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

chest. “I know it in my heart. And yet I can’t seem to help it. My body reacts before I can stop it.”

She grasped hold of my hands, waiting for me to look her in the eye. “I’m going to tell you something you told me once. Your husband’s actions are not yours to atone for.”

I blinked, fighting another wave of tears as she continued in her own words, knowing she was speaking of Sir Anthony.

“Even the wrongs he did to you.” She shook her head. “It’s not your fault any more than it’s mine what our late husbands did to us, or that our bodies have longer memories than our conscious thoughts.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Whatever pain or anger Gage and Rye are feeling when we quail or cringe, it isn’t so much at us as on our behalf. For they know there’s nothing they can do to erase the cause of it. All they can do is love us forward.”

My lips curled into a trembling smile at the impact that that truth had on me, soothing an ache inside me I hadn’t even known I needed to heal. “That’s very wise.”

“Well, I was helped along to it by the very best of women,” she proclaimed, chucking me playfully under the chin.

I smiled wider under her regard.

“Now, other than to see you looking so splendidly fecund . . .”

I laughed as she leaned back to gaze at the evidence of this.

“I really came to invite you to a dinner party my great-aunt is hosting.”

“Didn’t you and Lady Bearsden just return to Edinburgh?” I gasped in amused wonderment.

“Yesterday. But you underestimate my great-aunt. She has been known to send her staff into a flurry by deciding within an hour of her arrival that she’ll be hosting a soiree that very night. This time she’s at least giving them three days’ notice.” She tapped the back of my hand. “It’s on Wednesday and is certain to be enjoyable, for rather than inviting a crowd of stuffy society matrons, the dinner is to be a small gathering of theater folk.”

This sparked an interest in me, particularly as we’d recently had encounters with such people. I wondered if any of them would have any insights into Rookwood’s murder or The King of Grassmarket. And whether they would share any of it with me.

“Of course we’ll come.”

“Excellent. Auntie will be in raptures to see you in such a state.”

I searched Charlotte’s eyes for any indication that she might be saddened or discomfited by my expectant condition, but I only saw joy reflected there. I knew she had longed to be a mother more than anything, but she had proven to be incapable of conceiving. That was one of the reasons I was so happy she’d found love and companionship with my cousin Rye, for he had two young children of his own, both of whom had taken a great liking to her.

“Tell me about your wedding plans,” I urged, and then listened happily as she shared the details of their July ceremony.

They had elected to wed at Barbreck Manor in Argyll, the estate of Rye’s great-uncle, the Marquess of Barbreck. It was to be a small ceremony with close family and friends. A decision which did not surprise me. Rye had always been quiet and serious, and Charlotte had endured enough of society’s attention to last a lifetime. I was to serve as her attendant, an honor I was pleased to perform, so she spent a great deal of time describing our attire, to most of which I merely nodded. For all my strengths, fashion was not one of them, and it being Charlotte’s special day, I would wear whatever she told me to.

I embraced her tightly again when it was time for her to depart. Then I stood at the window, smiling as she issued instructions to her footman to fetch pastries from the Lejeunes’ shop. I had just been describing the deliciousness of their macarons in embarrassing detail.

As the footman trotted off and her carriage rolled forward, my interest was caught by the sight of a man standing in the shadow of one of the buildings across the street. At first I assumed it was one of Bonnie Brock’s men, who I knew still followed me about the city, for either Brock’s edification or my protection. The reason varied depending on who you asked. But something about the man seemed familiar, and after studying him for a moment I realized why. It was the same brawny fellow I’d seen outside Lennox’s shop. He wore the same dark brown coat and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest in the same exact manner. And he was watching our house.

I stepped back, ensuring that the damask drapes shielded me from his sight.

What was he doing here? Was he one of Bonnie Brock’s men? Had he followed us from Cowgate? Or had he already known where we lived?

I contemplated what to do. My first instinct was to speak to Gage, but matters were already strained between us. If the man across the street proved to be one of Bonnie Brock’s men, I knew it would irritate him to be reminded that I was being shadowed in such a manner. But if the man wasn’t, if he was there for another reason, then I wanted to know why. And whether it was connected to Lennox and his shop in any way.

I turned toward the writing desk, but then realized I didn’t know whom to pass the message to for Bonnie Brock. Though I could usually spy his men if I looked closely enough for them, they had gotten better at masking themselves in recent months. Once in a while a fresh recruit would appear, one who hadn’t yet mastered the art of concealment, and so stood out like a mustard pot in a coal scuttle. Thus, I couldn’t judge the brown-coated fellow by that factor alone.

Returning to the window, I tried to detect whether another