A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,32

might do something regrettable. Like slap the feral grins off Lady Kinnear’s and Mrs. de Quincey’s faces.

And so it was that I managed to steal four entire minutes of silence before my cousin Morven peered around the door into my old bedchamber to find me seated on the settee before the dormant fire. Her dark, gleaming hair had been swept into the high bows on her head now fashionable among society, the rich color accentuated by the lilac silk and white crepe of her gown.

“Good heavens,” she exclaimed upon finding a gray cat perched precariously on what little room remained in my lap. “I do believe that is the most rotund feline I have ever seen.”

“Yes, well you would be just as round, too, if you had children sneaking you treats all day.” I smiled down at Earl Grey, who arched his chin to give me better access to scratch it. He had once been a mouser at Blakelaw House, my childhood home, but had managed to worm his way into my heart with his loyal, undemanding affection. He’d had a knack for finding his way into places I didn’t wish him to be, but when conversely I needed him most. A knack he still seemed to possess.

Morven rested one hand on the door while planting the other on her hip, her enormous blond-lace-trimmed sleeves nearly touching the bedframe some feet away. “I thought he was your cat.”

“He was, but the children were so fond of him, and he them, that I decided he would be better off here.”

“Perhaps for his self-consequence, but not for his health,” she quipped.

“Did Alana send you to find me?”

The manner in which she scrutinized my features told me I hadn’t done a good job of masking my irritation with my sister. “Your husband, actually. He thought it might look too conspicuous if he slipped out. Said I would find you either here or in the nursery.”

My lips curled reflexively that he knew me so well. “The children are asleep.”

She advanced into the room, reaching out to pet the top of Earl Grey’s head. “I suspected. Alana always was better than I am at finding nursemaids who can make the children mind. Oh, now you’re in heaven, aren’t you?” she crooned to the cat. “Why’d you name him after the prime minister?”

I shrugged. “It seemed to suit him. And he’s gray.”

I looked up to find her face alive with amusement.

“Is that funny?”

“It is, actually. But I’m more amused with you, hiding up here with a fat cat.”

I frowned. “I’m not hiding. I couldn’t care less what those gossips think. Though I know Alana wishes me to be more civil than to tell them that to their faces.”

“That’s not entirely true,” she replied much too reasonably. “But in any case, they’re not the people you’re hiding from.” Her eyes lifted to bore into mine. “Are they?”

I didn’t respond. There was no need to. She already knew she was correct.

Morven shook her head and resumed her petting. “For all that you two are the closest sisters I know, you can be remarkably obtuse about each other.”

I glowered at her, uncertain whether I should take offense.

“Have you tried talking to her?”

“When I can get a word in edgewise between her reproaches.”

Morven sighed and stood upright, crossing her arms over her chest. “Have you told her you’re investigating the anonymous author of The King of Grassmarket?”

I paused in my ministrations of Earl Grey, who whined in protest before sinking his head onto the mound of my abdomen. “How did you know about that?”

“Jack saw you entering Rookwood Publishing this morning, so it stood to reason that’s why you were there.”

It was my turn to sigh, this time in aggravation.

“Given the fact she thinks you’re taking a respite from investigating, don’t you think you should inform your sister before she finds out from someone else?”

“Finds out what?” Alana demanded to know as she entered the room. Her gaze riveted on me before dipping to my lap. She cringed. “Oh, Kiera. I know you love that cat, but now is hardly the time to pet him. Your skirt will be covered with hair, if not ruined from his claws.”

I resumed petting him in silent defiance.

She huffed. “Now, what am I not to find out?”

Morven turned to me, her eyebrows communicating both an apology and an insistence I be the one to tell her.

“Gage and I are attempting to uncover the author’s real identity.” There was no need to specify which author,