4:15 P.M.
When bearding a lion in his den, it seemed wise not to approach without the proper ammunition. Fortunately, I had found it. It had taken me far longer than it probably should have to realize I already possessed it, but in my defense, I was not accustomed to administering threats or blackmail. However, for Gage, I suspected I would do much worse.
His father received me in the study of the town home he had rented, seated behind a large oak desk. He peered down his nose at me over the hands he’d clasped in front of his chest like a magistrate considering a prisoner’s sentence. I had expected nothing less, though gentlemanly conduct stipulated he should have risen to greet me. But if he sought to make me uncomfortable or intimidate me, then he had sorely underestimated me.
“So he’s sent you to plead for him, has he?” he sneered. “I should have expected as much.”
“Actually, he doesn’t know I’m here,” I replied breezily, glancing about the room. “I’ve come of my own accord.”
I turned away, strolling toward the glass cabinets filled with model ships. This home must belong to one of his friends from his time spent in the Royal Navy. I leaned forward, pretending to examine the models’ masts and rigging.
“Gage tells us you won’t be attending the dinner the Earl and Countess of Cromarty are hosting in our honor tonight, or our wedding ceremony tomorrow morning.” I flicked a glance at him under my lashes. “Such a shame.”
Lord Gage’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Folding my hands behind my back, I wandered farther down the line of cabinets before breathing a resigned sigh. It was a struggle to keep my voice steady and measured when I spoke, ignoring my pulse as it pounded in my ears. “I suppose that means you also won’t be attending our child’s birth or christening.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see I had his attention arrested.
“In fact, I believe that means you won’t be able to see him at all.” I swiveled to face him, staring him down determinedly. I knew it was a gamble to think Lord Gage would care about the lives of his future grandchildren, but seeing how Gage was his only child, I suspected it was a good one.
“What are you implying?” he barked, leaning forward in his chair. “Are you . . .” His eyes dipped to my abdomen.
“I’m implying nothing,” I interrupted in a steely voice, refraining to correct his misconception. “I’m stating outright that if you choose to slight your son in this manner, if you choose not to attend tonight’s dinner and our wedding, then you will never see your first born grandchild, or any of your grandchildren. Ever.”
Lord Gage rose to his feet. “Sebastian wouldn’t dare defy me. Not in this.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Oh, wouldn’t he?”
I could tell the moment he began to worry I might be right. His jaw tightened and the creases at the corner of his eyes deepened. After all, Gage had refused to return home to London, even after his father’s repeated summons. And he’d rejected the bride Lord Gage had chosen for him, instead choosing to marry me—a scandalous, troublesome widow with little fortune and no advantageous political connections. But Lord Gage still did not relent, glaring at me in silent fury.
I couldn’t let him know that I was lying. That the rumors currently circulating were not true. That even if they were, I would never have the heart to deny my child the chance to know their grandfather, so long as Gage approved. I couldn’t let him read that truth in my eyes. For Gage’s sake. I knew Lord Gage only respected strength. So I stood my ground, and let him think whatever awful things he already believed about me were true, no matter how much it smarted to do so.
Several moments ticked by, broken only by the marking of the grandfather clock next to where I stood by the cabinets, and yet Lord Gage showed no signs of relenting. I realized then that the man would never admit defeat so overtly. Perhaps it was his military training or simply his stubborn personality. Either way, the longer I stood there, the angrier he would grow at my refusal to bend to his will. And the more difficult it would be for him to yield later.
“It’s no matter to me,” I said with a careless flip of my wrist. “I certainly won’t miss you. If you want to be a complete fool, so be it.” Then I turned my back on him and walked away.
I had to be content knowing I’d done all I could, but that didn’t stop the sour feeling of failure from filling the pit of my stomach.
***
5:00 P.M.
Much as I had earlier that day, I hurried quietly up the stairs, listening for Alana’s voice, and hoping to avoid her. Figgins, my sister’s butler, had said he believed she was in the nursery on the top floor, which should have meant I could slip into my chamber unobserved. However, when I reached the second floor, I heard a noise from above and whirled around, looking overhead as I tried to figure out what it was. That’s when I bumped into someone standing behind me.
Fully expecting to come face-to-face with my sister, I braced for her exasperated expression as I spun about.
“Trevor!” I gasped, throwing myself into my brother’s arms. It had been months since I had seen him, after I’d traveled to Edinburgh while he remained at his estate in the Borders region of Scotland and England. The same place where we had all grown up. I inhaled his familiar scent of fields, sun, and open spaces, and felt some bittersweet emotion wash over me. Perhaps it was because the older he got the more he reminded me of Father. Even his brown hair had taken on that particular windblown disarray that had always seemed to accompany our sire. I supposed it was the result of his time spent in the windswept fields of the estate.
I pulled back, swallowing the lump in my throat. “When did you arrive?”
“No more than an hour ago,” he admitted. His lapis lazuli blue eyes, several shades lighter than mine, sparkled down at me. “I would have come sooner, but . . .”
I pressed a hand to his arm, cutting off his excuse. “I understand. It’s not the best time of year for gentleman farmers.”
He gave a single nod of confirmation.
Ever conscious of Alana still being above, I flicked a glance over my shoulder at the stairs and looped my arm through Trevor’s, towing him toward my room. He settled into one of the chairs positioned near the hearth while I dropped my reticule on my dressing table.
“I see you’re running our sister ragged with wedding details,” he declared lightly.
I scoffed, unclasping my mother’s pendant and laying it on the table. “She’s running herself ragged. I asked for something simple.”
“Yes, but why the rush, Kiera?”
His voice had grown more serious, and I glanced up at his reflection in the mirror seeing the furrows in his brow. I recognized that look. It was the same face our father had worn when he was deciding whether to scold us.
I turned to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because we didn’t wish to wait. There was no real reason to. And I did not want to be married in the fete of the century at St. George’s, like Alana was planning.”
Trevor didn’t look convinced. “So I don’t need to have a discussion with your fiancé?”
I scowled. “No.” I truly was growing tired of this misconception, especially from members of my own family. I crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite his with a weary sigh. “I’m not imprudent, Trevor.”
The suspicion drained from his face, and he offered me a tight smile. “I know. But I’m your older brother. I believe I’m supposed to terrorize your fiancé.” He shrugged. “At least, until you’re wed.”
A reluctant grin curled my lips. Just a few months earlier, Trevor had confided in me how guilty he’d felt for not protecting me from my first marriage. I supposed this was his way of making up for lost opportunities. “I see. Well, so long as you don’t scare him so badly he doesn’t attend,” I drawled. I knew Gage was more than capable of holding his own.
Trevor’s eyes narrowed, proving he hadn’t missed my sarcasm.
I grinned wider. Then the clock on my mantel chimed a single tinkling note and I sat up straighter, realizing I’d forgotten the time. “I need you to do me favor.”
His gaze turned cautious. “Which is?”
“There is something I must see to before dinner tonight. Gage will be coming for me in a quarter of an hour.” I leaned forward. “I need you to distract Alana. Just until I return.”
Trevor frowned. “What can be so urgent that it can’t wait until after your wedding?”
“I can’t explain. Just trust me. Please. It’s important.”
But still he hesitated. “Isn’t it a bit unfair to leave Alana to handle the details of your wedding herself?”
My conscience smarted at the truth of his words, which only made my irritation greater. “There isn’t anything left to do.” I began ticking things off on my fingers. “My dress is finished. The seating arrangement and meal have been planned. Alana finished deciding about the flowers earlier today. Everything is arranged, and Alana has the staff handling the rest of the preparations. All that’s left for me to do is stand about, nibbling on my nails as she continues to complicate things and ignore my opinions.”
Trevor surprised me by smiling. “She does do that, doesn’t she? Ask you your opinion and then ignore it.”
“Constantly. And it doesn’t help that she’s so often right,” I pouted.
He began to laugh. “Oh, it’s awful. She thinks it proves her point.”
Much of my fury melted in the face of his hilarity. I waited until his chuckles began to fade to press my point. “So will you help me?”
He nodded and rose to his feet. “Of course.” He paused near the door to glance back at me. “Just don’t be late for dinner. I can’t promise she won’t skin us both if you make us wait.”
***
5:30 P.M.
“I found her,” Gage proclaimed as I settled next to him in his carriage.
“You did?”
His pale blue eyes gleamed with triumph. “Dottie McKay lives in a tenement off Hyndford’s Close, not far from the curiosity shop.”
“How on earth were you able to discover that so quickly?”
The residents of Old Town were notoriously reticent about sharing information with outsiders, and Gage’s aristocratic accent and demeanor were too pronounced for them not to notice, even if he had attempted to disguise them. Though, to be fair, I’d only heard him feign a Scottish burr once when he was jesting with Philip, and although it might have been good enough to trick some members of British society, it would never have fooled a true Scotsman.
“Sergeant Maclean’s brother-in-law happens to live in the same building.”
“Truly?”
Gage nodded. “I contacted him at the police house thinking he might have some suggestions about who I should speak with to find out such information. I could hardly believe our good fortune when he told me he knew her.”
I shook my head, marveling at this news. Sergeant Maclean had assisted us with two previous inquiries, and had developed a friendly rapport with Gage. “Is that where your coachman is taking us? To visit her?”
He nodded. “Now tell me your luck was equally as good.”
I reached into my reticule and pulled out the leather-bound journal, passing it to Gage with a smile.
He turned it over in his hands. “Have you had a chance to examine it?”
“Not for long,” I admitted, leaning closer as he opened the book to the first page.
The writing inside was tiny, delicate almost, and decidedly feminine with its loops and swirling flourishes. Though, truthfully, Bonnie Brock’s handwriting looked similar. The first time I had read a message from him I had wondered at how unlike him it seemed. Now I knew from whom he had learned his penmanship.
The ink in the journal had begun to fade to brown, but only so that it softened the text, not so greatly that it was difficult to read. Periodically a number would appear in the margins of the text, though it was not initially clear why. Until we began to read.
My cheeks began to heat as we learned about the woman’s lovers, sometimes in far more detail than I would have ever wished to know. After the second page, Gage closed the book with a snap. I glanced up at him in surprise.
“Perhaps I should read this later and provide a summary.”
I frowned. “Nonsense, Gage. I’m not some silly maiden. Besides, we don’t have time for that. After we speak with Miss McKay, we must return to ready ourselves for my sister’s dinner.” I waved my hand at the book. “In any case, I don’t think we need to read every detail. Let’s see whether the entire journal is the same, or if she recorded anything less . . . salacious.”
Gage’s mouth twisted as if he wanted to argue, but he must have realized I was right.
“What do you suppose the numbers in the margins are?” I asked, as he hesitantly reopened the book.
“Earnings,” he replied succinctly, and as unfamiliar as I was with the lives of such women, it took me a moment to grasp what he was saying.
“So she was a mistress. Perhaps a courtesan.”
Gage did not reply, but continued to skim the pages of the journal. I tried to read over his shoulder, but I could barely digest a sentence or two before he flipped the page again. I knew better than to object. The first dozen pages or so appeared to be more of the same, but then it changed. Suddenly there was one drawing, and then another sprinkled among the text. Many of them were of the men who I assumed had been her lovers, all in various states of undress, as well as a few of the same beautiful woman posed in various evocative ways. A woman I began to suspect was the author herself. While they weren’t precisely lewd, they were decidedly improper. And skillfully done. Being a gifted portrait artist myself, I recognized real talent when I saw it.
I shifted in my seat, leaning closer to Gage as he started to flip even faster. I held out a hand to stop him when he would have turned past a sketch that had caught my eye because it was different from the rest. For one, the figure was fully dressed. For another, it was a young boy, perhaps eight-years-old. Though drawn in black and white, I could still detect the features which had matured with age, the bone structure and slanted eyes, the expression of the lips. This was Bonnie Brock.
I flipped backward a page, locating the beginning of this entry and began to read. The woman’s words had gentled in tone, revealing that she was far more than the lover of wealthy men, but a woman with hopes and dreams, who clearly doted on her son. Much as I wanted to, I knew that I did not have time to read it all. I let Gage resume turning the pages, quickly studying a progression of different images of Bonnie Brock. Even one where he stood as serious as any duke for his official portrait, his head held high, his shoulders squared, a pocket watch clutched in his hand like a compass.
Another section of lovers followed, broken up periodically by news of her son. And then, about two-thirds of the way through the book, sketches of a tiny infant began to appear—often alone, but sometimes with Bonnie Brock lying next to her or cradling her in his lap. This must be Maggie, or Maggie Moo, as her mother called her. I couldn’t help but smile at the image the two of them made together. This was definitely drawn by someone who loved them.
“Well, it appears he didn’t completely lie,” I murmured as Gage closed the journal.
“Yes, but what of all these details about his mother’s lovers? We can’t ignore that there is a significant amount of scandalous information contained in here. Information that a number of wealthy and powerful men would pay handsomely to keep quiet.” Gage’s brow lowered. “How do we know Bonnie Brock won’t use it to blackmail those men?” His gaze strayed toward the carriage window. “He could be following Harriette Wilson’s example.”
I was aware of the famous London courtesan who had blackmailed her former lovers into paying her a stipend or else she would publish their names in her memoirs. It had been the talk of London six years ago, and news of its printing had even reached my childhood home in the relative wilderness of the Borders.
What Gage had said was true. The altruism of Bonnie Brock’s motives was now in question. I wanted to believe that his concern for his sister was real, that his reasons for finding his mother’s journal were selfless, but I knew better than to ascribe noble traits to the criminal. He might possess his own code of honor, but that did not mean it coincided with that which society defined as upright and moral. Of course, these same rules had also made me a shunned outcast in most of society’s eyes, at least for a time, so I held no great loyalty to them or the wealthy men who manipulated them to their advantage. However, I felt some responsibility to shelter the innocent lives of their families.
My eyes fastened on the maroon leather of the journal still held in Gage’s hand. “What do you propose we do?”
His mouth tightened in a grimace. “I definitely don’t think we should hand it over to him. At least, not without making him answer some questions first.”
“Then we’d better change the proposed meeting place.” Castlehill was too dark, too isolated, and far too close to Bonnie Brock’s controlled territory for my comfort. Not that most of Old Town wasn’t also enamored with the Robin Hood–like figure. That’s why the city police had found it impossible to convict the man on any of the charges that had been brought against him in the past.
“I’ll get a message to him.” Gage’s lips twisted in annoyance. “I know he still keeps a man positioned outside Philip’s town house.” Something neither of us was pleased by, but that I had at least become resigned to, particularly since the man never interfered with me. “I think it would be wiser for us to meet him nearer to the police house at Old Stamp Office Close. There at least we would have some chance of getting help should Bonnie Brock take exception to our interference.” His gaze dropped to my lap where my reticule rested. “You still carry your pistol with you?”
I touched the bag, feeling the comforting shape of the gun barrel through the fabric. “Always.”
He nodded. “Don’t forget it tonight.”
The carriage slowed to a stop and Gage leaned forward to peer through the curtain, slipping the journal into the inside pocket of his coat at the same time. I knew it was wrong, but I would have liked to keep possession of it, in hopes of finding time later to read more of it before our meeting with Bonnie Brock. The opportunity to learn more about the stubbornly reticent criminal’s past was so tantalizing. It overrode much of the guilt I should have felt at such a breach of privacy. But I knew with preparations for the dinner, the possibility was remote.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” Gage declared as his coachman opened the door. He descended the steps and then helped me out of the conveyance, but when I would have turned to survey the area around us, he held fast to my hand. I glanced up in question.
His eyes studied something over my shoulder before briefly dipping to meet mine. “Stay close.”
Alarm trickled down my spine. Did he expect trouble? From who?
My gaze dipped to his coat and I realized there was another reason he’d secured the journal in his pocket. Bonnie Brock was notorious for popping up when we least expected or wanted him to.
I nodded, and Gage wrapped a protective arm around my waist, escorting me into the gray light of the Edinburgh evening.