confident that he didn’t have much chance of being spotted as a savage Highlander, because most Londoners, especially in this area, had never seen one. They’d met Scots, of course, but those were mostly Glaswegians and other Lowlanders who came looking for work at the docks and in the factories.

Alec was on his way to meet such a Lowlander in a tavern near the river. The man had been another of Will’s contacts and might have some idea about what Will had been up to.

The tavern was typical of taverns around dockyards everywhere—Paris, London, Edinburgh—didn’t matter. A dark interior lit by few lights, a large fireplace with an indifferent fire struggling to burn, plank tables scarred from years of tankards and fists being pounded on them, rushes on the floor that smelled as though they hadn’t been swept out and replenished in weeks.

Two harried barmaids sailed among the patrons, swinging away from fondling hands with the ease of long practice. Both caught sight of Alec—one sent him a surly look, and one beamed a smile.

He sent the friendlier woman a nod and seated himself at a relatively empty end of a table. Just his luck, it was the surly barmaid who flowed by and demanded to know if he wanted ale.

“Please,” Alec answered. His plan was to speak as little as possible, so his accent wouldn’t mark him. Best to sip ale, look unassuming, and wait for his man.

The barmaid gave him an even more sour look and marched away.

Celia Fotheringhay. The name broke into Alec’s thoughts, followed by the memory of her hazel eyes, the fearless way she’d assessed him, her interest when he’d begun to instruct her. He’d watched those eyes sparkle with fervor when she’d began drawing in earnest, the passion catching her up before she realized it.

The drawing she’d done of his face had been quite good. It was as though he’d peered into a mirror or, heartbreakingly, at his twin, Angus, gone forever.

That was the trouble. If the wrong person saw the drawing, Alec Mackenzie was done for.

Lady Celia had caught not only his likeness but showed him for what he was—a Highlander, strong and arrogant, unbroken though Butcher Cumberland had done his best to erase his family from the earth. Celia hadn’t sketched in a bonnet and claymore, but she might as well have.

He’d tucked the drawing among his things in his small bedchamber, keeping it safe. Looking at the picture made him remember the truth of himself, and also the pretty young woman who had sketched it.

No dalliance there, though. Celia was the means to an end, the daughter of a man who might know Will’s fate. If Alec were cruel, he’d consider using pretty Celia to take his revenge on her ducal father—he admitted the thought had danced in his mind before he’d met her. But the lady was an innocent, ignorant of what had truly happened in the Jacobite Uprising, untouched by it. There was no hatred of all things Scots in her.

An even crueler man would rejoice that she was such an innocent—all the better weapon for tearing down her father.

But Alec was not cruel. In fact, he thought of himself as genial and pleasant, more inclined to flirt with a lovely woman than use her in a dastardly plot of vengeance. Lady Flora was more inclined to the dastardly. He’d have to tell her to keep her scheming fingers off the lovely Celia.