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

the length of Cowgate to the arch where it passed under South Bridge Street. The squalid buildings on either side, crowded against the bridge, forming the infamous vaults. “Where to now?”

“Well, I think we can leave the tobacco shop and the bookshops to Anderley. He can visit them to make inquiries about Mr. Heron’s alibi. The author in Leith as well, for I have no desire to traipse that far north. So that leaves the bank, his solicitor, and the theater.”

The hour was still too early for Mr. Murray to be at the Theatre Royal, and as for the former two, I could extrapolate the reason for Gage’s stoic expression. “Men who are far more apt to confide in you if I’m not present.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I stifled my annoyance by reminding myself that neither visit was liable to yield much information. Mr. Heron had told us his visit to the bank was simply to make a deposit, and it was doubtful Rookwood’s solicitor would share the details of his will without the police present. Though I wouldn’t discount Gage’s charm and powers of persuasion.

“Then you should deliver me home. No, wait,” I amended. “Drop me by Cromarty House instead.”

“Have you spoken to your sister since her last unwelcome tirade?” he asked after leaning forward to issue these instructions to our coachman through the small sliding wooden door built into the front wall of the carriage behind the driver’s bench.

“No,” I replied simply, unwilling to allow myself to dwell on the tangle of emotions her harsh words still caused me, not when I was about to pay her an unexpected visit. “But Alana and Philip are always more knowledgeable of people and connections than I am. Maybe they know something about the characters in this farce that we don’t.”

He stilled my hands from their unconscious fidgeting with the tassel on my reticule. “Well, don’t let her bully you.”

I smiled up at him gratefully. “I won’t.”

“And be sure Cromarty lends you his carriage to drive you home. I don’t want you walking in this weather.”

I recognized that the last was said more for my benefit than Philip’s. My brother-in-law could be courteous to a fault, and if by some chance he neglected to insist I take one of his conveyances, his butler, Figgins, would see to it. “I will,” I assured him, having no intention of striking out in such dreich weather on foot.

Chapter 14

I found Philip and Alana in their drawing room, gathered close to the roaring fire. Philip was seated in a green brocade wingback chair with one highly polished boot propped over the other knee, poring over a newspaper. His dark gaze flicked up toward me as I entered unannounced before returning to his paper. “Good afternoon, Kiera.”

“Good afternoon,” I replied.

Alana reclined on a spring green fainting couch nearby, bouncing her youngest child on her knees. His laughter brought a smile to my face, and I was helpless not to coo at him.

“Oh my, just look at how big you’re getting. We won’t be able to call you wee Jamie much longer.”

His gaze shifted to me as he offered me a broad grin and a dribble of a drool down his chin. Alana lifted the bib draped around his neck to swipe away the slobber.

“I cannot believe he’s almost one,” I declared.

“Wait until it’s your little one aging before your eyes,” my sister replied. “But that does remind me, we’re hosting a small party on his birthday, and of course, we’d like you and Gage to attend. Trevor said he would try to make it, but they’ll soon be in the midst of lambing at Blakelaw, so I’m not counting on it.”

Our brother had written me much the same thing in his last letter, saying he hoped he could make it to Edinburgh in time for my child’s birth. He had inherited our childhood home from our father, along with its farm and sheep. After some financial setbacks the previous few years, he’d recently added more ewes to his flock, and while he had an excellent estate manager and farmhands to cope with such matters, it was only natural that he should be anxious to ensure that this year’s lambing was a successful one. I had told him not to be concerned with being here for the birth. After all, there was nothing he could do, and he could just as easily meet his new niece or nephew when they were a few weeks old.

“We’ll be there,” I replied as Jamie’s brow furrowed with impatience, wiggling in his mother’s arms.

She began to bounce him again, earning another giggle of laughter. “Yes, I heard about the murder,” she told me, her icy words contrary to her crooning voice and the smile she gave her son. “It’s all over the papers, and I’ve no desire to discuss it.”

That she was fuming was obvious, but far be it from me to refuse the opportunity to miss one of her lectures.

“May I see them?” I asked, and she nodded toward Philip. A stack of newspapers covered the table beside his chair.

“The London papers, of course, don’t contain word of it yet,” he told me as I began to sort through the pile. “But the Caledonian Mercury, the Gazette, and the Herald, as well as a few of the broadsheets, all cover it.”

I sat in the chair opposite to scan the headlines. Most of them were short on facts but quick to link the murder to the publication of The King of Grassmarket, condemning it and the plays for corrupting the public. That this outcry would only grow in the next few days was all but assured as public figures and people eager to express their opinions in the editorials put in their two pennies’ worth. However, two of the publications were also quick to notice that the staging of Rookwood’s office to look like the scene