A Wicked Conceit

and popular meal among the residents of Old Town at any time of day, the owner was doing a brisk business, while the beggar opposite was not. He waved sheaves of loosely bound papers above his head, hollering in a barely distinguishable broad Scots, “All the latest ballads for a penny! Includin’ ‘Nix My Dolly.’”
I turned back to look at him at his mention of the popular flash drinking song from the Grand’s version of The King of Grassmarket, and catching my eye he fluttered the sheet music toward me. “’Tis popular wi’ all the ladies.”
Gage reached for my arm, hustling me away. We crossed the street to the publisher’s office and were greeted upon our entry by a man of approximately thirty, whose hair had nonetheless already turned almost entirely a silver white.
“Lady Darby, Mr. Gage, you are verra welcome,” he assured us with a pleasant smile and a gentle Scots brogue as he ushered us inside, offering to take our coats and hats. “I’m Daniel Heron, Mr. Rookwood’s assistant. He’s ready to receive you, if you’ll come this way.”
He led us through the oak-paneled office past a series of worn wooden desks, each one bare and polished to a gleam save one, which was cluttered with stacks of paperwork and half-empty cups of tea. The air smelled pleasantly of lemon polish and ink, though this abruptly ended at the door to Mr. Rookwood’s office. It appeared that the distinguished publisher possessed a remarked fondness for tobacco.
“Come in, come in,” he called, closing an ornate box sitting on the mantel over his hearth next to a golden ormolu clock topped by a globe before he rounded his massive desk. He was a rather stout, barrel-chested fellow with naught but a few tufts of gray hair clinging to the sides of his head, behind his ears. He clasped the pipe he was evidently so fond of in one hand, though it was fortunately unlit, as he reached out to shake Gage’s hand with the other. Truth be told, I was beginning to feel a little green from all the residual smoke that had saturated the room. Something that Gage noticed as Mr. Rookwood turned to greet me.
“Would it be possible for us to open a window?” he asked as the publisher pressed my hand in welcome, though he seemed unable to lift his eyes from my rounded belly.
“Hmm, what? Oh, aye,” he replied, startled into meeting my gaze. “Quite right. Quite right.” He offered me a tight smile and then bustled across the room to help Gage. “Allow me. There’s a bit o’ a trick to it. Sticks sometimes.”
I sank into the armchair nearest the door, hoping the air would circulate quickly and the alley beyond didn’t contain something even more fetid.
“Noo,” Mr. Rookwood drawled around the pipe clenched between his teeth as he slapped his hands together. He returned to the leather chair behind his desk, which was cleared of all papers except a shallow pile on each of the far corners. “What can I do for you?”
“We understand you’re the publisher of The King of Grassmarket,” Gage began, sinking into the seat beside mine and lacing his fingers casually over the flat abdomen hidden behind his ice blue waistcoat.
“Aye, and before ye go on,” he cautioned, leaning forward to set his pipe in a dish at his elbow. “I ken who ye are and why you’re here.” He raised his hands in a staying gesture. “I told Mugdock from the first that he shouldna be usin’ your names, but he wouldna be budged. It took me threatenin’ no’ to publish the book before he agreed to at least change a letter in each o’ your names. Even so, ’tis obvious he’s referrin’ to ye.”
Frankly, I was shocked to hear him admit all this. Did he not realize we could sue him for libel, and his admission was as good as a confession? Or was he counting on us not doing so and, by admitting to the association without provocation, hoping to soften our opinion of him? Craftily, the scurrilous accusations made about us in the pages were mere insinuations. Rather than charge us with our sins outright, Mugdock had allowed the reader to draw his or her own conclusions, though the implications were clear. Such a fact made the charge of libel more difficult to prove.
Mr. Rookwood sat deeper in his chair. “But you’ll have to take that up wi’ him.”
“Gladly,” Gage replied with a stern look. “Who is he?”
Mr. Rookwood shook his head in feigned regret. “I’m afraid I canna tell you that. Signed a binding document that I wouldna divulge the author’s true identity.” He nodded toward the door. “No’ even to the police. And believe me, they’ve tried.”
I turned to Gage, uncertain what to make of the publisher’s disclosure. But if my husband found the police’s involvement curious, he didn’t let it show, maintaining the same level, unyielding stare.
“And what is it precisely you risk should you reveal this Nathan Mugdock’s alias?”
A vee formed between Rookwood’s brows as his chest puffed up like an irate robin. “My reputation, for one. My honor. And . . . a large portion o’ the profits from the sales o’ The King o’ Grassmarket,” he grumbled before gesturing broadly with his hands. “But before ye go offerin’ me money, ken that my honor isna for sale. Bribery willna work for ye any more than it worked for Bonnie Brock Kincaid. And your threats willna either.” He crossed his arms over his chest as if in illustration.
But Gage wasn’t so much impressed by this display of outrage as intrigued by what he’d revealed. “So Kincaid has been here?”
“Aye. Thrice. Each time wi’ a larger bribe and a meaner threat. But I have no kin. Least none within a hundred miles o’ Edinburgh. And should Kincaid go lookin’ for trouble among my relations, he’ll get more than he asked for in return. So he’s only got me to menace, and I dinna frighten easily.