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

“That aboot sums it up.” He reached for one of the last scones, bitterness twisting his mouth. “But that’s usually hoo it goes when even a hint o’ suspicion falls on a member o’ your class. Which is where you come in.”

I knew that Sergeant Maclean didn’t blame us for this double standard, but I felt the shame of it nonetheless. “I could write to Lady Kirkcowan,” I offered. “She would know whether the gems she wore in November before her departure from Edinburgh were real or fake. And I believe, under the circumstances, she would tell me the truth.”

If those gems had been real, it would also give me the opportunity to find out why she had allowed them to fall back into her husband’s hands after I’d risked so much to obtain them for her. I’d even contrived with Bonnie Brock Kincaid to have the job done, granting him a percentage of the spoils if his gang stole the Kirkcowans’ jewelry and placed the rest into my hands. When I’d then passed them secretly to Lady Kirkcowan, urging her to conceal them in a place her husband would never find them, I’d expected her to save the jewels for a moment when she and her children were in dire circumstances.

“I’d be grateful,” Maclean replied, his gaze once again turning too keen for my liking.

I nodded. “I’ll do so as soon as we return home.”

“Do you have any suspicions who might be responsible for the thefts, if they’re both, in fact, legitimate?” Gage queried.

“Aye,” Maclean pronounced around a bite of scone, chewing and swallowing before he spoke. “Bonnie Brock Kincaid.”

I’m not sure why I was surprised, for he was already uppermost in my suspicions. I supposed it was the certainty behind Maclean’s tone and the stony look in his eyes. “You think he’s behind the jewelry thefts?”

“I ken it. But thus far I’ve no proof, other than my gut and the knowledge that Kincaid’s men are the only ones wi’ the skills to snatch such a haul o’ baubles wi’oot raisin’ the alarm until they’ve long gone.”

It was true. Bonnie Brock employed specialists in a number of areas—be it for their skills in lockpicking, stealth, surveillance, scheming, or fencing stolen goods. These men recognized that by throwing their lot in with Brock, they could focus on the tasks at which they excelled and be at less risk of getting caught—and better protected if they were—and still enjoy a fair share of the profits from their efforts. The members of his gang were the likeliest suspects for the job. They had certainly proven capable and culpable of such crimes in the past. But I couldn’t halt the suspicion that this was all a shade too convenient.

Bonnie Brock was nothing if not shrewd and perceptive, and now of all times was not the moment to draw any greater attention or ire from the police and the nobility by perpetuating such thefts. He had told me once that it was a dangerous game angering the wealthy and influential, and so he had always taken care to neither prick their pride nor execute his crimes against them too closely together. Nothing was more risky than giving the noblemen and gentlemen a reason to shift their normally self-absorbed focus to him. Not when they wielded much of the power. Instead he had played a fine balancing act from the shadows—skimming just below the surface of their attentions while still managing to abscond with an astonishing amount of money and loot. Stealing jewels from the nobility while already under heavy scrutiny because of the book and play seemed more akin to prodding a slumbering beast than maintaining a shadow game.

“Is there any reason to believe the theft of Sir Phineas’s jewels isn’t as straightforward as it seems?” I asked.

“I havena uncovered anythin’,” Maclean replied, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest again—a move that emphasized the size of his biceps. “Unless you ken somethin’?”

I lifted my hand to the pendant my mother had given me, fingering the amethyst that dangled from my neck, and shook my head. By the slight narrowing of his eyes, I could tell he didn’t entirely believe me, but in this, I was telling truth.

“I’ve told ye before, I dinna like Bonnie Brock Kincaid. He should o’ been hanged for his crimes years ago.” He kept his gaze leveled on me. “But I can no’ like a man and still respect him. Least for the good he has done for the poorest o’ this city, and his resolve to keep his word. He has his ain sense o’ honor, and expects his men to abide by it. That’s more than I can say for the other gangs at work here.” His voice grew hard. “But all the same, he doesna follow the rule o’ law. Be careful ye dinna persuade yourself otherwise.”

“I’m well aware, Sergeant Maclean,” I responded tartly. “I’m in no danger of falling under his sway.” I rested my hands on my rounded abdomen. “And lest you forget, I have the most reason to be furious with him for the trouble his association with me has caused.”

“I would think your husband has greater reason.”

A flush of anger swept through me.

“That is uncalled for, Maclean,” Gage warned, sitting forward.

“For shame, Braden,” Mrs. Duffy gasped behind us, apparently having emerged from the kitchen in time to overhear his remarks. “Noo, why would a sensible woman like Lady Darby want anthin’ to do wi’ a man like Bonnie Brock Kincaid when she’s got a fine braw husband like Mr. Gage.” She planted her hands on her hips, standing over her brother-in-law. “No’ to mention the fact that we ken Lady Darby left Edinburgh in early May.” She swatted him with the towel in her hand. “And you’ve got enough bairns o’ your own to understand how the process works. Why, if Lady Darby were already more than ten months along, do ye