A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,72
of Bonnie Brock’s henchman. He tipped his head toward the right, and I heaved a resigned sigh, able to guess what that meant.
Once inside, I declined to give Jeffers my things, including my umbrella. Our butler was accustomed to our odd behavior, but this proved even too peculiar for him.
“I believe we have a visitor to our garden,” I told him before advancing toward the stairs leading to the ground floor.
Exiting through the French doors inside our morning room, I followed the paved stones of the walk which led through our garden. Rain pattered against the umbrella, drowning out any of the sounds that might have carried from the neighboring homes and the street beyond. It still being winter, there was little in the way of new growth, and what greenery there was sagged with the weight of precipitation. The only bright spot was a white trellis, which would be covered with roses come June.
At the rear of the garden stood our carriage house and stables, which led out to the mews. Accordingly, we didn’t have a garden gate, but merely a door leading into the outbuildings. This door was opened wide as I approached, revealing Bonnie Brock Kincaid.
I paused a few feet away, knowing Gage would already be furious at the criminal’s impudence. We might have been forced into close proximity inside the carriage the evening before, but that didn’t mean he would approve of me being close to him now. “You’d better have a good reason for being here,” I told him as another figure shuffled her feet just over his shoulder. “Good afternoon, Maggie,” I said more politely. The girl already appeared uncomfortable and ready to bolt at any moment.
“What have ye uncovered?” Bonnie Brock demanded, reclaiming my attention.
I scowled at his tone.
“I ken that ye were seen on North Bridge Street.” He straightened from his slouched stance, leaning against the doorframe. “Were ye able to talk to Heron?”
Maggie startled, drawing both of our attentions. A horse whinnied somewhere in the stable behind her. I wondered if she might be afraid of the steeds. I doubted she’d had much interaction with such animals. Her shoulders inched up around her ears, and she glanced behind her repeatedly, as if unnerved by her surroundings. I wished I could invite her inside, but that was not possible for several reasons. Chiefly to do with her brother.
I grimaced at the infuriating subject in question. “Yes, we spoke with Mr. Heron. And we were able to confirm that Rookwood’s office was almost certainly staged to appear as if the criminal was imitating the crime ascribed to you in The King of Grassmarket. But we have a great deal more investigating to do, and your hovering over our every move is not in the least helpful.”
“Then your visit to your sister was part o’ the investigation?”
I narrowed my eyes at this challenge, anger beginning to bubble in my veins. “Now, see here, Mr. Kincaid,” I snapped, drawing attention to my use of his last name, as he had insisted upon my calling him Brock for more than a year now, and I normally complied. “I know you are accustomed to ordering your men and your sister about as if they are all pawns in your little kingdom, but I am not one of your subjects. And I will not be interrogated as such. Where I go and how I choose to investigate is my own affair. Do I make myself clear?”
Even in the shadows cast by the doorway, I could see that the ridge of scar tissue running along the length of his nose stood out white against his angry flush. This was never a good sign. But I also knew that if I didn’t stand firm now, he would take even greater liberties and make even more demands. This was something I was not willing to sacrifice, despite the quavering his glare caused in my stomach. I simply had to trust that his good sense—and the fact that we were standing in my garden, with Jeffers and possibly other members of my staff looking on through the windows behind me—would prevail. I would never discount our cook, Mrs. Grady, and her skill with a rolling pin.
Slowly the color faded from his face, and a droll smile hitched one side of his mouth upward. “Lord Avonley always said to beware the woman who can best ye at your ain game. And I realize noo, he was right.”