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

Clearly Bonnie Brock was intent on doing so. And deathly earnest about it, if the intensity of his threats to us were any indication.

Outrage surged through me at the affront of him believing we would have betrayed his secrets so easily. “Truthfully, we questioned whether you might be the author. After all, infamous or not, your reputation seems to have been enhanced, and what better way to control the narrative of your life.” I narrowed my eyes. “Not to mention the fact that I suspect you find it devilishly funny to watch all of Edinburgh speculate on whether you might be the true father of my child.”

Not only was it insulting for the book to insinuate there had been any sort of relationship between Bonnie Brock and myself—or rather the character Lady Dalby, a thinly veiled allusion to me—but the fact that it purported to question my child’s paternity was both outrageous and completely preposterous. I would never have been unfaithful to Gage. Not to mention the fact that I had last seen Bonnie Brock in early May, while the baby had been conceived in July on Dartmoor in southern England, four hundred fifty miles away. Thus making the rumor impossible.

“I dinna need my reputation enhanced,” he snarled, striding yet another step closer so he was almost level with Gage. “Nor do I want the attention.” He scoffed. “As if bein’ followed aboot by newspapermen and pursued by a flock o’ foolish ladies is beneficial to my business.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear the latter, for two days prior Bree, my maid, had pointed out the column placed by “a certain lady” in the Caledonian Mercury inviting Bonnie Brock to visit her one night. It was so absurd that it was almost laughable.

“And noo Maclean’s sniffin’ around again.” He turned his head to scowl blackly at Gage, as if he could be blamed for Sergeant Maclean, our friend with the Edinburgh City Police, doing his job. However, he spared no sympathy for the difficulties this book about him had caused us. “I dinna have anythin’ to do wi’ that pack o’ lies!”

“Except it’s not all lies,” I ventured to say, knowing it would earn me further ire. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so determined to figure out how the author learned about your past.”

“What of some of your exploits it describes?” Gage challenged. “The thefts. The body snatching. The time you broke out of jail. Were any of those true, too? Because we knew nothing of those. Certainly not in such detail.”

Bonnie Brock’s gaze slid sideways to meet Locke’s before he admitted begrudgingly, “Some o’ ’em.”

The entire book was a disquieting swirl of fact and fiction, but too many of the more obscure particulars were true for us to believe they’d been cobbled together from what little was publicly known about Bonnie Brock.

“You’ve read it, then?” he asked.

Gage’s expression turned wry. “Once we heard about the characters Lady Dalby and her charming partner, Mr. Gale, and the foul assertions made about them, we could hardly ignore it.”

For not only had the book called my child’s parentage into question, but it had also alleged that our interactions with Bonnie Brock had not been entirely law-abiding, or in the public’s best interest.

“Then who do you think wrote it?”

Gage shook his head. “We don’t know. Surely, you know better than we do who’s been privy to all the particulars about your life.” His gaze shifted to Stumps, who didn’t seem to appreciate his making even this subtle accusation. The ruffian lifted his broad hands, cracking his knuckles loudly.

“It’s no’ Stumps or Locke,” Bonnie Brock replied. “Or Maggie.” His sister. His eyes scrutinized Gage’s impeccably dressed figure.

My husband scowled. “We already told you it wasn’t us. Now, are you going to let us pass?” He stretched his hand back toward me, pulling my arm through the loop made by his. “I’d like to escort my expectant wife home before she takes a chill. Or shall we call for help when this carriage approaching drives by?”

True to his threat, the clatter of wheels against the cobblestones could be heard in the near distance. It would be a matter of seconds before the carriage was upon us.

Bonnie Brock continued to glare at us for a few more heartbeats. Long enough to make me wonder if he truly did intend to harm us. But at the last moment before the carriage swept around the corner of Albyn Place, he relented with a grunt and a nod. He pivoted to the side, melting back into the shadows. “You’d better be tellin’ the truth,” he threatened as Gage urged me forward. “For if I find oot you’ve lied . . .” He left his words dangling, the implied threat worse than anything he could say.

I turned my head to meet his hard gaze as we passed.

“We’re even noo, remember,” he mocked. “I owe ye nothin’.”

I struggled not to react, especially knowing I’d forfeited the last favor he’d thought he owed me to his sister, Maggie, before we departed on our honeymoon. After all, finding the pocket watch that had wreaked such havoc in his family, and set off the chain of events that had altered the direction of his life, had been more about saving the residents of Edinburgh from the mayhem that seemed to follow in the watch’s wake than protecting him. In the past, Bonnie Brock’s strict adherence to the rule of quid pro quo had initially seemed beneficial but then had proven to cause us more trouble than it was worth. I hadn’t wanted to leave the city, not knowing when I would return, and leave Bonnie Brock feeling indebted to me. I’d decided it might be dangerous to hold such a thing over him for so long, but perhaps I’d been wrong.

Gage and I strolled quickly up Charlotte Street, and I pressed close to his side, both for reassurance and for warmth. We approached the patisserie at the corner which, even at this hour, scented the