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

That he held this bit of intelligence was more surprising given the fact that Gage had prearranged the meeting with Sergeant Maclean himself. Was Brock reading our correspondence?

“He’s goin’ to tell ye that there’s been a rash o’ crimes. That they’re inspired by the book and the play.”

“Which, in turn, means they’re inspired by you,” Gage supplied, following this to its logical conclusion.

He scowled. “But my men and I got nothin’ to do wi’ them. We’ve done nothin’ different than we did before.” He looked about him once again, and I noted Locke and Stump doing the same, as if they expected trouble. Maggie shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. “Truth be told, we’re actually doin’ less. Layin’ low since Maclean and the other pollies have been bayin’ for our blood,” he groused, and then stabbed his chest with his finger. “’Tis no’ my fault the bloody play chose to romanticize my life.”

I studied Bonnie Brock’s drawn countenance. This entire affair obviously infuriated him. Someone he trusted had shared intimate details about his life, and they’d been turned into fodder for the public’s entertainment, to the monetary benefit of some unknown writer. And because of it, not only were his gang’s activities now under even greater scrutiny, but other criminals were encroaching on their territory, thinking to claim the same glory without understanding the cost, and besmirching Brock’s reputation in the process. There was much to be enraged by.

But I also noted something I hadn’t expected. All of this seemed to genuinely trouble him. Beyond anger, beyond disgruntlement. The shadows around his eyes, brackets about his mouth, and wariness of his surroundings denoted a deeper level of uneasiness and, dare I say, distress.

My gaze flicked to Maggie, who stood just beyond his shoulder, to the side, nibbling her thumbnail, her long brown hair trailing over her shoulder in a braid. Even her presence here seemed to speak volumes, for in the past he would never have brought her along to such a meeting. Perhaps he was grooming her, so to speak. Allowing her greater freedom and control. But I didn’t think so. Rather, I thought he was most concerned about keeping her close. Keeping her safe. Maybe the playwright working for the Theatre Royal had been more perceptive than I thought.

However, Gage was not as sympathetic.

“Such an inconvenience,” he scoffed. “Do you honestly expect us to believe you’re not the least bit pleased by all of this fame and adoration? At the moment, you’re the most celebrated man in all of Edinburgh. The police may be after you, but in the eyes of everyone else, you’re a figure of fascination and intrigue.”

Brock arched a single eyebrow.

“And yet you’re trying to tell us you despise the attention.” Gage shook his head derisively. “You’re doing it up much too brown, old chap. I know you must be enjoying the allegations being made about the child Kiera carries.”

“Well, then, you’d have it wrong,” he retorted. “I might wish you to the devil, but I’d no’ see Kiera harmed.” His gaze met mine squarely, the gold-green depths swimming with unspoken words. “Though I daresay the bloodthirsty wench could best anythin’ thrown at her.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, affected more by the words he hadn’t said than those he had. At this point, the appellation “bloodthirsty wench” was more of a term of endearment, as often as he’d used it to describe me.

“Mr. Rookwood informed us that you’ve been harassing him,” Gage said.

Bonnie Brock’s brow furrowed into a low vee, making the scar running down his nose stand out white. “Aye, and I’ll continue to do so until he tells me who bloody Mugdock is,” he snarled, using far stronger language.

“There are other ways to get the information besides threatening him,” I proposed.

“And ye dinna think we’ve already tried those?”

“Of course, but I’m not certain you were aware at the time of the most effective points with which to pressure him.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Nay, but I will be.”

I frowned. “That’s not what I mean.” I tilted my head. “What if I told you we could get the name without doing the man any sort of violence? Would you let us try?”

His gaze switched back and forth between me and Gage, weighing the veracity of this statement, and perhaps his willingness to trust such an assertion. Gage didn’t help matters by scowling at the man so contemptuously. After all, I was almost as determined as Bonnie Brock to uncover the identity of the man who had so callously besmirched my name, and I knew Gage’s resolve must be heightened as well.

As if recognizing this, the inveterate rogue nodded, though his gaze trailed to the side as if he’d heard something. I followed it, but in the falling darkness I couldn’t see anything to cause alarm.

“Aye,” he said, turning to go. “But dinna take long. Word is Mugdock has written a second book.” His eyes hardened with fury. “And this one is even more damagin’ than the last.”

I turned to Gage in shock. A second book?

“Where did you hear that?” Gage demanded to know even as Bonnie Brock and the others began to melt away into the shadows of the overarching trees.

“I have my sources,” he replied, and then they were gone.

“Do you think it’s true?” I asked softly, clutching Gage’s arm tighter.

He exhaled a long breath, telling me he was more anxious than he’d wished for anyone to realize. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He turned our steps back down the path leading toward the gate opening onto Wemyss Place. “Kincaid’s sources do seem to be enviously accurate.”

I frowned at the trees lining either side of the trail, their trunks and branches fading to a darker gray against the gloom of twilight. “I wish Rookwood had told us about this sequel, but I suppose it’s not surprising. And he wonders whether publishing the book has been worth all the