The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens

Chapter 10

Izzy sat at the breakfast table, staring at the empty chair opposite, and wondered how it could possibly be that in just a few days, Gray joining her had become her expectation. Enough so that, now he wasn’t there, she felt as if she missed him.

She shook her head at herself, dusted the toast crumbs from her fingers, and rose.

After donning her coat and bonnet, she went through the door Cottesloe held open and halted on the porch, blinking at the strapping young man who was holding her carriage door and smiling at her.

Then she remembered; he was Gray’s footman-cum-guard.

She descended the steps, and he very correctly offered his hand to help her into the carriage. She grasped his hand, then paused and asked, “Your name?”

He grinned and bobbed. “Tom, my lady. Tom Corby.”

Izzy inclined her head and climbed into the carriage.

Tom shut the door carefully, then she felt the carriage dip as he swung up behind, and Fields started the horses trotting.

Resigned to being guarded, she made no demur when Tom dogged her steps through Mrs. Carruthers’s house, into Woburn Square, and all the way to the printing works, always a respectful pace behind her, like the well-trained footman he apparently was.

While unlocking the door to the printing works, she glanced at him. “Do you want to come in? I warn you it will be chaotic, and someone will probably put you to work.”

He grinned. “His lordship said you were running the press today. I wouldn’t mind seeing that, and I don’t mind lending a hand.” He shrugged lightly. “Better than sitting in some tavern being bored.”

She had to agree. She opened the door and walked in and suggested he sit on the bench by the counter until the staff arrived. Then she found herself being greeted by two young constables, who had been waiting to leave after guarding the workshop overnight. The pair informed her that the Lipsons, father and son, and Jim Matthews had left a few hours earlier, but would return at their usual time to get the press rolling. Izzy thanked the pair and saw them out.

After hanging up her coat and bonnet, she went to her desk, sat, and got ready to do the accounts—her usual chore while the presses clanged and clanked in the workshop. Mary soon joined her, and they opened the ledgers and disappeared into a world of numbers and amounts.

Only when she heard the warning whistle as the heavy press started to turn did she remember Tom Corby. She sprang to her feet, walked quickly into the foyer, saw the bench was empty, and turned to look down the workshop. She spotted Tom, his face alight, working opposite his namesake—Tom Lipson—as, standing on raised platforms on either side of the massive machine, they carefully fed sheets into its voracious maw. Standing at the nearer end, Maguire and Jim carefully received the printed sheets spat out by the whirring machine.

Clangs and clanks filled the air, and after pausing for a moment to savor the satisfaction she always felt on getting out another edition, Izzy retreated to the office and sank into the ledgers again.

A short while later, the bell over the door caught Mary’s attention; being seated on the other side of the desk, she could see who had entered. “It’s Sergeant Littlejohn, ma’am, and he’s brought another lad with him. Looks to be a young constable, given the way his eyes are on stalks.”

Seconds later, Littlejohn appeared in the doorway and nodded to Izzy. “We’ll just be keeping an eye on things, ma’am.” He cast an intrigued eye toward the press. “If there’s anything the lad and I can do to lend a hand…?”

Izzy smiled and waved him down the workshop. “Go and ask Lipson. He always has chores for idle hands.”

Littlejohn tried to smother an expectant grin as he nodded and went.

Izzy forced her gaze to the ledger in front of her and resisted the urge to glance at the presently empty armchair. It was truly ridiculous how Gray had somehow imprinted his presence on her mind, even here, and all in such a short time.

You’ve known he’s the only one for you for over ten years.

She shut her mind to the insidious reminder and refocused on her task, yet no matter how ferociously she concentrated, her senses continued to react as if something was missing.

She and Mary finally reached the end of the invoices and expenses. Mary gathered up the ledgers and went to exchange them for those listing the printing works’ revenue and income.

That left Izzy with nothing to distract her from thinking of what she didn’t wish to dwell on. Such as that kiss last night and what it might mean. She’d already realized the answer was a never-ending prospect of what-ifs, and at this point, she didn’t need further uncertainty.

Indeed, in the small hours, she’d concluded that her best way forward was to set Gray and everything to do with him personally on a mental shelf and leave it there while they dealt with Quimby’s killer.

One fraught situation at a time.

She was drumming her fingers on the desk and mentally hurrying Mary along when Digby poked his head around the doorway. She arched her brows.

“Timothy Donaldson’s here, ma’am, like you asked.”

She glanced at the clock; it was just after ten o’clock. “Excellent.” Mary loomed behind Digby, ledgers in her arms. Izzy caught her eye. “Let me interview Donaldson first. Then we’ll get back to the accounts.”

Mary cast a shy glance at someone out of Izzy’s sight, presumably Donaldson, and readily drew back.

Izzy nodded to Digby. “Show Mr. Donaldson in.”

The man Digby steered into the office was several decades younger than Quimby had been; he appeared to be in his late twenties. He had dark-brown hair and a pleasant, open face with the sort of features that were handsome enough when one focused on them, but in general, were totally forgettable. Donaldson wore a decent overcoat over a neat waistcoat, pressed trousers, clean linen, and a checkered neckcloth. He looked youthful, but not overly young, primarily because of the intelligence that burned in his blue eyes.

He carried a felt hat, along with a portfolio.

Izzy waved him to the armchair Mary had occupied. “Good morning, Mr. Donaldson. Thank you for coming in.”

Donaldson nodded politely. “Thank you for the chance to speak with you, ma’am.”

Izzy folded her hands on the desk and waited as Donaldson leaned the portfolio against the chair’s side and sat. “Now, the first thing you need to be aware of is that your predecessor, Mr. Horace Quimby, was murdered on the premises, in the darkroom here.”

Donaldson’s eyes flew wide, but almost immediately, shock and surprise were overlaid by speculation. He glanced toward the workshop. “Is that what this hue and cry edition is about?”

“Yes.” She waited until Donaldson’s gaze returned to her face to say, “I will understand if you no longer wish to apply for the position of photographer with us.”

He blinked, then frowned. “Was Quimby murdered because of his work with The Crier?”

“Not specifically.” She saw no reason not to explain their thinking regarding the seven photographs Quimby had taken on the day he’d been killed.

“So the killer followed him here, stabbed the poor beggar, and destroyed all the daguerreotype negatives he could find, but the relevant negatives were calotypes and were safe in a drawer all the time.” Donaldson looked strangely enthused. “That’s like something out of a penny dreadful.”

Izzy conceded that with a tip of her head.

“And now”—Donaldson’s gaze swung toward the workshop—“you’re running all seven photographs and urging anyone with information to come forward.” He returned his gaze to her. “Frankly, if you offer me the job, I’d be a fool not to take it. The London Crier is about to become a sensation.”

She fought to stifle a grin. Doing her best to preserve an appropriately serious façade in the face of Donaldson’s enthusiasm, she pointed at his portfolio. “Take me through your work.”

He leapt to do so, and in evaluating what he placed before her, she concluded that Digby was, surprisingly, a master of understatement. Donaldson’s eye was nothing short of spectacular; he had a knack for capturing a moment at its most revelatory, and his subjects were not limited to the tried and true.

Finally closing the portfolio, she met his eyes. “This is—as I’m sure you’re aware—most impressive. The terms I’m willing to offer you are these.” Succinctly, she outlined the same arrangement she’d had with Quimby, then went on, “However, if you agree to remain exclusive to The Crier, I’m willing to formally employ you and pay you a steady salary on the proviso you provide us with our usual three photographs every week, plus one other of your own choosing. If you come on board as our staff photographer, I’d like you to commence a feature along the lines of ‘What a Photograph Can Reveal that the Naked Eye Might Not See.’”

Donaldson’s eyes had grown wider and wider. He swallowed, seemed about to speak, then reined himself in and said, “That’s very tempting. Perhaps if I could see the darkroom?”

Izzy nodded and rose. “By all means. Come with me.”

He followed her to the darkroom.

She opened the door and waved him in, remaining in the doorway as he walked around, examining the fixtures. “Digby is our printer’s devil—our lad-of-all-work—but over the past months, Quimby had been training him in photography. If you’re willing to take on that training, I’d like to make him your assistant. I can hire another printer’s devil, but Digby seems to have a passion for photography, and if it hadn’t been for that and his quick thinking, we wouldn’t have any means of pursuing whoever killed Quimby. You’ll find Digby a very quick study, and his heart is already in this darkroom.”

Donaldson flashed her a grin. “I’ve already heard decent things about him from the other members of the society.” He returned to the door and nodded. “So yes, I’ll be happy to take him on as my assistant and train him up.”

“Excellent. Well, then, Mr. Donaldson, what do you consider a reasonable salary?”

He proposed a figure, and they embarked on a round of negotiations and ultimately shook hands on a deal that, Izzy suspected, they both felt was to their benefit.

“The job is yours, Mr. Donaldson, and this darkroom is now your domain.”

He smiled—a boyishly charming smile—but it faded as his gaze, turning shrewd again, went past her. “I’m curious over the police being here, more or less assisting your people in getting out the paper.”

“As to that”—she tipped her head toward her office—“let me show you the proofs of the edition.”

She led him back to the office and laid the proofs over her desk.

Donaldson pored over them.

Izzy heard the bell over the door tinkle, then Baines’s gruff voice speaking to Mary.

Donaldson tapped the proofs. “This is going to capture the attention of every Londoner.” He glanced at Izzy. “If this pans out and someone comes forward and you catch the killer, I could photograph the actual arrest. With the latest techniques, my exposure time is down to seconds, not minutes. And you could run those photographs in the next edition—you’d get an enormous boost in circulation from that!”

His enthusiasm was infectious. Izzy battled to hold back a smile. “I like the way you think, Mr. Donaldson.”

He grinned at her.

“Well, I’m not sure I do.”

She looked up as Baines came plodding into the office with Littlejohn, openly curious, trailing him.

“Who’s this, then?” Baines demanded. “And what’s this about photographing arrests?”

Izzy introduced Donaldson and, in what amounted to a trial by fire, left it to him to make the case for being allowed to photograph the capture of the killer.

Baines wasn’t convinced, but Littlejohn, who had followed with interest Donaldson’s explanation about what could be done with the latest inventions and who plainly had learned a thing or two about communicating with the public while knocking about the printing works, ventured to observe, “Sir, I can’t help but wonder if the brass wouldn’t go for it. You know they’re always on about getting positive coverage in the papers. Well, what could be more positive than us actually arresting a killer, all shown on the front page?”

After regarding Littlejohn for several silent moments, Baines returned his gaze to Donaldson and tipped his head Littlejohn’s way. “My sergeant’s right. The brass are always bending our ear about that. So”—Baines blew out a breath—“let’s see if we can’t work something out.”

“As long as I can be there,” Donaldson argued, “close enough to the action to take photographs, I swear I won’t get in your way.”

Baines humphed and asked several pertinent questions, which Donaldson answered with boyish openness.

Finally, Baines met Izzy’s eyes and nodded. “All right. We’ll try it and see.”

Izzy beamed at all three men. “Excellent!” She spied Mary hovering just beyond the doorway. “And now, gentlemen, if you’ll allow me to get back to our accounts?”

Littlejohn said to Baines, “You should come and see the press running, sir. It’s a real sight.”

With a grunt, Baines nodded to Izzy and followed his eager sergeant out.

Donaldson grinned. “If this works out—”

Izzy held up a hand. “Don’t tempt Fate.”

Donaldson laughed. “I’d better go and see to the darkroom, then. With luck, we’ll have some exciting shots to develop soon.”

He walked out, nodding politely to Mary, who blushed and ducked her head but then watched him walk away before recalling her purpose and bustling in, carrying the revenue ledgers.

Normally, Izzy would have sighed at the sight of Mary’s distraction, but she was distracted, too, in her case by the prospects opening up for The Crier.

As she settled in her chair and Mary opened the ledgers, Izzy endeavored to force her mind back to figures and sums, but couldn’t stop a smile from curving her lips at the thought of what Gray would make of Donaldson’s zeal and Baines’s change of heart.

Then she caught herself, castigated her wayward wits, and ruthlessly focused them on adding up the advertising revenue.

Gray rode through the open gates of Tickencote Grange and drew rein just beyond the gateposts.

He’d lost count of the properties he’d cast his eye over; contrary to his initial assumption, he’d discovered that his prejudices—or rather his instincts over what was the right house for him—made him decidedly picky.

Given how many times his inner voice had saved him from making potentially disastrous decisions and that the sole occasion on which he’d deliberately ignored it had ended in catastrophe, he wasn’t about to change what had now become a habit.

If his instincts said no, the house wasn’t for him.

He’d taken the train north, putting aside the distrust of rail travel engendered by the accident that had injured Therese several months ago. Although she’d fully recovered, he hadn’t felt any need to risk the train, not until today. Given he’d wanted to see the house and return to London within the day, the train it had had to be. Driving up the Great North Road as far as Stamford, then immediately down again wasn’t an option; he valued his horses too much. So he’d braved the train to Stamford, hired a nag—a retired hunter who wasn’t half bad—and ridden the few miles to the tiny village of Tickencote.

From where he’d halted, he couldn’t see the house. A tree-lined drive, the trees mature but currently leafless, led around a curve with winter-brown lawns rolling away on either side, eventually reaching more trees. He tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks and rode on.

As he rounded the curve, the house came into view. Built in local pale-gray stone with a steeply pitched lead roof that hosted multiple dormer windows, the house faced squarely north. Gray slowed the horse to a walk and looked around. The expanse of lawn that now stretched to his right ended in unkempt hedges that enclosed a knot garden graced with overgrown topiaries, while to his left, the lawn rolled into an orchard with numerous gnarled, presently skeletal trees.

He returned his gaze to the house. It comprised two full stories as well as the attics evidenced by the dormers. Four double chimneys rose from the central roof, and others were visible at various points around the squarish structure. A flight of stone steps led to a porch before the main door, which was located centrally in the front façade and flanked by long, stone-framed mullioned windows. The walls of the house below the level of the ground floor were covered in some creeper, leafless in this season, which framed low windows that presumably admitted light into a basement level.

Tickencote Grange was a substantial edifice, solid and impressive, with twin square towers jutting forward on either side of the central section of the house. The stone pediment above the front door was finely carved, as was a triangular inset above it.

The style hailed from late in the previous century, but given the simmering excitement that had started to spread through Gray’s veins, he wasn’t overly concerned with the house’s age.

He trotted the hunter into the forecourt. The crunch of hooves on the gravel brought the agent hurrying around the corner of the house.

The portly man saw Gray, beamed, and came forward. “My lord. You’re here.”

“As you see, Caxton.” Gray drew rein and dismounted, then led the horse to where a ring set into the wall beside the front steps provided a convenient hitching point. “Now.” Gray turned to the house. “What have we here?”

Caxton seized the invitation, led Gray up the steps and through the double front doors, and proceeded to show him the ground-floor rooms while filling his ears with every last detail the agent had gleaned about the property.

While one part of his mind cataloged the pertinent points in Caxton’s monologue, most of Gray’s attention was focused on what he was seeing and how he felt being inside the house.

The front hall was tiled in black and white and was paneled in walnut to head height. He studied the plain white walls above, which looked sadly denuded at present. Without comment, he followed Caxton through the rooms, taking note of the plentitude of windows, the pleasing proportions, the ornate moldings, and the continuing paneling, which was the dominant feature of the house’s interior. The curtains were heavy velvet, and dustcloths covered the remaining few pieces of furniture. The fireplaces in all the major reception rooms were impressive displays of the woodcarver’s art.

Although Gray’s nose detected the presence of considerable dust, there was no telltale scent of dampness. He broke into Caxton’s description to remark, “You mentioned that the house stands close to a river.”

“Indeed, my lord. The rear lawn runs all the way to the bank of the Gwash.” The agent urged him on. “If you come through to the ballroom, you’ll see how close we are.”

Gray allowed the agent to usher him along a corridor to two tall, impressively ornate doors. With a flourish, Caxton flung them wide, and Gray found himself looking across an expanse of polished boards to a wall of windows. He walked forward and saw, as Caxton had said, that the lawn at the rear of the house ran down to a small river, presently running high.

After studying it for a moment, Gray nodded. “It doesn’t flood around the house.”

“No, my lord. The banks are sufficiently high, and the house itself is still higher.”

And the lack of dampness within the walls testified to the solidity of the house’s foundations. Gray suppressed a smile. Turning to Caxton, without inflection, he said, “Now I’m here, you may as well show me the rest of the place.”

Caxton was keen to oblige. Over the next half hour, he took Gray through the entire house. The first floor, reached via a wide timber staircase, beautifully carved and elegant, housed nine bedrooms and several bathing chambers, while the extensive attics hosted a nursery as well as numerous rooms for staff. In the semi-basement, the kitchen and associated service rooms were large and easily passed muster.

To Gray, this was his house—he felt it in his bones, in his marrow.

Aside from being in an excellent location—readily reached from London via train as well as road and within easy riding distance of Ancaster Park and Alverton—this was the right house for him.

On finally returning to the forecourt, he concealed his excitement and questioned Caxton regarding the land attached to the house. The answer translated to enough and not too much. As he harbored no interest in becoming a farmer, that was precisely what he was looking for.

In answer to Caxton’s query of what he thought of the property, Gray glanced around once again and said, “I’ll think about it, but unlike the previous houses you’ve shown me, I’m not instantly crossing this one off my list.”

Caxton brightened.

Before he could press, Gray went on, “I’ll be in touch if I wish to know anything further, but before we part, refresh my memory—how much is the bank asking for the place?”

Sensing the possibility of a sale, Caxton hesitated for only a moment before confiding, “Actually, my lord, I’ve heard a whisper that the bank just wants the mortgage paid out.”

Given the vendor was a bank, Gray had wondered if that might be the case, but arched his brows as if surprised. “And how much is the mortgage?”

The figure Caxton murmured was low enough to make the property an incredible bargain. “But if you are wishful of buying the place, my lord, I would advise making an offer sooner rather than later, given the bank is letting that whisper get out to us agents. They truly are keen to get this place off their books.”

Gray inclined his head in understanding, but he’d learned the hard way to examine gift horses’ mouths very closely. “If I wish to purchase the place, I’ll be in touch.” He nodded in dismissal.

Caxton bowed and left, trotting around the house to where he’d no doubt left his horse.

Gray stood for a moment more, looking around and soaking up the ambience, then untied his horse, swung up to the saddle, and turned the horse’s head toward the orchard. From upstairs, he’d glimpsed a rear drive wending past the orchard, and as far as he could tell, the bulk of the village lay that way.

He’d guessed correctly; the drive ended at a gate that gave onto a lane that led down to a mill on the riverbank. In the other direction, more or less east, the lane ran past several cottages to—as Gray had hoped—the local public house. As he walked his horse along the lane, the pub’s sign came into focus. The Fox and Hound. Appropriate, he supposed, given this was hunting country.

After tying his horse to a hitching post in the narrow paved area before the pub, he pushed through the door and found himself in a comfortable if low-ceilinged room; he had to duck beneath huge oak beams on his way to the highly polished wooden counter. Other than the barman behind it, there was no one else in evidence, no other customers. Then again, it was not quite eleven-thirty, relatively early for a pub.

The barman nodded in that cautious way of countrymen. Having grown up not that far away, Gray wasn’t deterred; he claimed a barstool, leaned on the bar, and in relaxed fashion, ordered a beer.

When the barman set the frothing tankard before him, he handed over a coin. “Nice little village you have here.”

“Aye.” The barman eyed him with undisguised curiosity. “Quiet, it is. We don’t get many outsiders stopping by, not with Stamford so close.”

Gray sipped. “I can imagine. I grew up at Ancaster.” He tipped his head eastward.

“Aye? That’s not so very far. You been visiting there, then?” The barman picked up a cloth and started polishing a glass.

“Not yet.” Gray swallowed another mouthful of the surprisingly palatable beer, then lowered the tankard and glanced toward Tickencote Grange. “I’ve been looking over the grange.” He looked at the barman. “I’m thinking of buying it.”

“That so?” The barman had already taken note of the quality of his clothes, so the revelation wasn’t that much of a surprise.

Gray nodded. “I’m considering it, but the place feels deserted.” Until he said the words, he hadn’t realized that was, in fact, what he’d noted. “I wondered if you knew anything about the previous owners.”

He took another swallow of the beer and, his gaze undemanding and fixed on the barman, waited patiently.

The barman continued polishing the glass. Eventually, he said, “I’ve only been here for some five, six years, so I can’t tell you anything of the family that owned it back when it used to be some nob’s estate. I heard they’d moved elsewhere and sold it to some banker gentleman from London, but seemingly, it didn’t really suit. ’Bout the time I came here, the banker sold the house to some flashy London gent. A Mr. Hildebrand, he was, but he rarely came up here, and then we heard he’d lost his fancy shirt on some horse race, and the bank took possession. It’s the bank itself owns it still and has for nigh on three years.”

Gray digested that, then finished his drink and nodded. “Thank you.”

He walked out and, while collecting his horse, thought again of the house.

Unbidden, his mind supplied an image of Izzy there. She suited the place—or it suited her; he could readily imagine her coming down that magnificent staircase, strolling through the reception rooms, waltzing in the ballroom, or walking the lawns and the riverbank with him.

The images were deeply enticing.

He reminded himself that, at this time, such images were mere fancies, wishes as yet unrealizable. Gripping the horse’s reins, he mounted and turned the horse for Alverton Priory.

By midday, it was all hands on deck at the printing works. Even Izzy had joined the small army bustling about the noisy, clanking, clattering press. Donaldson, Littlejohn, and his young constable had been conscripted into service. For once, they had enough hands for the process to flow seamlessly without interruption.

Izzy worked with Mary and Digby at the layout table, checking the sheets Lipson, assisted by Littlejohn and the constable, ferried from the typesetting table where Maguire and Jim laid the pages as they came off the press. At that point, the sheets were printed on one side only; although the press could print on both sides of a sheet in one double-pass, the drying time of the available ink made that impractical; too many pages ended smeared. Once sufficient sheets had been printed and had passed inspection, the forme in the press would be changed, and the sheets would have another two pages printed on their blank side.

The combined scent of hot machine oil and ink was pervasive, overlaying the sharper tang of the coal Gerry constantly fed into the boiler. The rattle of the thick woven belt that drove the huge drum was a constant rumble beneath the solid clanks and thuds as the iron gears moving the forme currently being printed constantly shifted, locked, then shifted again, first holding the inked forme in place for the huge drum to press a sheet to it—printing the sheet with two pages of text and pictures—then lowering the forme for the type to be reinked before relifting and locking it in place again for the drum to roll over it and print the next sheet.

Standing toward the rear of the press, Lipson kept an eagle eye on the rolling drum and frequently bent to check the reservoirs of ink below the machine. Maguire and Matthews, receiving the printed sheets, ran careful eyes over each as the machine pushed it out, checking for any smudging or uneven print.

After toting up all the likely orders and allowing for increased interest, Izzy and Lipson had decided on a first print run of five thousand copies, an increase of six hundred on their usual number. Time-wise, printing and assembling five thousand copies was going to stretch them, which was why even Izzy had donned a leather apron and was assisting as she could. They had to print three double-sided sheets, each side carrying two pages—making up the twelve pages of the special edition—then collate the sheets in the correct order and orientation before folding the stacked pages in half, creating each copy of the paper.

That wouldn’t be a small undertaking at any time, but today, with all the excitement, it was extra difficult for everyone to stop themselves from pausing and reading the sheets rather than simply ferrying them on.

After inspecting the press earlier, Baines had left. Izzy had locked the door behind him, a precaution they often took while the press was running, as they wouldn’t hear anyone coming through the door.

With the first double-sided sheet done and stacked in piles waiting on the counter, Izzy estimated that they were fast approaching the right number of sheets printed with the first side of the second double-sided sheet. On cue, Lipson called a temporary halt, stopping the press so that he, his son, Maguire, and Matthews could carefully switch out the current forme and replace it with the next. Everyone else seized the moment to eat a sandwich—which Izzy routinely ordered and Mary had brought in that morning—and find a drink of water. On print-run days, there was never time for a proper lunch break.

Izzy nibbled a sandwich and sipped water from a cup. She ran her eye over all those gathered and saw clear interest, a touch of excitement here and there, and beneath all else, an unwavering commitment to getting the hue and cry edition out and, through it, catching Quimby’s killer.

There was a sense of comradeship, not just among the printing works’ staff but including and embracing all those who were so readily lending their aid, even Littlejohn and the constable. It felt as if everyone there had banded together in common cause; she saw that reflected in the casual glances that tracked Lipson, waiting for his word that the press was ready to roll again.

She leant against the layout table and inwardly acknowledged that she couldn’t have accomplished this by herself. Some of it, yes, but without Louisa’s idea, Drake’s imprimatur, Baines’s tacit support, and Littlejohn’s enthusiasm, let alone the staff’s, the hue and cry edition wouldn’t have happened.

And with regard to Louisa’s, Drake’s, and Baines’s very necessary contributions, those had come about through Gray’s efforts, through his intercessions on her behalf.

The boiler started to chug again, and the belt rattled to life. Lipson called, and everyone set aside their crusts and cups and dove back into the fray.

At her station at the layout table, Izzy smiled wryly. In general, she had a rather low opinion of the value of gentlemen, but perhaps it was time to revise her stance and agree that some of the species might have their uses.

Gray arrived at Alverton Priory and found Devlin ensconced in his library. Gray had barely walked in, shaken hands, and sat in the armchair Devlin waved him to when Therese came bustling in.

“I heard you’d arrived.” She promptly sat in a chair facing him. “How goes the investigation? Do you have news?”

Gray smiled at her blatant inquisitiveness and obliged by describing all that had occurred. “Incidentally, thank you for the recommendation to consult Drake. Without his and Louisa’s contributions, I doubt we’d be where we are.”

“So,” Therese said, “with luck, you’ll start to get information in later tomorrow.”

“I’m not sure how quickly the distribution occurs, but I suppose that’s possible,” he allowed.

She glanced at the clock. “You will stay for luncheon, won’t you?”

When, brows raised, she looked at him, he smiled. “Thank you.”

“But what’s brought you this way?” Devlin asked.

“Indeed,” Therese said. “With events happening apace in London, this hardly seems a time you would choose to visit your parents.”

Gray grinned. “You know me so well.”

She nodded. “We do. So?”

“I came up this way to look at a house.”

“You did?” She blinked. “Where?”

Just then, Edwards arrived to announce, “My lady, my lords, luncheon is served.”

Therese bounced to her feet and, immediately Gray stood, looped her arm in his and towed him toward the door. “Come, sit, eat, and tell us all.”

He laughed and, with a fondly grinning Devlin following, allowed himself to be led to the dining room.

Once they’d sat and been served a creamy celery soup, Gray confirmed his intention to stand for Parliament. “Consequently, given the property qualification, a house I must have, and via an agent, I’ve been looking for a suitable place for months.”

“And…” Therese waved at him to continue.

He set down his soupspoon. “There’s a house not far away that, I believe, will be perfect.” He described why he felt that was so, elaborating on the house itself as well as its highly convenient location.

While he did so, Edwards removed the soup plates and served the main course of mutton, vegetables, and freshly baked bread. They ate as Therese and Devlin asked questions, and Gray replied.

“Northwest of Stamford.” Therese frowned. “I admit I’m not familiar with the area.” She directed a questioning look at Devlin.

He shook his head. “I’ve ridden the fields while hunting, and I know the area this side of Stamford reasonably well, but I’ve rarely ventured to the other side.”

Therese shifted her bright gaze to Gray’s face. “Does the house have a name?”

He nodded. “Tickencote Grange.”

She sat back and looked at him, an odd expression on her face. After a moment, she asked, “Did you know that’s Isadora’s old home? The original seat of the Earls of Exton?”

Stunned, Gray stared at her. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “Remember I told you that the late earl had broken the entail and mortgaged the estate to the hilt, and after his death, the family were forced to sell the place?”

“I remember you telling me that,” Gray admitted, “but I had no idea the estate involved was Tickencote Grange.” He related what he’d learned from the publican.

Devlin nodded. “That sounds right. I remember hearing that a banker at the bank holding the late earl’s mortgage snapped the place up, possibly for less than it was truly worth.”

“Well, by the sounds of it,” Therese pointed out, “that didn’t do the banker any good, given he eventually sold the place, too.”

“And now it’s on the market again.” Gray frowned. After a moment, he looked at Devlin and Therese. “Do you have any feeling for how the current earl—Izzy’s brother—would react to me buying the grange?”

“I doubt he would care,” Therese replied. “By all accounts, his experiences with his father soured his affection for the place, and I understand he’s very happy at Lyndon Hall—the house his grandfather-in-law bought for him and his wife.”

Gray narrowed his eyes in thought. “That fits with what I’ve gleaned from Izzy and her family regarding her brother—that he’s happy where he is.”

Devlin concluded, “So from that direction, there’s no impediment to you purchasing the place.”

Not from that direction, but…Gray looked at Therese.

“Before you ask,” she promptly said, “I have absolutely no idea how Izzy would feel about you buying her old home. I can tell you she spent much more time there than Julius did, given he went away to school and university. Other than that”—she grimaced—“it’s a subject most of the ton have avoided discussing, especially with the Descartes ladies.”

Gray grimaced as well. “Understandable, I suppose.”

They had finished the meal and rose from the table.

He’d expected Therese to press him further regarding Izzy and was cravenly grateful when she refrained.

He paused in the hall. “I need to go. I arranged to leave the horse I hired at Uffington and Barnack station for the stable to pick up, and I don’t want to miss the train.”

Devlin clapped him on the shoulder.

Therese stretched up and pecked his cheek. “Good luck—with everything.” She caught his eye with such a meaningful look that he had to laugh.

Saluting her and Devlin, he left them for the stable, where he’d left the hired horse.

Soon, he was riding over the fields, on his way to the station.

He’d spent the ride to the priory reviewing everything he’d seen and felt about Tickencote Grange. He’d expected niggles of uncertainty to arise, but they hadn’t; if anything, by the time he’d reached the priory, he’d been even more convinced that house was the one he needed to own.

Now…he honestly didn’t know.

Yet his instincts remained insistent, and despite whatever had happened in the past, given how frequently his and Izzy’s attitudes aligned, he had to wonder if she didn’t, in her heart, still feel as he did about her old home.

That it was simply the right place to make his—or her—own.

Short of putting the question to her, there was no way he could tell.

Thinking of the house, he resolved to send a message to his man-of-business that evening, instructing him to arrange for a trusted builder-surveyor to examine the place.

For all he knew, with all that paneling, it had woodworm throughout.

First things first; he needed to know if the house was as sound as he thought it was. As solid a prospect as he believed.

If not…there was no reason to potentially cause Izzy pain by even mentioning the place.

At twenty minutes past five o’clock, Izzy stood, surrounded by The Crier’s staff and the others who had helped throughout the long day, and stared at the massive stacks of copies of The London Crier’sHue and Cryedition.

It was a staggering reality, with one hundred bound stacks of fifty copies each covering the typesetting table, the layout table, and fully half the counter, as well as on the floor, lining the inside of the counter.

She blew out a breath. “That’s it. We’re ready for distribution at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

Digby sent up a cheer, which was taken up by all the males, while Mary and Izzy shared a smiling glance.

There were several loose copies lying about. Donaldson had picked up one and had been leafing through it. “The more I look at this, the more I’m convinced that no one in London will be able to resist seeing who they recognize.”

Maguire smiled at Izzy. “It’s a truly sensational edition.”

She grinned. “Indeed.”

Baines, who had returned about an hour ago to see how things were going and had been promptly conscripted to help with the herculean task of folding five thousand copies, huffed. “I freely admit I’ve never seen the like, but the proof of the idea will be if it gets us any further with catching this murderer. Speaking of which”—he fixed his gaze on Littlejohn—“best make sure you have enough men tonight to have a few constables patrolling the street.” Baines looked pointedly at the stacked paper, then at the wide front window. “A bottle bomb thrown through that window will set all this alight in seconds, no matter who you have inside.”

Littlejohn sobered, as did those who’d volunteered to stay and guard the premises.

“I’ll send Blight here”—Littlejohn jerked his thumb at the young constable who had been there all day—“to the watchhouse to make sure they send us enough men.”

Baines nodded. “If you need to, draw from other watchhouses as well.” He looked at Izzy. “Perhaps mention that Winchelsea’s behind this?”

“By all means,” Izzy agreed.

Baines grinned at Littlejohn. “That’ll get us the men we need.”

Izzy looked at Lipson; he, his son, and Gerry planned to remain overnight inside the workshop, along with Littlejohn and at least one constable.

Tom Lipson caught Izzy’s eye. “Don’t worry, ma’am—we’ve got plenty of fire buckets. We’ll fill them and put them out all around once everyone leaves.”

Izzy smiled encouragingly, including Lipson Senior and Gerry in the gesture. “Thank you for agreeing to stay. I’ll be able to sleep, knowing you’re all here watching over the place.”

Not being able to sleep otherwise wasn’t entirely an exaggeration. It cost money to buy paper, ink, and coal, let alone pay the staff’s wages. Molyneaux Printing Works had a sizeable amount of capital sunk in the copies stacked about the workshop. If they lost those before they could be sold… That really didn’t bear thinking of.

With all done and settled, those who were leaving fetched coats and hats and filed out of the front door. Lipson confirmed for Izzy that the rear door was still locked; as far as she knew, other than for taking out the rubbish and fetching in coal, it hadn’t been unlocked since Quimby’s murder.

She was the last one out of the front door, and Lipson locked it from inside. She went down the steps behind Tom Corby, who, judging by his expression, had had a thoroughly enjoyable day. When, amused, she questioned that, he agreed, launching into a recitation of all he’d found strange and wonderful and eye-opening. While talking, he walked beside her rather than behind as was proper, but she refrained from pointing that out. He was an engaging lad, and she enjoyed his company, and that distracted her from dwelling on whom he’d replaced.

But once she was alone in the carriage, rolling through the streets to Norfolk Crescent, inevitably, her mind turned to Gray and how his house hunting had gone.

A house in the country. The vision that conjured was still painfully sharp and clear and took conscious effort to banish. She replaced it with an image of Lyndon Hall, where Julius now lived—the new seat of the earldom—and thought of how pleasant the country was around there.

She missed living in the country and always had. But…

Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Seeking to divert her thoughts, she wondered what Gray’s taste in houses was like. After traveling over half the world, he might be inclined to favor a modern home. She tried to imagine what such a place might be like, then set aside the point as being of no immediate moment.

With the façades of Oxford Street slipping past, she refocused on tomorrow and the release of the hue and cry edition. She wondered what the day would bring and how much closer to capturing the killer they might be by that time tomorrow.