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

at the criminal’s impudence. We might have been forced into close proximity inside the carriage the evening before, but that didn’t mean he would approve of me being close to him now. “You’d better have a good reason for being here,” I told him as another figure shuffled her feet just over his shoulder. “Good afternoon, Maggie,” I said more politely. The girl already appeared uncomfortable and ready to bolt at any moment.

“What have ye uncovered?” Bonnie Brock demanded, reclaiming my attention.

I scowled at his tone.

“I ken that ye were seen on North Bridge Street.” He straightened from his slouched stance, leaning against the doorframe. “Were ye able to talk to Heron?”

Maggie startled, drawing both of our attentions. A horse whinnied somewhere in the stable behind her. I wondered if she might be afraid of the steeds. I doubted she’d had much interaction with such animals. Her shoulders inched up around her ears, and she glanced behind her repeatedly, as if unnerved by her surroundings. I wished I could invite her inside, but that was not possible for several reasons. Chiefly to do with her brother.

I grimaced at the infuriating subject in question. “Yes, we spoke with Mr. Heron. And we were able to confirm that Rookwood’s office was almost certainly staged to appear as if the criminal was imitating the crime ascribed to you in The King of Grassmarket. But we have a great deal more investigating to do, and your hovering over our every move is not in the least helpful.”

“Then your visit to your sister was part o’ the investigation?”

I narrowed my eyes at this challenge, anger beginning to bubble in my veins. “Now, see here, Mr. Kincaid,” I snapped, drawing attention to my use of his last name, as he had insisted upon my calling him Brock for more than a year now, and I normally complied. “I know you are accustomed to ordering your men and your sister about as if they are all pawns in your little kingdom, but I am not one of your subjects. And I will not be interrogated as such. Where I go and how I choose to investigate is my own affair. Do I make myself clear?”

Even in the shadows cast by the doorway, I could see that the ridge of scar tissue running along the length of his nose stood out white against his angry flush. This was never a good sign. But I also knew that if I didn’t stand firm now, he would take even greater liberties and make even more demands. This was something I was not willing to sacrifice, despite the quavering his glare caused in my stomach. I simply had to trust that his good sense—and the fact that we were standing in my garden, with Jeffers and possibly other members of my staff looking on through the windows behind me—would prevail. I would never discount our cook, Mrs. Grady, and her skill with a rolling pin.

Slowly the color faded from his face, and a droll smile hitched one side of his mouth upward. “Lord Avonley always said to beware the woman who can best ye at your ain game. And I realize noo, he was right.”

There was little he could have said that would have disarmed me more. I knew how rarely he spoke of his family or his past, including Lord Avonley, his sister’s father and his mother’s last, and probably dearest, lover. From the expression that transformed Maggie’s face, it seemed she was equally flustered. Her eyes shimmered with not only surprise but also anguish and longing. I suspected then that her brother must have also refused to speak of such things even with her. Even when he knew that she had only been three years old when her mother and father had died, so she could not possess many clear memories of them.

“If we uncover anything of importance . . .” Anything he should know, I added as a silent qualifier while I adjusted the drape of my boa. “I’ll send word to you through your men. I know you still have them following us.”

When Bonnie Brock’s expression turned contemplative, I began to puzzle as to why.

“Unless you wish me to send it somewhere directly?”

I had never been privy to the location of his home, though I had heard the outrageous rumors that circulated from time to time. That he possessed an underground palace accessed only through the vaults, and filled from floor to ceiling with a treasure more vast than a maharaja’s palace. That he lived in an unused wing of the Palace of Holyroodhouse, right beneath the nose of the current resident, the abdicated and exiled former king of France, Charles X. Bonnie Brock having been linked to Charles X’s widowed daughter-in-law, the Duchess of Berry, as her lover seemed to add credibility to this theory. But I found the supposition made in The King of Grassmarket to be the most credible—that he possessed a number of residences throughout the city that he rotated among.

A supposition which seemed to be confirmed by his next statement.

“Nay, Maclean and his men are too determined to sniff us oot for me to remain in one place for long.” He turned his head to the side, but even in profile I could see the deep lines of anxiety scoring his forehead. “And I canna be certain any longer precisely who I can trust.” That this worry extended not only to himself but also his sister was made plain by the look he cast over his shoulder at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly, and I had to wonder if she had already been threatened in some way, or if Bonnie Brock was merely fearful she would be harmed. After all, she was the last family member he possessed and clearly the dearest person in the world to him. The play at the Theatre Royal had purely speculated on Brock’s motivations for who he was, but more and more I had