Chapter 21
When we arrived at Lennox’s shop, he was standing outside with his hands on his hips, directing a pair of men putting up new broadsides on the wall of the building. He turned to look at us when our carriage drew up to the side of the building, and this time he wasn’t so careful to mask his irritation with our presence.
“You again,” he stated with a look of mild chagrin. “More questions? Come on, then.” He led us inside to his office and closed the door behind us but didn’t bother rounding his desk to his chair, communicating this would be a short interview. “I don’t know what else I can possibly tell you.”
“Mr. Heron told us that Rookwood emphatically rejected the sequel to The King of Grassmarket,” Gage informed him. “That he refused to publish it. And yet you told us he had already brought you the manuscript to do that very thing.”
Lennox’s face rippled with exasperation. “How should I know what Rookwood told Heron? Nor do I care. All I know is that Rookwood brought me the manuscript and told me to hold on to it and await further instructions. His implication to me was that he intended to publish it.” He threw his hands up. “We even discussed the type and layout, and whether there would be any illustrations. A man does not do that unless he intends for me to print it.”
“Would you allow us to see it, simply to prove that what you say is true?” Gage asked evenly.
Lennox’s eyes narrowed for a moment, as if he were considering this request, but then he arched his chin upward obstinately. “No. Not until Rookwood’s estate is settled and I’m told what to do with it.”
“I see,” Gage replied.
Though from my standpoint, I couldn’t see anything. Did Lennox actually have the sequel in his possession or not? And if not, why would he lie about it? For that matter, why would Heron lie? Or if neither man was lying, why had Rookwood changed his mind about publishing the sequel?
“We won’t take any more of your time, then.” Gage reached for the door handle. “But don’t be surprised when the executor of Rookwood’s will comes by to collect the manuscript from you.”
With this parting shot, he pressed his hand to my lower back and urged me from the room, but not before I caught the glower of dislike Lennox directed at him.
Once back inside our carriage, I turned to my husband with interest. “You spoke with Rookwood’s executor?”
“Yes, and he was shocked and bemused by the entire affair. Said Rookwood was the man he would have least likely expected to be murdered.”
“And you think he’ll try to secure the manuscript from Lennox?”
“I don’t.”
My head reared back in surprise.
Gage smiled weakly. “Rookwood’s friend is a fine enough man, but he’s a pudding heart. He’ll no more confront Lennox than sail to the Arctic.” He turned to gaze out the window at the group of people gathered under the vaulted bridge over Cowgate. “The man will do precisely what Rookwood’s solicitor instructs him to do and no more.”
“Then might the solicitor collect the manuscript?”
“He might. But I’ve already uncovered much of what I intended to.”
“Which is?”
He looked back at me. “Lennox doesn’t intend for anyone to take it from him. Not now, not ever. At least, not until he’s printed it. Which makes me think he possesses something.” A hard glint entered his eyes. “And he might be willing to go to great lengths to keep it.”
“Including murder,” I added, boldly stating the implication.
“Yes.”
“But why? For money?”
Gage shrugged. “Money can be a strong motivator.”
And yet I could tell he found that answer no more satisfying than I did.
I gritted my teeth as another sharp pain stabbed me in my back, turning away lest Gage see it. But he was much too attuned to me, even when we were at odds.
“You truly are uncomfortable, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied, shifting in my seat to try to find a better position.
“What can I do?”
I lifted my gaze to his, caught off guard by the offer, though I shouldn’t have been. Seeing the tenderness in his eyes, I had to swallow the lump rising in my throat before I could reply. “Will you rub my back?”
“Of course.”
“Lower,” I directed as I turned my back to him as best I could in the confined space. I nearly groaned aloud when he began to knead my muscles there. When he eased up, I realized he feared he’d exerted too much pressure. “No, harder,” I urged him, closing my eyes at the bliss of the relief I felt when he pressed firmly against my spine.
“Better?” he asked, and I nodded.
Gage continued until we reached Albyn Place, though I knew his hands must have ached from the effort. He stretched his fingers as our carriage rolled to a stop before our town house, just in time to encounter Sergeant Maclean descending our stairs.
“Were you looking for me?” Gage asked as he greeted him, and then turned to help me descend on unsteady legs.
“Aye. There’s been a development.” His grim expression and the manner in which his eyes had slid toward me before he made his second statement made me suspect that whatever it was would not be good for me.
“Kirkcowan?”
“No. He’s still hangin’ on. By a thread.”
“Then?” Gage prodded when he still seemed hesitant to speak.
“The unclaimed bodies o’ three cholera victims were stolen from the cholera hospital last night.”
My heart surged in my chest at the implication.
“Pointing another finger at Kincaid,” Gage surmised.
“Aye, if it’s no’ Kincaid himself.”
“It’s not,” Gage stated firmly.
“Has the matter been made public yet?” I asked, wary of the city’s reaction. After all, this was the same city in which Burke and Hare’s murders had occurred just three short years ago. And now with the legislation for an Anatomy Reform Act being discussed by Parliament, one which would make the unclaimed bodies of the deceased in poorhouses and other institutions available to medical schools, there was a great deal of anxiety and uncertainty surrounding the entire issue. Thus by stealing the unclaimed bodies of cholera victims, the culprits stirred up the public’s fears over not only the cholera and the resurrectionists but also the proposed Anatomy Reform Act.
But had any of that been their intention, or were the culprits purely trying to make further trouble for Bonnie Brock?
“Nay, but ’tis only a matter o’ time,” Maclean replied.
Gage looked up from the spot he’d been frowning at on the pavement. “Could it be McQueen’s men?” Plainly thinking of their recent arrests for robbing warehouses where whisky was stored.
“Aye, maybe.” His gaze slid toward me again. “I just thought ye should ken.”
That he was thinking of my late husband and his involvement with the questionable procurement of bodies for his anatomical studies, and my enforced participation, was obvious. Not to mention the mob incited against me and Gage in Grassmarket just a year ago because of my macabre reputation.
“Yes, thank you,” Gage said as the sergeant doffed his hat and strode away. Then he turned to me as we began to ascend our steps. “I know that was not easy to hear.”
“No,” I agreed, inhaling a deep settling breath. “But it was not as upsetting as it once might have been.” And no one was more astonished than I to realize it was true. While I doubted I would ever be able to hear about stolen bodies or body snatchers without feeling a pang of uneasiness, I was no longer terrified by it. Not like in the past.
Gage pressed a consoling hand over mine where it rested against his other arm and offered me a proud smile, fully aware of how far I’d come.
Jeffers greeted us both in the entry with correspondence. Mine was the invitation for Lady Bearsden’s dinner party the following evening, while Gage’s appeared to be of greater significance. He paused to read it in the doorway to the drawing room rather than following me all the way inside, the furrow in his brow deepening the further he read. When he’d finished, his gaze lifted to find me already waiting for him to speak.
“I must go out. To see Henry,” he added, struggling with the words as he wrangled with something inside himself. “I . . . didn’t receive his news as . . . equably as perhaps I should have.”
The heartache in his eyes, the uncertainty stamped across his features made me long to go to him, but I could tell from his tense shoulders that he did not want that. That he would not accept it. Not yet. “How could you have?” I said instead. “I know it must have been both shocking and painful to hear.”
His gaze dipped to the rug. “Yes, but . . . I should have behaved better.”
I realized what he meant then, felt it resonate through me, and I blinked back tears for him, for Henry, and for myself. “It’s not his fault, Gage. I know you know that. Just as I know you know it’s not his fault he was forced to keep the secret.”
“That’s why I must talk to him.” He took a step backward before looking up at me. “And after . . . we’ll talk, too.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I spoke.
When he had gone, I went to the window, watching as he descended our stairs. Catching sight of me, he lifted his hand in farewell and then strode down the pavement. Only then did I allow myself to collapse on the window seat, wincing in pain.
Bree found me there some minutes later, sent either by Jeffers or by her own intuition. “M’lady?” she asked in concern as she crossed to me.
I offered her a weak smile. “I think it would be best to send for Dr. Fenwick. Just to be cautious.”
“O’ course,” she agreed, helping me to my feet. “And in the meantime, let’s get ye to bed wi’ a hot water bottle. I ken yer back was botherin’ ye more than ye wanted to admit.”
Late sunlight streamed through the windows, forming patterns across the counterpane when Gage returned. I reclined in bed, half seated, with my head tilted sideways to rest against one of my pillows as I studied the portrait I’d painted of Gage, which hung over our fireplace. I had sketched and painted him numerous times since then, but it was still my favorite. Perhaps because I’d managed to complete it after weeks of inability to paint even a flower correctly, fearing I’d lost the ability to create. Or perhaps because it captured him so perfectly—his good looks, his impressive physique, and his charm, but more importantly, his sincerity, his honorability, and his steadfastness. He was nearly tangible, his vulnerability drawing the viewer toward him and his strength.
Just as the vulnerability stamped across his features drew me toward him now when he entered the room.
“Dr. Fenwick was here?”
“Yes,” I replied, holding my hand out to him.
He hurried forward to perch on the side of the bed, clutching my hand tightly with his.
I smiled gently. “There’s no cause for concern. Dr. Fenwick said the back pain and false labor pains I’ve been feeling are perfectly normal.”
“False labor pains?”
“Yes.” I didn’t protest my reasons for not telling him, especially as the last round had occurred just before he learned about Henry. “He said the baby was turned the wrong direction, which could be causing me the pain, but that he or she will more than likely right themselves before I go into labor.”
His pale eyes searched mine. “Then . . . it’s normal?”
“Yes. Although, he did caution me to take it a bit easier than I have been,” I admitted with a sheepish grin. “Not that I should remain in bed all day, which will only make my labor harder when the time comes. But that I might be putting a bit more stress on myself than I should.”
Though I’d spoken the words as lightheartedly as I could, I could tell from the pale flush rising in his cheeks that they’d caused him guilt nonetheless. “And I certainly haven’t been helping that,” he said with such remorse that my heart cracked a little.
“Oh, no, Sebastian. It’s my fault. You were right. My first loyalty is to you, and I should have told you. If not immediately, then the moment I realized Henry had departed Sunlaws with his brother.”
He squeezed my hand between his. “But I understand why you didn’t. I do. And I didn’t react any better with you than I did with Henry. I’m sorry for that. I just . . .” His gaze trailed away, stamped with pain. “I didn’t want to believe, couldn’t believe it.”
“I know.” Tears filled my eyes as I gazed at his beloved face. “I’m so terribly sorry your father hurt you like this.”
“Oh, darling, I know you are.” He shifted closer, using his thumbs to swipe away the tears spilling down my cheeks. “I don’t know why I keep being surprised by anything my father has done.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose if there’s any blessing in this, it’s that my mother isn’t alive to learn of his duplicity.”
Except I wondered if that was really true. If Emma Gage had truly not known precisely what kind of man her husband was. But I kept those thoughts to myself.
“Did you speak with Henry?”
He turned his head, staring unseeing at the book resting beside me on the counterpane. “Yes, and I listened this time.”
“He’s a good man,” I ventured hesitantly.
“He is.” He lifted his gaze to meet mine. “And in time, I hope we’ll grow close.”
I offered him an encouraging smile. “I know Henry would like that. He said as much to me.”
“Did he?” The note of forlorn hope at the edge of his voice brought on another swell of emotion I tamped down.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve invited him to luncheon tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He nodded, as if uncertain what else to say.
“What will you say to your father?”
His expression darkened. “I don’t know. If he were here, I would confront him. But he’s in London, and given his threats to the duchess and Henry, I will need to think on it.”
I squeezed his hand in support.
He sat very still, contemplating something significant, and I waited patiently for him to speak. “I asked Henry if his mother had named him Henry deliberately.”
I frowned in confusion. “Aren’t all the Kerr children named after former kings and queens?” Then I gasped, realizing something I hadn’t before. “Your grandfather.”
“Yes, my father’s father was named Henry. Sir Henry Gage. That’s why it’s one of my middle names.”
I searched his face, trying to decipher what he was feeling. “Does it bother you that he’s named Henry?”
“Actually, no. In truth, it seems rather fitting. Father might have tried to hide from the truth, but in her own way, the Duchess of Bowmont made sure he would never forget it.”
I couldn’t help but smile in approval. “Yes, that does sound like Her Grace.”
Gage reached for my face then, cradling it between his hands before he pressed his lips to mine tenderly, once, twice, and a third time. “Are you in pain now?”
“No. Bree’s application of hot water bottles has helped.”
One of his hands dropped to rest on my abdomen. “When does Dr. Fenwick expect the baby to arrive now?”
“He said it would be at least another week.”
He smiled sympathetically. “So a little more discomfort.”
“Yes. But I can manage.”
“And I will help,” he pledged, kissing me even more deeply.
And he certainly did.
I had decided to make it my goal the following day at luncheon to direct our discussion to the lightest topics possible, but Gage and Henry seemed determined to discuss Rookwood’s murder. Eventually I gave up trying to introduce a different conversational gambit and sat back to smile at their mutual enthusiasm. There was no doubt they were brothers, despite their only having known each other for such a short time.
I didn’t venture many of my own theories, curious to hear what they thought instead. Gage had been so silent the past few days, I hadn’t been as privy to his impressions as I normally was. And even Henry appeared to have followed along as best he could, even from a distance.
“If only Kirkcowan had cooperated with us,” Gage lamented. “Or if he would wake so I could question him now.”
Henry paused with a bite of jam tart halfway to his mouth. “Then, you haven’t heard? Lord Kirkcowan passed away. Sometime in the middle of the night.”
I set down my fork, thinking of Lady Kirkcowan and her children. I would write her that afternoon, though I didn’t know what I could possibly say.
Gage took a drink from his glass of wine and set it on the table before speaking. “I suppose we knew it was inevitable.” He twirled the stem. “His bad conduct caught up with him. I do wonder if there’s any way to find out where his money was coming from. He was blackmailing someone. Possibly several someones. But I can only imagine they paid him in cash.”
“Let me look into it,” Henry offered. “I might be able to find out something.”
Gage gazed at his half brother in approval. “If so, I’d be grateful.”