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

confidently, as if she knew of what she spoke. “Unpredictable. Ghoulish even. Men like to dabble in that sort of thing.”

Having heard enough, I decided it was past time to make myself known. Giving my skirts one last twitch, I stepped into the larger area of the retiring room just as Lady Wilmot responded.

“I suppose that could explain it. Though I do hope Mr. Gage won’t live to regret his weakness.” The glint in her eyes as she scrutinized herself in one of the long mirrors made it perfectly evident that she hoped that very thing.

I nodded to the woman passing by me to enter the partition I’d vacated. That older lady’s eyes dipped to somewhere near the level of our feet, but I kept my polite smile firmly affixed. Then I lifted my gaze to boldly meet Lady Wilmot’s in the reflection of the looking glass, refusing to be cowed. Her expression revealed not an iota of remorse, though the first lady who had spoken—a simpering blonde—gasped and scampered farther across the room as if she might be worried I would lash out at her.

I ignored them all, crossing to the washbasin and murmuring my thanks to the attendant, who smiled shyly at me as she poured the water from an ewer slowly over my hands, so as not to splash the costly fabric of my gown. This was easier said than done when one looked like one had swallowed a large melon. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lady Wilmot pivot as if ready to do battle. I’d already apprehended that there was nothing to be gained from confronting her, but neither was I going to run away.

I dried my hands on the proffered towel and stepped closer to one of the mirrors, adjusting the rolls of curls at my temples before turning to depart. All this was done while failing to even acknowledge the presence of Lady Wilmot and her friends, a move which was certain to exasperate her. And true to expectation, she stepped forward just as I was within six feet of the door.

Unfortunately for her, my cousin Morven chose that moment to enter the retiring room. At the sight of me, she gave an exclamation of pleasure. “Kiera!” She embraced me, allowing one arm to linger around my neck and the other against my stomach. “Oh, my dearest.” She gave a fond shake of her head. “How much longer now?”

I exhaled a deep breath. “Dr. Fenwick says at least three weeks.”

“And each one of those will feel like a year,” she commiserated, already having three children of her own. “Though I vastly preferred the sensation of being akin to Humpty Dumpty than the first two months of making friends with the chamber pot.”

My lips quirked. “True.” I’d endured my share of queasiness at the beginning, although nothing compared to my poor sister, who’d suffered for nine torturous months with each of her children.

“I’m afraid that’s the travail of being in the family way.” Her gaze flicked over my shoulder. “You begin your journey hunched over a pot in London and end it waddling across Edinburgh.” That this statement had been made for Lady Wilmot’s benefit was obvious; otherwise, she would never have emphasized the location of the conception. The fact that it had been in Dartmoor and not London was beside the point. Both were hundreds of miles from Edinburgh and Bonnie Brock Kincaid.

“Are you here with Alana and Philip?” Morven asked, threading my arm through hers and pulling me toward the door before I could answer. “I’ll accompany you to their box. I haven’t yet had a chance to respond to your sister’s invitation to dine tomorrow evening.”

An impromptu dinner party she’d insisted on arranging for my and Gage’s benefit, regardless of my feelings on the matter.

“Did I divine that situation correctly?” she leaned closer to murmur, her dark hair brushing my shoulder. “Lady Wilmot and her companions appeared bent on making trouble.”

“Yes, thank you.”

We paused before Gage, so that he and Morven could exchange greetings, and then he fell into step behind us as we made our way down the corridor toward Philip’s private box.

“Morven,” I murmured, waiting for her to glance at me. “Could you not mention Lady Wilmot to Alana?”

Morven’s topaz eyes turned shrewd, deducing why I wished to keep it from her. “I know how much she’s always hated seeing you taunted and belittled.”

“Yes, but that’s no longer her responsibility.”

Morven’s smile turned gently reproving. “Kiera, we