A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,25

to concede anything to the man, making that contract a thorn in all our sides.

“Mugdock,” Gage ruminated. “That’s a rather odd choice for a nom de plume, is it not?”

Rookwood shrugged. “’Twas his choice. I’ve no idea why he chose it.”

But perhaps it might unwittingly tell us something about him.

I allowed my gaze to trail over the papers on the desk and then down to the rubbish bin sitting next to one of the cabriole legs perched on crisply carved claw-and-ball feet. It was overflowing with foolscap, but one document resting near the top caught my eye, for I’d seen a playbill just like it. “You’ve been to see the play? At the Theatre Royal?”

Rookwood broke off from whatever he had been saying to Gage and turned to me with an aggrieved sigh. “Aye. Three nights past.”

“Did the Theatre Royal pay Mugdock for their use of his book?” Gage queried.

Rookwood chuckled as if Gage had said something humorous. “Nay, lad. Theaters dinna pay for the use o’ an author’s material. Least no’ unless you’re Sir Walter Scott and likely to sue them wi’ the sympathy o’ the entire bloody nation.” He shook his head. “Nay. Most authors receive nothin’. Unless the theater manager happens to feel guilty. But even then ’tis only a single payment in exchange for the author’s endorsement in their advertisin’.” He reached out to pick up his pipe, but seeing my eyes following his movements, he left it in the dish. The stale air inside the chamber had cleared, but it would rapidly grow rank again if he began to smoke. “Nothin’ for it but for the author to take it in stride.”

“And did Mugdock? Take it in stride?” Gage clarified.

Rookwood’s placid good humor returned to irritation as he tapped the desk with a single finger. “Nay, wanted to sue ’em all. And when I told him I wanted no part o’ it, that he would go that road alone, he threatened to sue me for breach o’ contract.” A feline smile curled his lips. “Except he’d no’ anticipated the book bein’ made into a play, and so his contract didna cover it.” He gestured toward the playbill in the rubbish bin. “The Theatre Royal made him a handsome offer, but the fool refused to endorse it because o’ the changes they’d made. So he . . . we . . .” he amended “. . . received nothin’. And yet the play still runs. And a spectacular success it is.”

Gage and I shared a speaking look.

“Do you know which changes he was displeased with?” I asked, turning my head so that I could breathe more deeply of the cool breeze wafting into the room.

Rookwood scoffed. “Anythin’ that made Kincaid look like anythin’ better than the cur and charlatan he’d determined to portray him to be. Except he forgets that’s no’ how most o’ Edinburgh sees him. And the showmen are savvy enough to appreciate what makes a profit.”

“Then Mugdock truly does have a vendetta against Kincaid,” Gage surmised.

“That much is obvious from the book, isna it?” His eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “But the question remains, does he also have a vendetta against you?” His gaze dipped to my rounded belly. “Or are ye merely a convenient pawn with which to illustrate Kincaid’s depravity?”

I couldn’t answer that. Not without knowing who Mugdock was. But his attack of me and Gage certainly felt personal.

Gage arched his chin, giving the publisher a long look. “What do you think?”

“That I dinna ken,” he replied measuredly. “But I can tell ye that, whatever his motivations, he doesna like ye. No’ one bit.”

Chapter 5

Even though the sun had not yet set, the shadows had already begun to deepen beneath the screen of winter trees surrounding the garden. Elms, limes, horse chestnuts, and laurels lined the gravel paths, which crunched beneath my slippers. Gage and I were already dressed in our finery for the dinner party my sister was hosting that evening somewhat unofficially in our honor, and so we did not wander far from the defined trails. But I still took extra care not to muss the hem of my celestial blue dinner dress of gros de Naples.

Bonnie Brock had not specified in his message which of the three sections of the Queen Street Gardens he wished to meet us in, but I could only surmise he meant the westernmost segment as it stood closest to our abode. It was also perhaps the easiest to sneak into. The eastern