The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 6
“How well do you know Drake and Louisa?” Gray asked as the hackney he’d hailed rattled south toward Grosvenor Square.
Seated beside him, Izzy stared at the passing streetscape. “I meet them socially, so we know each other in that way, and Louisa and I have always moved in similar circles, even if we’re not close.”
She sighed and glanced at him. “I can’t see any way to hide my ownership of The London Crier, not from Drake and Louisa. They’re both as sharp as the proverbial tack. If we want their help—and I agree with Therese and Devlin’s assessment that consulting both Drake and Louisa would be the sensible thing to do—then I’ll need to be open with them.” She gestured vaguely. “It’s the only way.”
That she was prepared to risk all in pursuit of the killer could not have been clearer. Gray said, “From what I’ve gathered, Drake—and Louisa as well—must, of necessity, be very good at keeping other people’s secrets.”
“There is that.”
“With luck, nothing adverse will come of this meeting.”
She grimaced faintly. “I can only hope.”
The hackney bowled along the north side of Grosvenor Square, then slowed and pulled up outside Wolverstone House.
Izzy grasped Gray’s hand to step down from the hackney, waited while he paid the jarvey, then raised her skirts and climbed the steps to the imposing mansion’s front door.
Gray rang the bell. A magisterial butler opened the door and, when Gray gave their names, bowed them into the front hall, took their coats and hats, then conducted them to the drawing room.
Izzy had visited the house often enough over the years to feel entirely assured, yet for a disconcerting second as she crossed the tiled hall, she wasn’t sure which persona she should be projecting—Lady Isadora Descartes or Mrs. Molyneaux.
The point was clarified when the butler announced them as Lady Isadora Descartes and Lord Grayson Child, and she drew in a fortifying breath, and side by side, they moved into the room.
Louisa, who’d been sitting on one of the twin sofas, saw her, blinked, then all but sprang to her feet. “Isadora!” Louisa’s pale-green gaze flicked from Izzy to Gray and back again.
Izzy dipped her head. “Louisa.”
Drake had been standing with one arm resting on the mantelpiece; he straightened and, equally curious, came forward. “Isadora.”
She halted and inclined her head. “Drake.”
Drake’s gaze deflected to Gray. “Child.”
Gray held out his hand. “Please, just Gray.”
His lips lightly lifting, Drake shook hands. “Drake. I remember you from Eton—you were in Alverton’s year.”
Gray grinned. “For my sins.”
Releasing Gray’s hand, Drake turned to Louisa. “My wife, Louisa, although I expect you’ve met before.”
Gray grasped the hand Louisa offered. “Years ago. I believe you’d only just been presented when I left the country.”
Louisa nodded. “I think we met only once, at some ball.” She continued to glance back and forth between Izzy and Gray.
Drake also looked curiously at Izzy.
Calmly, Izzy caught Louisa’s eye and waited.
Recalled to her hostessly duties yet patently still burning with curiosity, Louisa waved at the other sofa. “Please, sit, and tell us what brings you here.”
Izzy walked to the sofa, sat, let her reticule fall to the cushion beside her, and started to pull off her gloves. As Gray sat beside her, she looked at the pair settling themselves on the sofa opposite. “Perhaps I should commence our revelations by explaining that I’m here in my role as proprietor of The London Crier.”
When dealing with powerful people, it helped to knock them off balance from the start.
Judging by the astonished looks both Drake and Louisa fixed on her, she’d achieved her objective.
“You own The London Crier?” Then Louisa’s expression cleared. “Well, of course you do—that explains so much! I’ve always wondered how they got their information. And your anecdotes are always so wickedly accurate.”
Izzy had to admit she enjoyed surprising Louisa, who was generally held to be all-knowing, at least as pertained to those in the ton.
But before Louisa could launch into the myriad questions clearly forming in her busy brain, Drake drily said, “With that now established, what brings you to our door?”
Izzy glanced at Gray, and he obliged.
“Murder.”
Drake’s eyes widened. “This gets more and more interesting. Who was murdered?”
Between them, they told the tale of Quimby’s murder, including the involvement of the police, then explained their theory that the motive for the murder lay in the photographs Quimby took that day—that the killer had tried to destroy—and the subsequent discovery of the unmarred negatives and their efforts to identify what it was in the photographs that might have led to Quimby’s death.
By the time Izzy extracted the photographs, each wrapped in its individual information sheet, from her reticule, Drake and Louisa could barely wait for her to unfold the sheets and lay them on the low table Drake fetched and set between the sofas.
As soon as she smoothed out the sheets, Drake and Louisa leaned forward and pored over the prints.
After several seconds of Louisa muttering names beneath her breath, Drake said, “Let’s take these one at a time.” He lifted the sheet with the photograph of the riders in Hyde Park attached and spread it on top. Both he and Louisa studied it. “I agree with all the names you have,” Drake said.
“And that gentleman”—Louisa pointed to the single man they’d yet to name—“is Louis Kilpatrick.”
Izzy pulled a pencil from her reticule and wrote down the name.
“Right.” Drake set that sheet aside, revealing the next—the scene in Regent’s Park. “What about this one?”
Louisa brought her excellent memory to bear, and soon, they had the names of all the people in that photograph and the second Hyde Park scene and most of those in the view of the museum courtyard.
When it came to the print of the building near the new station, neither Louisa nor Drake could name anyone. “They’re ordinary people going about their business.” Drake scanned the print. “I seriously doubt there’s anything in this scene that might have triggered the photographer’s murder.” He set the sheet aside, revealing the view taken from London Bridge.
Louisa leaned close, peering at the two young ladies just visible along the bridge’s railing. Then she stabbed her finger at the stationary carriage, a section of the back of which had made it into the photograph. “That’s the Duchess of Lewes’s carriage. Such a ramshackle old thing, but she insists she finds it comfortable. And the two young ladies are the duchess’s granddaughters.”
Louisa rattled off names, and Izzy promptly added them to the sheet. “My mother thought as much, but wasn’t sure.”
Louisa nodded and re-examined the print. “I don’t think there’s anyone else we need to identify on that one.”
Izzy agreed, and Drake shifted the sheet to lie with the others beside the table.
Louisa studied the final print, the one of the scene outside the coffeehouse in Fleet Street. After a long moment, she shook her head. “I don’t know anyone in this one.” Her tone was almost forlorn.
Drake tapped his finger on the image of the largish, well-dressed gentleman, who was talking to a shorter, rotund, and rather nattily dressed man on the pavement before the coffeehouse. “His name’s Duvall. I’ve seen him around the corridors of Whitehall, but I can’t recall which department he’s with.”
Gray nodded. “Devlin said much the same, but couldn’t remember which department, either. At least we now have a name.”
On the sheet, next to Devlin’s “government” comment, Izzy wrote “Duvall, Whitehall?” and drew an arrow pointing to the man.
Drake lifted the other sheets and laid them on top of the one on the table, then all four sat back and regarded the stacked sheets.
“The critical question,” Louisa said, “is why would someone kill to stop any of these apparently innocuous pictures being published?”
Silence reigned, then Drake stated, “The next logical question is what is it that we don’t know?” After a moment, he went on, “I accept your thesis that Quimby was killed because of something one of these photographs reveals. That means the motive is staring us in the face, but as yet, we don’t know enough to recognize it.”
After a further moment of silent cogitation, Louisa shifted her gaze to Izzy’s face. “I read The Crier every week, so I know the owner is listed as I. Molyneaux—ah.” Her expression lightened. “Molyneaux is your mother’s maiden name, isn’t it?”
Izzy admitted it was. “I took that name to conceal my involvement with the paper.”
“Well, I certainly won’t tell anyone.” Louisa directed a sharp glance at her spouse. “And neither will Drake.”
He glanced at her and smiled, then looked at Izzy. “I won’t tell, but I admit I’m already thinking of what use I might have for a paper with a certain circulation and an understanding proprietor.”
Amused, Izzy shook her head at him, then Louisa, plainly curious, asked how Izzy actually ran the paper. “What, exactly, do you have to do?”
Izzy saw no reason to withhold such information. She described how each edition took shape, more or less going through her week’s work day by day.
Louisa and Drake listened avidly, occasionally posing questions, which Izzy duly answered.
She’d reached the point of describing how the distribution of the paper was handled, when Louisa’s expression suddenly lit, and she flung up her hands. “Wait—wait!”
Everyone, her husband included, stared at her. From her expression, she was following some mental trail, then she refocused on Izzy and beamed. “I know how to catch the murderer!”
Drake viewed his wife with undisguised trepidation. “How?”
Louisa kept her gaze trained on Izzy. “I’m sure you’re intending to report on the murder in the next edition. I assume that will be this week’s?”
Izzy nodded. “It’ll go out this Friday.” Cynically, she added, “Having a murder on the premises is a sure way of gaining the public’s attention.”
“Just so,” Louisa returned. “And what if you state that it’s believed the reason your photographer was killed lies somewhere in the last photographs he took?” Louisa waved at the sheets. “Publish all seven and tell the readers that the vital clue to identifying the murderer lies in the pictures. Can they spot it?”
Enthused, her face alight, Louisa leaned forward. “Print the photographs in the paper and ask your readers for any information or insights they have. For instance, who are the people in the photographs—the people we don’t know?”
Drake stirred and also sat forward, studying the uppermost sheet, then he flicked through the stack and examined the others. “That just might work. These are all clear enough, detailed enough—it would be a pity not to use them.” He looked at Izzy. “And offer a reward. It doesn’t have to be much—ten or twenty pounds would do it.”
Izzy’s mind was whirling. She felt Gray’s gaze and glanced his way.
“That’s an excellent idea,” he said. “I’ll put up the reward.”
His eyes said: Especially as this will banish all memory of the exposé from the minds of your public.
She smiled and nodded.
“You’ll need to state that the reward is for new information that actually leads to the killer, but”—eyes bright, Louisa met Izzy’s gaze—“this will be just like an old-fashioned hue and cry. All we’re doing is adapting the concept to the modern age by using a newspaper rather than the town crier…” She laughed. “And how appropriate it is that a newspaper called The London Crier will run the piece.”
Izzy continued to nod as the possibilities firmed in her mind. “We’ll include a photograph of Quimby himself—I’m fairly certain we have one—and ask if anyone saw him on Friday, especially if he was with any others.”
Drake inclined his head. “That’s a very good notion.”
They discussed the ins and outs and the potential wording of their appeal to the readers. Izzy took notes, and it was plain all four of them had been completely won over by the idea of a modern-day hue and cry.
The jeweled clock on the mantelpiece chimed melodically, indicating that it was half past twelve. Louisa glanced at it, then looked at Izzy and Gray. “Please say you’ll stay for luncheon. We can continue our discussions over the table. I’m sure we’ll come up with more good ideas if we give ourselves the time.”
Izzy looked at Gray. “There’s nothing that requires my immediate attention at the printing works.”
He nodded and looked at Louisa. “By all means, we’ll stay and keep working on this idea.”
“My brilliant idea.” Louisa rose and went to tug the bellpull. “And because it was my idea, I’m going to demand to know all the details of how Izzy plans to execute it.”
Izzy laughed and, as it truly had been a brilliant idea, gracefully inclined her head in acceptance, then the butler arrived and confirmed that luncheon was ready to be served, and they rose and adjourned to the dining room.
With Drake, Gray followed the ladies, who despite the disparity in their heights, had their heads together, planning and plotting.
Eyeing the pair, Drake shook his head. “There’ll be no stopping them now, but I do think a hue and cry edition will be the fastest way to flush out the murderer.”
Louisa led them to what was plainly a personal dining room; the table was round and would hold only six at a pinch. They sat, with Izzy opposite Drake and Gray facing Louisa. The butler served the soup, and after swallowing her first mouthful, Izzy glanced at Drake. “In bringing our problem to your door, I hope we haven’t hauled you away from any pressing concerns.”
Drake shook his head. “In fact, I’m pathetically grateful to have a mystery into which I can sink my teeth. It’s been rather dull of late—in this season, political intrigue tends to take a holiday.”
“For which, I’m sure, we can all be grateful,” Izzy responded.
The conversation flowed freely. Courtesy of his recent return, Gray was the one with least to contribute, so he listened as three of arguably the keenest observers of the ton traded quips and comments as they entertained themselves and him.
As Lady Isadora, Izzy effortlessly fitted into this milieu. This was her true station, something Drake and Louisa—of similar station, as was Gray himself—instinctively recognized, unquestioningly accepted, and automatically responded to. The observation fed Gray’s appreciation of just how remarkable her performance as Mrs. Molyneaux was. At the printing works, she was accepted as the owner and manager, and he was quite sure not a single person there suspected her of being an earl’s daughter who regularly appeared in the major drawing rooms of the haut ton. Whether it was her innate confidence or an acquired knack, she had mastered the art of dealing with people as people regardless of social rank, without relying on her inherited status.
His attention caught, he watched more closely, studying her in this incarnation, one he hadn’t seen since returning to England. This Izzy was the mature version of the young lady he’d left behind, and her poise and self-assurance were impressive, even judged against Louisa’s mercurial brilliance.
The more Gray observed of Louisa’s and Drake’s responses to Izzy, the more it was borne in on him that, for an aristocratic spinster of her age, she occupied an unusual position of acceptance within the ton. After some cogitation, he decided the reason had to lie in the grandes dames and those like Louisa and her ilk knowing, or at least suspecting, more of the family’s true history than he had known.
It appeared the haut ton had come to view as laudable, rather than as a matter for censure, Izzy’s decision not to marry and, instead, devote herself to protecting her mother and siblings and successfully guiding the family through the minefield of severely straitened circumstances to an easier time.
Of course, one of the talents members of the ton had historically excelled at was fully comprehending yet never referring to the reality of living in straitened circumstances. Within the ton, appearance was all, and he suspected, for ladies of Izzy’s rank, their instinctive reaction on viewing her situation would be along the lines of “there but for the grace of God go I.”
By the time they reached the end of the meal, all four had grown even more enamored of the notion of their modern-day hue and cry.
Rising from the table, Izzy caught Gray’s eye. “I need to return to the printing works to get things rolling for our hue and cry edition.”
He nodded, and Drake dispatched a footman to secure a hackney.
Together, they strolled into the front hall, and after promising to keep Louisa and Drake informed of any developments, Gray and Izzy took their leave, and he led her down the steps to the waiting hackney.
They set off, with Izzy apparently mentally planning her upcoming front page. Gray smiled to himself; he was entirely satisfied with the outcome of their morning. As for the rest of the day, he planned to stick to Izzy’s side and ensure nothing, as the Americans would say, threw a wrench in her works.
Gray held open the printing works door, and Izzy glided through, her gaze already focusing farther down the workshop.
“Lipson? Everyone? We have news and a change of plans.”
The staff looked up, then downed tools and came forward to gather in the usual spot.
Izzy walked into the office, set her reticule on the desk, then undid and removed her bonnet and shrugged off her coat. Gray took her coat and bonnet and hung them with his coat on the rack, then followed her out to where the staff were waiting.
“Before you start,” Lipson said, “you should know you just missed the police.”
“Oh.” Izzy looked from Lipson to Mary and Maguire. “What did they say? Anything to the point?”
The responses to that question were distinctly contemptuous. Gray, who had taken up his usual stance leaning against the office wall, concluded that the police had struggled to find sensible questions to ask and had retreated empty-handed and, if the staff were to be believed, empty-headed as well.
“They didn’t have a clue—not one,” Lipson said. “Just wasting their time and ours, they were.”
That seemed the general consensus.
“Well”—Izzy waved at Gray—“his lordship and I have just come from meeting with some others, people connected with the authorities, and it was suggested that we run what might be termed a hue and cry edition.”
She described what she envisaged, enthusing about the possibilities and verbally painting a graphic picture of what she wanted to achieve.
The staff, one and all, fell in love with the idea and readily threw themselves, minds, hearts, and hands, into its execution.
Eventually, the majority of the staff returned to preparing the press for action once the pieces were written and ready to set and print, while with Lipson and Mary, Izzy retreated to her office.
Gray lingered in the workshop long enough to be impressed by the staff’s commitment to the latest idea; he overheard Tom Lipson, helping Horner and Matthews clean the massive drum of the press, saying that getting out the upcoming edition and, through it, catching Quimby’s killer could be their parting gift to Quimby.
Maguire and Digby were sorting type like dervishes, their hands moving so fast they were almost a blur, all the while with grins on their faces.
Reassured, Gray ambled into the office to find Izzy, Mary, and Lipson gathered about the desk, leaning over it as they sketched, wrote, altered, and redrew, entirely absorbed with thrashing out ideas of how they would create a sensational front page.
For Gray’s money, the subject matter was all that would be needed to attract the public’s interest. As long as the word “murder” appeared, preferably in large capitals, the fickle public would flock to pick up the paper and read.
The banner headline of “Hue & Cry” was a forgone conclusion, but as Gray stood listening, debate raged over what to run below that. Lipson proposed featuring a picture of Quimby and a description of the crime, while Mary was all for the description, but felt that a picture of the deceased might be considered in poor taste, at least on the front page.
For her part, Izzy didn’t seem convinced by any of the suggestions; she stood with arms crossed, frowning down at the roughly sketched headline.
Gray cleared his throat. When the three looked at him, he offered, “A hue and cry doesn’t necessarily mean murder. You need to make that very clear. ‘Murder Most Foul’ run under the banner would do it. Then keep the words to a minimum on the front page—you want people to buy the paper to read more. Run Quimby’s picture by all means—that’ll help to make the victim real—but keep the rest simple. Just something along the lines of ‘Respected photographer stabbed to death in his darkroom. Help us find the killer!’”
Izzy’s eyes came alight, and she seized a pencil and started scribbling ferociously. “Oh yes! That will do nicely.”
Mary and Lipson smiled at him delightedly, then went back to conspiring with Izzy as she sketched in the elements for their front page.
Gray felt a warm glow over having made a contribution.
“We’ll need to make sure we have a decent picture of Quimby,” Lipson said.
Still aimless, Gray spoke up. “Digby would be the one to ask, wouldn’t he? Shall I go and see what he can find?”
Izzy threw him a grateful smile. “Please. That will allow us to get on with our second page.”
Gray left them to it and went in search of Digby.
He found the lad still working alongside Maguire, cleaning individual pieces of type. When Gray asked about a photograph of Quimby, Digby said he knew of a few.
When the lad looked to Maguire, the older man grinned and tipped his head. “Best you go and find them. Mrs. Molly will want to see a rough of the front page, and if that’s going to be on it, we’ll need to work it up.”
Gray hid a grin over “Mrs. Molly” and followed Digby to the cabinets along the far wall. He watched as the lad ferreted about in the drawers, moving from one cabinet to another.
“I know they’re here somewhere,” Digby muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at Gray. “Mr. Q used himself as a model when he was experimenting, changing his settings or using different developing solutions.” The lad all but stuck his head in one of the bottom drawers, then emerged with a triumphant “Here they are!”
He straightened with a folder clutched in his hand.
Gray had been leaning against the table that Izzy had said was used to assemble the elements for each page; he stood as Digby laid the folder on the table and opened it.
Inside lay various photographs of a middle-aged man, possibly nearing fifty, of medium height and build, sporting wiry sideburns and curly, grizzled hair.
Gray had seen Quimby only in death. The photographs gave the man more depth and brought him alive in a way that, to Gray, he hadn’t previously been.
Digby was sorting through the prints, setting some aside. “These are the older ones—done with daguerreotype. We don’t have the negatives for them no more. But these”—Digby pushed forward a set of five photographs—“are more recent, taken using calotype, so we can use any of them.”
Gray studied the five prints. “Actually, we might want to use two. This one”—he tapped a classical portrait that showed Quimby full face, from the waist up—“because it shows his face most clearly, and this one.” He picked up a full-length image of the photographer, facing the camera from across a narrow street with the steps of a building behind him and two other men walking along the pavement. “It gives a better idea of how tall he was, and if we want people to remember if they saw him out and about, that picture is more likely to jog memories.”
Digby agreed unreservedly.
Gray tipped his head toward the office. “Why don’t we take these two to the office and explain why we think they should be the ones used?”
Digby gathered up the folder and, carrying the two selected prints in his hand, went with Gray to the office.
After contributing to the discussion over which photographs of Quimby would be used, Gray trailed Izzy as she and Lipson moved to the table used to lay out the page designs and commenced doing just that. They called Maguire over to discuss the size of type to be used for the various headlines, then blocked in the areas for the articles, notices, and photographs.
Gray found his opinion solicited regarding where best to place the announcement of the reward and was fascinated by the degree of understanding of their audience’s reading habits displayed by Izzy, Lipson, and Maguire. Once blocks of space for the various sections of text had been allocated, Maguire returned to his type while Izzy and Lipson surveyed the twelve individual pages, noting down all the blank spaces.
Pencil in hand, Izzy consulted a notebook, then stated, “I make that seven medium advertisements and a grand total of eighteen smaller.” She cocked a brow at Lipson.
He nodded. “That seems right.”
“How many slots have we already got filled?”
Gray realized she was talking about advertisements.
Lipson tipped his head from side to side. “We could fill them all right now, but given this is such a special edition and will get much greater circulation…” He looked questioningly at Izzy.
She nodded decisively. “Indeed. We should call in the advertisers and discuss a higher fee.” She tapped the pencil to her lips. “We could offer a special deal. A significantly higher fee for running in this edition”—she glanced at the rough layouts—“especially for the medium slots on the pages with the main story and the ads on the pages with the photographs and the notice of the reward, but as part of the deal, we’ll agree to revert to our previous rate for the following two editions, which will also benefit from the increased circulation.” She looked at Lipson. “What do you think? You’re the one who’ll be making the argument.”
Lipson nodded decisively. “They’ll all go for it. Once word about this hue and cry edition gets out, we’ll be beating off new advertisers with sticks, and our regulars are smart enough to know that.”
“Right, then. I’ll leave you to get cracking with that. Meanwhile”—Izzy looked at Gray—“I have a lead article and an obituary to write.”
She left Lipson making notes off the layout sheets and strode for the office.
Gray followed, but when Izzy—with a stern frown as a warning not to distract her—settled at her desk to write, he wandered out into the workshop again.
Lipson was standing behind the counter, working on a list, while Mary was perched on a stool farther along and busily writing. Izzy had mentioned that Mary wrote some of the pieces run in the paper, and she seemed to be working on an article of some sort.
Rather than interrupt, Gray ambled deeper into the workshop. He noticed that the darkroom door was propped open and glimpsed Digby inside, filling containers with solutions. Gray wondered when and from where Izzy would find another photographer. He skirted the huge, hulking printing press, still being crawled over by Tom Lipson and Horner, and came again to where Maguire, now assisted by Matthews, was preparing his type for setting the new edition.
Maguire gave Gray an encouraging smile. “The printing business new to you, then?”
Gray glanced at the press. “I know the basics—that you set the type into frames and those get inked and paper rolled over them in the press.” He looked at Maguire. “I also know that Friday is distribution day, and Mrs. Molyneaux and Mary are both hard at work writing their pieces for this Friday’s edition. But I’m curious. How does the work progress day to day?”
“Ah, well.” Maguire’s quick fingers didn’t pause in sorting the tiny type. “If we start on Saturday, that’s clean-up day. Then today, Monday, is get-ready day.” He tipped his head toward the press and the men climbing over it. “Gerry and Tom go over the press and the boiler, and Jim and I get all our type cleaned, sorted, and ready to go. Then tomorrow, Tuesday, that’s layout day. Mrs. Molly, Lipson, and our Mary finalize the layout for all twelve pages, and Jim and I get the formes for each page set up, ready for dropping in the type boxes for each article and advert. That’s all done in the morning, and in the afternoon, Jim and I get started on setting the adverts and the articles as they’re finalized.”
Maguire reached for another shallow wooden box divided into segments and pulled it closer. “Wednesday is what we call drop-dead day. Articles have to be finalized by midday so we can get them set, ready for printing on Thursday. Digby knows what we need for the photographs, but as there’ll be seven—no, nine all told—in this edition, that’s going to be a challenge. It’s lucky Quimby took the time to teach Digby all he did, otherwise, we’d be in difficulties.”
Again, Gray glanced at the press. “So on Thursday, the press runs.”
“Aye.” Maguire grinned. “Can’t hear yourself think, and we’re all busy, collating sheets. We run tests first, of course—a few sheets pushed out by hand so we can read over it and spot any errors. Sometimes, we get to proofreading on Wednesday afternoon, but regardless, it has to be done. But on Thursday, once we’re all happy everything’s right, the boiler’s fired up, and the press rolls.”
“You enjoy it,” Gray stated.
Maguire nodded. “Gets in your blood, it does.” He glanced at Jim. “Heh, Jim?”
Jim raised his eyes from his task and smiled. “It does, indeed.” He, too, glanced at the press. “I was just thinking that it’s lucky this is one of our quiet spells.”
Gray glanced around. “This is quiet?”
Maguire chuffed. “At times, we’re like a beehive in here, everyone rushing and doing at once. But right now, with the university term just started, we don’t have much by way of pamphlets, booklets, and such that we do for the faculties and societies and the like.”
“We were rushed off our feet all through December,” Jim explained. “It’s always like that. Toward the end of one term, all the lecturers and secretaries start thinking of what they need for the next.”
Maguire nodded. “So right now, we’re quiet, which means we can concentrate on The Crier and doing what we can to help to catch Quimby’s killer.”
After a moment, Gray asked if he could help. Maguire glanced at Gray’s coat, then nodded to where a number of leather aprons hung. “Best get one of those on, or you’ll end with ink smudges everywhere.”
Gray donned an apron, then sat on a stool opposite Maguire and was soon engaged in sorting type. That was, he reflected, something he was actually qualified to do.
Half an hour later, with the clock inexorably ticking toward five, Izzy decided she’d got as far with the main article and Quimby’s obituary as she could that day. For the article, she needed to step back and let her thoughts settle, and she needed more details about Quimby to lend color to the obituary.
She rose from the desk and stretched, then walked out to the workshop.
Lipson saw her and came to show her his list of advertisers and confirm he would spend the following day visiting them and explaining about the special edition and the new rates for advertising in it.
After approving the list and the increased rates, Izzy checked with Mary and went over what she’d written—an article they’d had in mind for some time, focusing on the good work of the nearby Foundling Hospital. Izzy had decided to suspend their usual lighthearted articles on the foibles of those in ton society. She hoped the piece on the Foundling Hospital, being serious but also uplifting, would strike the right note to balance the sensational and, of necessity, rather dark account of murder she was penning.
Reassured that Mary had the piece well in hand, Izzy turned from the counter and spotted Gray, wearing a typesetter’s apron, sorting type and chatting with Maguire and Jim.
She blinked several times to confirm she was neither dreaming nor hallucinating.
Before she could investigate the unexpected sight, the big clock on the workshop wall above the counter chimed for five o’clock, and the staff paused, assessing their work, then downed tools and headed for the pegs on which their coats hung.
Izzy remained at the counter, smiling and returning farewells. After doffing the apron, Gray came to stand beside her, plainly intending to dog her steps as he had for the past several days.
She didn’t react, but somewhat to her surprise, she noticed that the nods directed his way as the staff filed toward the door were not just accepting but also approving. To a man and a woman, her staff were pleased that she had someone like him by her side.
She might have sniffed dismissively at that, only she was, in truth, grateful. She wasn’t silly enough to be otherwise, regardless of their past.
Consequently, when she stepped onto the front steps, locked the door, and started down the street and he fell in beside her, she accepted that attempting to dissuade him from escorting her would be hypocritical.
They walked to Woburn Square, spent a few minutes chatting with Mrs. Carruthers, then left via the rear door and, in the rear lane, climbed into her carriage.
As they traveled the streets toward Norfolk Crescent, she reviewed the events of the day and acknowledged how much of a help he had been. She slanted a glance across the carriage; he was idly watching the houses slip past.
He could have been much more of a nuisance, but instead…
The carriage turned onto Edgware Road, and the familiar weight of social obligation settled more definitely on her shoulders. She shifted, drawing his gaze. “Would you care to dine with Mama, Marietta, and me—perhaps tomorrow evening?” She hadn’t mentioned his reappearance in her life to her mother and sister, but there was a reasonable chance that, by now, Cottesloe had done so. “If you’re free?”
In the poor light, she couldn’t make out his expression, but he straightened his legs and inclined his head. “I am free, and I would be honored to dine with you and your family.”
She nodded as the carriage drew up outside her home.
He descended first and handed her down.
On gaining the pavement, she caught his gaze. Slightly breathless, she retrieved her hand from his unsettling clasp and waved at the carriage. “Fields can drive you home if you like.” She assumed he was living somewhere in nearby Mayfair.
Gray glanced briefly at Fields, but shook his head. “I can easily catch a hackney on Edgware Road.”
“Very well.” She nodded a dismissal to Fields.
As the carriage drew away, she looked at Gray.
Smiling, he tipped his head toward the front door, plainly waiting to see her safely inside.
She inwardly sighed, walked up the steps, knocked on the door, and turned back as if to say, “Are you satisfied?”
His smile widened, but he dallied until the door opened, then he raised a hand and saluted her before finally turning away.
She paused on the porch, her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders until he neared the corner, then before he could glance back and see her, she walked inside.
Cottesloe shut the door behind her.
She paused to unbutton her gloves. Gray hadn’t mentioned whether he intended to turn up again tomorrow morning, but… Stripping the leather from her hands, she glanced at Cottesloe. “Did you happen to mention my morning visitor to my mother?”
“No, my lady. I assumed you would explain to her ladyship in good time.”
“Indeed, I’m about to do just that. However, so that you’re not caught out, I won’t be surprised if his lordship appears tomorrow morning at the same time. If he does, please admit him, and unless my mother has other plans, he will also be dining here tomorrow evening.”
“Very good, my lady.” Cottesloe accepted her gloves and bonnet, then the coat she shrugged off. “I will inform Mrs. Hagen that we will have another at table, both for breakfast and dinner.”
Izzy nodded and made for the drawing room door. Johnny, their young footman, hurried to open it, and she glided through to find her mother seated by the fireplace in her favorite wing chair and Marietta relaxing on the sofa.
Both looked up with smiles of welcome.
Izzy smiled back and took a moment to drink in the sight of the pair looking so unconcerned and at ease, then she sat beside Marietta and said, “I have news.”
That, of course, was a massive understatement, given that she hadn’t, until then, told them about Quimby’s murder. When she’d requested their help identifying the people in the photographs, she hadn’t explained why she’d needed the information, and accustomed to her researches, they hadn’t asked.
As she related the tale of how the notice of her upcoming exposé had brought Gray to her office, and how, together, they’d subsequently found Quimby’s body, her sister’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. Even her mother, not one to show her emotions, looked aghast.
Izzy didn’t give them time to exclaim but rolled on, outlining what happened next and Gray’s assistance, both on that fateful evening and subsequently.
“I need to warn you that, in seeking information about the people in the photographs, Child consulted the Alvertons—Therese and Devlin—so they now know my secret, and today, Child and I visited the Winchelseas—Drake and Louisa—so they know, too. However, all four have sworn themselves to absolute secrecy on the issue, so”—she shrugged fatalistically—“we have to trust in their discretion, and realistically, there was nothing else we could do.”
Without waiting to be asked, she described the idea of the hue and cry edition and explained that, with the staff’s active assistance and Gray’s support, it was well underway.
“So,” she finally said, “given all that, I felt obliged to invite Child to dine tomorrow evening.” She looked at her mother. “If you approve?”
Her mother had slumped back in her chair, her hand at her throat, regarding Izzy in faintly stunned fashion, but at the question, she regrouped and declared, “Of course I approve, dear. Why, if his lordship hadn’t been there… Well, it really doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“No, indeed.” Marietta blew out a breath, her expression suggesting she was rapidly regaining her usual sunny equilibrium. “How fortunate that Child thought the exposé was about him and so was there to be your alibi for the murder.” She grinned at Izzy. “You do have the most amazing adventures, Izzy.”
“While I will agree it’s been amazing, I assure you it hasn’t been pleasant.” She rose and waved at her day dress. “I need to go and change. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Yes, of course, dear.” Her mother smiled benignly. “You’ll feel much more the thing once you’ve washed and changed.”
With a wave and “I’ll be down shortly,” Izzy left the room.
Sybil, the dowager, listened to her elder daughter’s firm footsteps ascend the stairs, then sank back in her chair, a pensive expression overtaking her soft features.
Marietta studied her mother’s face. After a moment, she asked, “Lord Child—isn’t he the gentleman Izzy had her eye on all those years ago? And then he vanished, simply upped and disappeared, and the why of it was a mystery to everyone, his family included?”
Her gaze distant, Sybil nodded. “Yes, that was he.”
Marietta narrowed her hazel eyes on her mother’s uninformative countenance. “And am I right in thinking that after Child vanished, Izzy never looked at another gentleman—not in any meaningful way?”
Sybil refocused on her younger daughter’s face and faintly smiled. “Exactly so.”
Marietta held her mother’s gaze and, after a moment, smiled, too.