A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,3

nom de plume, hiding behind a fictional identity which, thus far, no one had been able to strip away.

Clearly Bonnie Brock was intent on doing so. And deathly earnest about it, if the intensity of his threats to us were any indication.

Outrage surged through me at the affront of him believing we would have betrayed his secrets so easily. “Truthfully, we questioned whether you might be the author. After all, infamous or not, your reputation seems to have been enhanced, and what better way to control the narrative of your life.” I narrowed my eyes. “Not to mention the fact that I suspect you find it devilishly funny to watch all of Edinburgh speculate on whether you might be the true father of my child.”

Not only was it insulting for the book to insinuate there had been any sort of relationship between Bonnie Brock and myself—or rather the character Lady Dalby, a thinly veiled allusion to me—but the fact that it purported to question my child’s paternity was both outrageous and completely preposterous. I would never have been unfaithful to Gage. Not to mention the fact that I had last seen Bonnie Brock in early May, while the baby had been conceived in July on Dartmoor in southern England, four hundred fifty miles away. Thus making the rumor impossible.

“I dinna need my reputation enhanced,” he snarled, striding yet another step closer so he was almost level with Gage. “Nor do I want the attention.” He scoffed. “As if bein’ followed aboot by newspapermen and pursued by a flock o’ foolish ladies is beneficial to my business.”

I wasn’t surprised to hear the latter, for two days prior Bree, my maid, had pointed out the column placed by “a certain lady” in the Caledonian Mercury inviting Bonnie Brock to visit her one night. It was so absurd that it was almost laughable.

“And noo Maclean’s sniffin’ around again.” He turned his head to scowl blackly at Gage, as if he could be blamed for Sergeant Maclean, our friend with the Edinburgh City Police, doing his job. However, he spared no sympathy for the difficulties this book about him had caused us. “I dinna have anythin’ to do wi’ that pack o’ lies!”

“Except it’s not all lies,” I ventured to say, knowing it would earn me further ire. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so determined to figure out how the author learned about your past.”

“What of some of your exploits it describes?” Gage challenged. “The thefts. The body snatching. The time you broke out of jail. Were any of those true, too? Because we knew nothing of those. Certainly not in such detail.”

Bonnie Brock’s gaze slid sideways to meet Locke’s before he admitted begrudgingly, “Some o’ ’em.”

The entire book was a disquieting swirl of fact and fiction, but too many of the more obscure particulars were true for us to believe they’d been cobbled together from what little was publicly known about Bonnie Brock.

“You’ve read it, then?” he asked.

Gage’s expression turned wry. “Once we heard about the characters Lady Dalby and her charming partner, Mr. Gale, and the foul assertions made about them, we could hardly ignore it.”

For not only had the book called my child’s parentage into question, but it had also alleged that our interactions with Bonnie Brock had not been entirely law-abiding, or in the public’s best interest.

“Then who do you think wrote it?”

Gage shook his head. “We don’t know. Surely, you know better than we do who’s been privy to all the particulars about your life.” His gaze shifted to Stumps, who didn’t seem to appreciate his making even this subtle accusation. The ruffian lifted his broad hands, cracking his knuckles loudly.

“It’s no’ Stumps or Locke,” Bonnie Brock replied. “Or Maggie.” His sister. His eyes scrutinized Gage’s impeccably dressed figure.

My husband scowled. “We already told you it wasn’t us. Now, are you going to let us pass?” He stretched his hand back toward me, pulling my arm through the loop made by his. “I’d like to escort my expectant wife home before she takes a chill. Or shall we call for help when this carriage approaching drives by?”

True to his threat, the clatter of wheels against the cobblestones could be heard in the near distance. It would be a matter of seconds before the carriage was upon us.

Bonnie Brock continued to glare at us for a few more heartbeats. Long enough to make me wonder if he truly did intend to harm us. But at the last moment before the carriage