A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,41

normally self-absorbed focus to him. Not when they wielded much of the power. Instead he had played a fine balancing act from the shadows—skimming just below the surface of their attentions while still managing to abscond with an astonishing amount of money and loot. Stealing jewels from the nobility while already under heavy scrutiny because of the book and play seemed more akin to prodding a slumbering beast than maintaining a shadow game.

“Is there any reason to believe the theft of Sir Phineas’s jewels isn’t as straightforward as it seems?” I asked.

“I havena uncovered anythin’,” Maclean replied, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest again—a move that emphasized the size of his biceps. “Unless you ken somethin’?”

I lifted my hand to the pendant my mother had given me, fingering the amethyst that dangled from my neck, and shook my head. By the slight narrowing of his eyes, I could tell he didn’t entirely believe me, but in this, I was telling truth.

“I’ve told ye before, I dinna like Bonnie Brock Kincaid. He should o’ been hanged for his crimes years ago.” He kept his gaze leveled on me. “But I can no’ like a man and still respect him. Least for the good he has done for the poorest o’ this city, and his resolve to keep his word. He has his ain sense o’ honor, and expects his men to abide by it. That’s more than I can say for the other gangs at work here.” His voice grew hard. “But all the same, he doesna follow the rule o’ law. Be careful ye dinna persuade yourself otherwise.”

“I’m well aware, Sergeant Maclean,” I responded tartly. “I’m in no danger of falling under his sway.” I rested my hands on my rounded abdomen. “And lest you forget, I have the most reason to be furious with him for the trouble his association with me has caused.”

“I would think your husband has greater reason.”

A flush of anger swept through me.

“That is uncalled for, Maclean,” Gage warned, sitting forward.

“For shame, Braden,” Mrs. Duffy gasped behind us, apparently having emerged from the kitchen in time to overhear his remarks. “Noo, why would a sensible woman like Lady Darby want anthin’ to do wi’ a man like Bonnie Brock Kincaid when she’s got a fine braw husband like Mr. Gage.” She planted her hands on her hips, standing over her brother-in-law. “No’ to mention the fact that we ken Lady Darby left Edinburgh in early May.” She swatted him with the towel in her hand. “And you’ve got enough bairns o’ your own to understand how the process works. Why, if Lady Darby were already more than ten months along, do ye think she’d be sittin’ here wi’ you? Nay, she’d be lyin’ in bed, bein’ dosed with whatever vile concoction the midwife thought would induce labor. I ken you’re under pressure from the superintendent to nab Kincaid, but that doesna give ye leave to be so foul to her ladyship. Noo, apologize,” she demanded as if he were a recalcitrant child.

I expected Maclean to refuse or at least grumble about it, but he did neither, giving me a fair idea of who ran Sergeant Maclean’s household. If Mrs. Duffy was this strong-willed, I imagined her sister was as well. He turned to me with a puckered brow. “I apologize.” His gaze flicked toward Gage. “Your husband’s right. ’Twas uncalled for.”

I nodded in acceptance, though I wasn’t certain I would ever look at him as so firm an ally again.

Our leave-taking was strained, not least of all because I could tell Maclean still suspected I was concealing something from him. Gage promised him we would uncover what we could about the jewel thefts, and I told him I would inform him as soon as I heard from Lady Kirkcowan, but I didn’t anticipate that the sergeant would be sharing much with us in the near future. Particularly not if the superintendent was exerting pressure on the police to see Kincaid finally hanged.

“I was under the impression that Lady Kirkcowan had retained some of her jewels,” Gage remarked offhandedly after we returned to our carriage, though his gaze remained trained on the rain-soaked streets outside the town coach’s window.

I studied his profile, wondering how much he wanted me to confess. After all, he’d previously insisted he didn’t want to know the contents of the pouch Bonnie Brock had slipped to me a year ago, though he was smart enough to