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

“Actually, my lady, I believe you are the person I need to speak to.”

I looked up in surprise before pushing the book aside and swiveling to face him. “Of course, Anderley. What is it?”

Seeing the anxiety etched across his brow, I thought perhaps he wanted to discuss his relationship with Bree. But I was wrong again.

He cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. “I found the ballad-seller.”

“Yes,” I replied eagerly. “And did he witness anyone entering Mr. Rookwood’s shop?”

“He did,” he began more tentatively than I would have thought the answer warranted. “A woman. A lady,” he corrected. “She entered the shop about an hour after his assistant departed.”

I felt the first quaver of misgiving. “Did he recognize her?”

“No, but he described her to me, and her coach.”

The more he hesitated, the more nervous I became. “And?”

“She was wearing a fashionable gown of some purplish-pink shade, and her carriage bore the crest of a crown with an arm lifted, holding a sword.”

I blinked at him for a moment, trying to come to terms with this information, before pressing a hand to my forehead. “That sounds like the Earl of Cromarty’s crest.” I lifted my hand, gesturing with it rather needlessly, but I felt somewhat unmoored. “Or rather the Mathesan clan crest. But the earldom’s crest has a similar design.”

“Yes, my lady.”

I turned to the side, not wanting to face the compassion in his eyes. Not when I was already fighting the nausea that accompanied my rising certainty that Alana had paid a visit to Rookwood, and on the day he had been killed. It explained why she had arrived so uncharacteristically late that day to my appointment, long after Dr. Fenwick had departed. And she had been wearing a Parnassus rose gown, her hair slightly in disarray.

Swallowing forcefully, I refused to even entertain the possibility that she’d killed him. But why had she gone to see him in the first place? And why hadn’t she told me? She must know she was one of the last people, if not the very last person, to see him alive besides his killer.

There was nothing for it. I would simply have to talk to her and hope she hadn’t done anything more foolish than keep such a revelation from me.

“Thank you for telling me,” I told Anderley. “Did Mr. Gage take the carriage?”

“No, my lady.”

“Then please ask that it be brought around for me. And should Mr. Gage return before I do, tell him where I’ve gone.”

He bowed and exited the room while I gathered up my scattered wits. I would need them all for this confrontation.

•   •   •

Alana was not home when I arrived, but Figgins assured me she should return soon, so I elected to wait for her. I was thus ensconced on the spring green fainting couch near the window overlooking Charlotte Square when she entered the room, fluffing her chestnut side curls as if to ensure they weren’t wilted. The intricacy of her chintz muslin gown, which was shaded the color of evening primrose and boasted a full skirt, as well as gold and amethyst agraffe and bracelets, told me she had not simply gone out for a stroll.

“Figgins said you were anxious to see me. Had I known you were coming, I . . .” Her footsteps faltered, clearly inferring from my expression that this wasn’t merely a social visit. “Is it the baby?” she asked, hastening closer, and then ruined any softening I might have felt toward her at this display of genuine concern. “I told you not to go traipsing about the city. I told you . . .”

“I know you paid a visit to Rookwood Publishing,” I interrupted, cutting off her diatribe.

Her eyes widened, and for once she seemed to be at a loss for words.

“I know you called on him the very day he was murdered. That’s why you were so flustered when you arrived late to my appointment with Dr. Fenwick.”

She clamped her mouth shut and turned away.

“What were you doing there, Alana? And why didn’t you tell me?” When she didn’t answer, I shifted on the couch, lowering my feet to the ground as I sat upright. “Did you go to confront him? Did Philip accompany you?” My breath tightened seeing the way her back heaved in and out with each of her agitated breaths. “Did something happen? Did . . . did he attack you?” But then I remembered how Rookwood’s body had been found. “Did you lose your temper?”

“No, I did not lose my temper!” she whirled around to shriek at me. “How could you even think . . . ?” She stamped her foot, her face flushed as she struggled to restrain her anger. “He was alive when I left him.”

“But why did you go . . . ?”

“To clean up your mess. Again. To demand he tell me who Mugdock is, so he can be made to retract his nonsense before your child is born. With our luck the baby will have a crown of hair as dark as yours was, and no one will ever believe the child is Gage’s.”

I shook my head. “Alana, people are going to choose to believe whatever they wish to, no matter what shade of hair our child is born with. But those closest to us, those who genuinely care for us know what utter nonsense that book’s suppositions are. And the rest can go hang.”

“So you say, but what about in eight or nine years’ time, when your son goes off to school and the other boys make slanderous accusations about his parentage. Or when your daughter makes her debut and the other debutantes taunt her.”

I frowned, unsettled by the prospect, but more so that she should wave it in my face when there was nothing to be done about it. “That is many years from now. Plenty of time for the truth to be made evident.” After all, the child wasn’t likely to be an exact replica of me.

She swiveled away from me abruptly, marching across the