Given the results of our last inquiry, it was difficult to argue that Bonnie Brock was entirely wrong. That being said, I wasn’t about to abandon the rule of law. “Then maybe we should be trying to find who betrayed him before he does. After all, we have a bone to pick with the author as well.”
Gage’s reply was interrupted by the opening of our town house door. Our butler, Jeffers, stood on the other side, waiting to greet us and take our outer garments. It wasn’t until we’d both changed out of our evening attire, with the assistance of our maid and valet, and we were settled in bed that he could answer.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, pulling the cornflower blue and ivory counterpane over his legs. However, his voice was cautious. “But we’ll need to do so without Kincaid finding out.”
I arched my toes toward the warmth generated by the heated bricks swaddled in cloth and tucked into the bottom of our bed. “You don’t think he already expects it?”
From the surprised look Gage cast my way, it was obvious he hadn’t considered such a possibility.
My muscles began to relax as the warmth seeped into them, and I sank deeper into the pillows. “He knows we’re inquiry agents. And incurably incapable of leaving a question unanswered.”
“Then you think tonight’s confrontation was about more than just finding out whether we were the snitchers?”
My lips curled at his use of street slang.
“That he hopes we’ll begin an inquiry?”
I shrugged. “It makes sense.” It also might explain why the altercation had been so menacing, lacking any of his usual wit and finesse. Maybe he’d sought to manipulate us into helping him, even unwittingly, with his ferocity.
It was possible I was deluding myself with such thoughts, but I found myself comforted by them nonetheless. I didn’t want to believe that Bonnie Brock would harm me or mortally injure Gage. I didn’t want to believe that the scrap of fondness for the criminal which had taken root inside me went unreciprocated.
Gage crossed his arms over his chest, grudging respect twisting his lips as he called the crafty rogue a rather unsavory name.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” I asked, smothering a smile at his rancor.
He huffed a sigh. “Yes. But mainly because we might be the only ones who can save the fool from the end of Kincaid’s blade.”
I hoped we were equal to the task. Otherwise, we might find ourselves pitted with the law directly against Bonnie Brock Kincaid, and I was confident we wouldn’t like those consequences.
Chapter 1
Seven weeks later
Normally a visit to the Theatre Royal was a pleasure, particularly when my brother-in-law, the Earl of Cromarty, granted us the use of his private box. Gage and I could settle into the seats deeper inside with our hands clasped together and enjoy the play, shielded from some of the prying eyes of society by the swathes of red drapery. Whether the performance was Shakespeare or an adaptation of Sir Walter Scott’s novels, there was always something of artistic merit to appreciate.
But this was no normal visit, and no normal play.
For perhaps the dozenth time since asking to use their private box the day before, I wished we could have found a way to discourage Alana and Philip from accompanying us. Though in the past the unflinching support of my sister and her husband had been a bolster to me, lately it had become a burden.
No, that wasn’t quite right. I would always be grateful for their love and care through all the difficulties of my scandalous past. That would never change. Rather their attitudes of mind toward it had. While in public they still displayed their unwavering support, in private their impatience had begun to show.
“What is the world coming to?” Alana grumbled as we entered the box. “A fortnight ago Philip and I came here to see A Winter’s Tale and now we’re here to view this . . .” she gestured with her playbill “. . . drivel.” She sank into her chair, allowing her white fur boa to drape elegantly around her shoulders. Her lavender gown was the latest in fashion, with a wide flounced sleeve, a matching ribbon stomacher, and round bows marching down the skirt in rows and across the shoulders. Her chestnut hair, two shades lighter than my own, was dressed high on her head in braided loops and accented with a spray of flowers.
Meanwhile, I’d been forced to alter an older gown of azure blue to accommodate my ever-expanding waistline. I made no complaint. My maid, Bree, and the seamstress I’d hired had done a marvelous job. I had never been vain about my appearance or paid particular attention to what was fashionable. Although I admitted to a faint twinge of uncertainty seeing how puffy my face looked in the mirror in the morning, and I was growing tired of how awkward I now felt in my own body.
Gage helped me into my chair before sitting beside me, looking as astoundingly handsome as ever in his dark evening attire. The artfully tousled curls of his golden hair glinted in the light of the wall sconces, accenting his healthy bronzed complexion and finely sculpted cheekbones. “Yes, well, we’re not here to judge the quality,” he replied to Alana’s comment. “Merely the content.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Gage and narrowed her eyes in scrutiny, perhaps wondering, as I was, whether he was growing just as irritated with their carping. “We’re well aware that you and Kiera had no control over the publication of that book or the production of this play,” she retorted, turning back toward the stage. She twitched her shoulders, adjusting her posture. “Though I’m sure you realize you would never have been at risk to be included had you not had dealings with that man.”
I rolled my eyes, not caring if Philip or Alana saw me. Of course we knew it. And if we hadn’t, she’d already reminded us of it at least three times.
As if recognizing this, Philip reached across to rest his hand over Alana’s in her lap. “They know, darling. Let’s not rub salt in the wound.”
Her shoulders tensed and she arched her chin in the air, but she listened to her husband and controlled her tongue.
I knew Alana was only worried about me. Her biting comments had begun after I’d been injured from a near tumble down a flight of stairs during our last murderous inquiry. While we’d made up from our quarrel, her feathers were still ruffled, particularly by this latest development—the adaptation of The King of Grassmarket into a play.
And the Theatre Royal’s rendition wasn’t the only one. With the book’s rampant popularity, theaters all across Edinburgh—perhaps all across Scotland and even into England—had taken notice. Soon each theater’s resident playwrights were racing to produce a script and compose music to accompany the flash songs in thieves’ cant cleverly alluded to in the pages of the book. Versions of The King of Grassmarket were already being staged at the Adelphi, the Grand, and at least half a dozen minor theaters and penny gaffs for the working classes. In fact, while we waited for the curtain to rise at the Theatre Royal, Bree and Anderley—our intrepid and capable lady’s maid and valet—were on their way to one of the more respectable minor establishments to view another version of the play.