The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 8
An hour and a half later, Gray was admitted to the Norfolk Crescent house by a benevolently smiling Cottesloe. The butler took his coat and hat, then led Gray to the drawing room and formally announced him to the company.
Izzy was already on her way to greet him. “Good evening, my lord, and welcome.” She was all sophisticated formality in a gown of pale-gray watered silk that made the most of her abundant charms, with the hue setting off her flawless complexion and lustrous dark hair to perfection.
Gray smiled, took the hand she extended, and equally formal, bowed over it. “Lady Isadora. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
She retrieved her hand and turned, gesturing to the four people gathered before the fireplace. “Allow me to introduce you to my mother, who I daresay you remember from long ago, and my sister, Marietta, our cousin Jordan Descartes, and our good friend Mr. Silas Barton.”
Gray had assumed others would be present, but hadn’t expected Silas Barton.
Deploying his customary urbanely charming mask, Gray bowed over the dowager countess’s hand and murmured appropriate responses to her greeting. The countess remained a fashionable, personable, and handsome woman; if he read her aright, she was in two minds over him, uncertain whether to disapprove mightily over his past flight—near enough to a jilting of her daughter—or instead, welcome him back, given he was helping Izzy and was even wealthier than he had been.
He hadn’t forgotten her role in his and Izzy’s past, but given the passage of years and the current situation, he was willing to let bygones be.
Seated beside the countess, Izzy’s sister, Marietta, blithely gave him her hand, her curiosity regarding him and, even more, his connection to her sister undisguised.
He bowed over her hand. “Lady Marietta, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand you made your come-out this year.”
“I did, indeed.” Marietta all but bounced on the sofa. “But I understand that you weren’t in London at the time.”
The words were more question than statement. He smiled. “I believe I was in Boston at that time.”
Izzy looped her arm in his and drew him on to meet her cousin, who was standing before the fireplace.
Jordan appeared to be a young sprig a few years older than Marietta and, if his black-and-white-striped waistcoat was any indication, plainly seeking to cut a dash. He grasped the hand Gray offered and shook it vigorously. “I say, Izzy mentioned this dead photographer she stumbled over. Rum business, what?”
“Jordan!” The countess frowned at him. “I told you—no more talk of murder in my drawing room.”
Jordan arched his brows. “But I didn’t mention murder, Aunt Sybil—you did.”
The countess flapped a hand at him. “Dreadful boy! I don’t wish to hear more of that matter in any way, shape, or form this evening.” She directed a pointed look his way, then skated the same warning look over Izzy and Gray, before leaning sideways to fix it on Silas Barton. “I wish us all to enjoy a pleasant evening of civilized conversation, and I would rather not hear about that subject at all.”
Silas—older, solidly built, rather grizzled, and dressed in sober but well-cut clothes Gray would have said had been deliberately chosen to make him appear unremarkable—huffed. “Can’t blame the lad for being interested, Sybil. Not every day a murderer comes calling, and I admit to being rather curious myself, but”—he held up a placating hand—“as you wish it, we’ll refrain from mentioning the subject.”
The countess humphed and subsided, much like a chicken settling ruffled feathers.
Izzy exchanged a look with Jordan and drew Gray on to meet Silas Barton.
The older man started to heave his bulk from the comfort of the armchair, but Gray waved him back. “No need, sir.” He bent and offered his hand. “Izzy has mentioned you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Silas gripped Gray’s hand in a firm clasp, while his shrewd brown eyes studied Gray’s face. “Izzy’s mentioned you, too. I understand you’ve recently returned from America and that you’re not above involving yourself with trade.”
“No, indeed.” Gray released Silas’s hand and, at Izzy’s wave, claimed the chair beside Silas, facing the sofa to which she returned and sank gracefully onto the end. “In truth,” Gray continued, “I believe business—the sort I understand you’ve spent your life engaged in—will become increasingly important to the country’s future.”
Silas regarded him with interest. “You won’t get any argument from me on that score. How did you find it over there, heh? One hears things, but I’m unsure how much to believe.”
“Up to a point, I suspect most of what you hear reported is true, but I doubt it gives a balanced view of what it’s truly like over there.” Gray went on to verbally sketch a picture of American industry that elicited numerous questions from Silas and also a few from Jordan, all of which Gray answered, and that led to more questions—many canny and exceedingly shrewd from Silas—which both tested Gray and, through formulating his answers, clarified his own views.
During one exchange, Silas qualified his dry comments with “If you’ll excuse my plain speaking.”
Gray grinned. “Plain speaking was one facet of doing business in America that I grew to value. I’m finding having to revert to our less-direct Anglo-European ways more of an adjustment than I expected, so please don’t feel you need to cloak your words in furbelows for me. I rather miss the blunt and direct.”
Silas chuckled. “It sounds like I could do business over there, then, but truth to tell, I’m too old and fear I lack the energy for the voyage.”
Gray was about to ask what areas Silas was interested in exploring, but the countess seized the moment to ask, “And what about American society, my lord? I’m sure you spent a good deal of your time in the drawing rooms there. Is it much the same as here?”
While he could speak about business and industry with authority, Gray was on much shakier ground when it came to society—or at least the upper echelons to which the countess referred. “Yes and no. They lack any form of aristocracy, so the ton per se doesn’t exist. However, they do have their principal families, although their status is solely founded on wealth, which, in most cases, has been amassed via endeavors the British would regard as trade.”
“Oh.” Sybil looked bemused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“They have their grand balls and debutantes and so on,” Gray said, “but I suspect you would say that, in that respect, they’re still evolving.”
“But you must have seen something of the country, my lord.” Marietta was keen to hear more. “You mentioned you were in Boston. Did you also travel to New York?”
Cities, he could describe with ease. “I landed first in New York.”
Izzy sat on the sofa and listened as Gray entertained the company, capturing both Silas’s and Jordan’s attention with a few well-placed remarks even while he enthralled her mother and sister with his descriptions of the American cities he’d visited during his years abroad. That list was longer than she’d expected, including, in addition to Boston and New York, Philadelphia, St. Louis, New Orleans, Portland, and San Francisco.
Cottesloe entered and announced that dinner was served, and in pairs defined by age, the company repaired to the dining table. They sat, and the conversation continued unabated.
Izzy ate, watched, and listened, increasingly sure she would not be obliged to intervene and redirect. She’d hoped she could simply introduce Gray and sit back; he’d always had the ability to adjust to whatever company he found himself in. She suspected that was one of the skills fostered in him as a duke’s son; in many noble families, it was expected that the sons would develop the facility to rub shoulders with their workers—stablemen, grooms, tenant farmers, farmhands, and so on. When it came to managing estates, having that knack was an advantage.
She wasn’t surprised when, with her mother’s and sister’s questions about American cities exhausted, Gray embarked on an anecdote involving a donkey and a yacht. Whether he’d witnessed the incident himself or merely heard about it—or even made it up—the story was perfect for this audience and had everyone laughing until their sides hurt.
Deftly, Gray turned all attention to Marietta, challenging her to reveal the most outrageous moment of her schoolroom years. That proved to be when, while living in the country and confined to her room with arithmetic she’d hated, she’d escaped from the house and, in order to avoid the family’s workers, had gone roaming onto a neighboring estate, only to be chased by a bull into a stream, after which she’d been forced to return home, dripping and bedraggled.
With a smile of remembrance curving her lips, her mother admitted, “I’d forgotten about that.”
The moment harked back to better times, before Izzy’s father’s death had brought their world crashing down.
Gray seemed to realize that and turned to Jordan. “You, next. I’m sure you got up to something deplorable in your youth.”
Jordan grinned and promptly regaled the company with a tale from his Eton days.
As the laughter subsided, Gray cocked a brow at Silas. “Any advance on your juniors, sir?”
Silas glanced at the dessert plates, which were sitting empty before them, and her mother took the hint and suggested that the ladies withdraw and allow the gentlemen to savor their brandies.
Silas and Gray exchanged a glance, then both denied any wish for spirits, and Silas proposed that the company entire should return to the drawing room, where he promised to relate a curious tale from his youth.
Within minutes, they were comfortably ensconced in the drawing room, and Silas launched into his story, which fascinated everyone, as he rarely spoke of his youth at all.
Izzy noted that her mother, who, before Gray had arrived, had vacillated between being avidly curious and being frosty about him, had completely thawed, drawn in by his easygoing charm, his storytelling talent, and his subject matter, too. Since Jordan’s earlier foray, no one had spoken again of murder, and her mother was pleased about that.
At the end of Silas’s amusing tale, her mother seized the stage. “My lord, now you’re back in the country, what are your plans? Are you here to stay?”
Given the past, that could have been a barbed question, but her mother’s expression and her tone stated she was merely curious in the way of all society matrons, young and old.
Cottesloe chose that moment to wheel in the tea trolley, and the conversation paused while her mother poured and Jordan handed around the cups.
After they’d taken their first sips, Gray replied, “As I explained to Isadora, I found I missed England, so yes, I intend to make my home here.” He sipped, then added, “I’m currently searching for a country house, and it’s been suggested that I consider standing for a seat in Parliament.”
“Is that so?” Silas regarded Gray with even greater interest. “Have you had a chance to catch up with the bills pending?”
“Some, but not all.” Gray met Silas’s eyes. “I intend to focus particularly on bills that impinge on industry and manufacturing.”
Silas leaned closer. “Is that where your investing interest lies?”
The discussion that followed skated over several pieces of pending legislation before veering into investments of various sorts and the prospects for each. While much of it went over Izzy’s head—and her mother’s and Marietta’s—quite aside from Silas’s active involvement, Jordan was following the conversation, too.
Intriguingly, while her mother couldn’t possibly comprehend much of what was said, she was observing the exchange as if it contained some significant revelation.
Izzy shifted her gaze to Gray and Silas and grasped what her mother had seen; this was the new Grayson Child—a mature, seasoned, experienced gentleman who had come to an understanding about himself and what he wanted to do with his life. There was purpose in his manner and conviction in his voice, neither of which had been in evidence ten years before.
She wasn’t surprised because she’d been interacting with him over the past days, but for her mother, this Grayson Child was a new entity very different from the nobleman she remembered.
As for Silas, Izzy had known him for long enough to gauge the signs, and there was no doubt whatsoever that that shrewd and canny gentleman was deeply impressed by what he saw in Gray. She sipped and cynically acknowledged that it didn’t hurt at all that Gray’s interests and attitudes in business and investment largely mirrored Silas’s.
While Gray and Silas continued to entertain each other, Jordan engaged Marietta in a discussion of the few social events looming in their calendars, and that also drew Sybil’s attention.
Izzy quietly sipped, watched, and listened; she felt more relaxed and well entertained than she’d dreamed possible—and she suspected everyone else would say the same.
The evening had gone exceedingly well; she hadn’t had to leap in and divert the conversation once.
Eventually, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed for ten-thirty, and with the tea consumed and the cups returned to the trolley, Gray declared he should go. He rose and made his farewells with his usual charming grace.
After thanking the dowager and farewelling Marietta and Jordan, Gray turned to Silas and shook the man’s proffered hand. “Do send me that information. I’m particularly keen to expand my knowledge in that area.”
“I will,” Silas promised. “The more like you who understand the evolving situation, the better.”
Gray turned, and Izzy waved toward the front door, clearly intending to see him out.
He followed her into the hall. “Thank you for inviting me. It was a thoroughly enjoyable and, at least for me, educational evening.”
She met his eyes. “I’m sure the same reflection is passing through everyone’s mind. Thank you for bearing with so many questions.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” He accepted his coat from Cottesloe and shrugged it on.
“More that you would grow bored and cut short the inquisition.”
“It seemed a reasonable price to pay for making Silas’s acquaintance.”
Gray accepted his hat from Cottesloe, and on receiving a nod of dismissal from Izzy, the butler retreated, vanishing through the swinging door at the rear of the hall.
Izzy tipped her head, regarding Gray quizzically. “You and Silas got on very well.” Better than I expected didn’t need to be said. “And,” she went on, “at a level significantly deeper than the charmingly superficial.”
“As the editor of The London Crier, you, of all people, should know better than to harbor unnecessary preconceived notions.”
“Such as the likelihood of a duke’s son taking a genuine interest in the opinions of a millowner?”
He smiled. “Indeed.”
She continued to study him as if seeking some physical sign to verify her deduction, namely that he wasn’t the same duke’s son she’d thought he was; that realization showed clearly in the emerald of her eyes.
Then she blinked and, with her usual haughtiness, refocused on him. “Should I warn Cottesloe you’ll be here for breakfast? If you unexpectedly appear, he gets thrown off his stride and worries the kitchen won’t have appropriate dishes to serve you.”
He laughed softly. “Heaven forbid I rattle Cottesloe.” He caught her gaze and inclined his head. “So yes, I plan to be here for breakfast tomorrow.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Why?”
He dropped his charming façade and, entirely sober, said, “Because as I mentioned earlier, should the killer learn of The Crier’s special edition, there’s every chance he’ll target you.”
And?rang in Izzy’s mind, but she didn’t want to ask. He was watching her, waiting for her to press…and she strongly suspected that if she did, he would tell her his reason.
She wasn’t sure she was ready to hear it—to hear him say that she still meant something to him or, alternatively, that he was focused on finding the killer, motivated purely by the investigation, by the thrill of the chase.
In her bones, she knew that something of their past connection still lingered, extant between them, but exactly what that was and how strong or reliable it might be, much less what it might mean…those were questions for another time when she didn’t have her mother, her sister, her cousin, and Silas liable to come looking for her at any moment.
Briskly, she nodded—as if having a killer targeting her was unremarkable—reached for the doorknob, and opened the door. “Thank you for your company. Between you, you and Silas made the evening thoroughly enjoyable.”
He inclined his head. “The pleasure was mine.” He stepped over the threshold, then halted and turned, his amber gaze pinning her. “Do you have a safe in this house?”
Puzzled, she nodded.
“I strongly suggest you put the negatives in it and leave them there. You don’t need them to print from, do you?”
“No. Digby said he’s already made what they need.” She met his eyes and nodded. “I’ll do that.”
The point brought home the danger of baiting a killer.
Her thoughts must have shown in her eyes. He hesitated, then said, “Quite apart from your Woburn Square subterfuge, whoever he is, he won’t suspect the negatives are at your home. Why would they be? The others weren’t. I don’t believe leaving them in the safe here will result in any threat to this household.”
That had been the thought that had risen in her mind. Reassured, she nodded, accepting his reasoning.
Satisfied, he smiled slightly, put on his hat, and raised a hand to its brim in salute. “I’ll see you over the breakfast cups tomorrow.”
She caught the teasing glint in his eyes.
His smile widened, and he turned and strode away.
She huffed, shut the door, stared at the panels, and reviewed the exchange. It was impossible not to acknowledge that the present situation had fostered a level of direct and open communication between them, resulting in a degree of clarity and understanding that hadn’t been there years ago.
She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Refocusing on the here and now, she returned to the drawing room.
While she and Gray had been in the hall, Jordan had risen to leave. He’d waited only to make his farewell to her; once he had, Marietta accompanied him to the door.
Izzy claimed the armchair next to Silas, and she and her mother asked about her brother Julius and Dorothy, Julius’s wife and Silas’s granddaughter, and their burgeoning family. Silas had called in at Lyndon Hall on his way from his home north of Manchester and bore news of the most recent happenings at the hall, which filled the next several minutes.
Marietta returned and joined Sybil on the sofa to listen, smile, and exclaim.
Finally, with his report delivered in full, Silas turned a searching gaze on Izzy. “Now, my girl, what’s this about a murder, heh? At the printing works, Sybil said.”
There hadn’t been time earlier to relate much of the story, and her mother had been adamant she hadn’t wanted the dinner blighted by the subject, an approach that had turned out rather well.
But Silas had been instrumental in enabling Izzy to buy the run-down printing works, refurbish the machinery, hire new staff, and establish The London Crier. Without him, she wouldn’t have got past the first hurdle; he deserved to know of anything that threatened an enterprise to which he’d given so much time.
She started at the beginning—when Gray had walked through The Crier’s door—and ended with the information that they’d decided that the best place for the crucial negatives was in the safe in the study, a safe Silas had arranged to have installed.
Her mother and her sister kept their questions to a minimum, allowing Silas to voice his often more searching queries.
She answered candidly; she valued his opinion as she did no one else’s.
After listening to her account of Gray’s reasoning over why the negatives being at Norfolk Crescent wouldn’t constitute a danger to the household, Silas nodded approvingly. “I’m glad he considered the possibility and agree with his conclusion. Here is safer than anywhere else and keeps the negatives in your control.” Silas’s gaze rested on her face. “It appears his lordship is taking a personal interest in ensuring your safety and that of the staff, and of that, I wholeheartedly approve.”
Feeling vindicated over agreeing to Gray’s suggestion, when Silas rose, made his farewells, and claimed her escort to the door, she delightedly obliged.
As they walked arm in arm into the front hall, Silas patted her hand. “I have to say I’m rather intrigued by this notion of a hue and cry edition. Regardless, one way or another, I have every confidence that, between the pair of you, you and his lordship will see this blighter caught.”
“Thank you. I always feel reassured by having your view of things.”
“As to that, given his lordship thought your exposé was about him, ergo he’s wealthy enough to be the latest Golden Ball, I take that to mean that he’s rather wealthier than the typical duke’s second son?”
“From his almost-comical conviction that I was referring to him, I would say that’s definitely the case. He was no more wealthy than the typical duke’s second son before he left for America, and he certainly knows what the term ‘the latest Golden Ball’ implies.”
“Has he given you any inkling of how he came to make his money?”
She grinned. “He said it started with him stumbling upon a gold nugget in California. He used the cash that raised to invest, and his fortune grew to what it is now.” That was, in fact, all she knew of how Gray acquired his extraordinary wealth.
Silas allowed Cottesloe to help him into his heavy coat. “From what he and I discussed,” Silas said, “he seems to have a sound head on his shoulders regarding industry and manufacturing and investing in the same. Impressive, and not the sort of education one gets at Eton. Only way he could know half of what he does is if he’d studied the business closely, as an investor or owner would.”
She smiled, understanding that Silas was reassuring her that as far as he could tell, Gray had, indeed, amassed his fortune via investing.
Once Silas had wound a thick muffler about his throat and set the hat Cottesloe handed him on his head, she stretched up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for coming and being so helpful.”
“Not at all, my dear. Indeed, I found the evening thoroughly refreshing.” He caught her gaze and nodded. “Do take care, but with his lordship involved, I expect all will resolve itself in short order.”
“I can only hope.” She went with him onto the porch and watched him descend the steps. His footman helped him into his coach. Once the door was shut, she waved and, through the coach window, saw Silas raise a hand in salute, then the coach rumbled off.
With a satisfied sigh, she returned to the hall and allowed Cottesloe to shut the door. She paused, hearing again Silas’s confident tone as he assured her that Gray was the investor he purported to be. Not that she’d imagined anything else, but it was comforting to have a man like Silas—so very experienced in judging men—give such a favorable report.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
She glanced at Cottesloe. “Lord Child confirmed he’ll be here for breakfast tomorrow.”
“Very good, my lady. I’ll convey the information to Mrs. Hagen—she’ll appreciate the notice.”
Izzy smiled. “Indeed.” She walked to the drawing room and, pausing in the doorway, caught the attention of her mother and her sister, who’d had their heads together, chatting. “I’m for bed. Are you coming?”
The pair looked at each other, then her mother waved her on. “In a moment, darling. You go on. We’ll be up shortly.”
Izzy nodded and turned away to hide her wry smile. They were, undoubtedly, discussing Child.
With free and easy—lighthearted—steps, she made for the stairs. The evening had been significantly more revealing than she’d expected, and indeed, some of those revelations were not what she would have predicted.
All in all, with respect to Grayson Child, she had quite a lot to assimilate.