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

opportunity to address Mr. Aldridge directly. “Lady Stratford told me you’ll be performing the role of Othello here in Edinburgh. I look forward to seeing it.”

“Yes, our opening night should be in about a month’s time. There’s been a delay because of the success of The King of Grassmarket. They’ve extended its number of performances by a few additional weeks.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard that,” I replied. “Though I suppose I’m not surprised. But that must be inconvenient, if not vexing for you.”

He smiled, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not at all. Actually, I welcome the respite. I’ve only just come from Dublin, and before that Bath.”

“And you’re originally from New York?” I asked, before eating a spoonful of the silky soup.

“Yes. Have you been to America, my lady?”

I shook my head.

“Let’s just say there aren’t many career prospects there for a man like me.”

I offered him a sympathetic smile, able to read between the lines but uncertain what to say. It wasn’t just unfair but morally wrong that he and others were treated differently because of the color of their skin. My Irish grandmother had held very strong views about such matters, and she had made certain all of her grandchildren were well aware of them. I’d been fortunate to have the benefit of her wisdom.

“Well, I am glad your prospects are better here,” I finally said. “Their loss is our gain.”

He cast me a look of mutual regard, and I hoped he knew I wasn’t simply being polite.

“Have you attended any of the performances of The King of Grassmarket?” he asked after taking a drink of his wine.

“Yes.” I nodded toward where Mr. Murray sat across the table. “At the Theatre Royal.”

“And what did you think?”

Though I wasn’t certain where this question was leading—for surely he must apprehend, as all of Edinburgh did, that I was the inspiration for Lady Dalby—I decided to answer him candidly. “The staging is brilliant and the acting impressive. It’s no wonder it’s become a sensation.”

“Yes, but what of the story?”

“You mean the book?” I asked in confusion. “The script is certainly immeasurably better.”

He nodded, but I could tell it wasn’t in agreement but rather acceptance that I did not and perhaps could not comprehend him. It left me feeling as if somehow I had failed, if not him precisely, then in some other aspect. And I found it very hard to swallow my next spoonful of soup.

“What did you think?” I asked after a moment of silence, wondering if he would try to explain what I’d misunderstood or if he would simply dismiss it, dismiss me.

From the manner in which his gaze cut to mine, I could tell he was debating that very thing. He set his glass down precisely, taking care with his words.

“I thought it . . . illuminating.” He looked up at me to see if I was following. “The manner in which it explored the plight of the lower classes here in Edinburgh. The unfairness of society and the justice system under which they must live. The manner in which they’ve tried to right some of that wrong by establishing their own hierarchy and laws. Perhaps not laws the Scottish government would uphold, but which the citizens are happy to abide by because they seem just and honorable and sensible, when much of the social and legal structure under which they’re forced to live is not.”

My heart stilled at his words, and I felt my thoughts shift to another level of understanding. I had recognized the corruption and unfairness amid the levels of society long ago, and I had easily comprehended why Bonnie Brock and his code of honor so appealed to the inhabitants of Edinburgh. And yet I hadn’t grasped the fullness of it, or its relation to the popularity of The King of Grassmarket, until that very moment.

I lifted my gaze to meet Mr. Aldridge’s, wondering if he’d seen it so readily because he could draw the same parallels to the life he had lived. The life he continued to live.

I inhaled a deep breath, willing to admit my failings. “I hadn’t considered it that way, but you’re right. Viewed in that regard, it is illuminating.” I frowned, thinking of the man who’d authored it, and the vendetta he held against Bonnie Brock. “Although I don’t believe the author held such a noble intent.”

“You don’t think it’s Kincaid himself?”

“Oh no,” I protested, aware that others were also now listening. “Definitely not. And he certainly didn’t give permission for the publication either.”

His head tilted to the side as he considered this new piece of information while our soup bowls were whisked away to be replaced by plates of mackerel with fennel and mint. “That is more problematic, then, isn’t it? For essentially the author is profiting from his hardships and successes, without Kincaid deriving any benefit.”

My gaze flicked toward Mr. Murray, for the same could be said about the theaters to a certain extent. Although at least they employed people from the social classes Bonnie Brock seemed to champion. But the theater manager kept his head down, making it difficult for me to deduce what he might be thinking.

“Not deriving any benefit?” one of the other actors protested. “He’s the hero of the city, lauded on every corner.”

“Not by everyone,” Gage replied around a bite of fish, swallowing before he continued. “The police are now more determined than ever to apprehend him for making them look foolish. And rival gangs are intent on seeing that their own crimes are blamed on him. In short, he now has a very large target on him. Even larger than before.”

I had seen the same reports in some of the newspapers that the actor was referring to. Claims that Bonnie Brock was strutting about Grassmarket and Cowgate like a conquering hero, but nothing could be further from the truth. He was hiding, skulking, shifting from place to place. I imagined he felt safest among those citizens who had always protected him, but