A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,69
chin. Alana lifted the bib draped around his neck to swipe away the slobber.
“I cannot believe he’s almost one,” I declared.
“Wait until it’s your little one aging before your eyes,” my sister replied. “But that does remind me, we’re hosting a small party on his birthday, and of course, we’d like you and Gage to attend. Trevor said he would try to make it, but they’ll soon be in the midst of lambing at Blakelaw, so I’m not counting on it.”
Our brother had written me much the same thing in his last letter, saying he hoped he could make it to Edinburgh in time for my child’s birth. He had inherited our childhood home from our father, along with its farm and sheep. After some financial setbacks the previous few years, he’d recently added more ewes to his flock, and while he had an excellent estate manager and farmhands to cope with such matters, it was only natural that he should be anxious to ensure that this year’s lambing was a successful one. I had told him not to be concerned with being here for the birth. After all, there was nothing he could do, and he could just as easily meet his new niece or nephew when they were a few weeks old.
“We’ll be there,” I replied as Jamie’s brow furrowed with impatience, wiggling in his mother’s arms.
She began to bounce him again, earning another giggle of laughter. “Yes, I heard about the murder,” she told me, her icy words contrary to her crooning voice and the smile she gave her son. “It’s all over the papers, and I’ve no desire to discuss it.”
That she was fuming was obvious, but far be it from me to refuse the opportunity to miss one of her lectures.
“May I see them?” I asked, and she nodded toward Philip. A stack of newspapers covered the table beside his chair.
“The London papers, of course, don’t contain word of it yet,” he told me as I began to sort through the pile. “But the Caledonian Mercury, the Gazette, and the Herald, as well as a few of the broadsheets, all cover it.”
I sat in the chair opposite to scan the headlines. Most of them were short on facts but quick to link the murder to the publication of The King of Grassmarket, condemning it and the plays for corrupting the public. That this outcry would only grow in the next few days was all but assured as public figures and people eager to express their opinions in the editorials put in their two pennies’ worth. However, two of the publications were also quick to notice that the staging of Rookwood’s office to look like the scene in the book might just as assuredly point the finger at someone who wished to discredit the story.
More troubling, most of the papers also didn’t fail to mention my and Gage’s role as inquiry agents, or our far-too-obvious inclusion in The King of Grassmarket. The writer of one of the broadsheets also seemed to be aware that Gage and I had spoken to the police outside Rookwood’s office the night before. But providentially, no one was suggesting we were suspects. At least, not yet.
“Are you staying for luncheon?” Alana asked, interrupting my self-absorption with the words before me.
My stomach rumbled at the suggestion, and I caught Philip’s answering grin out of the corner of my eye.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Alana replied.
I pressed a hand to my stomach. “I can’t help it. I’m hungry all the time, but I can never finish a meal without feeling positively stuffed.”
Philip chuckled aloud. “Don’t worry, Kiera. In my opinion, a rabid appetite in a woman with child must be a good sign.”
Alana shook her head. “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea. I could never even think of food without feeling nausea while I was expecting my fiendish little darlings.” She smothered Jamie’s pudgy cheeks with kisses while he giggled. His baby-soft brown hair stood on end. She glanced over her shoulder at her husband. “But your sister was always disgustingly healthy when she was expecting. She claimed it was the only time she could eat whatever and whenever she wanted, so she was going to take full advantage of that fact.”
Something jostled the door ajar, and a moment later, in strutted Earl Grey. Catching sight of his sashaying tail, Jamie made a lunge for him, gurgling some inarticulate sound, but the gray mouser ignored him and ambled toward me.