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

Gage continued until we reached Albyn Place, though I knew his hands must have ached from the effort. He stretched his fingers as our carriage rolled to a stop before our town house, just in time to encounter Sergeant Maclean descending our stairs.

“Were you looking for me?” Gage asked as he greeted him, and then turned to help me descend on unsteady legs.

“Aye. There’s been a development.” His grim expression and the manner in which his eyes had slid toward me before he made his second statement made me suspect that whatever it was would not be good for me.

“Kirkcowan?”

“No. He’s still hangin’ on. By a thread.”

“Then?” Gage prodded when he still seemed hesitant to speak.

“The unclaimed bodies o’ three cholera victims were stolen from the cholera hospital last night.”

My heart surged in my chest at the implication.

“Pointing another finger at Kincaid,” Gage surmised.

“Aye, if it’s no’ Kincaid himself.”

“It’s not,” Gage stated firmly.

“Has the matter been made public yet?” I asked, wary of the city’s reaction. After all, this was the same city in which Burke and Hare’s murders had occurred just three short years ago. And now with the legislation for an Anatomy Reform Act being discussed by Parliament, one which would make the unclaimed bodies of the deceased in poorhouses and other institutions available to medical schools, there was a great deal of anxiety and uncertainty surrounding the entire issue. Thus by stealing the unclaimed bodies of cholera victims, the culprits stirred up the public’s fears over not only the cholera and the resurrectionists but also the proposed Anatomy Reform Act.

But had any of that been their intention, or were the culprits purely trying to make further trouble for Bonnie Brock?

“Nay, but ’tis only a matter o’ time,” Maclean replied.

Gage looked up from the spot he’d been frowning at on the pavement. “Could it be McQueen’s men?” Plainly thinking of their recent arrests for robbing warehouses where whisky was stored.

“Aye, maybe.” His gaze slid toward me again. “I just thought ye should ken.”

That he was thinking of my late husband and his involvement with the questionable procurement of bodies for his anatomical studies, and my enforced participation, was obvious. Not to mention the mob incited against me and Gage in Grassmarket just a year ago because of my macabre reputation.

“Yes, thank you,” Gage said as the sergeant doffed his hat and strode away. Then he turned to me as we began to ascend our steps. “I know that was not easy to hear.”

“No,” I agreed, inhaling a deep settling breath. “But it was not as upsetting as it once might have been.” And no one was more astonished than I to realize it was true. While I doubted I would ever be able to hear about stolen bodies or body snatchers without feeling a pang of uneasiness, I was no longer terrified by it. Not like in the past.

Gage pressed a consoling hand over mine where it rested against his other arm and offered me a proud smile, fully aware of how far I’d come.

Jeffers greeted us both in the entry with correspondence. Mine was the invitation for Lady Bearsden’s dinner party the following evening, while Gage’s appeared to be of greater significance. He paused to read it in the doorway to the drawing room rather than following me all the way inside, the furrow in his brow deepening the further he read. When he’d finished, his gaze lifted to find me already waiting for him to speak.

“I must go out. To see Henry,” he added, struggling with the words as he wrangled with something inside himself. “I . . . didn’t receive his news as . . . equably as perhaps I should have.”

The heartache in his eyes, the uncertainty stamped across his features made me long to go to him, but I could tell from his tense shoulders that he did not want that. That he would not accept it. Not yet. “How could you have?” I said instead. “I know it must have been both shocking and painful to hear.”

His gaze dipped to the rug. “Yes, but . . . I should have behaved better.”

I realized what he meant then, felt it resonate through me, and I blinked back tears for him, for Henry, and for myself. “It’s not his fault, Gage. I know you know that. Just as I know you know it’s not his fault he was forced to keep the secret.”

“That’s why I must talk to him.” He took a step backward before looking up at me. “And after . . . we’ll talk, too.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I spoke.

When he had gone, I went to the window, watching as he descended our stairs. Catching sight of me, he lifted his hand in farewell and then strode down the pavement. Only then did I allow myself to collapse on the window seat, wincing in pain.

Bree found me there some minutes later, sent either by Jeffers or by her own intuition. “M’lady?” she asked in concern as she crossed to me.

I offered her a weak smile. “I think it would be best to send for Dr. Fenwick. Just to be cautious.”

“O’ course,” she agreed, helping me to my feet. “And in the meantime, let’s get ye to bed wi’ a hot water bottle. I ken yer back was botherin’ ye more than ye wanted to admit.”

•   •   •

Late sunlight streamed through the windows, forming patterns across the counterpane when Gage returned. I reclined in bed, half seated, with my head tilted sideways to rest against one of my pillows as I studied the portrait I’d painted of Gage, which hung over our fireplace. I had sketched and painted him numerous times since then, but it was still my favorite. Perhaps because I’d managed to complete it after weeks of inability to paint even a flower correctly, fearing I’d lost the ability to create. Or perhaps because it captured him so perfectly—his good looks, his impressive physique, and his charm, but more importantly, his sincerity, his honorability, and