A Wicked Conceit Anna Huber (learn to read activity book TXT) 📖

your faithful husband beside you.” The way he said it made it sound like Gage was some sort of hound. Or perhaps he meant to imply that I was faithless. Whatever the case, I was not going to be cowed by such an odious man.

“Good evening, my lord,” I said before Alana could speak for me. I glanced over his shoulders, pretending to search. “But where is your delightful wife? I should so like to greet her.” Though I had not been in Edinburgh the previous autumn when it was aghast with whispers that Lady Kirkcowan had finally summoned the courage to leave her feckless husband, gossip traveled far and wide in upper-class circles.

Not taken in by my guileless smile, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid she’s at our country home.”

This was a lie, for I also knew that his estate was mortgaged to the hilt. Anything of value that had not been directly entailed had been sold to pay his gambling debts. No, Lady Kirkcowan had returned to her father’s house with their three children, likely with naught but their clothes and the jewels I had contrived to have stolen before privately returning them to her a year ago so that she would not be destitute when Lord Kirkcowan lost their remaining property on the turn of a card. She had correctly surmised that her husband would not pursue them or attempt to retain custody of their children, especially given the fact that he had no money to pay for a nanny or governess to look after them.

“Then I shall have to write to her.”

He could make no reply to this without revealing his falsehood, so his gaze shifted to Gage, his mouth twisting cruelly. “And what did you think of the play? I found it illuminating, myself.”

But Gage was not to be goaded either. His features exhibited nothing but the bland insouciance he often adopted in public, and he replied in a bold, clear voice for the benefit of those people surrounding us who were not making any effort to hide the fact that they were eager to hear his answer. “Yes, I suppose in terms of the disposition, habits, and moral character of a criminal there was much to be gleaned. And the performance was quite entertaining, even if a great deal of it was purely fictitious. But I can’t help but wonder if such a play isn’t a trifle irresponsible.”

“Irresponsible?” one gentleman who had been listening in leaned closer to ask. “How do you mean?”

Gage turned to address him calmly. “Well, as I understand it, versions of The King of Grassmarket are being performed in theaters all over the city, even minor revues and penny gaffs.” He glanced about him, showing that he was conscious of his entire audience. “And while I doubt there are many here who would take the words to heart, I fear that those who are impressionable might be swayed to think Bonnie Brock Kincaid’s actions heroic and not criminal, and so be inspired to follow the same path.”

That this had been true before the publication of the book and the staging of the plays, albeit to a lesser degree, I knew for a fact. But if the versions performed at the minor theaters were in any way similar to this one, that influence could broaden. Impressionable boys and frustrated young men who might otherwise have eschewed such unlawful behavior might decide theft was not so terrible an action. That if Bonnie Brock and his men committed such acts and were lauded for it, then why shouldn’t they be also?

I could tell I wasn’t the only one contemplating these thoughts by the gasps and whispers rippling through the crowd. That Gage’s intent had been to turn the focus of discussion away from the characters based on us and toward this moral conundrum was obvious, at least to me, though hopefully not to everyone else. Even Alana appeared aghast by the idea.

“Malcolm begged to be allowed to attend the play with us this evening,” she confessed as Gage managed to maneuver us through the crowd and closer to the doors where Philip intended to meet us. “And I nearly relented, despite the lateness of the hour.” Her nine-year-old son could be very persuasive when he wanted something. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”

“Alana, I hardly think a play would compel Malcolm to live a life of crime,” I argued. “He’s more intelligent than that.”

“Is he?” she demanded to know.

I opened my mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes made me stop. The play had been filled with dashing acts of derring-do and thrilling chases, and all had ended—save one—with a night of camaraderie with his mates, gathered inside a pub or around a fire, drinking and singing and laughing. For a young boy who loved to run, leap, climb, and arrange battles with his toy soldiers, such a life must seem grand.

Before I could form a response, Philip appeared, and we were all occupied with donning our coats and wraps against the chill of the March evening. Once Philip’s carriage could escape the tangle of traffic in front of the theater, the drive to our house in Albyn Place was short. As we said our good-byes, Gage helped me alight from the carriage and climb the steps to our door.

“Good evening, Jeffers,” Gage told our upright and restrained butler as he took his gloves and hat. “I trust you’ve had a quiet evening.”

“For the most part, sir.”

We both paused in removing our outer garments, looking to Jeffers in curiosity.

He retrieved a letter from the table behind him, holding it out toward me. “This arrived for Mrs. Gage while you were out.”

I slowly reached out to take the missive, though Gage and I could both tell from his expression that he had more to say.

“It was delivered to the servants’ entrance by Mr. Locke.”

I sighed. One of Bonnie Brock’s right-hand men. We hadn’t spoken to the inveterate rogue who was causing us so