A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,24

with a stern look. “Who is he?”

Mr. Rookwood shook his head in feigned regret. “I’m afraid I canna tell you that. Signed a binding document that I wouldna divulge the author’s true identity.” He nodded toward the door. “No’ even to the police. And believe me, they’ve tried.”

I turned to Gage, uncertain what to make of the publisher’s disclosure. But if my husband found the police’s involvement curious, he didn’t let it show, maintaining the same level, unyielding stare.

“And what is it precisely you risk should you reveal this Nathan Mugdock’s alias?”

A vee formed between Rookwood’s brows as his chest puffed up like an irate robin. “My reputation, for one. My honor. And . . . a large portion o’ the profits from the sales o’ The King o’ Grassmarket,” he grumbled before gesturing broadly with his hands. “But before ye go offerin’ me money, ken that my honor isna for sale. Bribery willna work for ye any more than it worked for Bonnie Brock Kincaid. And your threats willna either.” He crossed his arms over his chest as if in illustration.

But Gage wasn’t so much impressed by this display of outrage as intrigued by what he’d revealed. “So Kincaid has been here?”

“Aye. Thrice. Each time wi’ a larger bribe and a meaner threat. But I have no kin. Least none within a hundred miles o’ Edinburgh. And should Kincaid go lookin’ for trouble among my relations, he’ll get more than he asked for in return. So he’s only got me to menace, and I dinna frighten easily. I’ve faced doon enough bluster in my day, and killin’ me willna give Kincaid what he wants.”

Perhaps, but there were less extreme measures Bonnie Brock could take. Pain could be an astonishingly persuasive method for making people talk. Sir Anthony, my first husband, had known this well, and I was certain Bonnie Brock did, too.

All that being said, and his protestations aside, I wasn’t convinced the publisher could not be persuaded to divulge Mugdock’s real name. It was more that no one thus far had stumbled upon the right inducement. But until we discovered it, perhaps he would be willing to cooperate in a less straightforward manner.

“Have you met Mr. Mugdock?” I asked.

Mr. Rookwood’s gaze shifted to mine, and a shrewdness entered his features. “I assume ye mean in person, but I’m no’ gonna discuss that. Let’s just say that Mugdock and I have a healthy correspondence.”

“Our scrutiny of this Mugdock’s writing leads us to believe he’s not your typical writer,” Gage remarked almost offhandedly. However, I knew from experience that the suppression of his voice’s inflection during an interrogation was conversely proportional to his interest in the answer to his question. “In fact, this is likely his first book of fiction. And yet, he’s obviously educated and well read.”

“Yes, he’s a bit of a conundrum, isn’t he?” I replied, playing along with my husband’s gambit. “He’s evidently familiar with Edinburgh, but there’s something inauthentic about his descriptions of the lowliest of places and the perpetuation of the crimes described. It makes one wonder how he came across his information about Bonnie Brock. And why he seems to have a vendetta against him.”

“A vendetta Kincaid now seems to be turning back on you.”

A gleam of reluctant admiration lit Mr. Rookwood’s eyes as he observed our exchange and absorbed Gage’s pointed statement—a blunt reminder of the threats he faced. “Seems you’ve worked oot a great deal for yourselves,” he said, but whether this was confirmation of our deductions or he was humoring us, I couldn’t tell. “I willna deny that at times I wonder whether publishing Mugdock’s book has been worth all the trouble. Oh, aye, it’s made a tidy profit. But the threats and harassment I’ve been left to face while he hides behind a false name have been more than I bargained for.” The hand resting on his desk tightened into a fist and then released abruptly as he exhaled. “But what’s done is done. And I’ll no’ dishonor myself noo.” He turned his head aside. “’Specially no’ for the likes o’ a man like Mugdock.”

This more than anything before made clear the state of the relationship between the publisher and author, and it was both a hole to be prodded and a difficult problem to surmount. For while Rookwood might eventually be convinced that revealing Mugdock’s true identity wasn’t dishonorable—particularly after all of the unsubstantiated allegations he’d made in his book and the trouble he’d caused him—Rookwood would abhor having