The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens

Chapter 2

After relighting the lamps on her desk, Gray settled her in the armchair he’d previously occupied. When she stared mutely at her bloody palm, he fished out his handkerchief. “Here. Wipe it with this.”

With a wooden nod, she took the linen square.

He recognized shock when he saw it. He didn’t want to leave her, but the police had to be informed. “Where are your keys?”

She blinked up at him.

“I want to lock you safely inside while I go and fetch the police.”

Without a word, she hunted in her reticule, drew out a set of keys, and handed them over.

Suppressing his concern—meek wasn’t a label he’d ever thought of applying to her—he quit The Crier’s offices, locked the door, and strode quickly to Bernard Street. With no convenient policeman in sight, he walked the short distance to Woburn Place. The major thoroughfare still buzzed with evening traffic, and as he’d hoped, a bobby was idly pacing its pavement.

Gray hailed the fellow and, in a few short sentences, explained that a man had been found dead, stabbed, in the offices of The Crier on Woburn Mews and unblushingly used his title to demand the attendance of an inspector from Scotland Yard.

Having been back in the country for only three months, he wasn’t sure how the police force currently operated, but the bobby accepted his demand for a denizen of Scotland Yard without argument.

The excited constable left hotfoot to report to his local station, and Gray returned to The Crier’s offices.

He arrived to find Izzy sitting exactly as he’d left her, staring down at her now mostly clean palm, his stained handkerchief crumpled in her other fist. She hadn’t even looked up at the jingling of the bell above the door. He’d hoped she would have eased out of her shock; seeing her as she was bothered him on some fundamental level.

He walked into the office and halted beside her, but she didn’t lift her head. Reaching down, he eased the stained linen from her fingers, then tucked the crumpled ball into his greatcoat pocket.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The response was automatic—ingrained good manners.

He thought, then asked, “Is there somewhere the staff make tea?”

Strong tea was the standard prescription for ladies under stress.

She raised her gaze to his face, then waved vaguely toward the workshop’s rear. “Go past this side of the press, all the way back to the rear wall. There’s a bench, a sink, a small stove, and tea things there.”

He returned to the foyer, turned up the lamp on the counter to full, then went hunting and discovered all he needed. He filled the tin kettle, boiled the water, then poured it into the plain brown teapot, over a large quantity of leaves.

While he waited for the tea to steep, he looked around. To his right, close to the water supply, was the coal-fed boiler that generated the steam that apparently drove a wide belt connected to the printing press.

He glanced the other way and noticed a door set into the rear wall, not far from the open doorway of what was plainly a storage room. On impulse, he wandered across and tried the door. It opened easily and silently.

Stunned, he looked out across a narrow lane. He stepped into the doorway and glanced about; he could see up and down the lane, to Bernard Street at the southern end and to some other street to the north.

He closed the door and stared at the handle. After a moment, lips compressed, he returned to the tea, poured a cup, then hunted and found a canister of sugar and a bottle with milk still fresh enough to drink and doctored the cup. Milky and sweet was recommended for shock.

He noticed a clean rag and dampened it with warm water, then carried the cup and rag to the office.

“Here.” He offered Izzy the cup. “Drink up—it’ll make you feel better.”

She accepted the cup and saucer and took a tentative sip, then a bigger one. “Thank you.” Her voice was low and hoarse, as if she were holding herself together via sheer will alone.

He was cravenly grateful she was making the effort; emotional females—especially those of his class—made him nervous.

He reached for the other armchair, angled it beside hers, and sat. “Give me your hand.” Judging by the way she held the saucer, the sensation of dried blood on her skin was bothering her.

She balanced the cup and saucer on the chair’s arm and extended her hand, delicate and pale with the long, slender fingers he remembered.

Cradling her hand, palm up, in his left hand, he ignored the sensation of her skin against his and gently wiped the last traces of blood from her palm and fingers.

There was a spot of blood on the very edge of her coat sleeve. Deciding that her maid would know better than he how to remove it, he left the spot untouched.

Once he was satisfied her skin was clean, he straightened and released her hand, unnerved to discover that he had to force himself to do so.

She cleared her throat, whispered, “Thank you,” and resumed sipping her tea.

He rose, took the pink-stained rag back to the sink, rinsed it clean, and returned to the office, wondering when the police would arrive.

He settled in the armchair beside her. She’d unbuttoned her coat; he hoped she was recovering her customary poise. He glanced at her face and was unsurprised to see a frown haunting her eyes. “I checked the rear door and found it open. Should it have been locked?”

She grimaced. “Quimby has—had—a key to that door and usually came in that way. He didn’t work regular hours. He traveled about the city, searching out scenes to photograph for The Crier and his other clients. Neither I nor the staff could be sure when he would be here, hence the absolute adherence to the darkroom sign. If it was set to Occupied, he was in there, working. As for the rear door, he was supposed to lock it if he was the only one still working, but I suspect he often didn’t.”

“Other clients. So Quimby wasn’t an employee solely of The Crier?”

“He wasn’t an employee at all. He and I had an arrangement. He needed a darkroom and didn’t have one, and The Crier had one, but no photographer. So we struck a deal—Quimby got unfettered use of our darkroom in return for supplying three photographs of scenes about London for us to run in each week’s edition.” She paused, then added, “He provided his own supplies and stored most of his equipment and what have you here.”

A hammering on the front door made her jerk.

She set her empty cup on the desk, and he rose. “I’ll see who it is.”

He strode across the foyer, opened the door, and hurriedly stepped back as three constables barreled in.

“Where is it?” the first belligerently demanded. With a ruddy face and thinning greasy hair, he appeared to be the oldest, carrying a paunch and the attitude of being in charge.

He looked around wildly, then swung to Gray. “The dead body!” he barked. Then he actually looked at whom he was confronting, swallowed, and more temperately added, “Sir.”

With the faintest of cold smiles, Gray replied, “It’s ‘my lord.’” He rarely used his title, but in such circumstances… “And you are?”

The man stiffened into a semblance of attention. “Senior Constable Perkins, m’lord, from the Guildford Street watchhouse.”

“I specifically asked that an inspector from Scotland Yard be summoned.”

Perkins and his compatriots nodded.

“Indeed, my lord,” one of the others responded. “A message has been dispatched.”

“But see, we can’t tell how long it might be before an inspector gets here.” Perkins thrust out his chest. “So we’re here to see what’s what.”

Perkins’s gaze deflected toward the office. Gray glanced that way and saw Izzy standing in the doorway, pale as a ghost and all but wringing her hands.

“In that case,” Gray stated, “you’ll find the dead photographer in the darkroom.”

All three constables peered uncertainly down the long workshop.

Surreptitiously, Gray signaled to Izzy to retreat into the office, then stepped forward. “Come—I’ll show you.”

The three started to follow, then Perkins paused and hissed at one of his juniors, “Stay by the door and make sure no one leaves.”

By “no one,” Perkins meant Izzy. Gray wondered how difficult the man was going to be.

Gray picked up the lamp on the end of the counter and, raising it, carried it with him, dispelling the shadows as he led Perkins and his remaining junior to the darkroom door.

Nearing the door, he pointed to the Occupied sign. “That was what attracted our attention as we were about to leave for the day. It indicated that Mr. Quimby, the photographer, was inside. We knocked and called, and when we couldn’t raise him, we went in and found him dead.”

Gray halted before the darkroom door. “The only light in there is from a special red-shielded lamp. If you like, I’ll hold this lamp in the doorway so you can more easily see.”

Perkins nodded agreement, and Gray stepped to the side. Perkins opened the door and stared into the room.

Gray held the lamp high and waited.

He’d expected both constables to go inside and look around, but after staring at the dead man for a full minute, Perkins huffed and backed away. “He looks dead as dead.”

“He is,” Gray confirmed. “I checked. He’s definitely dead.”

“Well, then.” Perkins retreated another step. Distinctly pale, he gave a jerky nod and turned away. “Nothing we can do until the inspector gets here. Best leave the scene undisturbed.”

Relieved, Gray closed the darkroom door and trailed the two constables back to the foyer.

“Right, then.” Perkins tugged his belt higher on his paunch. He’d recovered his color along with his attitude. “Until Scotland Yard get here, I’m in charge. So”—he turned his beady eyes on Gray—“if you would, sir—my lord—who was it found the body?”

“Mrs. Molyneaux and myself. We were about to leave when Mrs. Molyneaux noticed the Occupied sign on the darkroom door, and we went to check on Quimby.”

“Well, then, sir—my lord.” Perkins looked toward the office. “Perhaps we’d better join the lady and get the formalities out of the way.”

Gray inclined his head in acquiescence and led the way.

Izzy had returned to the armchair, and he sat in the chair alongside her.

Instead of fetching a chair for himself, with his feet planted wide, Perkins took up an aggressive stance before them and dragged a dog-eared notebook from his pocket. He licked his finger and turned several pages, then pulled out a pencil and fixed his gimlet gaze on Gray. “Right, then, my lord. And you are?”

It seemed that, knowing he would be relegated to less exciting duties the instant the Scotland Yard inspector arrived, Perkins was intent on stealing whatever limelight was to be had before his more exalted colleague arrived.

Unimpressed, Gray replied, “My name is Lord Grayson Child. My father is the Duke of Ancaster.”

Perkins’s pencil stalled on the second piece of information, but then he scribbled something down and, eyes narrowing, shifted his gaze to Izzy.

“And this,” Gray smoothly continued, “is Mrs. I. Molyneaux, proprietor of The London Crier.”

“Heh?” Perkins looked confused. “You…own this place, ma’am?”

Izzy nodded. “I do.”

Perkins’s gaze darted between Gray and Izzy; Gray suspected the man was leaping to unwarranted if predictable conclusions. Faced with Gray’s impassive stare, Perkins cleared his throat and consulted his notebook. “And when did you arrive here, my lord?”

“At a minute or so after five o’clock. I heard the bells tolling as I approached and saw a group of staff leaving. I arrived and met with Mrs. Molyneaux in this office.”

Gray felt Izzy’s gaze on the side of his face. She’d picked up his selective retelling and was wondering at his reasons.

“So”—Perkins continued scribbling—“you came in at five. Was anyone else here?”

Gray replayed what he remembered of those moments in the foyer, but his attention had been locked exclusively on Izzy. “I honestly can’t say if anyone was lingering in the workshop. The lamp out there was turned low. I turned it up later, while we were waiting for the police to arrive. Mrs. Molyneaux came to the office doorway, greeted me, and we came in here and sat.” Gray waved at the desk. “We had business to discuss.”

From the corner of his eye, Gray saw Izzy glance at the papers on her desk. She still appeared dazed, very far from her usual, rapier-witted self. Protectiveness welled, too definite and determined for him to quell.

Perkins directed a piggy-eyed, almost-malevolent look Izzy’s way. “Right, then, Mrs. Molyneaux.” Perkins stumbled over the pronunciation. “Your husband about?”

Izzy raised her gaze to Perkins’s face and baldly stated, “I’m a widow.”

“Ah—I see.” Perkins’s tone suggested he saw something else entirely. “And you manage the newspaper?” Incredulity rang in his tone. He might as well have sneered Pull the other one.

“I own the paper, Constable.” A touch of steel had crept into her tone. Gray was relieved to see her emerald gaze sharpen on the hapless Perkins.

“So who manages the place?”

“I do.”

Perkins’s eyes narrowed to muddy shards. “So it was you hired the photographer chap?”

“I arranged for his services, yes.” She opened her lips to say more, then thought better of it. It seemed she’d taken Perkins’s measure and didn’t like what she saw any more than Gray did.

“His name?” Perkins demanded.

“He is—was—Mr. Horace Quimby.”

“And how long’s he been working for you?”

“For over two years.” She thought, then amended, “Nearly three.”

“Address?”

She frowned, then rubbed her forehead—another sign Gray remembered, indicating difficulty recalling something. “He has lodgings not far away…” Her face cleared. “Winchester Street in Pentonville. Number twelve.”

Perkins scribbled away. “And he was often here, in that room—the darkroom—at that hour of the evening?”

“He often came in about five o’clock, around the time the others leave. It was his habit to develop the negatives he’d exposed that day and hang them to dry overnight, then come in the next day and see what they looked like and print any he thought were good enough to satisfy me or his other clients.”

“Other clients?”

“I don’t know them all, but several other newspapers took photographs from Quimby. He was widely known.”

“And how did you feel about that, heh?”

Ignoring the suggestion in Perkins’s tone, she replied, “Our arrangement wasn’t exclusive. He was free to sell photographs to whomever he chose, as long as The Crier had the rights to publish the three photographs we include in each edition.”

Perkins didn’t bother writing that down. “Did you know he would be in today?”

“No, but that wasn’t unusual. He doesn’t—didn’t—come by the office. He had a key to the rear door and always came in that way and went straight to the darkroom, shut himself in, and got to work.” She blinked several times, as if using the past tense had brought Quimby’s passing home.

“So how did you and his lordship here come to go into the darkroom and find him?”

“As I said, when he came in late in the day, he developed his negatives and left them to dry. That normally took him about half an hour, and he would leave as he’d come in—via the rear door. But it was six o’clock when we”—she tipped her head Gray’s way—“started to leave, and I saw the darkroom sign still said Occupied. That meant Quimby was still in there. That seemed odd—he wouldn’t normally have been there so late—and I went to check if everything was all right.”

Silence fell as Perkins labored over his notes, then he raised his head and looked with open suspicion at Izzy before shifting his gaze to Gray. “When you arrived, your lordship, was Mr. Quimby already on the premises?”

“I don’t know. As I said, when I arrived, the lamp in the workshop was turned very low, and I didn’t know about the darkroom. I’m afraid I didn’t look that deeply into the shadows.”

Perkins’s gaze returned to Izzy, and he eyed her aggressively. “So, Mrs. Molyneaux”—Perkins continued having trouble wrapping his tongue around the name—“before his lordship arrived, you were here with Mr. Quimby.”

Izzy blinked. “I really can’t say, Constable. I have no idea when Mr. Quimby arrived. For all I know, it might have been after his lordship came in.”

“Ah, but it could have been before!” Perkins all but pounced. Leaning closer, with a certain relish, he declared, “Quimby could have been working away in that darkroom—just like you said—and you could have gone in and killed him. Stabbed him to death before coming back out to your office for your meeting with his lordship.”

“What?” Izzy looked at Perkins as if he were demented. “No! Why on earth would I kill Quimby? I need his photographs for The Crier. We don’t have another photographer we can call on, and our readers expect their photographs.”

Straightening, Perkins bounced on his feet. “Maybe so, maybe so, but perhaps Quimby learned something about you. A widow owning and running a business like this, you have to have secrets. Or no! Wait! Perhaps Quimby was your lover and wanted a piece of the business, and you had to kill him to stop him. Yes, that could be it!”

From the fire flaring in Izzy’s eyes, Gray knew she teetered on the brink of losing her quite spectacular temper.

“Constable!” As Gray had intended, the single word, imbued with the authority only centuries of forebears accustomed to absolute rule could confer, hauled Perkins back to earth.

He blinked at Gray.

Gray caught the man’s piggy-eyed gaze. “That is enough. I suggest we wait for the inspector from Scotland Yard before you attempt to further prosecute such a fanciful fiction.”

Izzy drew breath and, with a valiant effort, reined in her temper. “Such a nonsensical fiction. I most definitely did not murder Mr. Quimby.” She shut her lips and glared haughtily at Perkins.

A fraught silence descended, and she felt as if, finally, her mind had cleared enough to think. Perkins was the sort who would be only too happy to arrest her for Quimby’s murder, even in the teeth of contradictory evidence. He patently felt that her owning The Crierwas an indication of malfeasance, and was predisposed to concoct and pursue the wildest suggestions implicating her.

Eyeing Perkins irefully, she hoped the inspector from Scotland Yard proved to be more rational.

Perkins didn’t know what to do with himself. He drifted closer to the door, then the framed front pages on the wall behind the desk caught his eye.

Izzy relaxed a touch, and her awareness of Gray, seated beside her, rose in her mind. Whether intentionally or otherwise, he was exuding a comforting aura of calmness and power.

She glanced his way and discovered him waiting to catch her eyes. She searched his amber gaze, drawing strength from the warmth therein, and fractionally inclined her head in thanks. He’d known she’d been about to lose her temper, which was the last thing she needed to do.

Indeed, the more her thoughts settled, the clearer it became that she would need to be exceedingly careful over what she revealed during the next hours. She couldn’t afford to have her true identity exposed, especially not in relation to murder.

Not five minutes later, the bell above the door tinkled, heralding the arrival of a burly man of average height, followed by a tall, lanky, rail-thin individual. The pair entered, and the thin man closed the door, then both men stood stock-still and, with a professional air, surveyed the scene.

Perkins came alert. He shot a glance at Izzy and Gray, then with a muttered “Stay here, if you please,” went to stand in the office doorway.

When the newcomers’ gazes reached him, Perkins snapped to attention. “Sir! Senior Constable Perkins from Guildford Street, sir. I’ve taken charge of the scene pending your arrival, sir.”

Looking past Perkins, Izzy saw the burly man, who possessed a jowly, well-worn face reminiscent of a comfortable bulldog’s, nod equably. “Perkins. I’m Inspector Baines, and this”—he indicated the lanky man—“is Sergeant Littlejohn.” Baines looked deeper into the workshop. “So what have we here?”

“A photographer, sir, stabbed in his darkroom.” Perkins jerked his head toward Izzy and Gray. “Found by this pair here.”

“Oh?” Baines glanced past Perkins at Izzy and Gray and offered a polite nod, then returned his sharp gaze to Perkins. “Right, then. Let’s see the body. The surgeon will be along shortly—best we get a look in now, before he lays claim.”

Perkins waved down the workshop. “Along here, sir.” He led the way.

Izzy listened to the heavy footsteps head toward the darkroom.

Gray murmured, “One can only hope Baines has more sense than Perkins.”

She grimaced. “Indeed.”

They waited in strangely companionable silence.

About five minutes later, the three policemen returned to the foyer and paused there, conferring in low tones, Baines with his hands in his pockets and Littlejohn with a notebook in his hand, judiciously jotting while Baines questioned Perkins, who had his own notebook out and was flicking through the pages as he answered.

The bell over the door tinkled again, and a dapper-looking man carrying a medical bag walked in.

“What-ho, Baines!” The surgeon grinned. “What have you got for me?”

Baines nodded in greeting. “Cromer. A stabbing victim, not long dead.” He tipped his head down the workshop. “In a darkroom back there.” Baines looked at Perkins. “Senior Constable, you’d best conduct Dr. Cromer to the body and remain with him to render whatever assistance he requires.”

Perkins’s shoulders sank. He glanced longingly at the office, but obediently murmured, “Yes, sir,” and proceeded to usher Cromer to the darkroom.

Baines and Littlejohn watched the pair go, then exchanged a glance—a wordless communication that suggested they’d worked together for years—and turned toward the office.

Baines tapped on the door frame—a meaningless formality, perhaps, but nevertheless, he did—and after meeting both Izzy’s and Gray’s gazes, walked in.

He halted in the middle of the office, glanced swiftly around, then looked at Izzy and nodded politely before focusing on Gray. “Lord Child?”

Gray inclined his head.

Baines transferred his gaze to Izzy. It was a kind-enough gray gaze, holding none of Perkins’s instant suspicions. “Mrs. Molyneaux?”

Izzy copied Gray, and Baines introduced himself and Littlejohn, who, notebook in hand, half bowed. Baines concluded with, “We’re from Scotland Yard, sent in response to his lordship’s request.” Baines’s gaze shifted between Izzy and Gray. “I believe the pair of you found the body. Together?”

Gray nodded.

“Indeed,” Izzy said.

Baines focused on Izzy. “I understand you own and run the paper, Mrs. Molyneaux. Have you been here all day?”

“Since eight in the morning.”

Baines looked faintly surprised. “Is that normal?”

“Yes. It’s Friday. For us, that’s distribution day, when we send out this week’s edition. I’m always here for the entire day, issuing invoices and approving last-minute orders and so on.”

“I see.” Baines’s gaze rested on her. “You’re a widow, I hear. How long is it since your husband died, ma’am?”

She had to think quickly, especially with Gray sitting beside her—also plainly interested and knowing something of her past. “Eight years.” She raised her chin. “I bought the printing works seven years ago.”

Baines glanced at Littlejohn, confirming he was writing down the information. Izzy could only hope that the police didn’t think to look for a marriage license or a death certificate for the fictitious Mr. Molyneaux.

“Right.” Baines looked back at her. “You own and manage The London Crier, and it’s produced and printed here.” Baines shifted his gaze to Gray. “And you, my lord. What brought you here today?”

Calmly, Gray replied, “I wished to speak with Mrs. Molyneaux concerning a piece she’s considering publishing.”

Baines’s brows faintly rose. “I hear you arrived at five o’clock—a trifle late for a business call, wasn’t it?”

Gray’s lips curved fractionally. “I preferred my discussion with Mrs. Molyneaux to be conducted in private, Inspector.”

Baines nodded. “So you waited until the staff left before coming in?”

“As I approached, the bells tolled for five, and I saw what I took to be most of the staff leaving. I had assumed they would, hence my arrival at that time. The staff were only a matter of yards down the street when I walked in, and before you ask, I have no idea whether Quimby was in the darkroom at that time.”

“Had you met Quimby before?” Baines asked.

Gray shook his head. “Aside from Mrs. Molyneaux, I haven’t met any of those who work here.”

“I see.” Baines turned to Izzy. “Did you know Quimby was in the darkroom, Mrs. Molyneaux?”

Izzy shook her head. “As I explained to Constable Perkins, Quimby came and went as he pleased. I wasn’t surprised when I saw—or rather, realized because of the Occupied sign—that he’d come in, but I did think it odd that he was still in the darkroom given it was six o’clock. He was usually gone by then.”

“Do you often remain here until six o’clock, ma’am?” Littlejohn put in.

“Not often, but sometimes, it’s six before I leave.”

Gray had been keeping an eye on the foyer. He was keen to learn what the surgeon had found, and just then, the dapper Dr. Cromer reappeared, juggling his black bag while he shrugged on his overcoat. He turned toward the office, while two other men bearing a stretcher with a sheet-covered body upon it went past him, heading for the front door.

Alerted by the footsteps, Baines turned, saw the surgeon, and grunted. “Cromer—what can you tell me?”

Settling his collar, Cromer walked into the office. “Dead as a doornail, old son. Cause being a sharp blade thrust just above the heart. Double-sided narrow blade—perhaps a dagger of some sort, but definitely narrow.”

The bell over the door tinkled faintly as the men ferrying Quimby’s body to the morgue departed with their burden.

“How long’s he been dead?” Littlejohn was scribbling madly.

Cromer hesitated, and Gray judged it time to volunteer, “When we found him, the body was still warm. Almost normal temperature—barely cooled at all. And the blood was tacky, but not fully congealed.”

Cromer’s eyes lit with interest. “What time was that? Do you know?”

Gray inwardly smiled. “Right on six o’clock.”

Cromer nodded eagerly. “That fits with what I’m thinking.” He looked at Baines. “I rarely see bodies so fresh. I’d say this one was killed between five and six for certain, with my inclination as to the exact time being close to the half hour.”

Littlejohn paused in his scribbling to throw the surgeon a sharp look. “Could it have happened at five o’clock? Close to? More or less on the hour?” Littlejohn’s gaze slid to Izzy; apparently, he—and presumably Baines—had been infected with Perkins’s fanciful conjecture.

Cromer frowned, plainly deliberating, but to Gray’s relief, the surgeon slowly shook his head. “I really can’t see it. Admittedly, the room isn’t heated, but neither is it cold enough to delay the signs that much.” Cromer thought, then sighed. “Five is really, really stretching it, but that said, I can’t definitively rule it out.” He threw Baines a sharp look. “But if I were you, I’d want some much better evidence as to the deed being done at that time before I tried to put a case with death at five o’clock before any judge.”

Baines grunted.

Before Cromer could turn away, Gray said, “There didn’t seem to be that much blood about the body. Would the murderer have been splattered, do you think?”

Cromer’s expression declared his delight at being asked intelligent questions. “That’s another interesting point. In most cases of stabbing, there’s a quantity of blood, usually more than enough to mark the murderer, but with this particular blade and the placement of the wound and the way the body fell, most of the bleeding was internal. It doesn’t look as if much leaked out, except on the blade, which I presume the murderer took with him?”

Cromer looked at Baines and Littlejohn inquiringly, and the latter replied, “No one’s found the weapon yet.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Cromer said. “If it is a dagger, as I suspect, my money would be on him taking it with him.” He nodded to Baines. “You’ll have my report on Monday.”

Baines raised a hand in acknowledgment, and with an abbreviated bow to Gray and Izzy, Cromer left.

Baines’s expression had turned thoughtful. He regarded Gray and Izzy and, as if coming to some decision, asked, “If you have no objection, my lord, Mrs. Molyneaux, would you show me your hands?”

Gray inwardly sighed and extended his. Baines examined them closely, but of course, there was nothing to be seen.

Shifting to stand before Izzy, Baines studied the backs of her slender, delicate hands, then asked her to turn them and scanned the palms. Baines grunted and started to straighten.

Gray was about to release the breath he’d held when Baines froze.

A second later, Baines straightened fully and pointed to the tiny dab of blood on Izzy’s cuff. “Care to explain why you have blood on your cuff, ma’am?”

Izzy raised her right arm and calmly examined the tiny spot. “It must have happened when I tried to help Quimby to his feet.” She looked at Baines, her expression open and entirely unperturbed. “The light in the darkroom is permanently shuttered with red, and in that light, all I could see was Quimby slumped against the wall. I thought he’d taken ill and collapsed, so I put my hands to his sides to help him up…” Her voice quavered, and she blinked several times.

Baines retreated a step. “I see.”

Evenly, Gray stated, “Mrs. Molyneaux had blood on that hand, where she’d tried to grip Quimby’s left side, thinking to assist him to his feet. After finding a constable and sending him running for you, I returned here and wiped her hand clean with a cloth—you’ll find it in the sink against the rear wall.” In case Baines had failed to get his point, he added, “She was in shock at the time.”

“Yes, quite.” Baines looked at Littlejohn, and a silent communication of some sort passed between the pair, then Baines cleared his throat and glanced at Gray before setting his sights on Izzy. “I can’t say I like Perkins’s theory, but at the present moment, it’s the one that best fits. It seems reasonable to suppose that you, Mrs. Molyneaux, killed Quimby at close to five o’clock, in the few minutes between the departure the rest of the staff and his lordship’s arrival.”

Gray looked at Izzy and bit back his own protest. She was staring—coldly—at Baines and, in her most haughty, earl’s-daughter’s voice, inquired, “Inspector Baines, can you explain to me why I—the owner of The London Crier—would want to kill the photographer I rely on to provide the photographs that are critical to the success of every edition of my publication?”

Baines shifted uneasily, instinctively reacting to her tone, but although he colored faintly, he persisted, “Perkins has suggested that Quimby had learned some secret and was blackmailing you.”

Izzy arched her brows. “Indeed?”

That single word carried enough icy weight to have Baines rushing on, “Perkins is sure that if we look, we’ll learn whatever it was. But you must see that, as matters stand, you’re the only one who could have killed the man.”

Izzy frowned, but before she could respond, Gray calmly said, “I take it Perkins hasn’t yet discovered that the back door, which gives access to the rear lane, was unlocked throughout the relevant period.”

“What?” Baines scowled and glared at Littlejohn. “What back door?”

Littlejohn looked as annoyed as Baines. “I’ll find out.”

He left the office. Izzy caught Gray’s eye, and they both sat back, apparently relaxing in the armchairs. She resisted the impulse to exhale with relief. Her heart was still thundering.

I can’t be taken up for murder!

Minutes later, Littlejohn returned, all but dragging a now-reluctant Perkins.

Grim-faced, Littlejohn nodded at Baines. “A few details Perkins forgot to mention, sir.” Littlejohn tipped his head toward Gray. “Like his lordship said, the back door opens to a lane that runs behind this row of buildings, all the way along the block from Bernard Street to Great Coram Street. Seems that door was unlocked the entire time, and Cromer found the key on a ring with others in the deceased’s waistcoat pocket.”

Baines glared at Perkins, who had the sense to look cowed.

“Right.” Baines turned back to Izzy and Gray. After a second of inner debate, Baines bowed to her. “My apologies, Mrs. Molyneaux. Obviously, someone could have come in from the lane—”

“Or,” Gray interjected, “Quimby could have brought a friend or acquaintance with him.”

Baines looked like he’d just sucked a lemon, but inclined his head and went on, “And whoever killed Quimby could have left by the back door, unseen and undetected, as well.”

Izzy was not happy that Perkins was still hovering. Although she didn’t look directly at him, she was aware his beady eyes remained locked on her.

Baines drew in a breath, then let it out. “Let’s see if we can’t get straight in our heads exactly what happened with the pair of you and Quimby this evening.” He looked at Gray. “You said you arrived here at five o’clock?”

Gray nodded. “The bells pealed, and in less than a minute, the door opened, and the staff streamed out. I saw them walk down the street as I approached. They were walking past the third property along when I opened the door.”

Baines looked at her, then back at Gray. “Was this an arranged meeting?”

She left it to Gray to say, “No. I wished to discuss an upcoming article with Mrs. Molyneaux and wanted to catch her at a time when we might talk with some degree of privacy. She appeared to be the only one about when I arrived, but if Quimby had been in the darkroom, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“If Quimby arrived before the other staff left, they would know.” Izzy gestured toward the workshop. “You’ve seen the place. There’s no chance he could have entered via the back door and reached the darkroom without someone noticing him. They all knew him.”

Baines focused on her. “Where were you when the staff left?”

She waved at her desk. “Here, reconciling the accounts for the past week.”

Baines noted the clutter on her desk. “Right, then. What happened when his lordship came through the front door?”

“Well, the bell tinkled, and from my chair behind the desk”—she tipped her head that way—“I couldn’t see who had walked in, so I got up and went to the doorway to find out. I expected to see one of the staff who had forgotten something.”

“But instead,” Baines said, “it was his lordship.”

Izzy’s wariness increased, but she nodded. “Indeed.”

Baines was looking shrewdly from Gray to her. “But that wasn’t the first time you’d met.”

A guess, no doubt fed by observation; she and Gray hadn’t been acting like complete strangers who had only just met. “His lordship and I are acquainted, but we haven’t seen or spoken to each other for…” She glanced at Gray and arched her brows. “It must be close to ten years.”

He nodded. “Almost a decade.”

Baines glanced at Littlejohn to confirm he was jotting that down, then returned his gaze to her and Gray. “So what happened then?”

“After the usual greetings, we came in here. I sat behind the desk, and Lord Child sat where I am now, and we discussed the article he’d come to see me about.”

Baines glanced toward the workshop. “Did you close the office door?”

Both she and Gray shook their heads. “No,” Gray stated. “It remained open throughout the time we were in here.”

“I shut it when we left,” she said, “but before that, it was as it is now.”

“And,” Baines continued, “you both remained here, together, until you decided to leave?”

Again, they nodded.

“So what happened when you ended your meeting?” Littlejohn asked.

“I put on my coat and bonnet”—she gestured to the black bonnet sitting on the desk—“then we went out into the foyer. I shut the office door and, as I always do, glanced one last time down the workshop. That was when I noticed the darkroom sign was set to Occupied, and that meant Quimby was in there.” She paused, then went on, “Quimby was obsessive about that sign. He never left it up if he wasn’t in the darkroom, because he’d drummed it into everyone’s head that if the sign was up, then he was definitely in there working with his negatives and on no account was anyone to open the door, much less go in.” She glanced at both policemen. “If light fell on his negatives at the wrong time, they would be ruined.”

Littlejohn grunted. “I’ve heard about that.” He glanced at Baines, then at Perkins, still hovering by the door. “Perkins said you told him Quimby often worked late. So what made you go and check on him if him being there wasn’t unusual and he had his own key to the back door?”

She sighed and repeated what she’d earlier told Perkins.

“So,” Baines summed up, “Quimby coming in around five wasn’t unusual, but him still being here at six was strange?”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“So you went to the darkroom, knocked, but received no answer, and went in together.” Baines looked at Gray for confirmation.

“Yes, together,” Gray evenly supplied. “I entered first, and Mrs. Molyneaux followed. She went along the left side of the table, stopped to exclaim over the ruined daguerreotype plates, then saw Quimby and rushed to help him. I was on the table’s other side, so I was a split second behind her. Quimby was already slumped on the ground before we came in, or I would have seen him straightaway.” Gray shrugged. “The rest you know.”

Littlejohn glanced up. “That pile of photographic plates—daguerreotype plates, you called them? All piled up and scratched and—you said—ruined. Was that normal?”

“Not at all.” Izzy sat straighter. “I’d forgotten about them. And no—Quimby would never have destroyed his work like that.”

Puzzled, Baines studied her. “Are you saying that the killer stabbed Quimby, then hung around and scratched up those plates? Or might they already have been like that when Quimby arrived?”

Izzy felt a phantom chill slide over her nape. “It must be the former.” She glanced at Gray. “If Quimby had walked in and found his plates in a pile like that, scratched and wrecked, he would have erupted out of the darkroom, roaring like a lion. But he didn’t.” She looked at Baines. “The plates couldn’t have been like that when Quimby arrived, ergo, the killer must have taken the time to damage them after he killed Quimby.”

Baines frowned. “Are those all the…whatever-they’re-called plates Quimby had? Or were there others he kept somewhere else?”

She frowned. “I can’t say for certain, but all the plates he had here, he kept in those cabinets in the darkroom.”

“In the darkroom,” Littlejohn confirmed.

She nodded.

“And he didn’t take any away?” Baines asked.

“Not that I know of. He told me he preferred to store them in the darkroom, and I know for a fact that ours was the only darkroom to which he had access.”

Gray stirred; plainly, it was time to do a little more directing. “That the killer took time to destroy Quimby’s photographs surely suggests that the motive for his murder might well lie in something Quimby saw and photographed, presumably something the killer didn’t want anyone else to see.”

“If so,” Izzy pointed out, “the killer certainly wouldn’t have wanted the photograph printed and distributed in The Crier or any of the other papers Quimby supplied.”

From his position by the door, Perkins spoke, not quite aggressively yet certainly pointedly. “You’d be the person most likely to know what Quimby photographed. Perhaps you didn’t want him to print one, and you and he argued—”

“Constable!” Baines flung Perkins an aggravated look.

Perkins glowered. “Well, it’s true.”

Izzy regarded Perkins with a contemptuous air. “Actually, your premise is false. I had no idea what Quimby would photograph—that wasn’t how he operated. He knew what sorts of scenes we at The Crier wanted, and every week, he would take at least three photographs of those sort of scenes—in Hyde Park, along the avenue or the lawns or Rotten Row, along Regent Street or Oxford Street, or St. James’s Park, that sort of society picture. I never gave him specific instructions about who or what to photograph, and I seriously doubt any of his other clients did, either.”

Baines frowned. “I see.”

In the distance, the city’s bells tolled for eight o’clock.

Baines glanced at Littlejohn, then looked at Gray and Izzy. “I suggest we leave any further questions for tomorrow. We’ll be back in the morning to speak with the staff. We need to find out if they saw Quimby arrive and if they know anything more about him and any enemies he might have had.”

Izzy inclined her head, and Gray followed suit. Littlejohn closed his notebook and tucked it and his pencil away.

With half bows to Gray and Izzy, the Scotland Yard duo turned toward the doorway, only to have Perkins bar their way.

“But, sir!” Perkins exclaimed.

“What?” Baines grumpily demanded.

Perkins darted a look at Izzy. “Aren’t we going to take the widow in, sir? She’s the only suspect we have, and she might have done it!”

Baines heaved a weary sigh. “How?”

Perkins blinked. “How, sir?”

“Yes, Perkins, how. It’s one of those pesky pieces of evidence we need to prosecute a case—opportunity to do the deed. Yet Cromer is clear Quimby was knifed between five and six, and Mrs. Molyneaux was with his lordship the entire time.”

Izzy—and, she was sure, everyone else in the room—could see that the overeager Perkins quivered on the cusp of suggesting that she and Gray had conspired together to murder Quimby, but even Perkins seemed to understand that voicing such an accusation would be one step too far. Instead, he said, “Perhaps she had an accomplice? Yes—that’s it! She knew Quimby would be in the darkroom and that the back door would be open—well, she probably has a key to that herself, so could make sure it was—and she hired someone to come in and bump the man off.”

Baines sounded unimpressed. “Why?”

But Perkins believed he was on surer ground with that. “Plain as a pikestaff, sir. Quimby learned something about her she didn’t want to get around. A woman running a place like this? A female owning a business like this? I mean, there must be something havey-cavey going on, and if we look, we’ll find it, but meanwhile, we should take her in, or she might leg it.”

Perkins looked at the long-suffering Baines, transparently expecting the inspector to agree.

At that point, the notion of “legging it” rather appealed to Izzy.

While one part of her brain was panicking over the police uncovering all she was concealing—more than enough motive for her to kill anyone who found out and threatened her with exposure—on another level, she was starting to feel sufficiently distanced from the incredible events of the evening to find Perkins and his views oddly entertaining.

Sternly, she told herself laughing wouldn’t help.

She wasn’t the only one who jerked to attention when Gray, his aristocratic tones cutting and cold, said, “Inspector Baines, I feel I should remind you that Mrs. Molyneaux and I are—as we’ve mentioned—very old friends. I and others will take it very badly should her standing be in any way adversely affected by unwarranted speculation being bandied about by members of the police force.”

Fascinated, Izzy stared at Gray, who had leveled his gaze on Perkins, but as she watched, Gray shifted his gaze to Baines’s face and inquired, “I trust I make myself plain?”

Baines and Littlejohn had stiffened at Gray’s first words and swung to face him. Baines moistened his lips and bobbed his gray head. “Indeed, my lord.” He flung a sharp, warning glance at Perkins, then looked at Littlejohn and jerked his head toward the door.

The sergeant dipped his head, caught Perkins by the arm, and made for the foyer, forcibly taking the constable, hissing in protest, with him.

Meanwhile, Baines focused on Izzy. “My apologies once again, Mrs. Molyneaux. It’ll be me and the sergeant, both of us from the Yard, who’ll be pursuing this case. You won’t have to deal with Perkins again.”

She decided it behooved her to be gracious and inclined her head civilly. “Thank you, Inspector. That might be for the best.”

Baines cast a cautious glance at Gray, then returned his gaze to her. “As I said, ma’am, Littlejohn and I will return tomorrow to speak with your staff. I take it you’ll be open?”

“For the half day only. We close at midday.”

“Duly noted. We’ll be here around midmorning, I expect.”

After bowing to her and to Gray, Baines strode out of the office.

Izzy watched as the inspector and his sergeant collected Perkins and his compatriots and bundled them out of the front door.

When the door shut, she heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Then worry and concern swamped her. She couldn’t afford to have the police scrutinize The Crier and its owner overmuch. She was safe from a cursory examination, but if they delved deeper…

She felt Gray’s gaze and glanced up to find him regarding her in a direct fashion she hadn’t previously encountered in him. Quite what he was seeing, she wasn’t at all sure, but his scrutiny reminded her that she really didn’t need him getting too close to Mrs. I. Molyneaux, either.

Smoothly, she rose, bringing him to his feet. “Finally, we can leave.” She rebuttoned her coat, picked up her bonnet, and settled it in place. After loosely tying the ribbons, she swiped up her reticule and turned off the twin desk lamps. As darkness engulfed the office, Gray led the way into the foyer, still well-lit by the lamp the police had returned to the counter.

She stepped into the light and shut the office door.

It seemed strange to be going through the same motions, the same small tasks she performed most evenings. Fishing in her reticule for her keys, she realized Gray still had them and halted. “My keys?”

He drew them from his pocket and handed them over. She took them and walked down the workshop to the rear door. As she’d expected, it was still unlocked. She found the key and locked it, then started back toward the foyer.

Gray had followed her as far as the darkroom. He stood in the doorway, scanning the interior in the light thrown by the lamp on the counter. She halted beside him and glanced inside. The red-shielded lamp had been turned off, and the pile of glass plates remained on the central table, more or less as they had been earlier.

“I know nothing about photographic processes.” Gray caught her eye. “Do you?”

She shook her head. “But our young printer’s devil—our lad-of-all-work—has been working as Quimby’s assistant for months. He’ll know more.” She studied the wrecked plates and grimaced. “Given the police brought unshielded lanterns in here, I doubt anything in that pile will be salvageable.”

Gray grunted and followed her to the counter. She doused the last lamp. Guided by the glow from the streetlights, they crossed to the door and, finally, stepped outside.

The night air was cold and refreshing.

She shut and locked the door, tucked the keys into her reticule, and extracted her gloves. Pulling them on, she glanced at Gray, who was still hovering. “My house isn’t far.”

He frowned. “You walk?”

“As I said, it’s not far, and usually, I’m not this late.”

He didn’t look reassured. He glanced down the street. “I’ll see you home. Which way?”

She resisted an impulse to protest. He’d always exhibited a certain chivalrousness—except for the time he’d vanished from her life without word or excuse; despite that incident, apparently, his compulsion to protect women hadn’t changed with the years.

From beneath her lashes, she scanned his features. They had changed, becoming starker, more austere. This was definitely not the younger version of Grayson Child, the man she’d thought had loved her as much as she’d loved him, until he’d deserted her. This older version was a lot harder, more decisive and sharper edged.

She didn’t bother mounting even a token resistance. Despite the risk of having him step further into her life, given she still felt distinctly unsettled, she was and would be grateful for his company.

How very easily they’d slid back into their previous ways of dealing with each other. They weren’t the same people, and their interaction wasn’t quite the same, yet still…

She waved toward Bernard Street. “The house is in Woburn Square.”

She started walking, and he fell in beside her.

They maintained a steady pace down the mews and into Bernard Street, slowed to negotiate the traffic and cross Woburn Place, then walked along the northern edge of Russell Square. All the while, Gray scanned their surroundings. He was neither overt nor covert about it; indeed, it was as if it had become second nature for him to remain aware of all around him.

Once, she’d loved the man he had been, and she had to own to a burgeoning fascination to learn about the man he now was.

At the northwestern corner of Russell Square, she turned right, up the short street that opened into the elongated Woburn Square. The so-called square was so narrow, there were no houses at the far end, where it met Byng Street. But the terrace houses lining the east and west sides were well-kept respectable residences, precisely the sort of house a widowed newspaper proprietor might be expected to inhabit.

She led Gray along the western side and, eventually, halted on the pavement before the steps leading up to the blue-painted door of Number 20. The twin lamps burning on either side of the door lit the steps and the area in which she and Gray stood.

As she turned to face him, she’d never been more thankful for the solid façade of her Mrs. Molyneaux persona.

She offered her hand. “Thank you, not only for walking me home but for all that came before that. Perkins would have gladly clapped me in irons had you not been there.”

He grasped her fingers, and his amber eyes caught hers, and for an instant, time fell away. A frisson of sensation streaked through her, all the way to her toes, just as it had the first time they’d met, all those years ago.

His muscles tensed as if to raise her hand to his lips—as he had in that long-ago ballroom—and she froze, and so did he.

To cover her reaction—both their reactions—she said, “Your family—especially your brother and sister-in-law—are going to hate your name being associated with a murder, even if only in passing.”

His gaze remained on her face. She studied his, but couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, and his features were significantly more difficult to read than they once had been.

Then his lips curved wryly. “When have I ever cared what people—especially Roddy and Pamela—think?”

She tipped her head, acknowledging that. He’d always been one to go his own road.

He released her hand and shoved both of his into his greatcoat pockets. “I’ll drop by tomorrow, and we can talk more about dropping the exposé.”

She frowned. “We hardly need to discuss that further. This murder is going to dominate our news for the next weeks, and by that time, our readers will have forgotten that I ever mentioned a secretive Golden Ball.”

His lips twisted cynically. “Glad to know that even in your readers’ eyes, murder trumps matchmaking.” His gaze hardened. “Nevertheless, I’ll call tomorrow and see how the land lies.”

She inwardly sighed and nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you then. Again, thank you for your escort home.”

She forced herself to turn and climb the steps to the front door. She gave a light rap, and the door was opened by the housekeeper, Doyle.

Aware of Gray still standing on the pavement, his gaze on her, Izzy stepped inside, nodded at Doyle to close the door, and waited in the dimly lit hall for several seconds. Then she went to the narrow window beside the door, shifted the lace curtain a fraction, and peered out.

Gray was walking away, head down, thinking.

She sincerely hoped he wasn’t thinking about Mrs. I. Molyneaux.

She let the curtain fall and turned away, expecting to feel relieved. Instead, her emotions were…scattered. Uncertain.

“Isadora?” A quavering voice came from the front parlor. “You’re awfully late tonight.”

Izzy smiled. “One moment, Agatha.”

She glanced at the waiting Doyle, who smiled and assured her, “I’ll tell Fields to fetch the carriage, my lady.”

“Thank you. I’ll just have a quick word—I won’t be long.” Izzy walked to the open parlor doorway and into the warmth and light.

Mrs. Agatha Carruthers, an elderly widow, sat swathed in rugs and shawls beside the fire.

Izzy bent and kissed Agatha’s lined cheek. Agatha’s halo of soft white curls brushed Izzy’s bonnet. She straightened and, taking Agatha’s hand, gently squeezed her crooked fingers. “I am rather late. Some unexpected business came up that I couldn’t ignore.”

She saw no reason to burden the old lady with news of murder.

Agatha patted her hand. “Well, late as it is, you mustn’t let me keep you.”

“Fields is getting the carriage, so I have a few minutes.” Izzy drew a footstool nearer and sat. “Now tell me, how was your day?”

She spent the next minutes chatting with Agatha about the undemanding highlights of the old woman’s day, then bade her a goodnight and went to the kitchen, where Doyle was preparing her mistress’s nightcap.

Doyle looked up and smiled. “Fields will be ready and waiting.”

Izzy smiled back. “Thank you.” With a wave, she headed for the back door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She opened the door, stepped outside, then closed the door and checked that the lock had properly engaged. Only Agatha and Doyle lived in the house, and Izzy’s coachman, Fields, who spent most of his days there, helped out with the heavier work.

Izzy walked down the paved path to the back gate, opened it, and stepped into the lane where Fields sat on the box of the smaller Descartes town carriage. Izzy pulled the gate closed, waved at Fields to remain where he was, walked to the carriage door, opened it, and gathering her skirts, climbed in.

She leaned out to pull the door shut. “Home, Fields—at last!”

The coachman grunted and, the instant the door clicked shut, gave his horse the office. The strong chestnut stepped out, and the carriage rattled down the narrow service lane, then slowed and emerged onto Montague Street. The pace picked up as the wheels bowled along the west side of Russell Square, then Fields turned right onto Great Russell Street.

By the time the carriage was traveling west along Oxford Street toward Lady Isadora Descartes’s home in the leafy streets just north of Hyde Park, Izzy’s perceptions of her day had shifted, reflecting the transition from Mrs. I. Molyneaux, owner and editor of The London Crier, who, to all appearances, lived at Number 20, Woburn Square, to Lady Isadora Descartes, unmarried elder daughter of the late Earl of Exton and elder sister of the current earl, who lived exactly where the ton expected her to live, on the fringes of Mayfair.

As she frequently did at that moment in her journey, Izzy gave thanks for the stroke of luck that had prompted her brother, Julius, to marry Dorothy Barton and thus gain as a grandfather-in-law the wise and canny Silas Barton.

Silas had become Izzy’s mentor in all things business. He had overseen her purchase of the old printing works in Woburn Mews and guided her transformation of the business into the profitable enterprise it now was. It had also been Silas who had insisted on and instituted the careful façade of Mrs. I. Molyneaux. Mrs. Carruthers was an old friend of his, and through his good offices, they’d arranged that, for a small monthly stipend, Isadora could use the house in Woburn Square as her staging post—where, every evening, she stepped from being Mrs. I. Molyneaux into the carriage of Lady Isadora, and in the morning, reversed the process.

Consequently, should anyone follow Mrs. Molyneaux, the trail would lead to Woburn Square and nowhere else.

Certainly not to the home of the Dowager Countess of Exton and her lovely daughters, the elder, Isadora, a confirmed spinster, and the delightful Lady Marietta, who had made her come-out last year.

With her gaze fixed unseeing on the façades slipping past, Izzy renewed a pledge she’d made when she’d signed the contract that had made the printing works hers. She would not allow—could not allow—any difficulty in her life as Mrs. I. Molyneaux to touch her family.

The image of Quimby slumped lifeless against the darkroom wall, the slimy feel of his blood on her hand, and most of all, the shock and threat of Perkins’s suspicions lingered in her mind.

As the skeletal canopies of the trees in Hyde Park replaced the buildings on the carriage’s left, Izzy forced herself to draw in a deep breath and push all the horror away.

She hadn’t expected to see Grayson Child—certainly hadn’t expected her pending exposé to bring her Molyneaux self face-to-face with him—yet regardless of the unwisdom of them interacting in any way, she couldn’t help but thank God he’d been there.