A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (best young adult book series txt) 📗

apprehends the pressure I exerted on you to keep my secret. I don’t want you to be held accountable for my unthinking actions.”

Except I was accountable. My allegiance should be to my husband above all, especially when it came to something as important as the knowledge that he had a half brother. However, I’d allowed my empathy for Henry and my own fear over Gage’s reaction to override my good sense, and for eight long weeks! Gage had a very good reason to be angry with me. A very, very good reason.

But I said none of this to Henry. First and foremost, because my concealing information from my husband was a matter to be dealt with strictly between us. And second, because I strongly suspected Henry was already going to overplay his hand in trying to shelter me. I didn’t need him defending me any more strenuously and making matters even worse.

As if conjured by my own worries, I saw Gage striding down the hall toward us. He’d been aiming toward the dining room, but upon catching sight of me, he changed course. Even from such a distance, I could see that his brow was furrowed, and the normally graceful movements of his form were sharp and hurried. Either his interview with Sir Phineas had not gone as planned, or someone had made some sort of spiteful remark about the implications hinted at in The King of Grassmarket.

Unless he already knew about Henry. Though how, I couldn’t fathom. Few enough people knew the truth.

Regardless, I must have tensed, for Henry peered over his shoulder at what had so unsettled me. He turned to face Gage’s approach at my side, straightening his posture as if preparing for inspection. I spared a pulse of empathy for him, anxious to please yet braced for rejection, uncertain how Gage would accept his news.

Gage nodded to him briefly and greeted him by name, but it was evident that all his focus was directed at me and something more urgent. “Kiera, I’ve just received word that Rookwood has been murdered.”

This so startled me, and was so disparate from the words I’d expected to come out of his mouth, that it took me a moment to respond. “I beg your pardon?!”

“I’ve sent for our carriage and begged leave from Lady Edmonstone. I presumed you would wish to come with me?”

“I . . . yes, of course I do,” I replied, struggling to comprehend and adapt. “If you’ll excuse us,” I turned to say to Henry as Gage pulled my arm through his and began to hurry us away.

His eyes were wide. “Of course.”

I turned to cast one last glance over my shoulder at him as we hastened toward the stairs, and I was struck by the downcast look of his features and the drooping of his shoulders. However, he didn’t so much put me in mind of a person whose confession has been thwarted, but rather a faithful hound sorry to be left behind.

Chapter 10

When we arrived at North Bridge Street, it was flocked with curious onlookers, some of whom appeared to have strolled over in their finery from the nearby Theatre Royal. Gage and I descended as close to Rookwood’s offices as the carriage could maneuver without becoming hopelessly jammed in the traffic on the bridge. In the dim streetlights, winter shrubs dotted the grounds of the old Physic Gardens below, and in the distance I could just make out the hulks of the orphan hospital, Lady Glenorchy’s Chapel, and Trinity College Church lined up next to one another. The air was ripe with the smells of coal dust, horse droppings, and the promise of more rain before dawn.

We wove our way through the crowd, Gage’s powerful presence and his bearing of authority persuading most to move out of our way with little effort. As we neared the block of buildings across from the market, I noted the police wagon had been pulled up to the publisher’s door. Whether that meant his body had already been removed from the scene, I couldn’t tell, for a young constable halted us some ten feet away.

Gage asked if Sergeant Maclean was investigating, and we stood waiting as an even younger policeman was sent to fetch him. That the constable knew who we were and had also read or, more likely, been to see one of the plays based on The King of Grassmarket was obvious from the wary look he cast our way and the glances he kept stealing toward my abdomen hidden beneath my evening cloak. This, coupled with the antagonistic glares some of the other officers directed at us, gave me an uneasy feeling. I began to suspect we shouldn’t have come.

Maclean had warned us the City Police were enduring criticism from their superintendent for not only failing to secure Bonnie Brock’s imprisonment but also the implications of corruption alluded to in the book. Implications we were insinuated in. We should have known we wouldn’t be welcomed. So I wasn’t surprised when Maclean appeared less than pleased to see us when he exited Rookwood’s office.

He gestured with his head, requesting that we step aside with him, though I suspected this consideration was done more out of respect for our rank than because of our assistance to him in the past. Particularly given the contentious manner in which our conversation had ended that morning.

“It’s true, then?” Gage asked. “Rookwood has been murdered?”

“Ye canna be here,” Maclean told us firmly. “This is a matter for the police. Ye canna be assistin’ us. No’ this time.”

The two men stared squarely into each other’s eyes, and some unspoken exchange occurred. One I was not privy to.

Gage was the first to break the silent standoff. “We had an appointment with Mr. Rookwood yesterday morning.”

“I ken. And I’ll have some questions to put to ye aboot that later, but for noo, ye need to go home.” His gaze