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

was as sharp as ever, but I thought I detected a hint of uncertainty in his voice as he spoke next. “Ye need to stay far away from this one, do ye hear?”

“Are we . . . suspects?” I hesitated to say the last word, but once the sentence was begun, I could hardly leave it dangling.

His jaw hardened as his gaze swung to me, pinning me in place, and I wondered if part of the ire he directed at me was resentment at my forcing him to state the matter bluntly.

“Did ye have reason to wish the man ill? Did ye have any cause to bear him a grudge? Have ye been outspoken in your dislike?”

There was no need to reply. We all knew that the answer to these questions was an unequivocal yes. That didn’t mean we had harmed him. Maclean knew this as well as we did. But because we had motive to do so, we still had to be considered as suspects. At least for the time being.

“Noo, get her ladyship oot o’ this oorlich weather,” he ordered, pulling the collar of his gray coat up around his neck as he turned to go. “I’ll be by to question ye in the morn.”

That this was stated at least partially for the benefit of the constable loitering nearby, I had no doubt, but it still left an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. In any case, it was clear we weren’t going to get any answers to our queries that evening, so Gage bundled me close as we retreated down North Bridge Street toward our coach.

The damp I had smelled in the air moments earlier began to sputter from the sky in moist flakes—part rain and part snow. With my head lowered against the wind and my thoughts fixed on escaping the miserable conditions, I nearly missed the fact that our coachman was hailing us.

“You’ve a visitor,” Joe called out gruffly.

It took me a moment to apprehend what this meant, for I didn’t see anyone else lingering nearby, but Gage had grasped his implication immediately.

He scowled. “Just one?”

“Aye. I couldna stop him.”

Gage lifted his hand, letting him know he absolved him of any blame. “This one’s a particularly virulent midge. One we can’t quite rid ourselves of.”

That our guest would also have heard these comments, there was no doubt. In fact, I suspected that was why Gage had made them. He guided me forward, halting our footman, Peter, who stood rigidly beside the coach before he could open the door. Instead, Gage threw the door open himself, glaring into the interior at Bonnie Brock, who lounged in the corner of the rear-facing seat. Far from intimidated, the scoundrel arched his eyebrows, goading him.

I opened my mouth to warn Gage that Brock’s lazy stance was deceptive. I knew from experience that he was braced to strike at any moment. But then I realized my husband would not thank me for issuing such a warning in front of the blackguard. It also might reveal more about my past interactions with Brock than I’d cared to share before.

In any case, Gage clambered up into the conveyance before I could speak, obviously unwilling for me to spend even a second alone with the criminal, and reached out to help me up after him. Between Peter’s efforts and my husband’s, I was soon seated on the plush bench across from Bonnie Brock, with the queer sensation that I’d already experienced this moment settling over me. Perhaps it was the manner in which Brock was looking at me, as insolent as the first time we’d met. Happily, the comforting weight of Gage’s solid presence by my side soon dispersed the feeling.

He reached up to turn the light of the interior lamp higher while I shivered inside my damp cloak, wishing I had a hot brick to rest my feet upon. But there hadn’t been time for such niceties as we rushed from Edmonstone House.

Bonnie Brock appeared as disheveled as ever, but this time there was less of an artfulness to it. His hair was still wet and pushed back from his forehead to reveal more of his handsome features than it normally did, as well as the puckered scar running from his hairline down across his temple to his left ear. His clothes were equally damp, filling the carriage with the scent of wet wool and linen, as well as the less pleasant stench of the mud caking his boots.

The two men couldn’t have cut more different figures—one damp and disheveled, the other relatively dry and immaculately groomed—but both were not only dashing but also in their own way dangerous.

We waited until the door was shut and the step secured before anyone spoke, and then it was Bonnie Brock who cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“I didna do it.”

“And yet here you are, haunting the location where the murder took place,” Gage replied skeptically as the carriage began to roll forward.

His eyes narrowed. “Because I received word that Rookwood had been found wi’ his head bashed in. Same as you.”

I flinched, for this was the first that I’d been informed of the method of murder, but perhaps Gage had kept that detail to himself.

“But my men and I didna have anythin’ to do wi’ it,” Bonnie Brock insisted. “Though that’s no’ gonna stop Mean Maclean and his pollies from tryin’ to pin it on me. For all I ken, maybe the pollies did it themselves. They’ve certainly been hammerin’ at my people hard enough, tryin’ to convince ’em to turn against me.” He shook his head. “Fools.” But the manner in which his fist tightened where it rested against his knee told me that he wasn’t as unconcerned as he wished us to believe.

Nevertheless, I had to concede that his supposition was possible. Not all of Edinburgh’s City Police were so honest, and even the most honorable might be driven to do immoral things if they thought it would be for the