Page 39

He maintained an innocent expression—or as innocent as the criminal was capable of—provoking me to roll my eyes.

“Obviously, you have an informant among the police or working with the auctioneer. Probably both,” I conceded.

He neither confirmed nor denied this as we circulated the crescent-shaped shrubbery.

I noted that the garden was all but deserted except for Bree’s brooding presence behind us.

While this was fortunate in the sense that no one would be reporting on my scandalous stroll with the roguish outlaw who had set many a lady’s heart fluttering when he was depicted in the various plays adapted from The King of Grassmarket , the infamous book written about him the previous year, it was also slightly suspicious.

I knew that I’d seen and heard other people in the gardens when Bree and I first arrived.

Was that where Stump and Locke—Bonnie Brock’s perpetual shadows—were at?

Were they keeping other pedestrians at bay?

Another, perhaps wiser, woman might have felt unnerved by this thought. But after the events of last year, I firmly believed that Bonnie Brock would never harm me. Though one peek over my shoulder at Bree told me she wasn’t as convinced.

“I also ken that yer husband’s valet has been spendin’ a great deal o’ time at the White Horse, and I dinna think he’s there for the ale and oysters.”

I didn’t know whether he’d marked my glance in my maid’s direction and was saying this for her benefit or mine, but I knew she would be listening closely now.

“And I’m no’ the only one who’s noticed.”

I turned to scrutinize his face and he nodded, confirming my worries.

“Ye might warn him o’ that.”

We would, but it would be far more helpful if he wasn’t speaking in such oblique terms.

“Who noticed?” I pressed.

But his answer was as vague as his warning. “The auctioneer employees he’s meant tae be cozyin’ up tae, for one.”

“And?”

I wanted to growl when he refused to elaborate further, all but ignoring my query. Though I was grateful when he prevented me from blundering into a pile of unpleasantness left by some animal.

“The auctioneer’s assistant. The tall one wi’ the injured hand and the nasty sneer.”

“Mr. Fletcher?” I asked, trying to understand if this related to his warning.

He shrugged in dismissal. “What’ere his name is. He’s been talkin’ a lot aboot the other lad’s fascination wi’ ye.”

“Mr. Rimmer.”

“Raggin’ him somethin’ fierce.”

An uncomfortable sensation filled my chest at the thought of Mr. Rimmer being belittled because of me, because he appreciated my art. It reopened the well of misgiving Cranston’s derogatory comments had created.

Bonnie Brock scoffed. “As if he’s no’ just as fascinated.”

This remark was not in the least what I’d expected to hear, and it took me a moment to grasp the implication. I frowned in confusion.

“Best be wary o’ him.”

“Rimmer?”

He scowled. “Nay. Fletcher. At least Rimmer has good taste.”

Though it shouldn’t have had such a profound effect, this artless aside warmed me from inside. Probably because it was so guileless.

“But this Fletcher, he’s usin’ these taunts tae mask somethin’. Whether that’s his own culpability or simply somethin’ he kens but hasna shared, I dinna ken. But my money’s on him bein’ the one tae watch.”

His expression had taken on a rather ferocious cast, making the ridge of scar tissue running along his crooked nose stand out white against his angry flush and inspiring a sudden pulse of empathy for Mr. Fletcher.

No doubt if Bonnie Brock was warning me about him, then his men would be tailing him.

A fact I found reassuring. There were already too many people to keep track of in this inquiry.

I thought again of how Mr. Fletcher had asked to speak with me when he dropped off the invitation list and I had not been home.

He’d not renewed the attempt when we’d met him at Picardy Place the previous day, though there had been the opportunity.

Had he intended to say something about Mr. Rimmer’s interest in me, or was there something else he’d wanted to tell me?

Or, as Bonnie Brock suspected, was he fascinated by me, too?

I found it hard to believe that I was that intriguing to so many men. Yes, I was a female portrait artist, and there were few enough of us, but that did not inevitably make me a figure of fascination. Bonnie Brock must be misreading the situation.

“I can tell ye think I’m wrong?” he challenged, coming to a sudden stop. The hard glint in his eyes was now directed at me.

It was slightly unnerving to discover he could interpret my reactions so well.

“Not wrong. Just…mistaken.”

The eyebrow he arched at me communicated his failure to see the difference between the two.

“Mistaken or no’, be careful.” A shadow passed over us as the clouds overhead blocked the sun.

“I ken I dinna have tae remind ye that the closer ye get tae the truth, the more danger you’ll be in.

” He didn’t wait for a response, instead striking out across the broad sweep of lawn toward Queen Street without looking back.

“He’s no’ wrong aboot that, m’lady,” Bree said as she moved to my side.

I inhaled a sharp breath of acknowledgment, watching Bonnie Brock disappear over the terraced edge, and then turned my steps toward home.

“He’s not wrong about some of the other things he mentioned either.

” We strolled in silence for a moment before broaching the topic that I suspected was uppermost in her thoughts. “We’ll have to warn Anderley.”

“If he’ll listen,” she grumbled.

I turned to her in surprise. “I know that Anderley can sometimes be a trifle…” I searched for a diplomatic term. “Stubborn. But he’s not foolish.”

“Aye, but will he consider Bonnie Brock’s warnin’ tae be legitimate? Will Mr. Gage?”

She had a valid point. In the past, Gage had been reluctant to trust Bonnie Brock’s words.

However, after he’d saved us from the vaults last year, and after his assertions several days ago about the floor collapse being no accident had proved to be true, I didn’t think my husband would require much persuasion to heed the rogue’s plea of caution.

“This time, I think he will,” I said. “I know the last thing Mr. Gage wants is a repeat of what happened to Anderley in Cornwall.”

Bree didn’t respond at first, and I wondered if she was reliving the moment Anderley had appeared on the doorstep of Roscarrock House battered and bloody. I almost regretted mentioning it. However, her next observation suggested her thoughts had gone elsewhere.

“I dinna like Bonnie Brock,” she stated. “He’s a knave and a bully and a blackguard. And I’ve never approved o’ yer collaboratin’ wi’ him.”

This was the first time I’d heard her express such an opinion, and I was caught off guard.

“But I canna deny he’s done ye a good turn a time or two. You and Mr. Gage. And…” Her mouth clamped into a thin line almost as if she was reconsidering saying something. “If this warnin’ proves tae be a timely one, I’ll thank him heartily for it.”

“I had no idea that’s how you felt,” I admitted as we approached the gate.

She brushed a stray strawberry blond curl back from her face. “Aye, weel, ’tis no’ my job to make yer life and yer choices harder. As yer maid, ye dinna have to listen to me anyway. Many a mistress would simply tell me tae shut my gob.”

“But that’s not the relationship we have,” I countered. “It never has been.”

“Nay, but that doesna mean I have the same freedoms ye do. And I have tae mind that. Just as Anderley has to mind it, though he’d prefer no’ tae think o’ the future and merely live in the present.”

I felt a little like Bree was speaking in riddles, but I thought I deduced her point.

I might in some ways treat her as more of an equal, but she wasn’t.

She was my lady’s maid. She was paid to care for me and my clothes, to wait on me hand and foot, if I asked her to, because she was beholden to me for her livelihood.

Even her relationship with Anderley was in many ways subject to our whims, for if we chose to, we could separate them, either temporarily or permanently. Not that we would. But we could.

In fact, everything in their respective worlds was currently subject to us. It didn’t matter that we were for the most part understanding and largely avoided meddling in their personal lives. Or rather, it did. But that didn’t change the truth of the matter.

It was similar to the way that everything in my life was subject to Gage. According to the law, as his wife, I was entirely beholden to him. My wealth, my body, my well-being, even our children were all his to control. Or they could be, if he chose to ignore my wishes.

When she complained of Anderley not thinking of the future, it would be easy to assume she was voicing frustration at his failure to assess the seriousness of their relationship.

But after considering her remarks in this new light, I began to wonder if it was the opposite.

If Anderley was the one who was pushing for something more permanent—for marriage—and Bree was balking.

Because her life would not only be beholden to us, but to Anderley.

It was something I could empathize with, and not a decision to be made lightly.

After all, I’d turned down Gage’s first offer of marriage because I’d been terrified of placing my life in the hands of another man after enduring the cruelty of my first husband.

It had taken a great deal of love and a tremendous leap of faith on my part, even knowing Gage was nothing like Sir Anthony.

So I could not fault Bree for hesitating, especially while there were so many unresolved issues between her and Anderley.