A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,126

the distinct impression he was the type of man who believed he could brazen his way through anything.

Mr. Knighton’s mouth creased with humor. “I take it this information has been helpful in some way.”

“Yes, thank you,” Gage told him, offering him his hand as our carriage rolled to a stop. “Let me know next time you’re in town, and we’ll invite you to dinner.”

He shook his hand. “Message me with the happy news when your child arrives.” He turned his warm smile on me. “I anticipate it will be soon.”

“We will,” Gage replied, helping me from the carriage. Once inside the entry hall of Cromarty House, I tugged loose the ribbon securing my bonnet and whispered in Gage’s ear. “Badenoch. ‘Ba.’ That’s what Rookwood was writing. Not Bonnie Brock.”

Gage tilted his head nearer to mine as he stripped off his gloves. “It makes sense. Writing ‘Lennox’ would have been too ambiguous. But there is only one Badenoch.”

“He’s his half brother,” I marveled. And yet he was doing everything in his power to destroy him. Not unlike the man who had shared their father’s sobriquet.

Gage’s brow furrowed as he shrugged out of his coat, and I wondered if he was thinking of his own newly discovered half brother. Of his very different reaction.

“Kiera, Gage, there you are,” my sister proclaimed, addressing us from the landing above. “I was just beginning to worry.”

“My apologies,” Gage said, before I could speak. “Mr. Knighton paid me a call just as we were leaving our town house.”

“Oh, well, you should have invited him to join us,” she declared, her voice softening in regard, but then bustled off before he could reply, calling over her shoulder. “Come and join us.”

Gage offered me his arm, and we climbed the stairs toward the sounds of children merrily playing and the accompanying hum of their parents’ conversation. True to her intentions, Alana had kept the party small and intimate, with naught but family and a few friends. I exchanged greetings with a few of the adults but then had to pause beside a chair as I felt another tightening in my lower abdomen. It wasn’t painful, merely uncomfortable, but it did give me pause, for in the past my moving about had always halted such contractions.

However, I was soon diverted by my niece Philipa’s broad grin as she hurried over to show me a picture she’d drawn. At age seven, she was all elbows and knees, and prone to mothering her almost-three-year-old sister, who followed in her wake, flinging her arms around my legs in a hug. Then just as swiftly they darted away, eager to take part in the next game. Even Jamie, who fearlessly crawled around after the older children.

I did my best to join in the conversation of the other women, who each seemed eager to discuss my heavily expectant state, but I found myself distracted, unable to stop contemplating Lennox and his motivation for his actions. My eyes sought out Gage across the room, but he seemed to be doing a much better job of ignoring the matter. When another contraction began—false or not—I turned my steps toward the round table in the corner where Jamie’s gifts were lined up in pretty boxes with bows. Alana had also decided to display a small portrait of Jamie I had painted soon after his birth, and a small framed pressed flower. She had made one for each of her children with the flower associated with their birth month. Jamie’s was a yellow daffodil, and it was inscribed with his full name—James Kieran Matheson—and a short line of verse. I picked up the picture to read it, smiling at the words.

“Yes, Alana captured him perfectly, didn’t she?”

I glanced up at my cousin Morven as she read over my shoulder.

I must have looked a question for she explained. “The verse. Alana wrote it.”

“She did?” I replied, reading it again.

“Yes.” She gestured toward the curio cabinet where the other three pictures were propped. “She wrote the verses on all of her children’s.” She gave a short laugh. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” I replied in bafflement, and then turned to gaze across the room at Alana, who stood near the hearth conversing with Morven’s husband. Why hadn’t she ever told me? Or had she simply expected me to know?

“Your sister used to write a great deal of poetry. She was quite good, too,” Morven remarked.

I met her gaze, realizing this was what she and Charlotte had hinted at in my conversations