A Pressing Engagement (A Lady Darby Mystery)

by Anna Lee Huber

  “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 t
he 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.

  Chapter 6

  5:50 P.M.

  Fortunately, the door leading into Miss McKay’s building was only a short distance down the close, allowing us to escape the dank, restricted confines of the shadow-steeped lane. Though whether this situation was better, remained up for some debate. There were less places for Bonnie Brock to lie in wait for us, but the tenement’s interior passages were even danker and more restricted than outside. The walls surrounding us were thin, allowing the sounds within each flat to easily penetrate. Sounds of children squabbling, and dishes clinking, of doors slamming, and a woman yelling at a man abou
t his dirty shoes.

  Miss McKay lived two floors up in the back of the building, where there were no windows, and a wide cornucopia of stomach-churning smells. I had not spent enough time in the buildings packed cheek by jowl with each other in Old Town to know whether this tenement was better or worse than normal, but I knew that New Town was supposed to have been built to alleviate the overcrowding in these structures. Thus far, I’d only observed that it had given the wealthy more space and distance from the lower classes of the city.

  Regardless, Miss McKay’s lot in life had certainly diminished if she’d been forced to move from Miss Collingwood’s comfortable house near Holyrood into a windowless room in this building. I wondered how she could not be bitter, but such considerations melted away when a weak voice called out in answer to Gage’s knock. The smell that assaulted us as he opened the door was one of illness—of stale sweat, stagnant air, and the sickly sweet stench of laudanum.

  For a moment I could not locate the woman who had told us to enter, and then I spotted her across the room, lying on a bed that was little more than a thin mattress on the floor in the corner.

  She gasped faintly when she opened her sunken eyes to see us. “My apologies,” she murmured in a phlegm-rattled brogue, trying to push up on her elbows. “I thought ye were my neighbor, come to look in on me.” She began to cough into a handkerchief, and I took several hesitant steps deeper into the room before Gage stopped me with a firm grip on my elbow.

  I glanced at his concerned face distractedly before speaking to the woman. “Please, don’t get up. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  She didn’t argue, subsiding back into the blankets that surrounded her as the cough racked her body. Her wrists were so thin, her cheeks so gaunt I was worried the force of her coughing would break her bones. I knew then that she must be horribly ill. However, when she finally was able to catch her breath, the first thing to worry her was the fact that she could not rise to serve us tea.