A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,101

press the issue. Not yet. Not until I knew more.

“No? My mistake, then,” I replied breezily.

“Once you began sorting through Rookwood’s things, did you find anything of interest?” Gage said, switching topics before Heron could dwell too long on how much we knew.

His gaze shifted to the side as he sifted through his memory. “No’ that I recall. Nothing that would suggest why . . . why someone would harm him anyway.”

“What of the sequel to The King of Grassmarket?”

He frowned in confusion. “I thought ye believed that was what was taken from Rookwood when he was . . . killed?”

“We did. But we’ve since learned Mr. Lennox, the printer, possesses it.”

Deep grooves scored Mr. Heron’s forehead. “But Mr. Rookwood rejected the sequel.”

Gage and I looked at each other in surprise.

“You’re certain?” he clarified.

“Aye. Rather emphatically, I might add. Told me it was mostly a diatribe o’ Kincaid’s crimes and faults. A personal vendetta. That it wasna even disguised in story form. No’ successfully anyway. And that much o’ it wasna even based in fact.”

“Did you read it?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I only ken what I just told ye. But I’m certain Rookwood wouldna changed his mind. He was that adamant aboot it.”

Then why did Lennox have a copy? Or did he? After all, we hadn’t been allowed to see it. Perhaps he was only claiming to possess it. But why?

Whatever the case, I knew who we were going to be visiting next. But Gage still had one more question.

“Have you accounted for all your time during the afternoon Mr. Rookwood was murdered? Have you forgotten to inform us of anything?”

Mr. Heron stiffened. “I didna do it.”

“We aren’t saying you did, but if we can definitively rule you out, that makes all of this easier.”

He glowered at Gage, clearly not believing him, and clearly still withholding something from us. “I may o’ stopped for dinner. But it wasna an errand.”

That this was an obvious thing he should have mentioned earlier made the corner of Gage’s jaw tick, but he managed to reply calmly. “And where did you stop?”

A sudden sharp twinge in my back made me miss the answer. I pushed to my feet and turned toward the window, ignoring the men’s looks. Pressing against my back, I breathed deep as another pain stabbed through me there. After a moment, the ache eased, and when another didn’t replace it, I turned to face the men again. Gage was taking leave for us, and I added my farewell before exiting onto the landing.

“Is anything wrong?” Gage asked as we descended the stairs.

I glanced up at his concerned expression. “Oh, no,” I demurred, trying to diminish the incident. “It’s simply that at this stage, sometimes sitting is as uncomfortable as standing.” Which wasn’t false. “In truth, no position truly feels comfortable right now,” I added with a sigh. “Bree says that’s merely nature’s way of helping us forget our fear of labor and make us eager for the birth.”

He nodded. “Do you think Bree is enough? Or should we ask if you can borrow Alana’s maid when the time comes? After all, she has helped with four of Alana’s births.”

I laughed. “And Bree has helped at births since she was old enough to fetch water. You forget, she did a marvelous job assisting Dr. Fenwick with Jamie’s birth when Jenny was poisoned, and she’ll do just fine for me.”

“If you’re certain?”

I smiled up at him, finding his concern endearing. “I am.”

He helped me into the carriage before he issued instructions to our coachman. I rested my hands against the taut skin covering the child inside me, anxious that the aches in my back not begin again. For regardless of my air of unconcern, I couldn’t brush them off entirely. Not when the first one had been so sharp it had neatly stolen my breath.

Chapter 21

When we arrived at Lennox’s shop, he was standing outside with his hands on his hips, directing a pair of men putting up new broadsides on the wall of the building. He turned to look at us when our carriage drew up to the side of the building, and this time he wasn’t so careful to mask his irritation with our presence.

“You again,” he stated with a look of mild chagrin. “More questions? Come on, then.” He led us inside to his office and closed the door behind us but didn’t bother rounding his desk to his chair, communicating this would be a short interview. “I don’t