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

But Gage was of a different opinion. “Not Maclean,” he stated unequivocally. “You may not like him, but he’s upright.”

“Ye think so? Weel, tell that to the old woman whose nose Maclean broke because she wouldna let him search her rooms for her grandson. Or the peddler who had his cart smashed because he’d positioned it where another peddler who pays Maclean for the privilege normally does.” He smiled jadedly at my shock. “Maclean’s no better and no worse ’an the rest o’ ’em. And the police are no better than any gang. The only difference is that their bribes and thefts are sanctioned.”

“It’s not Maclean,” Gage repeated through gritted teeth. His face had reddened with fury, and it was apparent that any further such accusations would not be tolerated. “Besides, even if you didn’t order it, how can you be so certain one of your men didn’t decide to take matters into his own hands?”

Bonnie Brock’s posture shifted from relaxed to threatening with lightning speed. “Because my men ken better than to disobey my orders, and I ordered that Rookwood no’ be harmed. They ken no’ to cross me.”

“Like those men who ran off with your sister knew not to cross you?”

Bonnie Brock loomed forward, and the hardened rage stamped across his features was enough to make my blood run cold. That he was seconds away from stabbing my husband, I had no doubt. And fool that my husband was, I could tell that he was about to further bait him.

“Please, gentlemen,” I snapped, shifting forward in my seat awkwardly and raising my hands to keep them separated. “Stop it!” I inhaled a deep breath before speaking again, hoping to smooth out the slight quaver. “This is getting us nowhere.” I glared at Bonnie Brock. “Sit back, and let’s discuss this rationally.”

His gaze cut to mine at this directive, and for a moment I thought he would refuse, but then he slowly sank back against the squabs. Somehow the quirk of his mouth made his retreat seem less like a concession and more like a taunting measure, but I wasn’t going to call him on it.

Gage was another matter.

“And you!” I turned my glower on him. “Stop prodding the bear, or get a longer stick.”

I pressed a hand to my abdomen, ignoring his black look, and slid deeper into the carriage seat. “Now, tell us why exactly you climbed into our carriage uninvited if you’re innocent of Rookwood’s murder,” I demanded of Bonnie Brock.

His eyes dipped to my abdomen, observing my protective gesture. “Because as soon as I heard Rookwood had been crashed, I kent what you and the pollies would think. It’s true enough I threatened the quill. But I needed him alive. To tell me who bloody Mugdock is. Or at least how he got his information. Though Rookwood swore he didna ken that part.”

I had no difficulty believing he spoke the truth, at least about not knowing Mugdock’s real identity. The wrath that suffused his features when he spoke of the author practically turned his complexion purple.

“Besides, when I kill a man, ’tisn’t wi’ a clumsy blow to the head. And my men wouldna been so inept as to leave before the job was done.”

Once again, I was taken aback by the implication of the previous violence he and his men had done, and also the knowledge he already possessed. Though I realized I shouldn’t have been.

“How do you know all this?” Gage queried peevishly.

“I have my sources,” he replied vaguely.

I’d long been envious of his system of runners positioned throughout the city—boys ready to relay information to or for him at a moment’s notice. But in this case, I suspected his informant might be a member of the City Police he’d bribed.

“What do you mean, ‘before the job was done’?” I puzzled. “Was Rookwood alive when they found him?”

Bonnie Brock’s green-gold gaze flicked between us. “Didna Maclean tell ye?”

I glanced at Gage, noting his tight jaw. Plainly he wasn’t going to answer, so I cleared my throat. “Maclean wasn’t willing to tell us anything.” Realizing I was fidgeting with my kid leather gloves, tugging them tighter onto my fingers, I lowered them to my lap. “Apparently, we are also suspects.”

Bonnie Brock’s features flickered in surprise. “Aye, weel . . . Rookwood supposedly scribbled a few letters before he slipped the wind. A B and either an a or an o.”

My eyes widened.

“Aye,” he replied with a fierce frown.

Ba might be anything, but Bo could be the beginning of Bonnie, as in Bonnie Brock.

“And he was also clutchin’ the torn corner o’ some documents. ’Tisn’t clear what they are, but . . .”

“The sequel,” I murmured, following his thought.

His eyes glinted in answer. “And if that’s true, then who kens who has it noo.”

Or where it would end up.

“Perhaps that was the motive,” Gage remarked brusquely, his arms crossed over his chest. “Stealing the sequel.” He glanced to the side, peering out the window at the darkened streets of New Town. “Which doesn’t exactly paint us in the clear. But we can’t be the only ones who would prefer not to see the sequel to The King of Grassmarket published.”

“Ye mean like someone else whose reputation was tarnished in the book?” Bonnie Brock speculated with raised eyebrows.

Which led us back around to their differing opinions about the honorability of Sergeant Maclean and the rest of the City Police.

I grunted as we clattered over a bump in the pavement. “Or a rival publisher,” I pointed out before they began to argue again, but then I was struck by another idea. “A rival publisher might benefit twofold. One, by preventing Rookwood from publishing it, and two, by publishing it themselves.”

“If they could discover the identity of the author,” Gage reminded us.

“I’m no’ sure they’d even need to do that.”

I turned to Bonnie Brock with interest.

“I’m sure Rookwood told ye how determined Mugdock was to keep him silent. Made him sign that ironclad contract. So how is Mugdock goin’ to protest the publication o’