“What is it?” Gage murmured in alarm.
“I thought I saw . . .” My words trailed away as I strained my neck, finally catching another glimpse of the man. But though his hair was the same auburn hue, he wasn’t the duchess’s son. “I thought I saw Lord Henry Kerr,” I finished flatly, struggling to hide my disappointment and irritation.
“Returned from escorting his brother abroad,” Gage replied sharply beneath his breath, leaving out the words so evident in the glint of his eyes. His brother the murderer. For the Duke of Bowmont had exerted his privilege to have the charges against his fourth acknowledged son dismissed while Lord John Kerr was spirited away rather than face the consequences. It was true there had been extenuating circumstances behind the murder—ones that might have made the homicide defensible—but Lord John’s failure to appear at the magistrate’s hearing had soured both my and Gage’s belief in justice.
Yet it wasn’t these facts that made me so anxious about seeing Lord Henry. Rather it was the secret I’d uncovered about him just hours before he’d disappeared to escort his brother from Scotland. A secret he had begged me to allow him to reveal to Gage, swearing to do so as soon as our inquiry was solved. That he had left me a note of apology, pleading for my forgiveness and promising to visit us in Edinburgh as soon as Lord John was settled abroad, had not assuaged my irritation. Every day that passed without his arrival made my anger burn hotter. For I had now found myself in an impossible situation, and all because of him.
“Yes,” I murmured fretfully, already anticipating how furious my husband was going to be when he learned Lord Henry was his half brother and that I had known this fact now for nearly two months.
Gage’s gaze scrutinized my features in concern, driving the dagger of guilt even deeper. “Surely you’re not concerned for his safety?”
“No, I . . .” But I couldn’t think how to finish my sentence.
“Because given his motives for committing murder in the first place, I doubt Lord John would harm any member of his family.”
“Well, let’s not discuss that here,” Alana snapped, impelling us forward again and saving me from making another bumbling response.
But we only managed to take two more steps before we were accosted by a gentleman reeking of cheroots. I recognized his smug dissipated countenance from an investigation we had conducted a year before. I hadn’t liked him then, and time had not improved my impression of him.
“Lady Dalby,” Lord Kirkcowan drawled. “Er . . . excuse me.” He flashed me a nasty smile. “Slip of the tongue, Lady Darby. Fancy meeting you here.” His eyes cut toward Gage. “And with your faithful husband beside you.” The way he said it made it sound like Gage was some sort of hound. Or perhaps he meant to imply that I was faithless. Whatever the case, I was not going to be cowed by such an odious man.
“Good evening, my lord,” I said before Alana could speak for me. I glanced over his shoulders, pretending to search. “But where is your delightful wife? I should so like to greet her.” Though I had not been in Edinburgh the previous autumn when it was aghast with whispers that Lady Kirkcowan had finally summoned the courage to leave her feckless husband, gossip traveled far and wide in upper-class circles.
Not taken in by my guileless smile, he narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid she’s at our country home.”
This was a lie, for I also knew that his estate was mortgaged to the hilt. Anything of value that had not been directly entailed had been sold to pay his gambling debts. No, Lady Kirkcowan had returned to her father’s house with their three children, likely with naught but their clothes and the jewels I had contrived to have stolen before privately returning them to her a year ago so that she would not be destitute when Lord Kirkcowan lost their remaining property on the turn of a card. She had correctly surmised that her husband would not pursue them or attempt to retain custody of their children, especially given the fact that he had no money to pay for a nanny or governess to look after them.
“Then I shall have to write to her.”
He could make no reply to this without revealing his falsehood, so his gaze shifted to Gage, his mouth twisting cruelly. “And what did you think of the play? I found it illuminating, myself.”
But Gage was not to be goaded either. His features exhibited nothing but the bland insouciance he often adopted in public, and he replied in a bold, clear voice for the benefit of those people surrounding us who were not making any effort to hide the fact that they were eager to hear his answer. “Yes, I suppose in terms of the disposition, habits, and moral character of a criminal there was much to be gleaned. And the performance was quite entertaining, even if a great deal of it was purely fictitious. But I can’t help but wonder if such a play isn’t a trifle irresponsible.”
“Irresponsible?” one gentleman who had been listening in leaned closer to ask. “How do you mean?”
Gage turned to address him calmly. “Well, as I understand it, versions of The King of Grassmarket are being performed in theaters all over the city, even minor revues and penny gaffs.” He glanced about him, showing that he was conscious of his entire audience. “And while I doubt there are many here who would take the words to heart, I fear that those who are impressionable might be swayed to think Bonnie Brock Kincaid’s actions heroic and not criminal, and so be inspired to follow the same path.”
That this had been true before the publication of the book and the staging of the plays, albeit to a lesser degree, I knew for a fact. But if the versions performed at the minor theaters were in any way similar to this one, that influence could broaden. Impressionable boys and frustrated young men who might otherwise have eschewed such unlawful behavior might decide theft was not so terrible an action. That if Bonnie Brock and his men committed such acts and were lauded for it, then why shouldn’t they be also?
I could tell I wasn’t the only one contemplating these thoughts by the gasps and whispers rippling through the crowd. That Gage’s intent had been to turn the focus of discussion away from the characters based on us and toward this moral conundrum was obvious, at least to me, though hopefully not to everyone else. Even Alana appeared aghast by the idea.
“Malcolm begged to be allowed to attend the play with us this evening,” she confessed as Gage managed to maneuver us through the crowd and closer to the doors where Philip intended to meet us. “And I nearly relented, despite the lateness of the hour.” Her nine-year-old son could be very persuasive when he wanted something. “Now I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Alana, I hardly think a play would compel Malcolm to live a life of crime,” I argued. “He’s more intelligent than that.”
“Is he?” she demanded to know.
I opened my mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes made me stop. The play had been filled with dashing acts of derring-do and thrilling chases, and all had ended—save one—with a night of camaraderie with his mates, gathered inside a pub or around a fire, drinking and singing and laughing. For a young boy who loved to run, leap, climb, and arrange battles with his toy soldiers, such a life must seem grand.