A Wicked Conceit

trouble,” I jeered, repeating his words. It must have been if he was willing to publish another one. “To think I actually felt a little bit sorry for him.”
“Yes, well, speaking of sympathy, Kiera.” Gage waited until I turned my head to look at him. “Don’t give Kincaid any more than he deserves.”
I opened my mouth to object, but he cut me off.
“I saw the way you were looking at him after he tried to tell us he and his men aren’t responsible for the rash of crimes inspired by the play. The man is not blameless in any of this. He might not have wished for his life to be turned into a melodrama, but he is responsible for the crimes and exploits that inspired it. And undoubtedly whatever vendetta the author is out to repay.”
My first impulse was to protest that we couldn’t know that Bonnie Brock had done anything to deserve such revenge, but then we also couldn’t know that he hadn’t. The fact was, he had done many things worthy of reprisal in his lifetime, no matter his personal code of honor. That code was not the same as the rule of law, and I was under no delusions that he hadn’t committed dozens of crimes, including smuggling, theft, housebreaking, body snatching, assault, and murder.
We’d long lamented the necessity of cooperating with him, believing it was better to work with the devil we knew than the devil we didn’t, but now I wasn’t so sure. Particularly now that we’d found ourselves dragged into the solder mill of public opinion with him. And typically, because I was a woman, my reputation suffered the most.
When the scandal had erupted around my involvement with Sir Anthony’s dissections, I’d bemoaned and berated the unfair treatment of me in the newspapers and among society’s gossips. But now that my unborn child was being implicated in such slander, I felt fury supplanting all other emotions. How dare they speculate on the conception of my child. It was not only insulting but also absurd. Yet another example of society’s swift criticism and condemnation of those who persisted in living their lives outside the prescribed manner deemed acceptable by our culture’s rigid standards. And I had never colored inside the lines. Not completely.
I clutched Gage’s arm tighter as he steered me around an anomalous rut in the well-tended path. “Oh, I know Bonnie Brock is far from blameless. Believe me. And he undeniably enjoys tweaking your nose and causing me to blush.” I gave him a chiding look. “You really shouldn’t rise to his bait. Not when you already know he’s going to attempt it.”
“I shouldn’t defend my wife?” he retorted, determined to take offense.
“Not when we’re well aware the scoundrel never follows the rules of decorum and never will, and our meetings with him are a necessary evil. In that instance, it seems we willingly sacrifice some of our right to take umbrage.”
His lips flattened in vexation.
“Besides, what exactly did you intend to do back there if I hadn’t stopped you? If you’d thrown a punch, he or one of his men would have likely retaliated with a knife. And what of the cholera, and the distance you’ve been so insistent we maintain from the worst areas of Old Town?”
He stiffened, perhaps realizing for the first time that in his anger, he’d forgotten his admonition that we remain a safe distance from the man and whatever contamination might hover about him from the areas still afflicted with the disease.
We strode in silence for a few moments. Whether because he’d thought my questions were rhetorical or he didn’t wish to admit he was wrong, it eventually became apparent Gage wasn’t going to respond. So I pressed on, finishing my initial thought.
“All that being said, I don’t think that means Bonnie Brock is enjoying any of this.” I grimaced recalling the storm of emotions I’d seen reflected in his eyes. “In truth, he seems disturbed by it all.”
“Of course he’s disturbed, Kiera,” Gage snapped. “All of this attention has disturbed his normal mode of operation, and now he might actually have to face the consequences of his actions.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, I know what you meant. I can’t believe you’re defending him!”
“I’m not!” I protested, a knot forming in my gut. “I’m simply pointing out the fact that he’s not relishing the attention, as you seem to think.”
“I think he cares for nothing but what’s in his own best interests. And in this case they do not align directly with our own. It would serve you well to remember that.”
That had been just as true in previous circumstances involving Bonnie Brock, and yet Gage hadn’t felt the need to remind me of it. I never strayed from the mark, even if I might have bent it more than my husband might have wished a time or two. It infuriated me that he was insinuating that fact now.
“The ability to feel empathy for another person—even a criminal—is not a weakness, Sebastian,” I bit out in a low voice. “Nor does it necessarily make you susceptible to manipulation.”
My use of his given name should have alerted him to how earnest I was, but he continued almost as if I’d never spoken. “Just as it would serve you to remember that he’s well aware of your fondness and compassion for his sister, and not above using it to his own ends.”
Was that why Bonnie Brock had brought her with him? Clearly that was what Gage thought, but I struggled to accept that his reasoning was so calculated. At least, not purely so. Rarely were people’s motivations so straightforward. More often than not, they were muddied by multiple impetuses—some conscious and some less so. Bonnie Brock’s vigilant demeanor seemed to confirm he was keeping his sister close to protect her, but that might not be the only reason.
Either way, there was no winning this argument. Not when Gage’s pride had been pricked. I tried to summon my empathy