A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,33

for there was only one writer on all our minds at the moment.

I braced for anger and umbrage, but Alana surprised me by nodding in hearty agreement. “Good. He should be held accountable for his spurious accusations. And so should his publisher.”

I blinked in astonishment. Something that my sister found as vexing as Morven found humorous, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Stop gawping at me like a fish,” Alana ordered. “This is a case of libel, not murder.” She turned toward the mirror, adjusting the gold bracelets at the end of each of her long tulle gigot sleeves, and straightened the wide collar of her gown. “Now push that cat off your lap and come back downstairs before all the guests remark upon your absence. Thank heavens you have your condition to make excuses for you.” She paused at the door to issue one last parting shot. “And quit scowling at your husband, or next we’ll be hearing rumors of your unhappy marriage and what precisely led to such a state.”

Alana had scarcely disappeared before Morven burst out laughing. “My apologies,” she gasped. “But your face! You should have known how your sister would react, you ninny. Is she not as ferocious as a Greek fury whenever one of her loved ones is threatened?”

Morven was right. Alana had always been fiercely protective of her family, including me. Whether she was defending me from a young lord trifling with my affections, the ridicule of society, or the barbarous slander printed in the newspaper, my sister had always been one of my staunchest supporters.

Which was why her most recent actions and criticisms had been so bewildering and hurtful. I could appreciate that she was anxious for the safety of me and my child. I could even understand why she would suggest I temporarily withdraw from taking part in any murderous inquiries. What I couldn’t accept was her determination that I should retire from assisting Gage in his work as a gentleman inquiry agent entirely and forever.

She knew what pride I’d taken in discovering I was skilled at working out the complexities of my and Gage’s investigations, and the sense of purpose I derived in wrangling the truth into the light and bringing justice to those who had been wronged or murdered. At least, those were the hoped-for aims, when the great and powerful didn’t step in to prevent it, as with our last inquiry. But at least, in that case, we had prevented the blame from falling on someone innocent.

That she should brush my feelings and accomplishments aside in her single-minded effort to impose her will by forcing me to conform to the familiar mold pressed upon every upper-class lady—a mold I had never fit—was both baffling and distressing. I had always been able to rely upon my sister’s unwavering, rock-solid support, but now, when I needed it most, I found that it was built upon sand.

Chapter 7

Two hours later when I was finally able to sink into the plush leather seats of our carriage, I could not repress a deeply weary and deeply relieved sigh. Though the distance to our home was short, I could only feel grateful Gage had summoned our coach, for the prospect of walking even a block seemed unbearable.

Gage turned to me with a sympathetic smile, reaching out to help adjust the warm fur collar of my cloak. “For all that your sister professes to be concerned for your health and that of the baby, she seemed remarkably blind to your fatigue.”

“I imagine she was punishing me,” I replied, too tired to summon the hurt and anger which so often accompanied my thoughts of Alana lately.

“Punishing you? But why?”

I smothered a yawn. “For not complying with her wishes. For trusting Dr. Fenwick’s advice over hers.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know,” I answered sleepily, rolling my head to the side against the squabs to peer out the small part in the window curtains at the Georgian town houses lining the square. Most of their windows were dark, their occupants having long since retired.

I heard our coachman give the order and then we were rolling forward on the short journey to our home on Albyn Place.

“I apologize for my earlier comments.”

I turned to find him gazing down at me in remorse.

“I know you’re not blind to Kincaid’s flaws or his manipulations. And you’re right, your ability to empathize has proven useful in the past.”

His expression of regret was at once unexpected and welcome, soothing some of the ache