Perhaps she was wrong about her suspicions. Maybe Mr.Sinclair was exactly who he seemed—an honest crofter with no secrets.
Or did Rose justwanthim to be?
Just as if her doubts had manifested into reality, Mr.Sinclair slipped inside a narrow passage between an inn and a grocer’s. She hesitated a beat or two before following. By the time she peered down the shadowy alley, Mr.Sinclair was already disappearing behind a corner. She slid her hand into her reticule and touched the cool steel of her snub-nose revolver. Her weapon now in reach, she slunk into the tight space. The buildings were so close that they blocked most of the sun, and a chill leached through Rose.
Quietly, she tiptoed down the path and peeked around the side of the public house. Mr.Sinclair stood patiently at the back door, his arm muscles bulging under the weight of the case he held. Rose released anoiseless sigh. Of course he’d go to the back to deliver foodstuff. She really was painting everything with undeserved suspicion.
Just as she was about to back away, the door swung open, and a heavyset man with a thatch of red hair emerged. “Bit early in the week for a delivery, isn’t it?”
“I had to make an unexpected trip to Stromness,” Mr.Sinclair said.
The man eyed the bottom of the crate. “Did you bring more than just cheese?”
“I wouldn’t come without your other order,” Mr.Sinclair said. Something about the careful, circumspect way the men were talking caused Rose’s suspicions to reignite, and she found that she’d begun to resent those doubts. She didn’t want Mr.Sinclair to be the villain.
“The package is safe where it always is?” the man said.
Package?What was this mysterious second delivery? Could it be intelligence about the British guard ships or the state of the German Imperial Fleet? A pub near a busy port would be the perfect place to exchange information. No one would think it amiss for a passenger to head straight to the local watering hole after stepping off the ferry. In fact, it was at this very establishment that Rose planned on meeting Mr.White and Mr.Lewis. At each thought, Rose’s spirits plummeted even further, and her stomach sloshed uncomfortably.
“Under the cheese?” the publican asked.
“Aye. Under the cheese,” Mr.Sinclair confirmed.
The innkeeper finally accepted the crate. Grunting when the weight transferred to him, he disappeared into the house. He returned later with a sack of money. Judging by how it bulged, the Orcadian wasn’t just buying wheels of cheese, and the exchange of forbidden secrets always paid well. Rose should have been elated to discover another potential clue, but instead she felt a peculiar sense of defeat that slipped through her muscles, weakening them.
As Mr.Sinclair hid the money in an inner pocket of his oilskin jacket, Rose backed away, her limbs still feeling shaky. It wouldn’t do for him todiscover her in the alley, especially when she had no idea how to process this new discovery. It was certainly not enough to go to the authorities with, but she did not know exactly how to proceed. Part of her didn’t evenwantto know more, but she had no choice but to keep digging—not when peace was at stake. Perhaps she and Myrtle should start coming to this particular establishment for dinner, especially when the ferry from mainland Scotland was due in. She certainly would not want to cast suspicion on the islanders unless she was absolutely certain of their involvement. The only way forward seemed to be gathering more intelligence, even if she had begun to dislike where or ratherwhomshe had to search.
Walking briskly back to the main street and fighting back an unexpectedly strong bubble of pain inside her chest, Rose headed straight for the front entrance of the pub. Although she would have strategically preferred to stay in the bar area where the gossip flowed the best, it tended to still be the domain of men. Normally Rose didn’t mind ruffling the feathers of puffed-up peacocks, but creating a stir wouldn’t help her investigation, and she wasn’t in the mood to attract attention. Instead of grabbing a stool for herself, she asked for a table in the back snug.
The inn served a light lunch, and a few patrons were gathered in the homey room, where a fire crackled in the hearth. Unfortunately, the conversations that Rose overheard were as wholesome as the stone room with its polished wood furniture. Discussions about the weather, shoals of fish, and ferry passages weren’t particularly helpful, but they were oddly soothing. Normal even. Breathing in and out, she let the pain inside of her fade away, and she quieted her thoughts. She couldn’t have questions skittering around her brain when the former land agent of Muckle Skaill arrived. She needed to be focused.
Mr.White soon appeared in a black wool overcoat and top hat. He was of a middling age with a passing claim to handsomeness, if one liked their men winsomely earnest, well groomed, and a tad pale. Rose supposed that the solicitor with his half smile framed by a fashionable mustache exuded a sense of nonthreatening charm, which she’d alwaysfound both disingenuous and dull. Nobody was ever naturally this consistently pleasant.
“You must be Mr.White!” Rose said, imbuing her own voice with false enthusiasm as she stood up to greet the man and her own lawyer, Mr.Lewis, who was a tall, uncompromising gentleman in his sixties. The former land agent of Muckle Skaill, however, did not detect her facade, and his grin grew warm, but not, of course,toowarm.
“And you must be Miss Van Etten,” Mr.White said, his voice as kind and solicitous as his face. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I was so pleased when you requested that I bring you the papers. It is an honor indeed.”
“Oh, the pleasure and honor are all mine.” Rose gave a magnanimous sweep of her hand to the chair across from her as she began to resume her own seat. She could play the lady bountiful when needed, as she next indicated for Mr.Lewis to take the seat kitty corner to her. That left one chair open for her surprise guest.
“Here is the paperwork you need to sign,” Mr.Lewis said, handing her a folio. “You shall find it all in order.”
Rose nodded and removed the documents. As she began to scan them, Mr.White cleared his throat, the sound light and ever so polite. Rose lifted her eyes to his. “Yes, Mr.White?”
“Miss Van Etten, I assure you that there is no need for you to trouble yourself with reading the material. You have employed an exceedingly good solicitor, and I am an honest man who would never seek to mislead a lady.”
“That may all be true, but I am still going to review it myself.” Rose didn’t attempt to hide the brittleness of her smile. She had been looking over contracts since shortly after she could read. As a child, she had nurtured the vain hope that if she could converse with her father about matters of business like his industrialist friends, then he might pay her some attention. In later years, she’d discovered that it was much easier to cause a scandal to attract notice.
“But it is quite weighty phrasing—” Mr.White continued, concern dripping from each word.
“Miss Van Etten is about to become laird of two isles.” Mr.Sinclair’s low voice broke into the conversation. “I don’t think mere pieces of paper will intimidate her.”
The two attorneys turned at the same time Rose did toward the Viking who stood before them. His rough oilskin coat was unbuttoned to reveal his sweater below—the one he’d knit himself. He didn’t have the city polish of the men seated beside Rose, but he didn’t need a suit to profess his competence. He simply radiated it.
“Please join us, Mr.Sinclair.” Rose pointed toward the empty chair with as much flourish as she’d done when offering Mr.White a seat. “Mr.White and Mr.Lewis, this is Mr.Sinclair of Frest. I have invited him, as this is also a matter of import to the crofters on that island, and he serves as their representative.”
Mr.Lewis, who was well accustomed to Rose’s unconventional behavior, greeted Mr.Sinclair politely. Her lawyer’s gravitas in the face of Rose’s unpredictability was one of the reasons that she continued to engage him.
Mr.White, however, was not nearly so sanguine at suddenly having a tenant farmer at their table. Even his ever-present pleasant mien couldn’t quite obscure his sourness as he observed in a rather clipped tone, “We have met before.”
