A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,116

that your husband used some rather colorful language to swear I’d never enter your home again, I gather this is verra important,” Bonnie Brock drawled as Gage closed the door, granting us privacy. “Weel, then, I’m all ears.”

I turned to Maggie, her face pale in the candlelight, and spoke gently. “Do you want to tell him or shall I?”

Chapter 24

Bonnie Brock straightened from his slouch. “Tell me what?”

I kept my eyes trained on Maggie, watching as her shoulders hunched and she tried to shrink into the eyelet curtains behind her. When she didn’t answer, I took that as my cue, moving a step closer to the frightened, uncertain young woman, but staying far enough away that Gage wouldn’t protest the proximity. “Maggie is the informant. Though I strongly suspect she didn’t do it to hurt you,” I hastened to add.

Maggie’s gaze darted between me and her brother before finally settling on Brock as obviously the greater threat.

“Nay. That canna be true,” he denied, the muscles in his arms rippling with restrained anger. “My sister wouldna betray me.”

“I don’t think she intended to betray you,” I said, still speaking in a quiet, even voice. “I think she thought she was confiding in someone she could trust.”

Her wide green eyes flicked to mine and held.

“Isn’t that right?”

She slowly nodded.

At this first tentative admission of her guilt, Bonnie Brock exploded away from the sideboard, but fortunately the round table was positioned between them. “How could ye do this to me?” he demanded to know as Maggie cowered against the wall. I edged a step closer to her even as Gage moved to intercept Brock should he try to come nearer. “Our secrets. Our past. Ye ken why I kept it quiet. Why I dinna tell anyone.” His face twisted with dark emotions. “My ain sister!” He whirled away with a snarl of disgust and fury, struggling to absorb this act of perfidy. “Did ye help to write that book, too?”

“Nay,” Maggie gasped, speaking for the first time as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Nay, o’ course I didna.”

“There’s no o’ course aboot it.”

She flinched at the harsh words but continued. “I had no idea they’d be used in a book. I had no idea he would ever . . .”

Betray her. Those were the words she seemed to choke on, her own pain shimmering in her eyes.

“You’re speaking of Mr. Heron,” I deduced. “That’s the man who betrayed you?”

“Heron?” Bonnie Brock repeated before she could speak. “Ye mean Rookwood’s silver-headed assistant? Why, I’ll kill him.”

“No!” Maggie cried as he turned to charge toward the door, but Gage held up his hands, stopping him.

“Get oot o’ my way, Gage.”

My breath caught at the dangerous glitter in his eyes and the way his hand hovered inside his loose greatcoat, where I knew he concealed weapons.

But Gage was not so easily intimidated. “Not until you hear what your sister has to say. Heron isn’t going anywhere,” he rationalized. “So listen to her first and then decide whether he deserves to die.”

Maggie stiffened, and even I was taken aback by this cool statement, but then I realized what my husband was doing. He was bartering with Bonnie Brock, knowing it would be easier to convince him to back down by suggesting he delay his intentions instead of abandon them.

When he looked as if he still might argue, Gage tempered his stance. “She’s your sister. At least give her the chance to explain.” His gaze darted briefly to mine, perhaps recognizing that was more than he’d given me upon discovering that Henry was his half brother.

Bonnie Brock grunted, turning back to face his sister. “Then talk. Tell me why ye betrayed me.”

But the manner in which he was ferociously scowling at her, impatiently waiting for her to speak, was of no use. Maggie would never be able to get her words out around her trembling sobs. So I pivoted, partially blocking her brother from her sight. “Tell me, Maggie,” I coaxed. “Tell me what happened.”

She sniffed, swiping her hand under her nose, and reminding me of how young she still was. I passed her my handkerchief, waiting while she dabbed at her nose and the wetness on her cheeks, seeming at a loss for where to begin.

“When did you meet Mr. Heron?”

“Last summer. He . . . he was eatin’ on a bench in the Trinity Hospital Physic Gardens. I like to walk there.” She shrugged one shoulder self-consciously. “It’s no’ so busy as other places in the