A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,58

sure I’ve ever asked why you were named Kiera. After a relative?”

“My grandmother named me.” I tilted my head to the side in fond remembrance of her. “My mother’s mother.”

“She was from Ireland?”

“Yes. She always told us that she had the blood of ancient Irish kings flowing through her veins, and I believed it. She was quick-witted, and unique, and beautiful. She had this presence about her. As if she knew exactly who she was and precisely where she was supposed to be, and nothing you could do or say would change that. Because of that, she was keener to accept people as they were. Including me. It was a . . . relief not to have to pretend in her presence.” I looked up to find his pale blue eyes studying me intently, the silver flecks near the pupils glinting in the firelight.

“It sounds like you inherited a great deal from her.”

I warmed at the compliment. “She attended at my birth, and the moment she saw my crown of dark hair, she insisted I be named Ciera, which means ‘little dark one.’ My father wanted to name me after his mother, Anne, but my grandmother prevailed, though my father got his way in spelling it with a K rather than a C. And Anne became my middle name.”

“But your hair isn’t so very dark,” Gage said, twirling one of my side curls around his finger.

I laughed. “No, it fell out soon after I was born and grew back chestnut brown. Something my father never ceased to remind my grandmother of. But she never wavered in her belief it suited me.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever know what she meant by that. But she was rumored to have the second sight.”

The clock on the mantel softly chimed, recalling me to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I had never gotten an opportunity to sample the delectable fare at Imogen’s ball. My stomach growled and Gage grinned. “Go on up. I’ll ask Jeffers to have a cold tray sent to our bedchamber.”

I nodded. “But no red wine.” I pressed a hand to my chest, imagining the burning sensation. “I’ll never be able to rest tonight if I drink it.”

“Noted.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, sending me off while he crossed toward the bell-pull.

* * *

• • •

I slept late the following morning. Much later than I intended, for by the time I emerged from my toilette, Sergeant Maclean had already come and departed.

“Perhaps that was for the better,” Gage remarked as our carriage set off for Rookwood’s office, in hopes of locating Mr. Heron. “As it was, Maclean was hardly forthcoming with what he knew.” He frowned. “He was more interested in questioning me.”

“You think he honestly suspects you?” I asked in genuine shock.

“I think he wants me to think he does. As to whether he actually does, I don’t know. But he certainly has Kincaid at the top of his list.”

“What of me?”

Gage turned away from the view outside the window, where the dreary weather from the evening before had turned downright dreich. Anyone with any sense or choice in the matter would have remained curled up in front of the fire and out of the damp, blustery, miserable conditions. “I gather he doesn’t believe a woman in your condition could have slipped into the office unnoticed or climbed through the window, if that is, in fact, how they gained entry.”

I adjusted the capote of terry velvet covering my head, contemplating the distance from the close below Rookwood’s office to the window ledge above. “I think I could make it with a ladder.”

He stared at me in disbelief.

“Not in this ensemble, of course.” I gestured to my mantua of bright cerise gros de Tours fabric. The full shape hid much of my form and all but the bottom hem of my aventurine merino walking dress beneath. “But something dark and less voluminous.”

“Well, don’t go about informing people of that,” he groused. “I considered it a blessing that, at least, he’d crossed you off his suspect list.”

I glowered. “I’m not daft, Gage. I’m not informing other people. I’m informing you.”

“Well, regardless. Let’s not test it out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maclean must have interrogated you in earnest if you’re determined to be this stern.”

He tapped his fingers in agitation against the head of his walking stick propped beside his leg. “No, not really. I’m more aggravated that he wouldn’t share what he knew.