The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 5
After catching a few hours’ sleep at Ancaster Park and spending half an hour with his parents, Gray rode his hunter across the snowy fields to Alverton Priory.
Despite his ten-year absence, the Priory staff hadn’t forgotten him; he left his horse in the stable and entered the house via the side door, then made his way to the front hall, where he found Edwards, the butler.
He greeted the man, asked for the earl and countess, and was directed to the family parlor.
Gray walked quietly into the parlor and grinned at the sight of Devlin, Earl of Alverton, and his countess, Therese, stars in the firmament of the haut ton, sitting on the carpet before a roaring fire and playing a complicated battle of toy soldiers with all three of their youthful brood.
Gray drank in the sight and inwardly acknowledged that the comfort of home and family inherent in the scene embodied the essence of what, ultimately, he wanted to secure for himself.
Then the boys—Spencer and Rupert—saw him. With shouts of “Lord Grayson!” they leapt to their feet and came pelting across to seize his hands and tow him farther into the room.
Laughing, he allowed them to lead him to where, abandoning the game, Devlin and Therese were getting to their feet, little Horry, their daughter, in Devlin’s arms.
Horry ducked her head under Devlin’s chin and smiled shyly at Gray; she’d yet to decide if he was an acceptable person, which suited him, as he had no idea how to respond to a female of her age.
Hoping for the best, he smiled and tapped Horry’s nose, which surprised her, then made her chortle, then he looked down at her importuning brothers. “Yes, I rode over on Smoke and Mist.”
“He’s in our stable?” Spencer, the elder, asked, eyes wide.
“Well, it’s a bit cold to leave him wandering the lawns, so yes, I left him with Wallace.”
Immediately, Spencer and Rupert turned identical beseeching looks on their parents.
“Can we please go and see Smoke and Mist?” Rupert begged.
Devlin shot a questioning look at Therese. She nodded, and the boys cheered.
Devlin held up a finger. “But you can only go near if Wallace is with you. If he can’t watch over you, you are to come straight back.”
“Yes, Papa,” the pair sang.
Devlin held the boys’ gazes for an instant, then nodded. “All right. Off you go.”
With an exuberant whoop, the pair thundered off.
“But be back in time for your luncheon,” Therese called after them.
She met Gray’s eyes as she reached for Horry, and Devlin handed the little girl over. “At the moment, for those two, horses trump every other topic.”
Gray smiled. “Devlin and I were the same.”
“Into our late teens,” Devlin confirmed.
“Good Lord!” Therese looked struck. “Is that what I have to look forward to?”
Gray and Devlin grinned.
Balancing Horry on her hip, Therese humphed. “Let me find Horry’s nursemaid. Don’t say anything interesting until I return.”
She headed for the door, and Devlin waved Gray to the comfortable old sofa and dropped into a well-worn armchair opposite.
Being very old friends and mindful of Therese’s admonition—knowing she definitely meant it—while they waited for her to return, they exchanged comments about the road from London and the likelihood of more snow.
Wintry light washed through the mullioned windows, bathing the scene in a pearl-gray glow. The warmth from the fire was soothing, reminding Gray of afternoons long gone. He glanced around. “I have a lot of fond memories of this room.”
Devlin nodded. “We spent a lot of our childhood here.”
“Playing and plotting.” Gray smiled. “Good times.”
Devlin smiled back.
Therese returned, sans Horry, and sank onto the other end of the sofa. “So what brings you here? Your mother wasn’t expecting you, so I take it something specific has brought you our way.”
Gray sobered. “You surmise correctly.” He proceeded to explain about the exposé. It transpired that Therese had seen the notice but, as he had, had assumed it referred to him.
He shook his head. “No—or rather yes, it would apply to me, but in fact, the intended target was your brother, Martin.”
“Really?” Therese stared at Gray, then shifted her gaze to her husband. “I knew Martin had ‘made his fortune,’ so to speak, but I had no idea he was that wealthy.”
Devlin tipped his head. “I know no more than you, but I suspected that might be the case.” He looked at Gray. “Did you know?”
“Not exactly, but given his stated direction business-wise, I did wonder, enough that learning he was the target instead of me wasn’t a huge surprise.”
Therese was frowning. “If none of us knew of Martin’s wealth, how did The London Crier learn of it?”
Gray admitted, “I didn’t ask. I concentrated on making the case—Martin’s and mine as well—that exposing our wealth to all society would not just bring the matchmakers down on our heads but would also severely compromise our abilities to invest and generally do business. Luckily, when I explained all that to the proprietor, Mrs. Molyneaux, who turned out to be Isadora Descartes as was, she saw the light and agreed not to run the exposé and, instead, substitute some other sensation.”
“What?”Therese’s shocked exclamation brought Gray up short.
Before he could ask what had so exercised her, she leant forward and, her eyes locked on his face, demanded, “Did I hear you aright? Isadora owns The London Crier?”
Slowly, he nodded. “That’s what I said.”
Therese sat back, her expression suggesting she was flabbergasted—not something that often occurred. She stared unseeing across the room. “How exceedingly…bold of her.”
Starting to sense he was missing something, Gray added, “She’s the chief writer as well.”
Therese’s gaze returned to his face. She was still plainly stunned. “Good heavens! I had absolutely no idea!”
That she was stunned by the fact she hadn’t known something made perfect sense to Gray; a glance at Devlin saw amused appreciation in his expression as well. Therese prided herself on knowing absolutely everything that went on in ton circles; to have been completely ignorant of two juicy pieces of gossip, one concerning her own brother, would, naturally, set her on her heels.
Then her expression grew puzzled. “But why Mrs. Molyneaux…oh!” Her face cleared. “Of course! To conceal her identity. Obviously, she wouldn’t want that known.”
Gray frowned. “No, because she married Molyneaux and is widowed—”
He broke off, because Therese was now staring at him with amazed eyes and a very strange expression.
If Lady Isadora Descartes had married, Therese would know. It was beyond impossible that she wouldn’t.
Gray stared at Therese, while in his chest, something moved in a disconcerting way. “Izzy didn’t marry, did she?”
Therese shook her head. “Not only is there no chance in Heaven that I would have missed an event such as the wedding of Lady Isadora Descartes, I met Isadora and her mother and sister at Lady Hitchen’s ball a few months ago, just before we left town.” Therese blinked, then added, “And of course, Molyneaux is the dowager countess’s maiden name—she was the last of the Suffolk Molyneaux.”
Gray was stunned, not only by the discovery but even more by his visceral reaction to the news that Izzy hadn’t married. That she hadn’t been some other man’s…
He hauled his mind from that unsettling tack and refocused on what he’d come there to do. “Well, that’s interesting, but it’s really neither here nor there with respect to what’s brought me to your door.” Although Izzy’s deception in portraying herself as a widow only increased the potential for Quimby to have been blackmailing her, Gray accepted that her true marital status needed to remain concealed at all costs.
Glancing at Therese, he realized she was debating whether to allow herself to be distracted from the intriguing news of Izzy’s unexpected ventures, and he firmly stated, “There’s been a murder. While Izzy and I were in the office of the printing works, talking about replacing the exposé, the photographer who worked for The Crier was stabbed to death in the darkroom, mere yards away.”
That proved sufficiently dramatic to distract even Therese. “Good Lord!” Her hand rose to her throat. “Is Isadora all right?”
“In general, yes. However…” He described the situation in broad strokes, explaining that the police plainly needed assistance to find the killer.
At that point, they were interrupted by Edwards with the news that luncheon was ready to be served whenever they wished.
Therese invited Gray to share the meal, and he readily accepted, and they adjourned to the smaller dining room.
“So,” Devlin asked, once they’d served themselves and settled to eat, “what are you doing to help the police?”
Gray gathered his thoughts, then said, “One thing that seemed notable was that despite almost certainly knowing Izzy and I were there, talking only yards away, after killing Quimby, the murderer took the time to find and wreck all the photographer’s daguerreotype plates—the originals of the photographs he’d taken. That suggests that the motive for the murder lay in the photographs Quimby had taken.”
Therese frowned. “If the photographs are all wrecked… Did the photographer keep a record of what he’d taken?”
Gray blinked. “That’s an interesting notion, but sadly, we haven’t learned of any such record as yet. However, after the police left the workshop yesterday—they came and interviewed the staff—Izzy and I met with the staff and talked things over, and we learned that Quimby had changed the way he takes photographs, and the photographs he’d taken on the day he died were still safe in the darkroom. His young assistant printed up copies, and those are what’s brought me to you.”
Therese’s eyes were wide. “How can we help?”
“There are seven photographs in all—seven scenes about London. Our working hypothesis is that there’s something in one of those photographs that the killer doesn’t want others to see. All seven photographs could have ended up published in a newspaper—The Crier or others—and that’s what the killer was prepared to murder to prevent.”
Devlin was nodding. “That seems a reasonable argument.”
“So we think.” In between talking, Gray had cleared his plate. He laid down his cutlery, dabbed his napkin to his lips, and set it aside. “The thing is, there are lots of people in the photographs—ladies, gentlemen, men, women—and we need to identify them all. Izzy and I know a few, but naming the others was beyond us.”
Therese pushed her empty plate away. “You’ve brought the photographs with you?”
Gray tapped his coat pocket. “We had the assistant make three sets of prints. Izzy has one set and is consulting her mother and sister. Meanwhile, I thought I’d come and consult you.”
Therese’s face lit. “An excellent notion!” She looked at Devlin. “Shall we return to the parlor?”
They did. Therese sat in the center of the old sofa, with Devlin on her left. Gray drew out the stack of seven prints and handed them to Therese, then pulled out a small notebook and pencil and sat on her other side.
Therese flicked rapidly through the prints, then returned to study the first closely.
Gray glanced across; it was the photograph of the riders in Hyde Park.
“That’s Lord Compton.” Therese pointed to one rider. “And that’s Frederick Ashfield.”
Between them, she and Devlin named almost everyone in the Hyde Park and Regent’s Park photographs; Therese even identified the two nursemaids pushing perambulators in Regent’s Park, at least in the sense of which household they worked for.
Of the other four scenes, they picked out two gentlemen in the scene of the museum’s forecourt, one of whom was tooling his carriage along the road, and in the Fleet Street photograph, Devlin was fairly certain the well-dressed gentleman standing before the coffeehouse and speaking to another neatly dressed but portly individual was something to do with some government office, but couldn’t remember more.
Neither Devlin nor Therese recognized any of the people in the picture of the building near the new station or the view from London Bridge.
While Therese looked over the photographs again, Devlin sat back.
Gray noticed his old friend was frowning at the photographs.
Then Devlin raised his gaze and, over Therese, met Gray’s eyes. “You know Drake Varisey, don’t you? Winchelsea?”
When, puzzled, Gray nodded, Devlin continued, “He’s taken up where his father left off.”
“Wolverstone?” Gray clarified.
“Yes. And I suspect”—Devlin shared a glance with Therese—“that Drake might be interested in this murder of yours.”
Therese nodded decisively. “Even if it’s not something in his bailiwick, Drake will want to know of it, and he wields a lot of clout with the authorities.”
We might need that.The thought popped into Gray’s head. A second later, he caught himself and wondered at that “we.”
Glancing at Therese, Devlin smiled. “And if Therese’s reaction on learning that Isadora is the proprietor of The London Crier is anything to judge by, Louisa—Louisa Cynster who is now Drake’s wife—will fall on your neck and drag you inside and avidly listen to all you have to say, which means Drake will as well.”
Therese added, “If anyone can guess what in these photographs might have moved someone to murder, it’ll be Drake.”
Gray dipped his head in agreement. “I’ll contact him. It can’t hurt.” He accepted the photographs from Therese and slipped them into his pocket.
He glanced at her, then ventured, “While investigating the murder, I’m obviously going to be associating with Isadora, with whom, you might recall, I was acquainted before I left the country. What can you tell me about her life now?”
He was absolutely certain that, despite the years, Therese would remember exactly how close he and Izzy had been. In truth, it hadn’t been only Isadora who had been expecting him to propose.
When Therese arched her brows, he acerbically added, “I don’t want to find myself stumbling over further misconceptions.”
She grinned. “I suppose I have to thank you for the news about Isadora owning The Crier—and please do assure her that neither Devlin nor I will breathe a word of that to anyone.”
He nodded and looked at her pointedly.
Still grinning, she settled into the cushions and waved airily. “Fire away. What do you want to know?”
Voicing his questions would expose his interest. Nevertheless, he knew of no better source for the sort of information he needed to know.
Over the next twenty minutes, he confirmed that, despite a veritable horde of suitors who had swarmed about Isadora after he had left, she’d never come close to encouraging, let alone entertaining, an offer. “That drove the grandes dames quite to the brink,” Therese said. “Even when the truth of the family’s finances started to leak out, on birth alone, Isadora still ranked as a highly eligible young lady.”
Therese explained how, in the way such things happened, word had slowly seeped through the ton that the late earl had all but bankrupted the family. “The situation became obvious when they were forced to sell the Mayfair house.” She frowned. “That must have been the year after you left.”
When Gray inclined his head, she continued, “Sometime after that, Isadora’s brother, Julius, who had succeeded to the title—I believe he’s younger than her by a year or so—contracted a marriage with the granddaughter of a wealthy millowner.”
Gray was surprised.
Therese saw it and nodded seriously. “Indeed. It had come to that, and the union bought the family some respite, and by all accounts, the marriage has proved a happy one. Nevertheless, not long after that, Julius sold the family estate, which had been in the family for generations but, courtesy of his late father, who had secretly broken the entail, was mortgaged to the hilt.”
Therese’s gaze roved the comfort and solidity of the walls around her. Without prompting, she went on, “As far as I know, Isadora currently lives with her mother, Sybil, Dowager Countess of Exton, and her sister, Marietta, who was presented last year, in a town house in Norfolk Crescent, just north of Hyde Park off Edgware Road.” Therese met Gray’s eyes. “To all intents and social purposes, the Exton ladies go on well enough. I don’t know what more I can tell you.”
Gray inclined his head. “That’s a great deal more than I knew before. I’ve been picking my way through incidental comments Isadora’s made and guessing. Knowing the situation will make dealing with her much easier.”
And that’s possibly the most massive understatement I have ever made.
Thinking over all Therese had said, he frowned. “I’m surprised Julius—now he’s the earl—hasn’t cut up rough over Isadora being the owner and active manager of The London Crier.”
The look Therese bent on him was openly patronizing. “You are speaking of Isadora Descartes. In that family, she was always the leader, the one who took care of everyone else. Even while her father was alive, Julius, Marietta, James—her younger brother who’s at Eton now—and Sybil all took their lead from Isadora. While they will always support her—and staunchly—I can’t imagine any of them being of much practical help. They are all very nice people, but not the sort to act on their own—they are not in Isadora’s league and will always look to her for guidance.” Therese met Gray’s eyes. “Consequently, Julius wouldn’t dream of getting in Isadora’s way, much less censuring her.”
Gray nodded. “I see.” And indeed, he did. Izzy didn’t have anyone she could turn to in the current fraught situation—or at least, no one she would turn to for active help and assistance. He knew her well enough to feel certain that, rather than involve those she loved, she would keep her worries close and carry any burden herself.
Apparently, Therese had been dredging her memory. “As I recall, Isadora wasn’t initially happy with Julius’s decision to marry the millowner’s granddaughter, but once she came to know the girl, Isadora changed her tune and approved and supported Julius’s suit. And that, I must tell you, was critical to having the marriage more or less accepted within the ton. The grandes dames might not always approve of Isadora’s actions, but they definitely respect her intelligence and her opinions. Once she accepted Julius’s marriage, they did, too. Mind you, Julius and his wife—I believe her name is Dorothy—rarely come to town. I understand they prefer their life in the country and are quite content raising their children and managing their acres.”
The clocks in the house chimed for three o’clock, and Gray stirred. “I should ride home. I have to be in town in the morning.”
He and Devlin rose.
“I’ll have your horse saddled and brought around.” Devlin went to tug the bellpull and summon Edwards.
Gray gave Therese his hand and helped her to her feet. “Thank you for the information. I don’t suppose you remember what number in Norfolk Crescent the Exton house is?”
She smiled brightly. “It’s Number six.”
He smiled in thanks, and they walked to where Devlin waited.
Gray shook hands with Devlin, thanked him for his assistance, and confirmed that he would definitely inform Drake about the murder, then Edwards arrived to say his horse was waiting, and Devlin and Therese walked out with him.
The pair halted on the front porch and watched Gray go down the steps and accept the reins from the groom.
Gray swung up to the saddle, raised a hand in farewell, then wheeled his horse and rode down the drive.
Therese and Devlin watched him go, and Devlin heard Therese murmur, “Who knows?”
He decided he didn’t need to inquire further as to what she was speculating upon; he was fairly certain he knew.
Then the love of his life turned her bright eyes his way. “I have to say, I’m quite envious of Isadora and her creation at The Crier.” More pensively, she added, “I wonder how it all works.”
He managed to hide the horror her words—and even more her tone—evoked and mildly replied, “Indeed.” He turned her in to the house and artfully asked, “I wonder what the boys are up to? They’ve been quiet for hours. Maybe we should check.”
That galvanized her into action. With his fingers metaphorically crossed, Devlin followed her up the stairs.
Gray reached Ancaster Park and rode straight to the stables. There, he found Sam and gave orders to have the grays put to, then strode to the house to fetch his bag.
During the ride from the Priory, he’d had time to digest all he’d learned and was now intent on driving back to town.
As he hauled open the side door and strode into the corridor, he muttered to himself, “To beard the lioness in her true den.”
At seven o’clock the following morning, Gray strode up the steps of Number 6, Norfolk Crescent. He paused on the semicircular porch and glanced around. The house faced west, across the neat street from a small, half-moon-shaped park ringed with black iron railings. The park hosted several trees that, in spring and summer, would make a pretty scene.
The terrace houses lining the crescent were relatively new and in pristine condition, and at this hour, there was no traffic about to compete with the birdsong.
All in all, it was one of the nicer spots in London to live. Not quite holding the cachet of Mayfair, but it would certainly pass in society as a “good address.”
Turning to the glossy dark-green door, Gray plied the bronze knocker and waited.
During the drive to town, he’d dredged his memory for the names of the Exton staff, and when the butler opened the door, Gray greeted the man with an amiable smile. “Good morning, Cottesloe.”
Gray stepped forward, and taken completely by surprise, the butler gave way.
“My lord?” Cottesloe blinked several times, then managed, “Forgive me, but it is Lord Child, is it not?”
“Indeed.” Gray handed Cottesloe his hat, which the bemused butler accepted, and shrugged off his greatcoat. “I’m here to see Lady Isadora. I assume she’s at the breakfast table?”
“Ah…” Instinctively, Cottesloe accepted the heavy coat Gray held out. “I…ah, believe she is, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Guessing the most likely direction, Gray started down the corridor that ran beside the stairs. “It’s this way, is it?”
“Yes, but…” Weighed down with coat and hat, Cottesloe trotted after him. “My lord…that is…”
Gray caught the scent of toast and followed it to a sunny breakfast parlor at the rear of the house. Through the open door, he caught sight of Izzy, sipping from a teacup as she stared through the window at the small, winter-drab garden.
Without altering his stride, he walked into the room.
Alerted by his footsteps, startled, she looked around, then her eyes flared, and she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
He smiled, intently, at her and circled to draw out the chair with its back to the window, the one directly opposite her. “Good morning, Izzy. I thought I’d find you here.” He sat and held her stunned gaze.
Cottesloe hurried in and dithered by her elbow. “My lady, I didn’t know if or, rather, whether his lordship—”
She waved aside his words. “My apologies for not warning you, Cottesloe.” She glanced at the butler. “It’s quite all right.”
Cottesloe looked from Gray to her, his expression stating that to his way of thinking, the situation was far from satisfactory.
“Perhaps,” she glanced at Gray, “his lordship might like some breakfast.”
Gray smiled at Cottesloe. “I’ve already eaten, but a cup of coffee would be welcome.”
With something acceptable to do, Cottesloe drew himself up and half bowed. “Of course, my lord.”
Gray watched as the butler, spine rigid, disapproval in every line, departed, bearing away Gray’s coat and hat.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Shifting his gaze back to Izzy, he noted that the look she was leveling at him over the rim of her teacup was not so much aggressive as wary. He opted for the fastest way to convince her that he knew all. “The people I visited yesterday to consult over the names of those featured in Quimby’s photographs were the Earl and Countess of Alverton.”
Izzy closed her eyes and softly groaned. “Therese Cader—I might have known.”
“Indeed, you might. I grew up with Alverton, after all.”
She shook her head and opened her eyes. “I’d forgotten the connection.” She paused, then met his gaze directly. “I assume that means you know everything about my current position in society and the…subterfuge, for want of a better word, I have in place to keep the two halves of my life separate.”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then replied, “As to whether I know all…that’s impossible for me to say. But I certainly know a great deal more than I did on Saturday.” He circled a finger in the air. “Enough to understand about here.”
Enough to be a very great nuisance and an even bigger threat.
Rationally, Izzy knew that was so, yet she felt not the slightest threat emanating from him. Irritation at having been taken in by her subterfuge and a certain grimness, too, but nothing that triggered her well-honed defenses.
He remained committed to helping her solve Quimby’s murder and wouldn’t let her down.
While that knowledge was comforting, that she felt so certain of him was itself unsettling.
As if confirming her assessment, he added, “Therese told me to assure you that neither she nor Devlin will breathe a word of your situation to anyone.” His lips twisted. “Truth be told, she seemed rather envious of your achievement in setting up The Crier.”
Izzy suppressed a snort. She knew Therese well enough to be unsurprised by that.
Cottesloe reappeared, bearing the silver coffeepot. He poured Gray a cup, then took up his customary position by the sideboard.
Izzy caught Gray’s eyes with a look of warning. Any words spoken before Cottesloe would find their way to her mother within hours.
Gray lowered the coffee cup. “I learned the names of several people in the photographs. Did you get any further with your inquiries?”
That, she could safely answer. “Mama, Marietta, and I had a quick look at the prints before we went to church. Marietta recognized a few faces, and after lunch, she and I strolled in the park, wracking our brains, then returned to pore over the photographs with Mama again. We’ve put names to most faces in the Hyde Park and Regent’s Park photographs, and a few of those in the museum scene, and we think we know two of the ladies on the edge of the London Bridge picture.”
He nodded. “When we reach the office and write everything down, we’ll have names for most of the members of the ton who feature.”
Izzy interpreted the comment as a statement of intent, namely that he was going to accompany her to the office and, presumably, continue by her side, at least as long as it suited him.
Normally, such high-handed interference in her day would provoke immediate resistance, but she wasn’t averse to him being at the office when the police returned.
“Indeed.” She drained her teacup. “Once you finish your coffee, we can go.”
The smile that curved his lips was more predatory than warming. He drained his cup, set it down, and waved. “Lead on.”
She rose and sent Cottesloe to summon the carriage, then walked with Gray to the front hall.
He helped her don her coat. “Your mother and sister?”
“Are rarely seen downstairs before eleven o’clock.” She settled her bonnet on her head.
He shrugged on his greatcoat. Cottesloe returned to hand him his hat and open the door.
She’d left her reticule on the hall table. She picked it up and led the way outside.
Fields, her coachman, stood beside the carriage, holding the reins and the open door.
She informed him, “Lord Child will be accompanying us this morning.”
Fields’s surprise showed only fleetingly, then he bowed to Gray. “Your lordship.”
Gray nodded back, grasped Izzy’s elbow, and steadied her up the carriage steps.
She felt the imprint of his long fingers through the two layers of fabric.
His hand slid away, and she gathered her skirts and sat, and he climbed into the small carriage and settled on the seat opposite. Fields closed the carriage door, and the body dipped as he climbed to the box.
Until that moment, she hadn’t felt claustrophobic in the carriage—hadn’t even noticed it was that small—but with Gray shut in with her, she felt as if air was in short supply.
Breathless. She felt breathless.
The carriage jerked into motion, then settled and rolled smoothly along.
They both had long legs and sat angled to accommodate each other in the cramped space, leaving his trousers brushing her skirts.
She drew in a constrained breath and was almost grateful when, his gaze on the passing streetscape, he said, “Therese, of course, knew only about the ton side of your life.” Shifting his gaze to her face, he said, “Tell me about Woburn Square.”
She debated spinning him some tale, but he was too intelligent to bamboozle. “A Mrs. Carruthers owns the house. She’s an elderly lady, the relict of a country squire and an old friend of Silas Barton, my brother’s grandfather-in-law.” She met Gray’s amber eyes and smiled. “Silas was an unexpected benefit of Julius’s marriage. He’s a self-made man—a wily, wise, and sound one—and he befriended us all. You might say that, in our time of need, Silas was a godsend.
“With respect to The Crier, he’s acted more like a godfather to me. It was he who helped me acquire the printing works and rebuild what was an ailing business into the profitable enterprise it now is. Woburn Square was also Silas’s idea—he insisted that, if I was to go into the newspaper business, it was imperative that I conceal my identity, and using Mrs. Carruthers’s house as a staging post when going there and back ensures no one can readily follow me from the paper to Norfolk Crescent.”
Still smiling, she added, “In true Silas fashion, me dropping in on Mrs. Carruthers twice every workday—I almost always stop to exchange a few words while passing through the house—gives the old dear something to look forward to.” She refocused on Gray. “That gives you some idea of Silas’s character.”
Gray shifted restlessly. “Therese explained something of what happened with your family. I hadn’t realized, back then, that your father had left the family so deeply in debt.”
“For obvious reasons, we concealed as much of the impact as we could, but there was no avoiding the reality. We sailed very close to the rocks in the years immediately after Papa’s death. With James still in the nursery, Julius at Oxford, and Marietta in the schoolroom, it was left to Mama and me to cope as best we could, riding out the storm of creditors. That dragged on for several years. It turned out Papa had mortgaged everything he could to fund his gambling, and there really wasn’t anything left.”
Gray straightened. “He was a gambler?”
“Indeed. With him, it was mostly horses.” Even she heard the caustic tone the years of bitterness lent her voice. “He was addicted by the end. He couldn’t bear to know a race was being run anywhere in the country on which he hadn’t wagered. It was ludicrous, the lengths to which he went just to scrape up a few more pounds to lay on the nags. It wasn’t even about winning, by then. It was purely the thrill of having so much riding on the race. The deeper the debt, the greater the risk, and the more fevered he became. The experience became his drug.”
She glanced out of the window, but could feel Gray’s gaze on her face. “You can imagine how relieved Mama and I were that Julius has never shown the slightest sign of being interested in wagering on anything.”
Gray’s gaze shifted.
After a moment, she glanced at him and saw he was staring blankly into space, then he blinked, saw her watching, and offered, “Sometimes, that’s the way of it—personally experiencing the damage gambling does, not just to the gambler but to everyone around him, sends people in the opposite direction.”
“Whatever the reason for Julius’s aversion to gambling, we’re sincerely grateful.”
“Where is James, incidentally?”
“At Eton. That was one thing Julius and I—and Mama—were adamant about, that James has the education and opportunities he should have.”
“Who funds that?”
“Partly Julius, from what is now the earldom’s estate, and partly the business.”
Gray forced himself to think—and to acknowledge how rattled he was. From Therese’s report, he’d assumed the late earl had lost his fortune through poor investments or something of that sort; learning that Izzy’s father had gambled the family more or less into destitution had shaken him to an extent he didn’t want Izzy to see.
He cleared his throat. “If I’ve understood everything correctly, you—with help from Silas Barton—set up the Molyneaux Printing Works and The London Crier in order to keep your family in the manner to which you’re accustomed.”
She tipped her head from side to side. “That’s partly correct. The income from the printing works pays all the bills for Norfolk Crescent and for Mama, Marietta, and me.” Briefly, she met his eyes. “Even though both Julius and Silas have made standing offers to assist, it’s important to Mama, Marietta, and me that we are not a burden on anyone.”
He had no difficulty believing that and understood the pride underlying the sentiment.
The carriage turned down a narrow service lane bounded by the rear fences of two rows of houses.
“We’re nearly there.” Izzy gathered her reticule and shifted forward on the seat.
The carriage drew up beside the rear gate of a property. Gray leaned across, opened the door, and stepped down to the lane, glanced briefly around, then handed Izzy down. “Number twenty, Woburn Square, I take it.”
“Indeed.” She led the way through the gate and up the garden path.
Following her, Gray closed the gate and heard the carriage rattle away. “What happens with the carriage?”
“Fields drives to a nearby livery stable and leaves the horse and carriage there for the day, then returns here and helps out about the house until I’m ready to leave for home again.”
He glanced at the houses on either side as he drew level with Izzy, who had paused on the back step. “What do the neighbors think of your visits?”
“Doyle, Mrs. Carruthers’s housekeeper, is friendly with the housekeepers on either side. Apparently, everyone around believes I’m a very devoted friend.”
Gray said nothing more, but followed her through the back door into a cozy kitchen.
There, he found himself introduced as Lord Child to the Carruthers staff—a surprised-looking Doyle, Millie the cook, and a young scamp called Freddy. All three regarded him warily, but seemed to accept Izzy’s airy explanation that he was helping her with business.
He was then led to a breakfast parlor where he was presented to an ancient old lady. She examined him through shrewd blue eyes and, when Izzy explained his presence, simply nodded and stated, “Good.”
With that, she waved them off. “I know you have to hurry, my dear. You can tell me more this evening.”
Gray felt Mrs. Carruthers’s gaze dwelling on him as he fell in behind Izzy. Even on such abbreviated acquaintance, he’d received the distinct impression that the old lady was very fond of Izzy and, moreover, was nobody’s fool.
They left through the front door and, at a brisk pace, set out for the printing works. He glanced around, noting how very few denizens of the neighborhood were in evidence.
Izzy threw him a glance. “It’s a very quiet and genteel neighborhood. At the times I tend to go in and out, there’s rarely any people about.”
He was starting to appreciate just how well organized the subterfuge truly was—how canny Silas Barton had been in arranging for Izzy to use the Carruthers house.
Gray owned to being increasingly keen to meet Mr. Barton. Aside from anything else, he felt he owed the man his gratitude. Izzy had been forced to deal with a terrible situation more or less on her own, and Silas had been there and had helped when…
When I thoughtlessly ran away.
And left Izzy to shoulder the burden of taking care of and protecting her family entirely on her own.
Neither saw a need to talk as they walked. Unfortunately, that left Gray a prey to his thoughts. He knew what he’d heard that fateful afternoon, knew why he’d fled, but…he now had to consider the possibility that the words Izzy had uttered had, in the context in which she’d stood, been more a statement of fact than of feeling.
The long and short of it was, he had intended to offer for her, and he had been wealthy.
But he’d heard what he’d heard and felt as he’d felt, and he’d reacted and walked—run—away.
Now he knew that while he’d been adventuring, taking risks, gambling like a fiend, and eventually, recklessly losing every last penny and landing in a gutter, only to have Fate lift him out of it and grant him one last chance…while he’d been doing all that, constantly pursuing life to the fullest, living high and low and taking no responsibility for anyone but himself, Izzy had been dealing with the horrendous situation in which her father’s gambling had landed the earldom, making difficult decisions, managing as best she could, and shouldering the responsibility for all her family.
Until today, he would have described some of his past years as rough and hard. He had a sneaking suspicion that in comparison to Izzy, he didn’t know what the word “hard” truly meant.
He knew he wasn’t responsible for the troubles that had beset her, but equally, he would have made her life infinitely easier had he stayed.
Had he honored the unspoken promise that had lain between them.
As they turned onto Bernard Street, pacing beside her, he forced himself to draw in a deep breath, then slowly let it out.
From now on, he would keep his eyes open, take in all he saw, and properly reassess.
Not just their past but their present.
And not just her but himself as well.
They reached the door to the printing works a few minutes before eight o’clock. Izzy fished in her reticule, hauled out her keys, unlocked the door, and led the way inside.
From the reports Gray had received the previous night from Tom and Young Bill, he knew that, although the police hadn’t seen fit to post any watch, no one had tried to break into the workshop, at least not during the day.
Reassuringly, everything was as it had been when he and Izzy had left on Saturday.
Izzy went straight to the office and hung up her bonnet and coat, then headed for her desk.
After scanning the workshop, Gray ambled for the office while, in the distance, the city’s bells tolled for eight o’clock.
He’d just hung up his coat when the bell above the door tinkled. He looked across to see the staff arriving.
Izzy rose and walked past him, into the foyer. She greeted the staff who were doffing their coats, and they gathered around.
Gray lounged in the office doorway.
Once everyone had arrived, Izzy explained about the photographs Digby had printed, again thanking him for his excellent work. The others beamed and patted the lad’s shoulder, leaving him blushing and bashfully ducking his head.
“So what are the photographs of?” Lipson asked.
Izzy described the seven scenes and the progress they’d made in identifying the people in them. “I’m sure the police will return sometime today, and we’ll explain our thinking and give them the extra set of prints Digby made. They might see something in the photographs that we haven’t. Meanwhile, however, I’ve decided we should go forward and publish this week’s edition, including a section on Quimby and his murder.”
The relief in the staff’s faces was apparent; their expressions suggested the news gave them heart.
“Not to cast a spanner,” Maguire said, “but what will we do for photographs? Do you want to use the three Quimby did for us last Friday?”
Izzy frowned. “I’m not sure we should, not if they’re somehow linked to Quimby’s death. That doesn’t seem”—she wrinkled her nose—“appropriate.”
“We could use photographs from before—like from early last year,” Digby suggested. “Even though we’ve used them once, the punters aren’t likely to remember, and the backgrounds will be winterish.”
“That’s true enough.” Lipson nodded approvingly. He looked at Digby. “Do you know where they are?”
Digby tipped his head toward the cabinets lining the wall between the office and the darkroom. “They’re in there.” He glanced at Izzy. “I could pull out some of last winter’s scenes and show you, and you can choose which to run.”
“That will do for now,” Izzy said. “At least until I can secure the services of a suitable photographer.”
Gray listened as the staff joined in a discussion of what articles should be written and run. All agreed that an obituary was called for as well as a lead story reporting Quimby’s strange murder.
“Might seem a bit crass,” Matthews observed, “but the readers will love it.”
All nodded their assent, and the meeting broke up, and everyone dispersed to their various tasks. Izzy started for the office, saw Gray, and halted, staring at him, then she swung around. “Gerry?”
The young man turned back. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Can you bring me seven clean sheets of printing paper, please?”
“’Course, ma’am. I’ll fetch them up for you right away.”
While Gerry strode off to the storeroom, Izzy swung about, waved Gray back, and walked into the office. She returned to her chair behind the desk, sat, and pulled several sheets of notes toward her.
Gray sank into his customary armchair as she stated, “I have to write the lead story and Quimby’s obituary, but first”—she glanced at him—“we’d better make a note of all those in the photographs we’ve already identified.”
Gerry arrived, bearing seven large sheets of blank printing paper. “Here you are, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Izzy received the sheets and laid them on her desk. She dismissed Gerry with a nod, and he left, hurrying back to his work.
Izzy wrestled her set of prints from her reticule, rummaged in a drawer and drew out several pins, and pinned the top photograph—the one of riders in Hyde Park—in the middle of the first sheet. “Right.” After setting the rest of the prints aside, she picked up a pencil and drew a line with an arrow indicating one of the riders. “I know who this gentleman is.”
As she wrote down the name, Gray dragged the armchair around, leaned over, and tapped another rider. “That, I’m told, is Lord Compton.”
“It is, indeed.” She noted that down.
They progressed through all seven photographs, pinning each to a blank sheet and noting all the names they’d gathered.
The last print they addressed was the one taken from London Bridge, for which they had only a few suggested identities, none of which were certain.
When Izzy sat back and frowned at their combined effort, Gray glanced at the clock and discovered the hour was already after ten. “Therese and Devlin suggested that we take the photographs and the story of Quimby’s murder to Drake Varisey.” He looked at Izzy and saw understanding dawn in her emerald eyes. “I take it you know about Drake’s…occupation?”
Calculation infusing her expression, she nodded.
“Devlin and Therese strongly recommend consulting him, but of course, that means his wife, Louisa, will likely learn about this as well. Indeed, I understand that she’s the best possible source for the identities of those in the photographs—those of the ton we’ve yet to name.” He paused, then said, “I left a note to be delivered to Wolverstone House at eight this morning, asking Drake for a meeting at ten-thirty. I didn’t mention your name or The Crier, although the paper will obviously feature in what I tell Drake.”
He studied Izzy’s face, but her expression was now shuttered; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “Do you want to come with me? I think it would be best if you did, but if you don’t wish Drake and Louisa to know your secret, I’ll do my best to avoid mentioning you other than as Mrs. Molyneaux.” His gaze on her face, he quietly said, “Your choice.”
After several moments, her gaze rose to meet his. He could see in her eyes that she was deeply reluctant to go; if Therese had been curious, it seemed Louisa would be even more so, and for Izzy, the more people who knew her secret, the greater the risk to all she’d built over the past years, and the greater the threat to her and her family’s security, both financial and in society.
Then her gaze sharpened, and her features firmed. She nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
She looked down at the sheets, each with the relevant photograph attached, and quickly and efficiently folded them into a packet, pushed back from the desk, retrieved her reticule, and carefully pushed the packet inside.
Then she looked across the desk, determination in every line of her face. “Catching Quimby’s murderer is too important not to do everything I can. Until we know why Quimby was murdered, we can’t be certain the killer won’t come back or that he doesn’t have some sort of twisted vendetta against The Crier itself and Quimby was only his first victim.”
Gray came to his feet as she did and followed her to the coatrack. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He helped her don her coat, then caught her eye. “And it’s a truly horrifying proposition.”
She threw him a speaking look and, settling her bonnet on her head, led the way out of the door.