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Gage arranged to have our dinner delivered to our bedchamber on trays as soon as Mrs. Mackay had collected Emma and taken her off to bed.

“Now, if only Jeffers will return to tell us what he’s learned,” I remarked as I scrutinized the meal before me.

Braised beef stew with red currant jelly.

It was simple fare, but hearty and comforting.

Perfect for just such a night, particularly with the occasional gust of wind splattering rain against the windows.

“He will be bringing dessert,” Gage replied in amusement.

I looked up with a grateful smile. “You’ve thought of everything, then, haven’t you?”

“Everything but a swifter way to shift this tray so that I can press a kiss to my lovely wife’s lips.”

“Later,” I said with a coy arch to my eyebrows as I lifted a bite of the stew to my mouth. It was warm and rich and perfectly seasoned. Mrs. Grady wasn’t afraid to liberally add spices—a fact I was grateful for. Sir Anthony’s cook had simply boiled everything to death and called it done.

I paused as I began to spoon a second bite, realizing Gage was still looking at me with a tender glint in his eyes.

“I love your hair down,” he remarked.

My cheeks flushed with pleasure at his compliment, but I was also hard-pressed not to stifle a surge of mirth. “Oh, I know.”

He tilted his head and smiled. “Why do you say it like that?”

I shrugged one shoulder, taking another bite rather than explain.

As was typical, Bree braided my hair each night before bed so that the long chestnut brown locks wouldn’t become tangled.

Except that, more often than not, she spent several minutes the following morning picking out snarls from my hair because Gage had removed the ribbon from my braid and unbound my tresses so that he could bury his fingers in it.

However, I had no intention of explaining this to my husband.

Not when Bree would have found the notion terribly embarrassing.

If he hadn’t figured it out on his own, I wasn’t about to enlighten him.

Fortunately, Gage allowed the matter to drop, perhaps thinking I was the one who was embarrassed. For the next several minutes, we both became absorbed in our own meals. But not so distracted that I failed to note the manner in which my husband lifted his left arm periodically, flexing the biceps.

“Is your laceration causing you pain?” I asked in concern.

His brow pleated. “I’m not sure if pained is the right word, but it’s certainly irksome.”

“Did Dr. Graham leave you anything for the discomfort?”

He grimaced. “He suggested laudanum, but I think I’d rather imbibe a dram of whisky or two.”

I didn’t blame him. I was not enamored of the opium derivative either. The whisky might not dull the pain quite as effectively, but it would taste better and hopefully allow him to rest.

Ever the consummate butler, Jeffers appeared to have anticipated this, for he brought Gage a glass of Matheson single malt from the distillery that Philip owned, along with slices of lemon cake with crème Chantilly on top—my favorite. Mrs. Grady must have made it specially.

Her kindness made a lump form in my throat. The long day and the unpleasantness at the auction had left me more emotional than normal. It took me several moments before I could utter the words to ask Jeffers to pass my thanks along to our cook.

The compassion glinting in his eyes as he nodded was almost enough to undo me.

I didn’t know whether Gage sensed this or he’d simply decided to take the reins of the conversation, for I kept my gaze fixed on my dessert, but he invited Jeffers to have a seat in the other chair before taking a swallow of his whisky.

The butler sat with the same absolute correctness he did everything.

In fact, I didn’t think I’d ever seen him with even a single hair out of place.

“Were you able to uncover anything?” Gage asked.

“I was,” he intoned in his distinguished voice. “Mr. Smith did, indeed, have a family. A wife and multiple children, and perhaps a few grandchildren. I am awaiting confirmation. He was an esteemed partner of the banking firm of Smith and Kinnear, and his house is located in Moray Place.”

“How dreadful,” I murmured, offering up a silent prayer for the family.

“I shall endeavor to discover the house number, as I assume you wish to send your condolences,” he offered after a brief pause.

“Yes, please do.”

Moray Place was practically around the corner, so I might even pay my respects in person. However, that would have to wait until I was in more of a fit state to do so.

Gage rolled his shoulder again, making me wonder if in addition to the laceration in his arm he’d jarred the joint when he’d landed. “What of any other victims?”

“No other deaths have been reported, but there were a number of injuries serious enough to require attention. Mr. Thomson, the musician and publisher, received a sharp blow to his chest. A Mr. Lorimer fractured his arm, an accountant called Belches is suffering from a number of cracked ribs and contusions, and a young lad broke his leg.”

I hadn’t seen any boys among the crowd, but I supposed there might have been a few. Perhaps they’d operated as runners, either for the auctioneers or one of the merchants or professionals bidding on the pictures.

Jeffers clasped his hands before him. “From what I’ve been able to ascertain, while there have been a number of severe injuries, none of them are expected to prove fatal.”

Gage paused in bringing his whisky to his lips. “That’s…rather astonishing, considering how many people fell through the floor.”

And that amount of rubble and debris that had fallen around us. And below us and above us.

“It’s a minor miracle,” I agreed. Though I had no doubt Jeffers’s information was correct. The best butlers were always well informed. And Jeffers was certainly among the best.

It was why Gage had committed the vulgar offense—at least among polite society—of poaching him from Lord Drummond following our inquiry into the death of the baron’s second wife.

Though it should be said, Jeffers required very little convincing, as he’d already decided to leave Lord Drummond’s employ.

His lack of fondness for and failure to kowtow to Lord Gage had also been a point in his favor, since at the time my father-in-law had treated me with thinly veiled contempt and scarcely rubbed along any better with his own son.

We had since healed that rift, but Jeffers’s loyalty to us would always be appreciated.

“The city police are also saying so,” he added evenly.

“Then…they’re investigating?” I asked, eyeing him closely, for I was uncertain what this meant.

“It could be merely a formality?” Gage tilted his glass toward the firelight, swirling the amber spirits within that the Scots considered the water of life.

At least, that was what the Gaelic term for whisky— uisge beatha —meant.

It was what Philip still preferred to call it—among family and close friends, that is—revealing his Highlands roots.

But I could tell that Gage’s narrow-eyed scrutiny had less to do with the quality of his drink than the consideration he was giving to the police’s actions.

“After all, a man did die and numerous more were injured. Not to mention the property damage. They have to at least ensure nothing criminal occurred.”

“There’s also the matter of the property left behind,” Jeffers said. “Not only the artwork, but also what dropped from people’s pockets or was torn from their person as they fell.”

I nodded in understanding. My reticule and hat were among the items tangled in the wreckage.

Gage’s hat must have also been left behind, I realized, for he’d been bareheaded when we’d left the premises.

Who knew how many other things had been lost during the calamity and everyone’s urgency to escape.

There could be a small fortune scattered amid the debris.

Jeffers straightened. “Word is that the city police are guarding the scene from those who might be tempted to pick through the rubble and risk injuring themselves in the process.”

I’d not considered that. It would undoubtedly seem an attractive haul to those unscrupulous or desperate enough.

And there were sadly a great many of the latter living in Edinburgh, particularly in the squalid and overcrowded tenements of Old Town, or worse, the dank and dark pseudo-underground world of the South Bridge Vaults.

Jeffers cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, Mr. Kincaid came to the servants’ door asking for you.”

I blinked in confusion for a few moments, struggling at first to apprehend whom he meant. When I realized he was referring to Bonnie Brock, my eyes widened in shock. “He’s here?!”

“He was ,” Jeffers clarified.

“You sent him away?” Gage’s expression had darkened with displeasure. “Good.”

Jeffers nodded in confirmation, his lips taut with disapproval. “Though he didn’t go without difficulty. I was only able to convince him after swearing an oath that her ladyship was unharmed.”

I was slightly taken aback and uncertain how to feel about such a pronouncement.

It had been so long since I’d seen Bonnie Brock, and yet I owed him much.

My life and Gage’s and Emma’s, in fact. Our relationship with the blackguard had always been complicated.

Especially mine. A criminal he might be, but it seemed wrong to turn him away without an explanation.

But I should have known he would never be deterred so easily.

“And he’s threatened to call again tomorrow morning.” Jeffers’s voice had lowered sternly. “Says he’ll continue to do so until her ladyship agrees to see him.”

Gage took no pains to hide his displeasure, but then he sighed resignedly. “I knew it was too much to hope we were rid of the man.” His gaze lifted to meet mine. “No matter that good turn he did us.”