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Brade Cranston Auctioneers turned out to be a conglomeration of two names, not one, each belonging to one of the founders of the firm.

Mr. Brade had since passed from this mortal coil without issue, bequeathing his half of the business to his partner, Mr. Cranston, so long as his name was not removed from the firm’s title.

Or so the chatty fellow who had met with Gage and Anderley had claimed.

He’d also claimed that Mr. Cranston had threatened to dissolve the company and start a new one just to spite the man.

Except then he would have been thirty thousand pounds poorer.

Standing across from Mr. Cranston now, I could well believe the chatty fellow’s allegations.

Though nearly sixty, he might have passed as a man ten years younger, and a handsome one, too.

That is, if not for the ugly sneer curling his lip and twisting his features into the approximation of one of the ragged, snarling figures Hieronymus Bosch had painted in his work Christ Carrying the Cross .

Thus far he’d done very little but glare at us, allowing Gage to do much of the talking while Anderley and I looked on.

The warehouse in which we stood bustled with activity, though the employees gave us a wide berth while still eyeing us curiously.

I didn’t know what types of items Brade Cranston normally handled, but there were crates of all sizes—some as small as an ormolu clock and others as large as a grand pianoforte.

“Noo, just why would I tell ye anythin’?” Mr. Cranston retorted once Gage explained in a roundabout way the reason for our presence. His voice dripped with scorn. “Ye’re no’ the police. Ye’re no’ even Scottish.”

“No,” my husband replied evenly. “But if you won’t speak to us, we can arrange for you to speak to the city police. Sergeant Maclean and his men would be only too happy to pay you a visit.”

As threats went, it was quite skillfully done. Mr. Cranston would not want the police descending on his business, for that might draw unwelcome attention and suspicion to his doorstep, potentially damaging his reputation. However, Mr. Cranston proved to be a tougher nut to crack than anticipated.

“That’s Winstanley’s plan, is it?” he demanded, grinding his teeth. “Ruin me, too?”

“No one is trying to ruin anyone.” Gage’s voice had grown terse. “But we are trying to ascertain all the particulars surrounding the calamity. Now, do you know a man by the name of Sullivan? We’ve been told his cousin works here.”

“No’ that I can recall,” he prevaricated. “And I dinna keep track o’ my employees’ associations. No’ as long as they dinna interfere wi’ their work.”

“Are you sure?” Gage pressed, which made the muscle in Mr. Cranston’s jaw twitch. “Because a witness saw you speaking with him.”

“Hoo should I ken who this witness …” he spat the word “…saw me speakin’ tae. I speak tae a lot o’ men in the course o’ my day. I dinna ken all their names.”

Questioning him further would be a waste of time.

Mr. Cranston had already revealed what we needed to know.

He had a temper. A terrible one if the almost carmine hue of his flushed cheeks was any indication.

He was wary, even though we’d not told him of the sabotage.

And he definitely harbored animosity toward Mr. Winstanley.

Whether that would lead him to engage someone to sabotage the floor of Lord Eldin’s Picardy Place home, I couldn’t say, but it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

As such, we should send Sergeant Maclean to speak to him.

If nothing else, the fact he was a policeman might convince Mr. Cranston to talk just so they would leave his property.

However, Gage hadn’t come to the same conclusion yet.

That, or he thought goading him with more queries would provoke him into disclosing something incriminating.

Meanwhile, I was forced to focus on taking deep, calming breaths as I struggled against the urge to turn and flee.

Though I’d improved considerably since the days of my first marriage, angry men still made my heart race and my skin prickle with anxiety.

The more livid they became—and Mr. Cranston was certainly livid—the more difficult it became to stand my ground.

It was times like these that I despaired of ever being totally free of Sir Anthony and the pain and abuse he’d caused me, for my body responded without conscious thought.

It was a reflex I simply couldn’t control.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Anderley moving a step closer to me so that he stood just beyond my left shoulder.

I thought perhaps he’d noticed my distress and was trying to offer me support by letting me know he was there to protect my back and flank.

But then I caught the flicker of movement between the stacks of crates almost directly behind Mr. Cranston which must have drawn Anderley’s attention.

I didn’t have to look twice to recognize that the woman with strawberry blond hair was Bree.

At first, I feared she’d come there to warn us of some trouble. My thoughts immediately flew to my daughter. But then I realized that there was no haste to her movements, no sense of urgency. In fact, she seemed deep in conversation.

She wore a smart fawn brown ensemble as she strolled with a short, scruffy man she appeared to be questioning.

It was clear she’d not seen us yet. As they disappeared behind a stack of crates, Anderley twitched, shifting his feet as if he intended to follow them.

When the movement drew Mr. Cranston’s eye, he stopped, standing stiffly at my side.

Mr. Cranston studied him suspiciously before his sour gaze transferred to me, narrowing in even greater dislike.

Gage evidently sensed something was amiss, and when Bree and the other fellow emerged from behind the crates, he was at a better angle to see them.

His eyes flared wide before he managed to mask his reaction.

“I have nothin’ else to say,” Mr. Cranston snarled, though he obviously did, as he continued his diatribe. “?’Tis Lord Eldin’s fault he hired such a ramshackle lot. Brade Cranston would never have allowed such a shameful thing tae happen.”

“Are you suggesting it’s Mr. Winstanley’s fault the building joist was faulty?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, even though it drew Mr. Cranston’s scornful attention back my way.

“I would have known better than tae hold the auction at such an address.”

Considering the fact Picardy Place, while not one of the most exclusive addresses in Edinburgh, was still part of the graceful Georgian New Town, this statement made little sense.

Especially since he, along with the general public, was still being led to believe the collapse was an accident caused by defective lumber and construction methods.

Unless he knew differently.

Some of the other men laboring in the warehouse were now taking notice of Bree, who had paused with the fellow escorting her to talk to a younger man.

Anderley’s stance was stiff, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

Which was more than Mr. Cranston could ignore.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the young woman speaking to his employees at about the same time Bree looked up and saw us.

She was too far away to tell for sure, but she seemed to blanch.

“Hey! You canna be here!” Mr. Cranston yelled, moving toward her until Gage’s words brought him up short.

“She’s with us.”

If looks could have flayed a person alive, Mr. Cranston’s surely would have done so. “Leave my warehouse. And take yer women wi’ ye.”

There was nothing for it but to comply, no matter how unpleasant the man was and how much I could tell Gage would have liked to put him in his place.

It was obvious Cranston believed we’d tasked Bree to charm information from his workers while we distracted him.

It was difficult to counter the assumption when the truth was almost no better.

Anderley set off across the warehouse toward Bree first, his spine rigid with anger.

Gage swiftly followed, either eager to head off their confrontation or because he wasn’t sure he could restrain his tongue in front of Mr. Cranston any longer.

Having been unprepared for their hasty retreat, I hastened to catch up.

But before I could take even two steps, a hand shot out to grip my arm, halting me.

“A word, m’lady.”

I was so shocked by Mr. Cranston’s audacity in grabbing me that I struggled to form the words for a proper setdown. By the time I had, he’d released me.

“I’ve heard the rumors yer puttin’ together yer own exhibition.” His eyes glittered sharply, though I couldn’t deduce what his intent was. “And I ken Winstanley’s assistant’s been cozyin’ up tae ye. Dinna be taken in by him. He’ll no’ be taken seriously.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to propose that he broker the exhibit, though it was an odd way to go about it, especially after the way he’d just treated us. As such, I was opening my mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal when a nasty smirk transformed his face.

“Anyone who’s reputable kens such an exhibition is a waste o’ time. No’ tae mention the outlay o’ capital.” He scoffed. “No one respectable would willingly risk their reputation on such tomfoolery.”

I felt as if I’d been punched in the gut. It was all I could do not to either cast up my accounts all over his shoes—which I supposed would have served him right—or burst into tears. Mortified enough, I hurried away, his nasty laugh ringing in my ears.

I wished I could have served him a blistering retort.

Surely a more poised, socially confident person would have.

The trouble was, part of me worried he was right.

That any art dealer worth their salt would find my portraits meaningless and absurd.

I had to swallow hard, lest I truly lose the contents of my stomach.