The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 15
The following day was Sunday. Gray timed his arrival in Norfolk Crescent so that he could join the Descartes ladies before they left for church.
It had been after eight o’clock when their by-then-weary party had walked off the platform at London Bridge Station to be met by Drake, who Toby had arranged to be informed of Duvall’s capture. Drake had been accompanied by guards from the Tower, to whom Baines and Littlejohn, who were by then heartily sick of their determined-to-be-difficult prisoner, had handed Duvall.
Despite the hour, Drake had insisted on hearing their story, and Izzy had suggested they repair to the printing works to debrief. They’d piled into hackneys and had arrived in the mews to discover that, despite the hour, the Lipsons, Maguire, and Mary were still there, waiting for news.
Everyone had crammed into Izzy’s office, and their story had been told.
Thereafter, they’d dispersed, heading for their respective homes. Gray and Izzy had walked to Woburn Square and spent time glossing over what had happened and calming everyone before rattling on to Norfolk Crescent.
Gray had accepted Izzy’s invitation to share a late supper, which they had while describing their day to Sybil and Marietta, who had hung on their every word.
When Izzy had seen him to the door, neither he nor she had been in any condition to further address their personal situation. He’d suggested calling on her the next day, and she’d invited him for luncheon. After indulging in a kiss that had held both satisfaction and promise, he’d left for Jermyn Street.
That morning, he’d woken restless and impatient and, instead of waiting for midday, had decided to arrive at ten-thirty and escort the three ladies to Sunday service.
When Cottesloe opened the door to his knock, Gray saw he’d timed his arrival to perfection; all three ladies were in the front hall, tying on bonnets and pulling on gloves.
All three looked at him and smiled in delighted welcome, which was pleasing in and of itself.
After they’d exchanged greetings, he offered Sybil his arm, Izzy took the other, and with Marietta bringing up the rear, they descended to the Descartes carriage, which had drawn up to the curb.
The drive to Hanover Square had been filled with Marietta’s and Sybil’s questions regarding the likely upshot of Duvall’s arrest. Once at the church, Marietta took Sybil’s arm, leaving Gray to escort Izzy down the aisle in her mother and sister’s wake.
He sat at the end of the pew, beside Izzy, and let the familiar phrases of the service wash over him, almost, it seemed, in benediction.
No matter how far he’d roamed, this land of his birth, with all its traditions and curious ways, was the only place he’d ever felt that he belonged.
He’d returned intent on crafting a satisfying life for himself there, and all the building blocks bar one were in place, although that missing one was the most important, the foundation stone, and with respect to that, he had two hurdles yet to overcome.
At the end of the service, he escorted Izzy, Sybil, and Marietta onto the porch, and they dallied there, chatting with other members of the ton. This was the second Sunday on which he’d attended with the Descartes ladies, and every matron worth her salt had noticed and was intrigued.
His aunt Matcham had also noticed; she came sweeping up, curious and eager and wanting to know whatever there was to know, but suitably wary of treading on any toes.
Reading nothing but encouragement and approval in her comments, Gray seized the moment to mention, “I’m seriously considering throwing my hat in the ring at the next election.”
Lady Matcham’s eyes widened. She searched his face and confirmed he was serious. “Well! I must say I heartily approve.” Her gaze drifted to Izzy. “It could well be the making of you.”
“I don’t know about that, but I need something to occupy my time, and with my business interests well in hand, I’m inclined to see what I might achieve in that sphere.” He paused, then added, “Devlin and Therese seem to think it a sensible idea.”
His aunt studied him assessingly, then nodded. “Call on me sometime. I’m not without connections in that world, and I want to hear more of your ideas.”
Gray hadn’t known she had any interest in politics, but readily agreed.
Apparently satisfied, she took herself off, and he turned back to the ladies and discovered that Swan had joined them.
Izzy watched her mother’s face as Gray returned to her side. With Swan chatting to Marietta, and Gray so patently fixed beside Izzy, her mother didn’t know which way to look. She was bright-eyed and plainly thrilled at the prospect of marrying off both her daughters in such highly acceptable fashion.
After the years of drama and struggle, Izzy felt pleased on her mother’s behalf.
Lady Matcham, who had swanned off, returned in a rustling rush to whisper something into Izzy’s mother’s ear. As both older ladies’ gazes shifted to Izzy and Gray, she suspected she could guess the topic.
She pretended to be oblivious, but with Gray standing tall, strong, and so very much by her side, she couldn’t stop her heart from rising, buoyed on burgeoning hope.
This was how she’d expected to feel long ago, to live through a scene just like this with Gray beside her and her heart so light…
He bent his head and murmured, “Am I allowed to ask what has put that glorious look on your face?”
She turned her head and, from a distance of mere inches, smiled even more gloriously, letting her welling joy show. Studying his lovely amber eyes, she said, “Remember our earlier discussion about whether it was possible for us to pick up the reins of where we’d once been and forge onward?”
His expression grew intent. “Yes.”
“I believe we’ve accomplished that. Do you agree?”
His smile was all she’d hoped it would be. Between them, he closed his hand around hers and lightly squeezed. “I do. We’ve found our right path—the right path for us as we are now.”
The right path for us as we are now.
The words echoed in her heart, and she nodded.
“Isadora?” Her mother was waiting to catch Izzy’s eye. “I was just saying to Lord Swan that he should join us for luncheon.”
Izzy and Gray added their voices in support, and Swan readily agreed.
After farewelling those lingering on the church porch, the five made their way to the countess’s carriage and repaired to Norfolk Crescent.
Luncheon passed oh-so-pleasantly, in easy, undemanding fashion.
Afterward, while Sybil dutifully sat with Marietta and Swan in the drawing room, Izzy drew Gray into the back parlor.
She settled on the window seat and, once Gray had sat beside her, said, “Hennessy spoke to me while we were outside the telegraph station. It wasn’t the time for discussing business, but he wanted to let me know that once our adventures were over, he hoped to put a proposition to me. I suspect it’s something about working at The Crier and, possibly, more.” She met Gray’s eyes. “He thought it was something I would be interested in, especially if there was an ongoing relationship between you and me.”
“Regarding your identity, is he likely to be a threat going forward?”
“No. In fact, he said he didn’t care who I was, only that I was the owner of The Crier.”
“So what do you think he’s going to propose?”
“It might involve coming on board permanently and perhaps even taking a financial stake. For someone of his ilk, that’s not unheard of.”
“I imagine it isn’t. But how do you feel about such a prospect?”
She met his eyes and imagined and considered, then admitted, “Hennessy’s good—very good—and he’s experienced. He knows the business. If he wants to become a principal writer and also buy in to the enterprise, I’m willing to listen.”
Good. Gray didn’t say the word, but he was certain she read his approval in his eyes. He reached out and took her hand in his. “Whatever you settle on, I’ll support your decision. I know how important The Crier is to you.”
She smiled, and he squeezed her fingers.
He wanted to return to the question of what she would say if he proposed, but he hadn’t yet decided how to broach the subject of Tickencote Grange, much less how to confront what he saw as his final hurdle—namely, confessing that he, too, had once been addicted to gambling.
He needed a few more days to sort things out. Meanwhile…
He lifted her hand over his thigh and cradled it between both of his. “We’re both older, more experienced, and wiser now, and it seems to me that each of us have come to one of those points in life when one’s road turns a corner. Looking ahead, you’re going to have to find some way of continuing to conceal your identity in the face of the increased attention the story of Quimby’s murder and Duvall’s treason will bring.”
“Stepping behind Hennessy will help.”
Smiling, he dipped his head. “True. Meanwhile, I have to finalize the necessary details and take the first steps toward the life I want going forward, namely becoming a member of Parliament.”
He met her emerald eyes. “I’m hoping the road beyond each of our corners is one we can share—that once we round our separate corners, we’ll find ourselves on the same road.”
Izzy had wondered… She drew in a deeper breath and asked, “Assuming we find ourselves walking that same road, you don’t see me continuing as the owner of The Crier as being”—she waved her free hand—“too difficult to manage?”
His gaze remained steady. “Would you be happy without The Crier and everyone there in your life?”
“No.” She studied his face. “I wouldn’t want to walk away from what I’ve created. I would prefer to work with Hennessy and develop the business further.”
He nodded. “I can understand that—appreciate and even approve of that.”
She turned her hand between his and returned the pressure of his fingers. “What I wish for most of all is for you and me to work together and see what we can weave from the separate strands of our adult lives—the lives we now have.”
He smiled, raised her hand, and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “We’re both the determined sort. Together, we’ll knit our lives into a single, strong, cohesive whole.”
The door opened, and Marietta looked in. “There you are!” She came through the door, with Swan trailing behind her.
Izzy quashed a spurt of irritation; her sister was so pleased with herself and Swan, it was hard to be annoyed, but she had hoped for at least one kiss…
Glancing sidelong at Gray, judging by the slight tightening of his lips, he had, too.
Marietta and Swan sat, and the four of them chatted about Swan’s involvement with the committee organizing the schedule for the upcoming opera season, a position he was justifiably thrilled to hold.
Knowing Gray’s aversion to all forms of ton musical events, Izzy hid a grin at his artfulness in avoiding advertising his prejudice while endeavoring to encourage Swan.
All too soon, it was time for Gray and Swan to be on their way.
Izzy and Marietta escorted the gentlemen to the front hall.
After Gray had shrugged on his greatcoat and accepted his hat from Cottesloe, Izzy felt compelled to ask, “Will I see you tomorrow?”
It was damning to realize just how let down she would feel if he didn’t appear.
But he smiled a warm, almost-intimate smile and stated, “Nothing could keep me away. Aside from all else, I’ve a vested interest in learning what Hennessy has to say.” He paused as if consulting a mental diary, then said, “I won’t turn up for breakfast, but I’ll drop by the printing works in the morning to see how matters are shaping up.”
She nodded and led him to the door. Holding it open, she met his eyes and smiled. “I’ll see you then.”
The following morning, Izzy turned the corner into the mews a good five minutes before eight o’clock and discovered Donaldson and Digby leaning against the printing works’ door. They spotted her approaching and straightened, enthusiasm lighting their faces.
They greeted her and stepped aside to allow her to unlock the door.
“We’re keen to see what we captured on Saturday,” Donaldson said.
She laughed. “So I see.”
She led the way inside, smiling even more broadly as, delaying only long enough to hang their coats and mufflers on the pegs, the pair made a beeline for the darkroom.
“We’ll bring you the prints as soon as we have them,” Donaldson called, then pushed through the door.
She paused and watched Digby flip the sign to Occupied before following and closing the door.
Smiling, she continued to her desk and scribbled a note to get a formal agreement with Donaldson drawn up and signed. “And I must remember to give him the key to the rear door.”
She sat at her desk, opened the side drawer, hunted, and found the key Littlejohn had returned. After setting the key on one side of the desk, she retrieved her pencil and jotted a further reminder to speak to Lipson about hiring a new printer’s devil and formally promoting Digby to photographer’s assistant. He’d proved invaluable on Saturday, helping Donaldson with the tripod and the rest of his paraphernalia. Besides, Digby had a passion, and she knew how far passion could propel one.
Within minutes, the rest of the staff were coming through the main door, and she rose and went to greet them. They gathered around, and for those who hadn’t heard, she duly reported on all that had happened, skating over her role and ending with a commendation to them all for their sterling efforts in getting out the hue and cry edition, which was the essential catalyst for all that had followed.
Although the Lipsons and Maguires had already heard the tale, they’d remained to share the wonder with the others. On hearing of the explosion, Gerry and Jim went wide-eyed, and the news that Donaldson might have got a photograph of the moment caused everyone to look longingly at the closed darkroom door.
Then Lipson said, “And now we’ve got an even bigger edition to put out, one reporting on the outcome of the hue and cry. Everyone in London’s going to want a copy of that—a real-life drama they’ve watched unfold.”
Everyone agreed, and soon, the workshop was humming with the usual Monday sounds of getting the press, the boiler, the formes, and the boxes of type ready to set and print the week’s edition.
As she retreated to her office, Izzy considered Lipson’s words. He was right; this edition would trump even the hue and cry in sales, and in truth, the story—even her edited verbal version of it—contained all the right ingredients to capture imaginations.
For once, however, it was not up to her to write the piece. As she sat again behind her desk, she owned to rampant curiosity over what Hennessy would produce. Meanwhile, she settled to craft an introduction that would permanently turn readers’ minds from the hopefully forgotten exposé to the murder and the quest to identify and catch a killer.
It was stirring stuff, and she enjoyed the challenge. On reaching the end of the short piece designed to lead in to Hennessy’s article, she sat back and read it through.
She frowned and laid down the sheet. “Damn it—I’ll need to check with Drake.”
How much would he and his masters allow to be said about the plot?
“On the other hand,” she mused, eyes narrowing in thought, “this could be very neatly exploited to ensure no similar action against the telegraph occurs again. A spiking of the ultimate villains’ guns, as it were.”
She pondered that until the bell over the main door tinkled. She rose and went to see who had arrived.
Halting in the doorway, she watched as Hennessy glanced around the workshop and cordially nodded to those who looked his way. As she’d mentioned that he was writing the lead article to run in this week’s edition, all the staff were curious about him.
When his gaze reached her, she nodded in welcome and beckoned. “Come in and let me see what you have.”
He grinned and, as she retreated behind her desk again, came into the office.
She directed him to the chair facing her. As he sat, she said, “First things first. I’ve just realized that we’ll need to check with Winchelsea regarding what details we include in any piece.”
Hennessy grimaced expressively and reluctantly nodded. “But you’re not going to hold the story?”
“Good God, no! I’m prepared to gloss over any details that might be sensitive, but we’re going to run enough to satisfy the most avid reader.”
He grinned. “Excellent. You’re a lady after my own heart.” He drew out several sheets and handed them across the desk. “This is what I’ve got so far. Still in draft—see what you think.”
Already reading, she held out the single sheet of her introduction. “This is such a departure from a normal edition, we’ll need an introduction to your report.”
He took the proffered sheet and read, while she pored over his longer article.
Then they proceeded to confirm every fact and every paragraph they thought should be in there, while she noted in the margins which points were, in their view, essential and which were details they could, if necessary, condense or skip over.
A tap on the door frame had them looking across to see Donaldson and Digby with prints in their hands and beaming smiles on their faces. “We thought you should see these immediately,” Donaldson said.
At her wave, the pair hurried in. She cleared a portion of her desk, and Donaldson carefully laid out the prints. Hennessy rose and came to stand on her other side and peer over her shoulder as Donaldson proudly pointed to the first print. “This is the shot I hoped to get—it’s an utter fluke. The briefcase exploding above the roof of the telegraph station.”
It was, indeed, a remarkable photograph, sharp enough that they could make out the tiles on the roof. Given the relatively dull light, the explosion stood out clearly against the canopies of the trees on the other side of the street.
After scrutinizing the print, Izzy glanced at Hennessy. “I say we put that on the front page, under a headline saying something like ‘Attack on the Dover Telegraph Station Foiled.’”
“‘Foreign Attack,’” Hennessy corrected. “No sense not playing to our deeply entrenched patriotism.”
“Indeed,” she agreed.
They continued examining and selecting prints to match the written article. Over the years, both she and also Digby had developed a good sense of what photographs reproduced best on the printed page.
Another tap on the door frame heralded Lipson and Maguire.
Lipson was wiping his hands on an oily rag. “We wondered if we could see.” Grinning, he tipped his head toward the workshop. “We’re all eaten up with curiosity.”
Izzy saw Donaldson and Digby looking at Lipson’s hands, and Maguire’s were obviously ink-stained. She pushed back from the desk. “Why don’t we lay out the photographs on the counter? Then everyone can see without touching, and Hennessy and I can point out which we think will fit best with the article, and we can discuss and make our final selections.”
That satisfied everyone. Donaldson and Digby ferried the precious prints to the counter and laid them along it, while the rest of the staff hurriedly gathered around. Everyone exclaimed over Donaldson’s fluke, and its position on the front page was supported by all.
After everyone had looked their fill, Izzy and Hennessy explained which prints they felt would best illustrate the main article.
“I’ll need to write a closing piece.” Izzy caught Hennessy’s eye. “To report the ultimate outcome with Duvall, at least as far as we know it by Wednesday.”
Hennessy asked about their deadlines.
Lipson and Maguire explained their preferences, and Hennessy promised to have his lead article in by the end of the day on Tuesday.
Then everyone returned to staring at the photographs, and the male staff asked about the army company, and Mary wanted to know about the little girl and her mother.
The lively exchange abruptly cut off as the door opened and everyone looked, but it was only Gray who, with a smile and a nod to everyone, entered. He saw the prints on the counter as he drew near. “What’s got you all in such fine fettle?”
Izzy grinned and allowed Hennessy, Donaldson, and Digby, ably assisted by the rest of the staff, to explain how they proposed to use the quite amazing collection of photographs.
Gray was duly impressed and said so.
Then Maguire told Digby, “We’ll need those prints blocked up.”
“I’d like to learn the process,” Donaldson said, and everyone dispersed to return to their chores.
With Hennessy and Gray, Izzy retreated to the office. She returned to her chair while Gray made for his usual seat. Izzy signaled Hennessy, the last through the door, to shut it. As he came to take the other chair before the desk, she fixed her gaze on Gray. “We realized we need to speak with Drake before we set anything in type. Can you arrange a meeting?”
Gray’s brows rose, but then his expression cleared, and he nodded. “Yes, of course.” He sat up and gestured. “Give me a piece of paper and a pen, and I’ll write a note now.”
He proceeded to do so. Signing, folding, then addressing the missive, he said, “I’m sending it to Wolverstone House and putting Louisa’s name on it as well. If Drake’s not there, she’ll read it and get it to him, wherever he may be.”
Izzy nodded. “Good thinking.” She held out a hand for the note and, when Gray gave it to her, rose and took it out for Lipson to arrange delivery.
When she returned, she found Hennessy waiting to catch her eye. “There’s not much more you and I can do until we get the go-ahead from Winchelsea. While we wait, I was wondering if now might not be a good time to discuss that proposition I mentioned on Saturday.”
Understanding he was asking if he could speak in front of Gray, she shut the door and returned to her chair. “That’s an excellent idea.” She tipped her head toward Gray. “It will help if his lordship can hear your proposal directly as well.”
Hennessy had clearly been expecting that answer. “Right, then. It’s like this. I’m well established in my current place, as lead writer for The Courier. But I’ve been there for nigh on eight years now, and frankly, the work’s grown a bit stale. I’ve been casting about for something more.” He looked at them both. “For the next challenge, if you take my meaning.”
Izzy and Gray assured him they understood the sentiment perfectly.
Heartened, Hennessy went on, “You see, there’s a big difference in writing for a daily and writing for a weekly. Even just over the past few days, I’ve seen and heard with my own eyes and ears that you, here at The Crier, have a very different outlook and aim to what I’ve grown used to at The Courier and even before that. I’ve worked dailies all my writing life.” He paused as if marshaling his thoughts.
Izzy and Gray waited patiently.
Eventually, Hennessy continued, “Writing for a daily is all about grabbing the readers’ attention with something sensational and lurid, day after day. That means you move on every day to the latest incident, and everything you write, almost by definition, remains superficial. You point out something, but you never have time to poke and pry. Writing for a daily, you never have the luxury of exploring a subject in any sort of depth. You report on what happened that day and move on.”
He looked at Izzy. “I’ve read what you write, and you’re a good storyteller. You have the knack. But if you don’t mind an old hand telling you what’s what, I think you could put your talents to even better use—and do a lot more good—if you aimed that pen of yours at some subject more serious than the social round. I’m not saying society reporting doesn’t sell papers—it does—but there’s no reason to limit yourself to that. You could do both—as you did with that Foundling House article, only in greater depth.”
Hennessy drew breath and barreled on, “Which brings us to the here and now. With the attention garnered by the hue and cry edition and, even more, what this week’s edition will generate with the news of us tracking and capturing Duvall and his arrest for murder and treasonous mayhem, The Crier will have a much higher profile—at least for a little while.” He held Izzy’s gaze. “The question you need to consider is, having captured the attention of the masses, how are you going to keep it?”
Izzy studied his dogged expression. “I’ve a feeling your proposition will go some way toward answering that.”
Hennessy grinned. “Yes, well, that is my intention.” He glanced at Gray, then looked back at her. “So here it is, then. I’ve got a good bit put by. I never married, and I’ve no one to leave it to. If you’re willing, I’d like to buy into The Crier. Along with you, I’d become one of its two senior writers.” He tilted his head toward the workshop. “You have the makings of an excellent crew, and Donaldson’s taken the entire enterprise up a notch, as we’ve just seen. Using his talents in conjunction with mine and yours… I’m thinking that, every week, alongside the social column, we could run a piece examining”—he waved—“something of real interest to the wider public.”
She arched her brows. “Such as?”
He’d come prepared. “How about the Crystal Palace—where it is now, what is going to be done with it—and at the same time examine some of the benefits the nation got through running the exhibition. I’m sure a lot of captains of industry would like to get a mention, especially given The Crier’s new prominence, and would give us their inside stories and also allow us to take photographs.”
Gray stirred and sat up. “If I might make a suggestion, there’s the new chamber of the House of Commons. You could interview the architect about how it’s all been done and use that to see if you can get Donaldson inside.”
Izzy sat straighter. “That would be a coup.”
“We’d still cover some crimes,” Hennessy said. “I’ll still have my snouts, but we could choose which crimes to showcase and go deeper than the surface reporting the dailies do.” Eagerly, he met her eyes. “We might even convince some of Baines’s colleagues to work with us—to use us as a mouthpiece sometimes, as with the hue and cry edition.”
She nodded in agreement and encouragement.
“Most of all,” Hennessy went on, “I think you need to seize the opportunity afforded by what happened with Quimby and Duvall to create a solid base for The Crier to leverage upward from. Winchelsea would never have learned what Duvall was up to if it hadn’t been for The Crier asking readers for help. That’s new—it’s something no other paper has done, not in such an open and definite way. And most importantly of all, The Crier delivered the goods. If the story’s treated in the right way, the public will lap it up and stay engaged.”
She smiled. “I can see that.” She studied Hennessy for several seconds, then sat forward and clasped her hands on the desk. “Obviously, we’ll have to work out the details, but in principle, I’m in favor of your proposal. However, becoming a partner and senior writer here would mean being exclusive to The Crier. You’d have to walk away from your position with The London Courier. Are you prepared to do that?”
Hennessy drew in a deep breath and nodded decisively. “It’s time for me to move on to the next thing. You can’t live your life standing still.”
How true. “No, you can’t.” She discovered her mind was already made up. “Think about how much you’re willing to commit financially to The Crier, and meanwhile, I’ll work out what seems fair to me, and we can meet here tomorrow morning and see if we can devise a mutually satisfactory arrangement.”
Hennessy’s smile was as bright as her own. “Excellent.”
“But”—she pinned him with a warning look—“our agreement regarding the article for this week’s edition stands.”
He chuckled and rose. “You’ll get no argument from me about that. Now I’ve seen Donaldson’s work, my piece will run better in The Crier than anywhere else.”
The door cracked open, and Mary looked in. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but you have visitors.” Breathlessly, she confided, “The Marquess and Marchioness of Winchelsea.”
Mary stood back, and Louisa swept in, followed by Drake.
Already on his feet, Hennessy stepped around the desk and put his back to the wall—possibly in the hope of making himself invisible.
Louisa smiled brightly at him.
Izzy quickly intervened by standing and saying, “How delightful to see you, Louisa.”
After directing brief nods and pained looks at Izzy and Gray, Drake diverted to fetch one of the chairs from near the window.
Izzy extended her hand across the desk to Louisa, and they clasped fingers.
“Welcome to the home of The London Crier.” Izzy gestured at Hennessy. “This is Mr. Hennessy, who will be writing the lead article.” She waited while Hennessy bowed and received a gracious if curiosity-laden nod from Louisa, then waved Louisa to the vacant armchair. “Please—do sit.”
Gray had, of course, come to his feet. He nodded in greeting. “Louisa.”
Drake set a chair beside his wife’s, and as both ladies subsided, he and Gray sat.
Izzy promptly took charge. “Now we have the preliminaries out of the way”—she looked inquiringly at Drake—“have you learned anything more from Duvall?”
Drake smiled the smile of a satisfied predator. “I spent most of yesterday interrogating him. He confirmed what we’d surmised about his mission regarding the Dover telegraph station and also divulged that he’d been working for Monsieur Roccard for the past eighteen months in various relatively minor ways. Destroying the cross-Channel telegraph was his first major mission.” His gaze flicking from Izzy to Hennessy, Drake paused, then, as if accepting their right to know, went on, “Even better, Duvall has agreed to trade his testimony implicating Monsieur Roccard and the criminal fraternities he represents for leniency in sentencing, which will amount to transportation rather than hanging.”
“So you have Roccard?” Gray asked.
Drake’s smile grew almost blissful. “We have.” After a second, he explained, “Others have been pursuing Roccard for some time—the Home Office, the Foreign Office, even the Board of Trade. But while they’ve suspected the man for several years, they’ve never found anyone—at least, not anyone alive—willing to testify against him, and as he’s a Belgian national, their hands have been tied. Duvall’s testimony has solved their problem, and I believe Roccard’s already gracing a cell in the Tower.”
Seeing how deeply pleased Drake was, Izzy decided the time to strike was now. “The reason we requested this meeting was to run past you what we wish to print in this week’s edition.” Concisely, she outlined the points she and Hennessy had agreed should be in the lead article, detailing the findings identifying Duvall as Quimby’s killer, the motive behind Duvall’s action, and consequently, Duvall’s attempt to carry out his mission and demolish the telegraph station at Dover, all to further the ends of foreign criminals.
Drake grew palpably cooler as Izzy’s points progressed. By the time she reached the triumphant end, his features had set. When she lowered the draft article and arched her brows at him, he said, “I have no quibble over publishing the details regarding the murder and Duvall’s actions connected to that. However, I do not believe it will be in the nation’s best interests for the source of his motive—namely, the involvement of a foreign gentleman acting on behalf of Continental crime families and their wish to sabotage the international telegraph links—to be made public.”
She’d expected as much and was prepared to argue her case. “Drake, there is no way to keep the attack on the Dover telegraph station from the public. Even if we don’t mention it, news of the explosion will seep out. Given that, I would have thought it would serve the nation best to use the incident to swing public sentiment behind the need for governments and—most pertinently—police forces on either side of the Channel to be able to swiftly communicate.”
Hennessy offered, “And surely the best way to ensure it doesn’t happen again would be to lay it all out and explain how dastardly foreign criminals had tried to attack a prime example of British inventiveness because it threatened their schemes—schemes that swindle money from the British public.”
Louisa had been unusually silent. Now, in the tone of one who had seen the light, she brightly said, “Ah—of course! If you explain the criminals’ ploy to hoodwink the public into imagining there was something dangerous about the telegraph—inflaming the public to act against their own best interests—that will render such an approach unusable in the future, because the public will be wise to manipulation of that ilk.”
She looked encouragingly at Drake.
“Exactly!” Izzy stated. “Explaining this incident to the public will alert them to the fact that there are foreign forces who behave like this, and that will put them on guard against such schemes in the future.”
“We could,” Hennessy suggested, “stress that—make it clear in a simple, easy to understand way.”
Louisa nodded. “The phrasing would be key.”
Hiding his amusement, Gray watched as Izzy and Louisa, aided by Hennessy, set about swaying a nobleman not given to being easily swayed.
Drake’s position reflected the commonly held view among those who ruled that the less the general population knew of such attacks, especially from foreign sources, the better. But times were changing; Gray suspected the increasing reach of newspapers was going to force a significant shift in such attitudes.
Izzy, Hennessy, and Louisa made an eloquent case, leaving Drake clearly uncertain, something Gray suspected Drake rarely was.
Nevertheless, Gray was surprised when Drake turned to him and asked, “You’ve sat there listening to all sides of the argument. How do you see this? Are they”—he waved at Hennessy, Izzy, and Louisa—“correct in predicting how the public will react?”
Gray nodded. “I believe they are. Times have changed and are still changing, and taking the population with you by allowing them sufficient information to understand what’s been going on will serve the nation better than clinging to the outmoded notion of keeping everyone in the dark. That might have worked in times past. It will not work in the future.”
Drake regarded Gray for half a minute, then grunted. “Can I second the push for you to stand for a seat in the Commons?” Then he turned his dark gaze on Izzy and nodded. “Very well. Explain the lot.”
Izzy and Hennessy were patently thrilled.
“But”—Drake held up a finger—“only if I get to see the articles before they’re typeset.”
Izzy assured him they would abide by that caveat.
Drake nodded, reached for Louisa’s hand, and drew her to her feet, bringing Gray and Izzy to theirs. “We must get on. I’ve several people I still need to report to regarding Duvall, Roccard, and the incident in Dover.”
With Izzy, Gray accompanied Drake and Louisa to the front door, with Louisa plainly intrigued by the fact that Gray was there. After seeing the pair out, Gray trailed an energized Izzy back to the office, noting the buzz of activity throughout the workshop as the staff prepared for the coming week.
He entered the office to find Izzy seated at her desk and Hennessy in the chair Louisa had vacated. Both were focused on the draft of the lead article, going over it line by line and adding snippets, polishing others—making the piece shine.
Izzy glanced at him. “Can you ask Donaldson, Digby, and Maguire to come in? And we’ll need the selected photographs, too.”
Gray smiled, swung around, and ambled into the workshop. He didn’t mind being a messenger boy; it was part and parcel of being a member of the team at The Crier. That team had only grown stronger in the aftermath of Quimby’s murder and looked set to go on to greater things. Strength built through adversity; this was surely an example of that.
He delivered his message, then strolled back through the workshop, amazed at feeling so much at home in a world that, until ten days ago, he’d known nothing about.
Smiling to himself, he halted in the foyer. The more he rubbed shoulders with those who hadn’t been born to the privileges he had, the more clearly he understood the needs of the populace as a whole. The Crier would help him with that.
Feeling compelled to make some contribution to the pervasive sense of expectation and impending triumph welling throughout the printing works, he looked into the office and announced, “I’m going out to fetch lunch for everyone.” He grinned at the eager looks. “In celebration.”
Everyone laughed and urged him on, and with a smile on his face, he turned and went.