A Pressing Engagement (A Lady Darby Mystery)

by Anna Lee Huber

  Gage nestled the torc back inside its box. “Did you happen to ask the proprietor of this shop how he came into possession of such a rare item?”

  Jock shrugged. “Didna ken it was rare. But I s’pose ’twas pawned by someone needin’ the ready. The shop was fair to burstin’ wi’ such things.”

  “It was a pawnshop?”

  “Aye.”

  Gage and I shared another look before he added, “Then perhaps the proprietor can tell us more.”

  With any luck, he kept records of who bartered which items. I wondered if the person who had sold him the torc had intended to come back for it, and whether that transaction had been recent or if the necklace had been moldering on a dusty shelf for years?

  “I can show ye the way, if ye like,” Jock offered. “I’m bound in that direction myself.”

  “Yes,” I said eagerly, at the same time Gage replied, “Perhaps it should wait.” He turned to me in question.

  I tried to cover my impatience with a laugh. “It would be nice to escape the house for a while. The preparations are driving me a bit mad.”

  From the look in Gage’s eyes, I could tell he knew there was more to it than that.

  I lifted my chin. “Some fresh air would be good. No one could fault me that.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Jock proclaimed, oblivious to our silent exchange. He rose to his feet. “I’ll have the carriages brought around.”

  Chapter 2

  10:30 A.M.

  The curiosity shop door opened with a loud groan, which although not particularly ominous, was still not encouraging. Fortunately, my suspicions were only proved partially correct. The shop was in fact old and dusty, but there were no cobwebs hanging from the corners, and the items for sale appeared to be displayed in some semblance of order. On one table, pocket watches and cravat pins were intermixed with brooches and pearl necklaces, most of which appeared to be paste. Across the aisle stood a towering display of books next to an old mantel clock and an assorted selection of candlestick holders. I even spied a small, ornamental triptych, which I would have loved to examine more closely, when the proprietor emerged through a door at the back of the narrow room.

  After showing us to the shop, a stone’s throw from Canongate down St. Mary’s Wynd, Jock had abandoned us for other pursuits, and seeing the sharp look the owner sent our way, I was glad of it. I passed the torc to Gage, allowing him to lead the conversation. I suspected he would get much further with the scowling man than I would.

  “Excuse me,” Gage said. “We’re looking for some information.”

  “I’m no’ buyin’, only sellin’,” the proprietor cut in, barely sparing us a glance. “As ye can see, the shop’s full up. Can’t keep dolin’ oot blunt if nay is comin’ in,” he muttered vehemently under his breath.

  “Well, we’re not here to sell anything,” Gage assured him and then reached into the inner pocket of his frock coat. “But we would be willing to pay for information.”

  It appeared that Gage had read the situation correctly, for the shop owner swiveled toward us, his mole-like nose fairly quivering, as if he could already smell the coins. He took us both in with one swift appraising glance. I wondered if he’d just calculated our worth, like another trinket in his shop.

  “What do ye wish to ken?”

  “You sold this gold torc to a man yesterday.” He opened the box to show him the necklace, even though it was highly unlikely he sold more than one gold torc in a lifetime, let alone a day. “Do you recall how it came to be in your possession? Did someone pawn it?”

  The man’s head jerked back and he stared at us suspiciously. “Yer no’ rats.”

  “If you mean the city police, no, we are not. We’re merely conducting an investigation for a client.” Gage lifted the box closer to the man’s snub nose. “Now, did someone sell this to you?”

  His lips pressed into a thin line, as if he was going to refuse to speak, but then after another swift glance at Gage’s hand he relented. “Aye. A woman.”

  “Do you have her name and direction?” I asked, speaking up for the first time.

  He turned toward me with a hard look. “Nay. I give ’em a ticket. If they dinna come back in a month, their lot goes up for sale.”

  “So you have no information about this woman?” Gage clarified.

  “Nay.”

  My shoulders slumped.

  “But I can tell ye she were lantern-jawed and aboot as ugly as they come.”

  I wanted to scoff. As if he was any comelier.

  Gage furrowed his eyebrows, and I wondered if he’d had the same thought. “Do you remember when she pawned it?”

  The proprietor shrugged. “More ‘n a month ago.”

  I nearly rolled my eyes at his obtuseness. “Yes, but was it within the past few months or five years ago?”

  He screwed up his face, appearing as if he was actually considering my question. “Couldna been more than six months.”

  But we could get no more out of him, and so Gage paid him his coin and we returned to the street. I linked my arm with his as we climbed the narrow wynd toward the wider Canongate. The April day was surprisingly warm for so early in the year, and I was glad I’d left my pelisse behind.

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

  Gage tilted his head down toward me. “Why would he lie?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed, staring up at the slice of blue sky revealed through the towering buildings. “People do strange things sometimes.”

  “True. But in this case, I think he was being truthful.”

  “Leaving us with very little to go on.” I’m not sure why I felt so disappointed, except that this had seemed like such a promising distraction. Then another thought occurred to me with a grimace. “Do you think we should tell Mr. Collingwood?”

  Gage shook his head. “Whether it’s his aunt’s torc or not, he’ll claim it for himself and cause us a world of trouble if we don’t give it to him.”

  I nodded.

  “For now I think we should keep it to ourselves.”

  “Keep what to yerselves?”

  We jerked to a halt as a familiar figure pushed away from the building behind a door propped open near the corner. As always, his tawny hair flowed about his shoulders and his frock coat hung open to reveal a fine lawn shirt inside. I felt Gage stiffen in dislike, and I stifled a sigh.

  “Bonnie Brock Kincaid,” I retorted in greeting. “Don’t tell me you just happened by.”

  He flashed me a grin filled with teeth whiter than most the population of Old Town boasted at even age ten and then fixed his gaze on Gage. “Yer no’ short o’ money, are ye?” He nodded down the wynd toward the shop we’d emerged from. “’Cause I could lend ye the blunt.” He bared his teeth again, though this time it was decidedly less friendly. “At a premium.”

  Gage ignored his words. “What do you want, Kincaid?”

  As the head of Edinburgh’s largest and most notorious gang of criminals, we knew better than to get involved with Bonnie Brock, at least any more than we’d already been forced to. Our initial meeting had been under duress, him having kidnapped me and then attacked Gage, but since then we’d embarked upon a reluctant truce, helping each other from time to time in a trading of favors. I no longer despised the rogue—though the same could not be said for Gage—but I didn’t trust him. And I never forgot what he was capable of.

  “Such a greetin’,” Bonnie Brock mocked, moving a step closer. “Tense, are we? Waitin’?”

  I couldn’t be certain, but I suspected he was insinuating something crude, especially when I saw the muscles in Gage’s jaw jump. I decided to interfere before the situation escalated. Gage might enjoy the tussle with Bonnie Brock he’d been itching for, but I did not particularly relish having a groom with a black eye. Or worse.

  “Have you come to
wish us well? How kind,” I told him, sarcasm ringing in my voice. “Now we’ll be on our way.”

  I pulled Gage’s arm forward, but Bonnie Brock shifted to the right, blocking me.

  “Actually, I’m here aboot that favor ye owe me.”

  A nervous trickle eased down my spine. I’d been afraid of that. Our last encounter had left me in his debt, and I’d been anxiously waiting to discover what he would ask for in return. “Now? I know you’re aware we’re getting married tomorrow.” Bonnie Brock knew everything. “Can this not wait until after?”

  “You’ll be too busy after.” His gaze flicked to Gage. “Least, if yer husband is worthy o’ his reputation.” His eyes gleamed with mischievous delight. “I ken I’d keep ye busy.”

  This time I knew he was being crude, and the heat blossoming in my cheeks confirmed it.

  Gage surged forward, grabbing Bonnie Brock by the lapels of his jacket, while the criminal lifted his hand, brandishing a knife.

  “Stop!” I shouted, grabbing both of their arms. “Stop it, both of you!”

  They glared at each other in mutual loathing, their muscles rigid under my grip.

  “You’re behaving like children,” I snapped. “I’m not going to marry a man with a knife wound in his side. Nor am I going to stand about doing favors for a man who insults me. I don’t care what I owe you. Back away from each other or I’m abandoning both of you this instant.”

  I lifted my hands and the men complied, albeit pushing away from each other with far more force than was warranted. Gage’s chest rose and fell with each angry inhalation, while Bonnie Brock’s stance remained preternaturally calm. I supposed street brawls were an everyday occurrence for a man of his background and position. He slowly lowered his knife and slid it into the holster he must have strapped to his forearm under his clothes. I’d never even seen him draw it, he had been so quick. Realizing there wasn’t going to be a fight after all, the people passing by on Canongate who had stopped to watch us carried on their way.

  “Now, speak plainly,” I told Bonnie Brock.

  But Gage wasn’t finished. “Not until he apologizes to you.”

  The look in his eyes was fiercely protective, and it warmed that place inside me that had frozen into a cold lump during my first marriage, and only recently begun to melt.

  Bonnie Brock had never seemed the type to respond favorably to demands, but regardless of whether he was responding to the seriousness in Gage’s voice or the tug of his own conscience, he complied. “My apologies,” he grunted.

  I nodded in acceptance, and rested a hand gently on Gage’s arm as he continued to scowl. “The favor?” I prodded before the scoundrel could say anything else unseemly.

  Bonnie Brock’s eyes flicked to Gage. “I’d rather discuss it alone.”

  Gage tensed, and I gripped his arm tighter.

  “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Gage,” I replied.

  His expression darkened. “Tha’ may be so, but I’d no’ prefer it.” When that didn’t sway me, he reluctantly added, “It’s aboot Maggie.”

  My heart squeezed at his mention of his sister. She had endured so much. Only three months earlier, Gage and I had rescued her from a band of men who had been using and abusing her. Maggie had run off with them because one of the men had wooed and promised to marry her, but that had been a lie. And to make matters worse, upon her return to her brother in Edinburgh, she had lost the child she was carrying.

  I felt horrible for the girl, barely sixteen years old, but that didn’t mean I needed to speak with Bonnie Brock alone. “Gage knows what your sister has been through, and he’s nothing if not discreet.” I could read the stubborn set to Bonnie Brock’s mouth and added gently, “He would never see your sister harmed.”

  Gage’s expression softened in empathy. “You have my word.”

  I could tell that Bonnie Brock wished to argue, but then with a grunt he conceded. He turned his head to the side to stare at the craggy, worn stone of the building next to us. “She’s no’ improved. No’ one bit. She barely eats, no matter what I tempt her wi’. And she wanders aboot our chambers at night when she should be sleepin’.”

  “Do you want me to talk to her?” I asked softly, wondering what I could say to the girl that might help.

  He shook his head. “Nay. But I think I ken somethin’ that might help her.” His eyes shifted to meet mine. “And you can get it for me.”

  My stomach tightened in apprehension. “What is it?”

  His eyes searched my face for something before he finally replied, “Our mother’s journal.”

  A jolt of surprise swept through me at his mention of his mother, of anything from his past. He was very secretive about it. “Where is it?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “The Marlowe town house.”

  My brow furrowed. “Lord Hollingsworth’s home?”

  He arched his eyebrows impatiently. “He is a Marlowe, is he no’?”

  I frowned. I was well acquainted with that particularly family, though more the dowager and her two younger children than her eldest son the marquess. They were my brother-in-law Philip’s aunt and cousins. I also knew the dowager marchioness and Lord Damien and Lady Caroline were currently residing in the Edinburgh town house, while the marquess, his wife, and newborn child were still staying at their manor in the countryside. But I was quite certain Bonnie Brock was already aware of all of this.

  I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know the journal is there?”

  “’Cause the bonny Lady Caroline recently became engaged to yer friend Michael Dalmay, did she no’? And he just gave her an early wedding present.” His gold green eyes hardened. “A writing desk I’ve been searchin’ for for years.”

  “It belonged to your mother,” I guessed.

  “Aye. But ’twas no ordinary desk. It had a secret compartment fashioned into the right side. No one would ken it was even there, unless you’d seen her use it.”

  I tilted my head, studying his stony features. “And you think the journal is still there?”

  “Aye.”

  “After all this time?”

  “Aye.” His voice was as firm as his rigid stance.

  My brow furrowed. “And you expect me to simply waltz into their town house and steal it for you?”

  His eyes glinted with anger. “’Tis no’ stealin’ if the property belongs to me in the first place.”

  I supposed he did have a point. I glanced at Gage, curious what he thought of Bonnie Brock’s request. He was eyeing the other man with a quizzical expression, as if he was trying to puzzle out the man and not the task. This was the most the rogue had ever revealed about his past, and it was clear he was unhappy doing so. It was obvious he saw it as a weakness, and the fact that he was willing to share it with us, all because he believed it would help his sister, said volumes more than anything else.

  My silence had unsettled him, making his jaw harden. “If ye willna retrieve it for me, I’ll just have to send some o’ my men after it.”

  The threat was effective, for he knew I would not want any of his rough and unscrupulous brutes near the Marlowes or their town house.

  “You keep your men away from them,” I bit off icily.

  But he was far from intimidated. “I will. If ye fetch the journal for me.”

  I hated that word. Fetch. As if I were a dog.

  I ground my teeth, knowing I didn’t have a choice. I did owe him a favor. Too irritated to say the words, I nodded.

  Bonnie Brock didn’t seem to care, so long as he had my acquiescence. His shoulders relaxed, and I listened carefully as he relayed the details.

  Chapter 3

  11:45 A.M.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” I remarked as Gage’s carriage swung rather sharply around a corner.

  Gage had been silent during our walk b
ack to his carriage, and had remained so even when we were comfortably ensconced in the coach’s plush seats with the door shut behind us. It was unlike him, especially after an encounter with Bonnie Brock.

  Gage turned away from the window to look at me with one of his maddeningly blank expressions.

  I studied his eyes, trying to tell if he was upset. “I was surprised you didn’t offer any opinion after Bonnie Brock made his request.”

  He exhaled resignedly. “You owed the man a favor. We knew this was coming when we entered into that devil’s bargain with him.”

  I appreciated his using the word “we” when we both knew I had been the one to make the agreement with him. Gage had wanted nothing to do with Bonnie Brock. Though he couldn’t be too angry since our association with the criminal had helped solve our last inquiry.

  He tilted his head. “Besides, this favor seemed less objectionable than any number of other things he might have requested. It seemed best not to protest when the scoundrel has merely asked you to prowl through your friends’ home.”

  I frowned. When phrased like that, it sounded horribly disloyal.

  “If Bonnie Brock’s mother’s journal is still stored in that writing desk, it only seems right to return it to her family. I hardly think Caroline would dispute that,” I argued.

  “Maybe not. But I suspect there’s more to this journal than Kincaid is telling us. Perhaps it’s his mother’s, perhaps it’s not.”

  I blinked. “You think he lied?”

  Gage’s eyebrows lifted in skepticism. “You cannot be naïve enough to believe him incapable.”

  “No. I know he’s perfectly adept at dishonesty. I just . . .” I turned aside and pressed my lips together, trying to find the words. “He seemed so genuine. Far more than I ever expected to witness.”

  Gage leaned closer, brushing a strand of loose hair away from my face. “Yes, but that does not mean he didn’t lie, at least by omission.”