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

I’ve faced doon enough bluster in my day, and killin’ me willna give Kincaid what he wants.”

Perhaps, but there were less extreme measures Bonnie Brock could take. Pain could be an astonishingly persuasive method for making people talk. Sir Anthony, my first husband, had known this well, and I was certain Bonnie Brock did, too.

All that being said, and his protestations aside, I wasn’t convinced the publisher could not be persuaded to divulge Mugdock’s real name. It was more that no one thus far had stumbled upon the right inducement. But until we discovered it, perhaps he would be willing to cooperate in a less straightforward manner.

“Have you met Mr. Mugdock?” I asked.

Mr. Rookwood’s gaze shifted to mine, and a shrewdness entered his features. “I assume ye mean in person, but I’m no’ gonna discuss that. Let’s just say that Mugdock and I have a healthy correspondence.”

“Our scrutiny of this Mugdock’s writing leads us to believe he’s not your typical writer,” Gage remarked almost offhandedly. However, I knew from experience that the suppression of his voice’s inflection during an interrogation was conversely proportional to his interest in the answer to his question. “In fact, this is likely his first book of fiction. And yet, he’s obviously educated and well read.”

“Yes, he’s a bit of a conundrum, isn’t he?” I replied, playing along with my husband’s gambit. “He’s evidently familiar with Edinburgh, but there’s something inauthentic about his descriptions of the lowliest of places and the perpetuation of the crimes described. It makes one wonder how he came across his information about Bonnie Brock. And why he seems to have a vendetta against him.”

“A vendetta Kincaid now seems to be turning back on you.”

A gleam of reluctant admiration lit Mr. Rookwood’s eyes as he observed our exchange and absorbed Gage’s pointed statement—a blunt reminder of the threats he faced. “Seems you’ve worked oot a great deal for yourselves,” he said, but whether this was confirmation of our deductions or he was humoring us, I couldn’t tell. “I willna deny that at times I wonder whether publishing Mugdock’s book has been worth all the trouble. Oh, aye, it’s made a tidy profit. But the threats and harassment I’ve been left to face while he hides behind a false name have been more than I bargained for.” The hand resting on his desk tightened into a fist and then released abruptly as he exhaled. “But what’s done is done. And I’ll no’ dishonor myself noo.” He turned his head aside. “’Specially no’ for the likes o’ a man like Mugdock.”

This more than anything before made clear the state of the relationship between the publisher and author, and it was both a hole to be prodded and a difficult problem to surmount. For while Rookwood might eventually be convinced that revealing Mugdock’s true identity wasn’t dishonorable—particularly after all of the unsubstantiated allegations he’d made in his book and the trouble he’d caused him—Rookwood would abhor having to concede anything to the man, making that contract a thorn in all our sides.

“Mugdock,” Gage ruminated. “That’s a rather odd choice for a nom de plume, is it not?”

Rookwood shrugged. “’Twas his choice. I’ve no idea why he chose it.”

But perhaps it might unwittingly tell us something about him.

I allowed my gaze to trail over the papers on the desk and then down to the rubbish bin sitting next to one of the cabriole legs perched on crisply carved claw-and-ball feet. It was overflowing with foolscap, but one document resting near the top caught my eye, for I’d seen a playbill just like it. “You’ve been to see the play? At the Theatre Royal?”

Rookwood broke off from whatever he had been saying to Gage and turned to me with an aggrieved sigh. “Aye. Three nights past.”

“Did the Theatre Royal pay Mugdock for their use of his book?” Gage queried.

Rookwood chuckled as if Gage had said something humorous. “Nay, lad. Theaters dinna pay for the use o’ an author’s material. Least no’ unless you’re Sir Walter Scott and likely to sue them wi’ the sympathy o’ the entire bloody nation.” He shook his head. “Nay. Most authors receive nothin’. Unless the theater manager happens to feel guilty. But even then ’tis only a single payment in exchange for the author’s endorsement in their advertisin’.” He reached out to pick up his pipe, but seeing my eyes following his movements, he left it in the dish. The stale air inside the chamber had cleared, but it would rapidly grow rank again if he began to smoke. “Nothin’ for it but for the author to take it in stride.”

“And did Mugdock? Take it in stride?” Gage clarified.

Rookwood’s placid good humor returned to irritation as he tapped the desk with a single finger. “Nay, wanted to sue ’em all. And when I told him I wanted no part o’ it, that he would go that road alone, he threatened to sue me for breach o’ contract.” A feline smile curled his lips. “Except he’d no’ anticipated the book bein’ made into a play, and so his contract didna cover it.” He gestured toward the playbill in the rubbish bin. “The Theatre Royal made him a handsome offer, but the fool refused to endorse it because o’ the changes they’d made. So he . . . we . . .” he amended “. . . received nothin’. And yet the play still runs. And a spectacular success it is.”

Gage and I shared a speaking look.

“Do you know which changes he was displeased with?” I asked, turning my head so that I could breathe more deeply of the cool breeze wafting into the room.

Rookwood scoffed. “Anythin’ that made Kincaid look like anythin’ better than the cur and charlatan he’d determined to portray him to be. Except he forgets that’s no’ how most o’ Edinburgh sees him. And the showmen are savvy enough to appreciate what makes a profit.”

“Then Mugdock truly does have a vendetta against Kincaid,” Gage surmised.

“That much is obvious from the book, isna it?” His eyebrows arched high on