The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 4
Izzy completed every last scrap of outstanding paperwork, then tidied her desk. With everything in place, she looked hopefully at the clock; it was barely two-thirty.
She listened, but could hear no movement in the workshop. Digby must still be in the darkroom.
The lad had emerged at just after twelve o’clock, saying the developed calotype negatives were fixing and assuring her and Gray that the images were nice and sharp and would print well.
Gray had just returned from buying pies and drinks, and she and he had already consumed theirs. She’d given Digby the pie bought for him. He’d wolfed down the meat-filled pastry and gratefully accepted the bottle of ginger beer Gray had handed him. From the way Digby had savored both pie and drink, she suspected he didn’t get to taste such treats often, if at all.
After tendering his thanks, Digby had retreated to the darkroom to print the three sets of the seven photographs they’d decided they would need.
He’d said it would take three hours at least.
Izzy looked around the office, searching for something to do.
Inevitably, her gaze landed on the one object she’d been attempting to ignore. Gray was sunk in the armchair he seemed to have claimed, his long legs stretched before him and his hands loosely clasped on his chest. His chin rested on his neckcloth, and his eyes were closed. He hadn’t moved for some time; she assumed he’d fallen asleep.
This seemed the perfect opportunity to look her fill and sate her curiosity, her fascination with this “new” him. If she studied him for long enough, perhaps she would no longer feel the constant need to examine his every expression to see if his reactions had changed from what they’d been before.
The long, angular planes of his face were at ease, yet even when relaxed, there was no hiding the patrician cast of his features. His broad forehead, well-set eyes, and lightly arched brown brows could have been chiseled by some artist, so ineffably aristocratic were they in line and form, yet his well-shaped lips and the slight cleft in his chin softened the image to something more human and infinitely more appealing.
That she still found him so was an unwelcome realization.
As she let her gaze roam, studying, examining, drinking in all she could see, she couldn’t help wondering what might have been.
Unsurprisingly, that led her to dwell on what had actually happened back then. Courtesy of his revelation of yesterday, she now had a more accurate idea, yet from her perspective, questions remained. Even though the incident and their connection of that time were in the distant past and undoubtedly irrelevant now, she still wished she knew the whole story.
Even with his eyes closed, Gray was acutely conscious of Izzy’s scrutiny—as, he now accepted, he would always be alert to everything to do with her. If she was in his orbit, his senses locked on her. No matter what else he might be doing, no matter what other distractions presented themselves, he would always be aware of her.
He wondered what she was thinking. What was going on behind those lovely emerald eyes? If anything, their vibrant hue seemed more intense than in his memories.
Deciding the moments of quiet waiting was an opportunity too good to pass up, without stirring, he asked, “How did you come to own The Crier?”
Her attention snapped to his face. She studied it for a second, then replied, “I needed to make money, and believe it or not, this is a nicely profitable business.”
He opened one eye and met her gaze. “I always understood that income from advertisers was notoriously unreliable.”
“Indeed it is, which is why the printing works’ profit doesn’t rest on income from The Crier alone.”
He opened both eyes and waited for her to elaborate.
Leaning her elbows on the desk, she obliged. “While The Crier generally covers its costs, the bulk of our profit comes from our printing for the university, several museums, and various other institutions, for faculties, private scholars, and scholarly societies. All want a printing works that understands what they need and doesn’t charge exorbitantly. These days, most printing presses are so large it’s uneconomical to do short print runs or print small documents like pamphlets or guides. We can and do handle such projects, and over the years, we’ve made a name for ourselves supplying those orders on time and with excellent finish.”
“So you offer a service few others can replicate.”
“Exactly.” She clasped her hands before her. “Now I’ve answered your question, you can answer one of mine. How did you amass your amazing newfound wealth?”
“I visited the Californian goldfields and picked up a nugget. A large one.”
She widened her eyes at him. “And that was all it took?”
He grinned and straightened in the chair. “That nugget was worth a lot, but I took the money and invested in a succession of enterprises and, over the years, built my fortune into what it is now.”
“Why did you come back?”
He’d answered that question for others, and the answer leapt to his tongue. “Because, believe it or not, I decided I’d had enough adventure, and once I sat back and contemplated life, I realized I missed England.”
“Our green and pleasant land?”
“Indeed.” After a second’s hesitation, he added something he’d shared with no one else. “I also realized that the ultimate challenge I faced was creating a satisfying life, and my vision of that was anchored here, in this green and pleasant land.” He lightly shrugged. “So I came back.”
To make the most of his life—to create the best life he could; that had been the motive that had driven him for the past nine years. That and, in more recent times, a desire to live up to his name and make his family proud to own him.
He shifted to better face her. “You said you started this endeavor because you—and I assume that means your family—needed the income. Yet you could have easily married money, more than enough to be comfortable for the rest of your life.” He paused, then candidly observed, “I wasn’t the only ducal sprig hovering. Why didn’t you seize one of them?”
Izzy held his gaze and her tongue…then decided to throw caution to the winds. It no longer mattered, after all. “You’re correct in that I could have married several others, but after you left, I took stock and decided that, if I didn’t actively wish to marry a particular gentleman, it would be better for everyone concerned if I didn’t and, instead, pursued other avenues to support the family—avenues I felt happier pursuing.” Just in time, she remembered to add, “Molyneaux intervened, but”—she gestured about her—“here I am.”
She was perfectly content to allow Gray to assume she’d married Molyneaux for love.
A faint frown shadowed his amber eyes; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
A door opened, and footsteps, light and eager, hurried toward the office.
Both she and Gray looked across at the doorway.
Digby appeared, wearing a gray dustcoat several sizes too big and carrying a sheaf of photographs.
His gaze had been locked on the photographs. He paused in the doorway, looked at her and Gray, and smiled delightedly. “I think they’re good. All of them!”
Smiling, she waved at the cleared expanse of her desk. “Come and show us.”
Digby crossed to the desk and eagerly set out the prints. Gray stood and looked down on the images.
“I made three copies like you wanted.” Digby arranged the prints in three long rows of seven. “I had to get the stove going to dry them, but the lines are nice and sharp, and there’s lots of different grays as well as black and white, just like Mr. Q said there should be.”
Izzy scanned the prints. “These are as good as any I’ve ever seen. The focus is excellent.” She picked up one and examined the details more closely.
Gray picked up a different print. “You said you expected three scenes a week. Which of these are the three for The Crier?”
She waved the print in her hand. “This is taken in Regent’s Park, showing people walking the lawns and paths. That’s the sort of scene we use, so I would say this is one Quimby would have offered me.”
She scanned the row of prints nearest her and pulled three more out of the line. “These two”—she tapped her finger on the first and second—“are scenes in Hyde Park, but I wouldn’t have taken both. One, certainly, but not both.” She considered the third print she’d selected, the last in the line of seven. “This is Fleet Street, I think, and it’s the third photograph I would have taken for The Crier.” She glanced up and met Gray’s eyes. “We use scenes of people about town.”
He nodded. “So these other three…?”
“Most probably, Quimby would have offered them to other newspapers.” She peered at the other photographs. “With a scene like this one”—she tapped the sixth print—“the forecourt before the museum with the museum in the background, he might even have had an arrangement with some don or the university to supply such an image. That’s the sort of photograph we see in some of the booklets we print for the university faculties and colleges.”
Digby pointed a stained finger at another of the prints. “I’m pretty sure that building is near the new station.”
“So”—Izzy scanned the photographs—“we have two of Hyde Park, one of Regent’s Park, one in Fleet Street, one of the museum, one near the new station, and lastly, a scene of ships clustered about a dock along the Thames.”
Digby stared at the picture of the docks. “He musta taken that one from London Bridge—you can see some of the people walking along by the railing, and there’s a bit of a carriage, too.”
She studied the photograph, then glanced over the seven prints. “There are people in all of them.”
Gray was examining the seven prints lined up on his side of the desk. Of the Hyde Park scenes, one showed several groups of ladies strolling the snow-dusted lawns, while the other featured clusters of riders on and about Rotten Row. The Regent’s Park picture was of multiple couples and groups taking the air, while the one in Fleet Street was a view, taken from the other side of the street, of a conglomeration of men on the pavement outside a coffeehouse. The photographs of the museum courtyard, the building by the new station, and the docks likewise included multiple people.
“Not just people,” he said, “but a lot of people, and given the clarity of these prints, all those people will be recognizable to anyone who knows them.” He met Izzy’s eyes. “It’s not hard to imagine that someone might have had reason not to want one of these photographs to be published in a newspaper.”
She nodded. “Our theory that Quimby was murdered because of one of these photographs seems sound.”
Gray noticed Digby sneaking a glance at the clock on the bookshelf and dug into his waistcoat pocket for the sovereigns he’d put there earlier. “You’ve done well, Digby. I’m sure Mr. Quimby would be proud of these photographs, and with any luck, we’ll be able to use them to track down his killer.”
Digby blinked. “You think?”
“We do,” Izzy assured him.
“Here.” Gray held out two shiny gold coins. “From me and Mrs. Molyneaux for all your hard work.”
Digby’s eyes widened to saucers at the sight of such largesse. “Oh my!” He glanced at Gray, then at Izzy. “But I only did what Mr. Q taught me.”
“You gave up your Saturday afternoon to help catch Mr. Quimby’s killer,” Izzy said, “and we wouldn’t have even known to find the negatives for these if it wasn’t for you working so closely with Mr. Quimby. He wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but you happily worked alongside him for months, and I know he thought highly of you.”
Gray caught Digby’s hand, turned it upward, and placed the two coins in his palm. “My advice is to put one away for a rainy day and use the other to treat yourself and your family.”
Digby stared at the coins resting in his palm. “Oh, sir!”
Gray went on, “You did something no one else could have done, Digby, and you’ve helped us enormously. Thanks to you, we—and the police—have clues to follow, and follow them we will. But you’ve done your part for today. You’d best be off to enjoy your reward.”
Izzy smiled at Digby. “Your mother must be wondering where you’ve got to. Off you go now, and take a well-earned rest tomorrow, and we’ll see you on Monday morning.”
Digby slowly smiled and ducked his head. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to leave, then swung back. “And I’ve cleaned the darkroom like Mr. Q would have wanted.”
“Thank you, Digby,” Izzy replied. “I appreciate that.”
Still standing before the desk, Gray watched the lad happily doff the dustcoat and swap it for a threadbare jacket, then cross the foyer to the front door.
Once the door had shut, Izzy looked up at him. “Thank you for paying him. He’s the sole provider for his mother and sister, and that will allow them to have a few nice things.”
Gray reclaimed the armchair. “He seems a likeable lad—very eager to please.”
“He always tries hard.” She looked at the photographs. “And clearly, he’s taken in a lot of what Quimby taught him.”
Gray also refocused on the prints. “These really are excellent photographs.”
She nodded, but was already scrutinizing the scenes again.
He gathered one set of prints and did the same, then shook his head. “I’ve been away too long. I can’t identify anyone. Can you?”
“Three of the ladies walking in Hyde Park, two of the riders, and two ladies and three gentlemen in the Regent’s Park picture. I can’t see anyone else I recognize, but Mama and Marietta might be able to put more names to the faces.”
To his ears, she didn’t sound all that certain. He tapped the prints he was holding against his fingers. “I know someone who will likely be able to put names to most of those in the society scenes—the ones in Hyde Park, Regent’s Park, and possibly even the one of the museum.”
He caught Izzy’s eyes when she glanced up. “I’ll go and ask—” He broke off and grimaced. “I’ve just remembered they’re in the country.” He tipped his head. “That said, they’re not that far away. I could drive north tonight, see them and pick their brains tomorrow, then hie straight back.”
Izzy wasn’t sure whether to encourage or discourage him. Who was it he planned to ask? Would they know of her?
But he’d been back in the country for only a few months, and it was January. It was highly unlikely he’d made the acquaintance of any of the significant matrons of the ton as yet. “Is this a crony of yours?”
“So to speak. They live near Ancaster Park.”
His parents’ property. “Well, we definitely need the information.” She just hoped he didn’t mention her, and really, why would he, at least not in the sense of questioning her identity? As long as he referred to her as Mrs. Molyneaux, all would be well. She nodded. “Very well. You see what you can learn of the people in the photographs, and I’ll do the same.”
He rose, and together, they sorted the photographs into three sets. He reached for his greatcoat, shrugged it on, then picked up one set and slid it into the coat’s pocket. Meanwhile, she locked the second set in the central drawer of the desk, then picked up the last stack and eased it into her reticule. “Right.” She drew the reticule’s strings tight, pushed back from the desk, and rose. “You search, I’ll search, and we’ll pool what each of us learns.”
She glanced at him as she went to fetch her coat. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
He followed, lifted the coat from her hands, and held it for her. “Late Sunday. I’ll meet you here on Monday morning, and we can pool our findings and see where that leads us.”
She allowed him to settle the coat on her shoulders, then after sliding the strings of her reticule over her wrist, put on her bonnet. She waved him through the doorway, then followed and drew the door shut.
Automatically, she glanced down the workshop, her gaze coming to rest on the darkroom door. “I daresay Baines will return on Monday, and I would dearly like to have something with which to distract him when he does.”
Turning to Gray, she caught the smile that flashed across his face, then he glanced at her, reassurance in his eyes. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something.”
She wished she could be as confident.
They left the printing works, and she allowed him to walk her “home” to Woburn Square. They didn’t exchange words along the way, but there was comfort and support in their companionable silence. She was increasingly aware of the degree of reassurance she drew simply from his presence, and the relief she felt in knowing he would be with her on Monday, when the police came calling, was almost seductive.
As they walked along the boundary of Russell Square, she told herself that a large part of the allure of having him beside her was simply that—that it had been such a long time since she’d shared her day-to-day experiences with anyone. From that realization, it was a short step to warning herself not to get too accustomed to him being by her side; doubtless, once the killer was caught, he would be satisfied and move on…perhaps even sooner if clues proved thin on the ground and he lost interest.
She shouldn’t count on having him there, a shield of sorts against the world. While he might be intent on helping her out of this mess, she shouldn’t forget that his reason for doing so was to ensure that the news of the murder replaced and distracted all attention from her proposed exposé.
As they turned up the short street to Woburn Square, she inwardly frowned. She might not have been acquainted with Grayson Child for the past decade, yet burying the exposé seemed an exceedingly flimsy motive for his continued efforts on her behalf, his unabating insistence on protecting her.
That left her pondering the unsettling question of what else was keeping him pacing so determinedly beside her.
After seeing Izzy into the house in Woburn Square, Gray walked back to Woburn Place and hailed a hackney to take him into Mayfair.
He walked into his lodgings in Jermyn Street just after five o’clock.
His gentleman’s gentleman, Corby—who had instantly given notice and returned to Gray’s service as soon as Gray reappeared and hunted him down—came hurrying from the nether regions to take his greatcoat. “Good evening, my lord. I trust your day went well?”
“Well enough.” Gray surrendered the coat. “At the very least, it was interesting, apropos of which, I’ll be leaving for Ancaster within the hour.”
“Indeed, my lord. For how long should I pack?”
That was one of the things Gray appreciated about Corby; he was the epitome of unflappable. “Just one night. I’ll be back tomorrow, albeit quite late. Tell Sam to fetch the curricle and the grays from the stable and tell him he’ll be going with me.”
“At once, my lord.” Corby turned away as Gray headed for the small parlor.
Then Gray halted and spoke to Corby’s departing back. “Corby, send Tom in. I have a job for him, and you’d better come and hear of it, too.”
Corby looked faintly intrigued. “Yes, my lord. We’ll be with you in a moment.”
Gray went in and sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace. A cheery blaze warmed the room, reminding him of how cold it would be on the drive north to his father’s principal estate. At least it would be a fairly direct run, more or less straight up the Great North Road.
While he was away, however…
Two minutes later, Corby opened the door and came in, followed by Tom, Corby’s nephew. Tom, a more strapping version of his uncle, closed the door, then took up station beside Corby and nodded a greeting to Gray, then grinned, dispelling his until-then-bland expression. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“Indeed, Tom. I intend to head to Ancaster Park shortly and won’t be back until tomorrow night. However, there’s a matter I’d like you to take care of while I’m away—say from seven o’clock tomorrow morning to seven o’clock in the evening.” Gray paused, eyes narrowing in thought, then grimaced. “Actually, I need two of you—I have two different places I want watched.”
He looked inquiringly at Corby and Tom. “Do you know of any likely lad who wouldn’t mind earning a few shillings keeping watch on a different place over the same hours?”
Corby and Tom exchanged glances, then Corby looked at Gray. “Young Bill would be happy to help out, we’re sure. He’s my other sister’s youngest lad.”
Corby came from a large family, each member of which, barring only Corby, seemed to have had multiple offspring. Gray arched his brows. “How old is Young Bill?”
Tom, who was all of twenty, replied, “Seventeen, my lord. A good lad, if a bit tall and gangly still.”
Corby nodded his agreement with this assessment.
“Very well. I’ll leave it to you both to organize Young Bill. I want him to keep watch over the Molyneaux Printing Works, which is also the office of The London Crier. It’s in Woburn Mews, just a bit up from Bernard Street.”
Tom nodded. “We’ll find it, my lord. It being Sunday tomorrow, will there be anyone there?”
“There shouldn’t be anyone inside, but it’s possible the police will have thought to put someone on watch. Unlikely, but Bill needs to bear that in mind and not let any other watcher spot him.”
Tom grinned. “I’ll explain that, my lord.”
Gray went on, “I’m not anticipating any action, but if Bill should see anyone attempting to break in, he should alert the nearest constable—he’ll probably find one in Woburn Place. The local police know that the premises in question was the scene of a murder yesterday, so they should act with all the promptness we might wish.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Corby said. “You can count on us to take care of that.”
Gray inclined his head. “Now, Tom, I want you to watch a house not far from the printing works—Number twenty, Woburn Square. It’s off the northwestern corner of Russell Square.”
“Aye—I know it, my lord,” Tom said.
“I want you to make sure you’re not noticed by any of the occupants of that house, and if the owner, a lady, Mrs. Molyneaux, goes out, I want you to trail her—hanging well back so she doesn’t spot you. I want you to keep her in sight and follow her wherever she goes, even if that means catching a hackney. However, if she goes anywhere, it’s likely to be to the local church or, possibly, the printing works, which she owns.” Gray focused on Tom. “If she does appear there, she’ll have a key to the door. Make sure Bill knows that and doesn’t raise any alarm.”
“Of course, my lord,” Tom said. “How will I know her?”
“She’s a trifle taller than average, a slender lady with dark hair. She’s a widow, so usually wears dark colors, and her customary bonnet is black silk. Wherever Mrs. Molyneaux goes, I need you to keep her in sight at all times and take note of anyone who approaches her, especially if she doesn’t appear to know them. I don’t believe she’s in any danger at the moment, but if, for instance, some man attempts to force her into a carriage or in any way harm her, you are to do whatever you can to keep her safe.”
Tom straightened to attention. “You can count on me, my lord. And Young Bill as well.”
“I’m sure I can.” Gray had Tom repeat his orders, then nodded and rose. “My thanks in advance to you and Young Bill.”
Both Corbys stepped aside as he made for the door. “Corby, let’s see about that packing.”
“Yes, my lord.” Corby fell in at Gray’s heels as he started up the stairs.
As Gray led the way to his bedroom, he sifted through the possibilities; as far as he could see, he’d covered every eventuality that he could.
Fifteen minutes later, with his greatcoat flapping about his top boots, he strode out of the house, climbed up to the box seat of his curricle, took the reins from Sam, and set his grays trotting for the Great North Road.