A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (e novels to read TXT) 📕

this bawdiness pertained to the alleged romantic relationship between me and Bonnie Brock. That sick, swirling feeling began again in the pit of my stomach. I knew I should ignore it all. After all, what was there to be done? But the ire and aggravation etched across Gage’s face made it difficult to disregard.

“And did the characters Lady Dalby and Mr. Gale look like us?” Gage demanded to know.

“Not particularly,” Anderley replied.

Which meant the theater hadn’t gone out of its way to make the characters not look like us.

Gage turned to stare into the hearth, aggravation tightening every muscle of his six-foot-two-inch frame. Meanwhile, Bree continued to glare at Anderley across the expanse of the low table. But it wasn’t his fault. He was merely the messenger.

“Well, at least now we know what we have to contend with,” I said. “The Theatre Royal and others like it might choose to omit some of the more titillating elements of the book, but it appears the minor theaters will not balk at it.”

Gage exhaled a deep breath, releasing some of his frustration. “And neither will the gaffs and any traveling shows. In fact, I expect some of them to be outright lewd.”

Anderley nodded in confirmation.

More often than not, when the manager of a theater company was fined or prosecuted for lewdness or indecency, it was one of the makeshift, pop-up penny gaffs or a traveling company of players moving from county to county—for obvious reasons. It was far easier to evade the law when one’s play could take place in a different location every night.

“What of the production and audience in general?” I broke off, grunting as I adjusted the pillow at my lower back. “Did anything occur to you that might help us uncover the author’s identity? For instance, differences in interpretations between what the book describes and what the playwright and actors chose to portray?”

I was curious to hear their thoughts. For some reason the book had given me the impression that Mugdock had not actually lived among the people he described. Despite his intimate knowledge of Bonnie Brock’s past and vivid descriptions of some of the more lurid elements of his life, I felt quite certain Mugdock had never been a member of Brock’s gang or even a rival one. For all its insight, at times the story devolved into either bland prose or gross caricature, making me suspect Mugdock was unfamiliar with what he was describing, and so had chosen to either ignore it entirely or manufacture the ambience out of whole cloth.

In contrast, many of the members of a minor theater’s company had likely lived and grown up among the streets of Old Town, if not in Grassmarket itself. They knew the streets and wynds, the sounds and smells and textures of its walls. They intimately understood many of the experiences Bonnie Brock had endured, and they would have corrected any inaccuracies, either consciously or not, found in the book.

It was clear from her troubled expression that something had occurred to Bree almost immediately, though it took her a moment to find her words. “Well, I dinna ken how they depicted him at the Theatre Royal, but one o’ the things that most struck me was how ruthless they portrayed Bonnie Brock. They certainly dinna shy away from it.”

Anderley crossed his arms over his chest as he considered this. “He was very much the relentless, unbending, almost brutal man he’s purported to be. And yet this did not repel the audience. Far from it. They seemed to find him even more heroic because of it.”

“Aye, the lass on Anderley’s left actually forgot to keep makin’ coo eyes at him whenever the actor playin’ Bonnie Brock was on stage,” Bree drawled sarcastically.

His lips compressed slightly, letting me know this wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned the girl and her cow eyes, and I wondered if this was the source of contention I’d sensed between them when they entered the room.

“They did stress how he has his ain code o’ honor,” Bree added, returning her attention to me. “So it was verra clear why he was ruthless when he deemed he had cause to be.” She tilted her head in thought. “And considerin’ how cruel and unforgivin’ life, and even the law, can be to those who havena been born wi’ all the advantages, I suppose his code o’ honor is better than none. At least wi’ him they ken where they’re at and call that fair.”

Bree made a valid point. A point she and Anderley were both familiar with. After all, Bree had entered my father’s service as a kitchen maid, where she had been abused by the cook, nearly being crippled during her worst beating. At the discovery, my father had fired the cook and hired a surgeon to attend to Bree, but the damage was done, and to this day she still limped when the weather was cold or rainy. Whereas Anderley had been born into an impoverished family in Italy and sold to a padrone, who had promised his parents he would teach him a trade. But rather than an apprenticeship, Anderley had found himself essentially a slave, one of the hundreds if not thousands of Italian Boys haunting the streets of London and other cities in Europe, performing and hawking wares for their padrone masters. That he had run away from his padrone and saved Gage from a trio of ruffians, and then Gage had taken him into his service, had been part providence and part courageous perseverance.

Neither Bree nor Anderley had been responsible for the terrible situations they’d found themselves in. Servants were to mind their superiors and suffer whatever “reasonable” correction they meted out—a term which gave room for considerable latitude, sometimes with tragic consequences. That no one had recognized sooner how beyond “reasonable” the cook’s punishment of Bree had become was horrifying and sadly all too common, while officials often ignored the existence of the Italian Boys—as they ignored the existence