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

quickened through my veins as Gage turned our steps toward the rear of the mansion.

“Apparently, matters have progressed even more quickly than I anticipated. Which is all for the better. If Kirkcowan becomes too sotted, we might not get anything from him.” His lip curled upward in scorn. “Last night he nearly passed out under the table.”

“That reminds me, whatever became of the executor of Rookwood’s will you intended to speak to?”

“He never appeared. I’ll call on him at his home if it proves necessary.”

That he expected to learn something significant from Kirkcowan tonight was obvious. Perhaps he even thought we’d unmask Mugdock and solve Rookwood’s murder. But given how belligerent and difficult Kirkcowan had proven to be in the past, I didn’t think it would be so simple.

I glanced behind us before slipping through the door Gage opened on the right at the end of a corridor. It proved to be a private parlor of some sort. One where ladies normally gathered, if the lingering scents of powder and perfume were any indication. Dainty furnishings filled the space, and Chinese silk paper covered the walls. A low fire burned in the hearth, but Gage took the liberty of lighting several candles while my attention was diverted by a portrait of a young Lady Soames hanging on the wall. If I wasn’t very much mistaken, it had been painted by Angelica Kauffmann, an artist I greatly admired. Perhaps I would have to pay a call on Lady Soames after all.

So absorbed was I in studying the quietly dramatic pose and the exquisite brushwork that I almost didn’t hear the door opening. However, no one could mistake the fury in Kirkcowan’s voice.

Chapter 17

Now, see here, Kerr. What in blazes is the meaning of this? Just because I now owe you several hundred quid doesn’t mean you can haul me about.”

My eyebrows arched skyward at the sum Kirkcowan named as he stumbled into the room. His cravat and hair were rumpled, and his sallow complexion was what one would expect of a man who spent his time drinking and gambling, and indulging in other unworthy pursuits. Lord Henry, on the other hand, appeared as fit and strong as any man in the prime of his health, though his expression was foreboding.

When Gage stepped forward to stand beside him, I was struck again by their resemblance. The same strong jawline, the same cleft in their chin, the same thick hair, even though Gage’s was golden and Henry’s auburn. But I didn’t have long to dwell on these facts before Kirkcowan began to bluster in anger.

“Bloody hell. This is your doing!” He pointed an accusing finger at Gage before letting out a foul stream of curses.

“Mind your tongue,” Henry snapped. “There is a lady present.”

Kirkcowan’s ruddy face twisted into something particularly ugly before he spat, “All I see is a doxy.”

At this insult, Gage seized hold of his lapels, nearly lifting him off his feet. “You will treat my wife with respect or I’ll break your jaw so you can never utter such vulgar words again.”

But Kirkcowan was far from intimidated, emboldened by the brandy in his belly. “Don’t you mean you’ll bash my head in,” he snarled, clearly referencing Rookwood’s murder.

The muscles in my husband’s arms rippled beneath the tight cut of his coat as he grappled for control of his temper. My chest constricted at the evidence of his fury, even knowing it was in my defense, even knowing Kirkcowan deserved to be thrashed. So when instead he shoved Kirkcowan away with a look of disgust, making him tumble backward over the arm of one of the settees, I could only be relieved.

“We know you never recovered those jewels you claimed you did,” Gage stood over him denouncing. “We know you lied about them being stolen again. And we know you’ve cooked up some scheme where you’ve convinced your friends at ebb-water to feign the theft of their own jewels to defraud their insurers. So if you don’t want Lord Henry reporting your debt to the police and having you thrown into debtors’ prison, you’d better start talking.”

“This was all a trick,” he grumbled as he tried and failed several times to sit upright. “I’m not paying anything. And I want what money I did have returned to me.”

“The gaming was fair and square, as all the gentlemen in that room will attest to if questioned. You’re simply a rotten punter.”

The sound Kirkcowan made at the back of his throat was more akin to a growl than human speech, and I feared for a moment he would lunge at Gage. But he could barely regain his feet, let alone attack anyone.

“Now, you made a wager that a sequel to The King of Grassmarket will be published. How did you come by that information?”

He smiled nastily. “It’s just a wager. Doesn’t mean it’s true. After all, you just said yourself I’m a terrible punter.”

“Yes, but I think you did learn that somehow. Perhaps directly from the man who styles himself Mugdock.”

Neither of these accusations seemed to ruffle Kirkcowan in the least. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself as he finally found his balance and tugged on his coat to straighten it, nearly toppling over again.

“And when Rookwood declined to publish the sequel, perhaps you helped Mugdock kill him.” This was just a lie meant to provoke a reaction from Kirkcowan, but it jostled something in my brain all the same. Albeit something I couldn’t quite place.

Kirkcowan’s eyes narrowed.

“I suspect all of this is information the police would be glad to have,” Gage threatened.

“Go ahead,” he blustered. “They can’t detain a man of my station. And they would never dare to toss me into debtors’ prison.”

“Maybe,” Henry conceded. “But what will you do once your illegal source of income has been foiled? How will you pay me and the other gentlemen you’ve dunned?” He