The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 9
The following morning, Izzy glanced across the breakfast table at Gray, who was systematically demolishing a mound of kedgeree, and felt a disorienting sense of…domesticity.
Utterly nonsensical!
Seeking distraction, she said, “Last evening, you mentioned you were thinking of entering politics.”
He glanced at her, met her eyes, swallowed, and waved his fork. “What’s your opinion of Russell’s ministry?”
The question almost shocked her. Gentlemen invariably assumed that ladies other than those of political bent—such as the established political hostesses—knew nothing of such subjects. Those gentlemen were wrong, yet…
She wondered if Gray had forgotten the unscripted rules of English society or whether things were different in America.
As if guessing her thoughts, he caught her eye. “Regardless of whether you have any interest in the subject, I’m sure that, as editor of The Crier, you keep abreast of the latest news, including the vicissitudes of political fortunes.”
Gray watched as, somewhat cautiously, Izzy inclined her head.
“Indeed, that’s true.” She paused as if collecting her thoughts, then ventured, “For all his reformist zeal, Russell is hedged about and constrained by others in his party. However, the primary source of instability comes from Palmerston’s ambitions.”
He picked up his coffee cup. “That’s certainly the case at the moment. What do you think of Palmerston?”
“Pam, as they’ve started to call him?” She arched her brows. “As the editor of The London Crier, I can testify that he possesses a knack sorely lacking in most of his political peers—namely, an ability to engage with the public. On the whole, the common man approves of him. In many cases, his opinions are theirs.” She tipped her head. “Or should I say he reacts to situations in the way they would, so they feel they have a certain bond with him?” She shook her head. “Either way, I would say Palmerston is one to watch. No matter that his peers and the palace distrust him, whatever political future comes, he’ll be a part of it.”
He was unsurprised to discover that her views aligned with his. “What do you think of this latest brouhaha? Was Russell right in forcing Palmerston’s resignation?”
“For my money, that was unwise. Palmerston has a lot of support in Parliament, and it wasn’t in session. The move smacked of ambush, even if it wasn’t intended as that. But more, Palmerston’s congratulatory note to Louis Napoleon was simply a statement of what the vast majority of the British public—and his peers in Parliament—thought. The idea that the note compromised a neutrality Victoria and her advisors wished to preserve is too abstract a concept to carry much weight with the public.” She softly snorted. “That’s not an argument I would attempt to run in The Crier.”
He sipped. “That’s an illuminating way to gauge things.”
She studied his face. “Are you serious about running for a seat in the Commons?”
He met her gaze. “Therese Cader suggested it some months ago. Initially, I shrugged aside the notion, but somehow, it stuck and took root, and now…” He paused, then nodded decisively. “Yes. I’m serious.”
He watched her read as much in his face and felt ridiculously buoyed—schoolboyishly buoyed—by the approval he saw in her eyes.
She pushed aside her plate and picked up her teacup. “The way Russell’s ministry is going, you might not have that long to wait before putting your case to the people. Have you given much thought to the sort of policies you’ll espouse?”
“As I told Silas, I’m interested in supporting industry, but alongside that, I’m also interested in improving the lot for the workers and local communities. I’d rather not have uprisings and revolutions. Leave that to the French.”
She laughed and nodded, then glanced at the clock. “We’d better get going.”
In pleasant accord, they left the table, quit the house, and rode in her carriage to Woburn Square. There, they didn’t dally and were soon opening the printing works’ front door.
The staff arrived on their heels.
While Izzy sat at her desk and put the final touches to her lead article, Gray and Mary sat in the office’s armchairs and carefully conned the initial proofs of the obituary, Mary’s article on the Foundling Hospital, and the listing of “What we know of Mr. Quimby’s Movements on That Fateful Day,” searching for errors.
Gray was intent on being there when the police came calling, just in case Baines had been further pressured and needed reminding of the forces supporting the hue and cry edition. After Izzy signed off on the three articles he and Mary had proofread, curious to see what came next, he left Izzy correcting the lead article and followed Mary as she hurried out to deliver the approved pages to her father.
Maguire and Matthews had their heads down, filling what Gray had been told were compositing sticks with lines of type. The filled sticks were subsequently set within boxes nestled in the large, page-sized formes. Laid out on the other half of the typesetting table were six formes—rectangular frames constructed of stout wood about two inches high, each the size of a double page. A thick piece of wood ran down the middle of each forme, dividing the area into the two pages, with the six formes accounting for the twelve pages that comprised an edition of The Crier.
Digby was sitting farther along from Maguire, swathed in one of the leather aprons and busily working on the blocks that would allow the photographs to be incorporated as part of the printed pages.
The forme that would print the front page, with its banner headline and large-print title, had already been partially filled, and the required type was now residing in the left-hand side of one of the formes, leaving space for the beginning of the lead article to be slotted in. Apparently, the type to fill the right-hand side of that forme would relate to the final page of the edition.
Maguire grunted when Mary set the approved proofs of the three articles by his elbow. He paused in his work and studied them, then glanced at Gray. “The police are going to come and read through everything, aren’t they?”
“So they said.”
“In that case, I’m going to concentrate on finishing setting the details for the photographs. No sense in us finalizing those articles if there’s a chance they’ll be reworded.”
From the office, Izzy called for Mary, and Gray followed the girl as she rushed to return.
The instant Mary appeared, Izzy held out the sheets of the lead article. “Here—read it over.” When Mary took the pages, Izzy slumped back in her chair. She met Gray’s eyes. “I think it’s done. Could you take a look, too? The more eyes the better.”
“Of course.” He returned to the armchair as Mary, eyes already scanning the lines of Izzy’s neat script, slowly sank into the other chair.
Gray waited patiently, and when Mary looked up and said that she had found no errors, he took the pages and read carefully through.
He was starting to appreciate just how easy it was to miss little words that the mind supplied even if they weren’t actually written on the page.
He found no spelling errors within the lengthy article, but queried two verb tenses. Izzy looked, then grumbled at herself as she changed them. That done, she declared the article ready to go to Maguire. Mary had already returned to the front counter, so Izzy rose to carry the pages to Maguire herself, and Gray went with her.
In the foyer, two men were standing at the counter, one speaking to Mary and the other to Lipson, while several others waited impatiently to do so.
As they crossed behind the counter, Izzy murmured to Gray, “Word of the special edition has spread.” She tipped her head toward the men. “They’re merchants wanting to place small advertisements. Mary and Lipson will deal with them, accommodating the requests as they can and filling up the smaller spaces left between articles, photographs, and the larger advertisements we’ve already slotted in.”
She reached Maguire, and he glanced over the article, and she agreed it would be best to wait just a little longer before typesetting it in the hope the police would arrive closer to ten o’clock than later.
“If they don’t show by ten-thirty,” Maguire said, “we’ll start setting the lead article and work from there.”
To everyone’s relief, Baines and Littlejohn appeared at ten o’clock on the dot.
Immediately, Izzy fetched the finalized articles and ushered the pair into her office, away from the interested eyes of those in the foyer who were waiting to speak with Lipson or Mary.
Gray followed and shut the office door.
Baines and Littlejohn were standing by the desk, with Baines already poring over the articles. Baines grunted, handed the one he’d finished to Littlejohn, and started on the next.
Gray ambled past and sank into his now-accustomed chair. Izzy was sitting behind her desk, her hands clasped on the blotter, the picture of assurance, but her gaze was hard and sharp as it rested on the policemen.
When Gray saw Baines approaching the end of the last article, he said, “I’ve read the articles as well. I think they’re excellent—they strike the right note and will accomplish what we need them to, namely, galvanize the public and recruit the entire readership in the hunt for Quimby’s killer.”
Baines looked up, then handed the article to Littlejohn. Baines glanced at Gray, then looked at Izzy and inclined his head. “I agree—they’re just what we need. Taken all together, especially with that reward, they’re certain to put the wind up the killer.”
Littlejohn raised his head, smiled at Izzy, and handed her the sheaf of pages. “They’re perfect. Couldn’t have done better myself.”
That last was said with a twinkle in his eye.
Izzy accepted the sheets with a mock repressive look, but she was pleased. “I’m relieved you agree. Our typesetters are waiting to finalize these.” Pages in hand, she rose, went to the door, flung it open, and headed straight for the typesetting table.
Baines and Littlejohn followed her out.
Gray followed more slowly. Even from the office doorway, he saw the relief in Maguire’s face as he eagerly took the pages Izzy offered and called Horner to help as Maguire and Matthews plainly set aside everything else and knuckled down to get all the articles typeset.
Meanwhile, Baines and Littlejohn were eying the small crowd about the counter in some puzzlement.
Gray murmured an explanation, and Baines grunted. “We’re surplus to requirements here—we’ll head off for now, but please tell Mrs. Molyneaux we’ll be back to see the final product later this afternoon.”
Gray remembered enough of the process to observe, “Only pages for final proofreading will be run today.”
Baines shrugged. “Regardless, I’d like to take a look and get some idea of the actual paper.”
Littlejohn simply looked eager.
Gray hid a smile as the pair made for the front door. It appeared they were genuinely curious about what the hue and cry edition would be like and, doubtless, even more interested in what it might lead to.
When the door closed behind Baines and Littlejohn, Gray ambled to where Izzy was hovering by the typesetting table, watching Maguire, Matthews, and Horner at work.
Finally, Lipson and Mary finished arranging the smaller advertisements and delivered the sheets with the details to Maguire. He barely glanced at them, grunted, and bent his head once more to his compositing stick.
Mary fetched an apron, donned it, sat on a stool, picked up a compositing stick, and set to work, translating the small advertisements into type.
Meanwhile, Lipson had joined his son, and the pair were working on the press, polishing plates and checking levers.
Gray noted the time and glanced at the staff. All had their heads down, working to get the edition ready to print. He tweaked Izzy’s sleeve and, when she glanced at him, bent his head and murmured, “Why don’t I fetch pies and pasties and cider for everyone?” He tipped his head toward the staff. “My treat—they need to keep their strength up.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure everyone will appreciate that.”
He nodded and went.
Izzy turned her head and watched him go. An offer to fetch sustenance for everyone was…nice. And he hadn’t thought about it; the offer had been spontaneous rather than calculated.
She faced forward and, gazing unseeing at the activity in the workshop, dredged her memories of him from long ago; she couldn’t recall any similar action, but he’d always been an easy touch for friends, a genially generous gentleman. It seemed that trait had matured and evolved to where he acted out of a pure and simple impulse to help people.
If he’s thinking of becoming a politician, that’s not a bad trait to have.
Maguire straightened and pointed at a word. “Is that ‘intentional’?”
Recalled to her purpose in remaining by the table, she stepped closer, read, and confirmed that it was.
At Izzy’s decree, everyone took a break to consume the pies, pasties, sandwiches, and cider Gray had fetched, but immediately after, everyone knuckled down again. The only sounds from the typesetting table were the soft clicks as type was set into compositing sticks, while elsewhere in the workshop, the Lipsons, father and son, muttered constantly as, assisted by Digby, they got the press ready to run the printer’s proofs.
It was familiar Wednesday work, getting the week’s edition typeset, running the completed formes through the press for a few sheets each, then everyone poring over the proofs to spot any errors, but the excitement of creating such a different edition as the hue and cry had everyone more tense than usual, determined to be extra careful and attentive with respect to every detail.
Finally, late in the afternoon, all was set, and the Lipsons, between them, rolled the press by brute force, generating four copies of each of the six double-page sheets that, eventually, would be printed on three double-sided sheets and folded to create the latest edition of The Crier.
As soon as the sheets were dry enough to handle, Izzy took one set and headed for her office. The staff divided up the other sheets, and everyone settled to stare at the pages, looking for typesetting errors or misprints.
Izzy sat at her desk, spread the sheets over the top, and started scanning.
After a moment, Gray ambled in, sat in the armchair, and claimed one of the sheets.
They were immersed in their search for errors when a tap on the door had them looking up to find Digby hovering in the doorway.
Izzy arched her brows. “Yes, Digby? What is it?”
Tentatively, he said, “I was just wondering, ma’am, if you was thinking of hiring another photographer yet, and whether you’d like to hear about this bloke I came across at the Society of Photographers meeting last night.”
She beckoned him in. “You met this photographer at the meeting?”
Digby nodded. “He gave an exhibition and a talk about his methods, and I reckon he’s as good as anyone. He—the new bloke, Mr. Donaldson—isn’t near as old as Mr. Quimby was, but he’s been in Paris for two years at some place called an atty…” Digby’s tongue tripped, and he frowned.
“An atelier?” Gray suggested.
Digby’s face lit. “Aye, that’s it. At some at-tel-ier of some famous photographer, learning all the tricks of the trade. Not that he’s French—he’s as English as I am. But he’s come home now, and he’s looking for work.” Digby sobered and looked at Izzy. “All of the other photographers were surprised Mr. Quimby wasn’t there, and they asked me where he was. I didn’t know what to say—far as I know, the hue and cry’ll be the first time his death’ll be spoken of outside—so I just said he’d gorn off. Then one of the regulars asked if that meant he wouldn’t be working for The Crier no more, and well, I said yes. So later, Mr. Donaldson—Timothy Donaldson, he is—came up and asked if there was an opening, like, at The Crier, and…well, I said I’d ask.”
From Digby’s expression, he was half expecting to be upbraided for his temerity.
Izzy smiled reassuringly. “Well, we are looking for a photographer.” She glanced at Gray, wondering what he thought.
He caught her eye, then looked at Digby. “You hadn’t met or heard of this Donaldson before?”
The lad shook his head. “But quite a few of the photographers knew him. Seems he was a member from long ago, before he went to France, and he’s got a reputation as an up-and-coming man.”
That answered the question of Donaldson’s bona fides, at least in terms of the Society of Photographers. When Digby looked back at her, she asked, “Tell me what you thought of Donaldson’s photographs—the ones he showed at the exhibition last night.”
Digby’s face lit, and she didn’t really need to listen to the superlatives that fell from his lips to understand the answer.
When Digby ended his paean and regarded her hopefully, she hid a smile. “Well, we need another photographer, and the sooner the better. Do you know how to contact Donaldson?”
“Aye, ma’am. He said he’d drop around at home tonight, just in case you was interested.”
Knowing that Donaldson was keen and hungry for the position was reassuring and potentially helpful. She nodded decisively. “Very well. Tell him to come around for an interview tomorrow and that I’ll expect to see his portfolio and any references he has.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Almost bouncing on his toes, Digby snapped off a salute and rushed off to whatever chore was waiting.
Izzy grinned. “He’s probably scanning the photographs to see if everything’s come up as it should.”
“Hmm.” Gray stared unseeing at the empty doorway, then looked at Izzy, who had gone back to poring over the printed pages. “About this Donaldson.”
She glanced up. “What about him?”
“He couldn’t possibly be involved in Quimby’s murder, could he?”
She frowned. “Meaning have we gone off on an irrelevant tangent with our hypothesis about the photographs and overlooked a far simpler explanation?”
“Exactly. Killing a rival to take his job is hardly an unknown motivation.”
Her eyes narrowed, then she shook her head. “I can’t see it. Why go to the bother of—and take the risk involved in—wrecking all the daguerreotype plates if his only motive was to remove Quimby and create an opening? And if Donaldson is as up with the latest techniques as he sounds and had some other motive for destroying Quimby’s negatives, he would have known to search for the calotype negatives as well.”
Gray wrinkled his nose. “True.” He looked back at the page he held. “Forget I said anything.”
He felt more than saw Izzy’s affectionate smile before she, too, returned to her scanning.
Not long after, Baines and Littlejohn returned, driven, Gray suspected, more by curiosity than anything else. He looked at Izzy. “The police are here.”
She sighed, rose, and went into the foyer.
Gray set down the sheet he’d been checking and followed.
After glancing over the printed proofs Mary spread on the counter for them to view and being assured by Izzy that there had been no changes to the articles since they’d “approved” them, both policemen declared they had no further need to squint at the proofs.
Izzy promptly returned to her desk, and after exchanging glances, Baines and Littlejohn cautiously made their way past the counter and deeper into the workshop, looking around curiously.
From near the office door, Gray watched the pair. Eventually, they retreated to stand against the darkroom wall, from where they could study the hulking press, the steam-driven motor, and the wide belt that had been set into place, connecting the two.
Gray shared the pair’s fascination. Rather than following Izzy into the office, he ambled down the workshop.
On reaching Baines and Littlejohn, Gray nodded at the press. “Quite something, isn’t it?”
Littlejohn confided, “I’m eager to see it in action. Lipson said it can be set to print both sides of the paper in a sort of double pass—they don’t have to take the paper out and turn it. The machine can do that itself.”
“German made, it is,” Baines said. “Very clever with machines, the Germans.”
Gray smiled. “Am I to take it you plan to be here tomorrow?”
His gaze on the shining drum of the press, Baines nodded. “Once we explained what was going on and that Winchelsea was behind it, the higher-ups suggested we’d better make sure that nothing went wrong, so either Littlejohn or I, or possibly both of us, will be here from eight to five.”
“I see.” Gray slotted the information away, but said nothing more at that point.
A few minutes later, Izzy emerged from the office to declare she had found no changes that needed to be made. She checked with Mary, Maguire, Matthews, Horner, Digby, and both Lipsons, all of whom denied having spotted any error or illegible type.
“Right, then.” Izzy turned to Lipson and, smiling with satisfaction, nodded. “We’re set and ready to roll.”
Judging by the staff’s universal delight, that was a moment of shared achievement.
Izzy glanced at the clock. “Goodness! It’s already after five.” She looked at Lipson. “Is there anything more that needs doing?”
Wiping his hands on a rag, Lipson briefly surveyed the press and the boiler and shook his head. “All’s well here. We’re as ready as we can be to start printing first thing tomorrow.”
“Excellent!” Izzy beamed at the staff. “As that’s the case, we can call it a day.”
Baines and Littlejohn lingered while the staff, Izzy, and Gray found their coats and shrugged into them. Everyone was filing into the foyer, making for the door, when Lipson abruptly halted. “I just had a thought.”
Everyone else stopped in their tracks as Izzy demanded, “What?”
Lipson met her gaze and grimaced. “Those merchants had heard whispers about the hue and cry edition. Hardly surprising, given we’d told our regular advertisers. But if the killer hears those same whispers—and by now, after Mary and I spent hours this morning explaining our special edition to so many, those whispers will have spread far and wide—the blighter might come back and try to wreck the press.” Lipson turned to view his baby.
“Or wreck our formes,” Maguire growled, looking toward his typesetting table where the fully blocked formes sat waiting to be fitted into the press.
Izzy, Gray, and the staff turned to look at Baines and Littlejohn.
Baines read the expectant expressions on their faces. “Littlejohn, arrange to have constables from the local watchhouse stand guard outside tonight. One at each door.”
Lipson, who’d been exchanging looks with his son and Matthews, spoke up. “No need for the constables to wait outside in the cold. Tom, Jim, and I’ll kip here tonight. We’ll have the boiler going to keep the place warm—no reason the constables can’t come in and wait with us. That way, if the killer does try anything, the constables will be on the spot, and the three of us’ll be here to make sure there’s no damage to any of our equipment.”
That arrangement met with everyone’s approval. The rest of the staff left, followed by Baines and Littlejohn, then Lipson saw Izzy and Gray out of the door and locked it behind them.
The policemen had halted a yard away. As Izzy and Gray came up, Baines turned and said, “I need to get back to the Yard, but Littlejohn will head to the local watchhouse, get two constables, and bring them back here.”
Izzy smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you, Inspector. And you, Sergeant.”
She waved the pair on, and the four of them walked in a loose group down to Bernard Street, then turned for Woburn Place.
Gray used the time to review the activity planned for the next day.
Frowning, he glanced at Izzy. “After you run the press tomorrow, what happens to all the copies of the newspaper?”
She met his eyes. “They’re stacked in bundles and left ready to be picked up for delivery on Friday.”
Gray felt his features harden. He raised his voice so the policemen walking ahead could hear. “Stacks of printed paper burn ferociously hot. If I were the killer and heard about the hue and cry edition, I’d be inclined to burn the entire printing works down.”
They all halted, and the other three turned to regard him with near-identical expressions of horror.
He met their gazes as the truth of what he’d said sank in.
Baines grunted and beetled his brows at his sergeant. “Littlejohn and I will be at the printing works all day tomorrow, and when Littlejohn speaks with the sergeant at the watchhouse tonight, he’ll arrange for a larger force to stand guard tomorrow night—outside as well as inside.”
Satisfied, Gray gave an approving nod—one Izzy slowly copied.
“It’s a disturbing thought,” she said. “But I can’t see what more we can do.”
The four exchanged glances, then walked on.
They parted in Woburn Place, with Baines hailing a hackney to carry him south while Littlejohn trotted north to the nearby watchhouse.
Gray and Izzy strode on along the north side of Russell Square. With his hands sunk in his pockets, he said, “Yesterday evening, I mentioned I was looking for a house in the country.”
She glanced at him. “You’ll need a place if you’re to stand for Parliament.”
“Exactly. I’ve had a land agent searching for suitable properties, and he’s sent word he’s found one for me to look at, preferably as soon as possible. Given Baines and Littlejohn will be at the printing works all day tomorrow, and you’ll be focused on overseeing the print run, I thought I’d seize the day, take a run into the country, and inspect this place the agent’s so keen for me to see.”
She nodded. “That sounds sensible.”
“I’ll be back for breakfast on Friday.”
Oh, good.Izzy inwardly frowned at the relief that swept through her.
She pushed the feeling aside and debated asking where the house was, but really, it was none of her business.
They reached Number 20 and went inside. Agatha was waiting, eager to hear their news. As the old lady rarely got out, Izzy sat and, with Gray doing his part, brought Agatha up to date with what, to her, probably resembled an exciting story told in daily episodes.
Thirty minutes later, with Gray, Izzy was in the carriage, rattling along Oxford Street toward Norfolk Crescent. Evening had fallen, and the street lamps had been lit. A cold wind had blown up and was strafing the pavements, snatching at hats and bonnets, reminding everyone of the season.
As they neared Edgware Road, Izzy glanced through the gloom at Gray, seated in his usual elegant manner on the bench seat opposite. They were rather later than usual, and it was a cold and nasty evening…
“Would you like to stay to dine?” The words surprised her nearly as much as they did him. She hurriedly added, “It’s after six, and it’ll just be us—en famille, as it were. No need to dress. Just stay.”
She couldn’t make out his expression in the gloom, but sensed his quiet pleasure as he inclined his head in acceptance.
“Thank you.” He paused, then confessed, “My gentleman’s gentleman is a wonder with clothes and boots, but he can’t cook to save himself.”
She smiled. “Where in town are you staying?”
“I have lodgings in Jermyn Street, my old stamping ground. Purely temporary until I decide what I’ll be doing regarding everything else—the house, politics, and so on.”
She nodded sagely. “All such factors will heavily influence which area it would be best to buy in.”
The carriage slowed and halted.
Gray opened the door and descended. He handed Izzy down, and they walked up the steps and were admitted to the house by Cottesloe.
Despite being deeply pleased by the spontaneous invitation to dine as if he were part of the family, Gray did his best to mute his pleasure to an acceptable, less-revealing level. Indeed, he wasn’t sure why he felt so powerfully uplifted; he only knew he did.
The dowager countess was already in the drawing room when Izzy led him in. With admirable control, the dowager concealed her surprise and welcomed him warmly. She was distantly acquainted with his parents, but after the usual polite queries about their health, she turned the conversation to how he and Izzy had spent their day.
Marietta came in soon afterward and insisted on hearing their news as well, then Cottesloe summoned them to the dining table.
Gray offered the dowager his arm, and she took it with a pleased smile. He escorted her to her chair. She sat and directed him to the chair on her right. Izzy was on his right, and with Marietta opposite, the conversation turned to the usual members-of-the-ton-who-lived-in-London subjects.
It was easy to allow himself to sink into the moment. To laugh, smile, encourage, and enjoy the company of the three ladies and to feel as if, more than being merely welcomed, he had a place there, a comfortable niche that fitted him in their otherwise female world.
By the time the four of them retreated to the drawing room and the tea trolley arrived, he was feeling distinctly mellow. Enough to decide there was no point analyzing the moment; it simply was, and it felt very right.
There was, however, one point he needed to address. Seated in an armchair opposite the sofa on which the countess and Marietta sat, with Izzy in the armchair alongside his, he lowered his teacup, set it on the saucer, and looked Izzy’s way. “As I’ll be away from London tomorrow, one of my men—a footman—will be here in the morning to escort you to the printing works, and he’ll remain nearby during the day and escort you home as well.”
He met Izzy’s faintly outraged stare and calmly stated, “With Quimby’s killer at large and the hue and cry edition about to go out, it would be unconscionable of me to leave you to walk the streets between Woburn Square and the printing works alone.”
Her lips tightened, but as he’d anticipated, her mother and Marietta were quick to thank him for arranging such a necessary precaution.
Barely registering her mother’s and her sister’s predictable comments, Izzy read in Gray’s eyes not so much a challenge as a simple hope that she would accept his arranged protection.
Given he’d been clever enough to speak of it in her mother’s hearing—although she was faintly peeved that he’d employed such a strategy to effectively tie her hands—there was no point trying to argue against, much less dismiss, the need for such a guard. Aside from all else, she wasn’t such a ninny.
But I would have liked to at least make him work for my agreement.
Stifling the urge to humph disparagingly, she regally inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She saw his eyes flare slightly; she’d surprised him. Good. Such high-handed tactics were acceptable only when she agreed with the outcome.
After that minor moment, the evening rolled on, pleasant and undemanding. He was an easy guest, and by the time he rose to leave, her mother and her sister had grown entirely comfortable in his presence.
He bowed over their hands, deploying his ready charm in thanking them for their company.
She rose before he turned to her; when he did, she waved toward the front hall. “I’ll see you out.”
They walked side by side into the hall, only to discover Cottesloe wasn’t there. She tugged the bellpull, then returned to stand with Gray. Others might be tempted into conversation, but between them, the silence felt relaxed and companionable.
She felt his gaze rove her face and looked up and met it.
His amber eyes captured her awareness and effortlessly held it, even as, his gaze locked with hers, he stilled.
And suddenly, there was more—much more—than simple silence between them.
Something that lured and ached and wanted burgeoned and grew, freed by the moment to pulse ever more strongly, linking them as if the past ten years had never been.
She felt herself lean toward him, and he seemed to lean closer to her.
The click of heels on tiles reached them.
They both blinked, drew back, and looked at the swinging door as Cottesloe came hurrying through.
“My apologies, my lady—my lord.” With an abbreviated bow, the butler hurried to fetch Gray’s greatcoat and hat.
As Gray shrugged on his coat, his eyes found hers with a question—an appeal she had no difficulty interpreting—then he thanked Cottesloe and accepted his hat.
Responding to the unvoiced plea, she said, “Thank you, Cottesloe. I’ll see his lordship out.”
“Indeed, my lady. My lord.” With a bow, Cottesloe took himself off.
She met Gray’s eyes and faintly arched her brows, then waved toward the door.
They turned in that direction, their steps very slow.
He bent his head the better to see her face as he lowered his voice and said, “I truly enjoyed tonight. It was relaxing in a way I haven’t experienced in…a very long time. Perhaps not ever.” He caught her gaze as she glanced up. “Tell me, Izzy, is it possible for us to pick up the strands of what we had, to go back to where we were ten years ago and explore what might lie farther along the road down which we started, but stopped?”
She was stunned by how high her heart leapt at the thought; in instinctive reaction, she forcefully reined herself back. He’d broken her heart once and left her emotionally wrecked and weak. She couldn’t afford to have him do so again. Yet… She held his gaze. “As to that…we’re two very different people now.”
He inclined his head. “Nevertheless…or perhaps that’s even more reason to try again.”
Perhaps, perhaps…She halted before the front door and conceded, “So much water has passed under each of our bridges, who can say what might or might not be?”
She watched his eyes, his face, as he analyzed her answer.
Then he focused intently on her. “That’s not a no.”
She tipped her head in acquiescence. “It’s not a yes, either.”
He smiled. “That’s good enough for now.”
Before she caught the slightest inkling of what he intended, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Oh Lord.
She’d forgotten this, the simple pleasure of his kiss. Tingles spread from the first light contact, then warmth welled and spread, washing through her as the pressure firmed.
Yet he kept the kiss gentle—questing, luring, but not pressing, not demanding.
Waiting like a supplicant to see what she wished.
Something inside her blossomed and bloomed, a flower unfurling at the reviving touch of rain—thirsty, hungry, needing, seeking.
Her thoughts suspended; all awareness of anything beyond the contact vanished.
The touch of his lips remained light, enticing.
She leaned nearer, then wanting more, stepped closer, directly into his arms. Her hands rose, and she curled her fingers into his coat and clung.
The sensation of his lips on hers was a drug, but even through the intoxicating miasma clouding her senses, she was aware of how gently his arms closed around her—as if to him, she was the most precious object imaginable.
Then their heads angled, and the kiss deepened, and her awareness was overwhelmed.
With a need more powerful than any she’d known.
With a yearning that came from so deep within her she couldn’t have denied it, even had she wished to.
And over and above everything else lay the heady, sparking, thrilling sensations the simple pressure of his lips on hers ignited and fanned, feeding her starved soul.
Fireworks erupting in the hall would have had less impact.
But a simple kiss was all this could be.
Nothing more—not here, not now.
With transparent reluctance, he raised his head as she, responding to the same intuition, drew back.
For a long moment, they stared at each other, then Gray drew in a breath deep enough to have his chest rising beneath her palms. Slowly, he lowered his arms and, his voice rough and low, said, “So…we’ll think about that.”
She didn’t reply; to her mind, the statement was a reasonable summation of where they now stood. She was grateful when, his distracting lips lightly curving, he inclined his head and turned toward the door.
On tremulous limbs, she stepped past him and opened it.
He met her eyes, then smiled in his usual charming fashion but with a light in his amber eyes that warmed her.
Facing forward, he stepped onto the porch, paused to settle his hat on his head, then went quickly down the steps and strode away.
She watched him until he rounded the corner and was lost to her sight.
Then, slowly, she shut the door. After staring at the uninformative panels for several seconds, she turned and, leaving her mother and her sister to think what they would, went quietly upstairs.
Gray reached Edgware Road before he succeeded in wrenching his mind from the mesmerizing events of the past ten minutes.
He hailed a hackney and directed the jarvey to Jermyn Street. The carriage was rattling down Park Lane before he managed to shift his focus to the wider events of the day and all they’d achieved—and all that was yet to come.
From the first, when he’d walked into the printing works and discovered Izzy was the editor he’d come to see, where she was concerned, he’d followed the prodding of his instincts. It was a habit he’d acquired over the years, listening to that inner voice and paying attention to its promptings.
Acting on instinct, he’d kissed her tonight, and plainly, that had been the right thing to do.
And out of that, what had started as an instinctive urge to protect her had transformed into an unshakeable determination to keep her safe no matter what threats confronted them over the coming days.
Them.
It had been a long time since he’d thought of “them”—of her and him or, indeed, of him and any other woman.
After her…there’d never been another who had seized his awareness and focused his senses as she so effortlessly did.
For him and, he hoped, her as well, the writing was on the wall, and he knew how to read it. There was no longer any question in his mind over what he wanted, over what his future should look like. Courtesy of this evening, his desired future had crystalized in his mind.
As the hackney rattled deeper into Mayfair, he realized that, regarding that much-desired future, there was really only one question remaining.
Can I convince her to marry me—the her as she now is and the me as I am now?