Page 19 of Schemes & Scandals

I also note that Isla doesn’t stop us or even give us a scandalized look. Like that preteen girl, she’s soaking it up.

“So there is an audience for this,” I say, bringing the conversation back around. “How profitable would it be?”

“How much is the blackmail for?” Jack asks.

“Five hundred pounds.”

Jack whistles. “It wouldneverbe that profitable. The primary audience for such writing, from a woman’s perspective, would likely be women themselves. In written work, that audience is larger.”

“Men prefer pictures?”

She laughs softly. “They do. Women prefer narrative where they may fill in their own imagination. Probably because they have so much experience doing that while lying under a heaving, grunting, sweaty man.”

“You really need to cultivate a better class of partners,” I say.

She sighs. “I know. But while the audience for such things is largely women, it still is smaller than the audience for visual pornography, and even that would not come close to the price the blackmailer is demanding.”

“Meaning they really are counting on our client paying the ransom.”

“Yes. The blackmailer is not necessarily bluffing about publishing them. Such things could be sold for a nice bit of income. But that also requires knowingwhereto sell it, which the average person would not.”

“But you do?”

“I do, and if it comes to that, we could attempt to avoid publication by paying the printer for the return of the materials. But that would not be easily done.”

“So we should presume the threat is serious and try to find the blackmailer before those letters reach a printer.”

“I fear so.”

ChapterNine

Gray has told Lady Inglis that we’re taking her case. By morning, we have an invitation from “Lord Charles Simpson” to join him at his home. We accept, and at ten, Simon drops us outside Lord Simpson’s town house.

The town house is similar to Gray’s. Maybe a bit smaller. We’re entering an era where it’s not uncommon for the middle class to have more money than the nobility. It’s the rise of the industrial era, where investing in a trade can earn you more than having a title and a bit of land.

Simpson certainly still lives very well. Cross into the Old Town, and his place would house multiple families on each of its four levels. My impression is that he is averagely well-to-do for a viscount, which is what I expected.

Lord Simpson himself, however, is not what I expected. I’ve met Lady Inglis—beautiful, cultured, and wealthy. Her lover will be her male equivalent. I know he’s a few years older than her, so I picture a dashing and distinguished silver fox. A bon vivant who can capture and hold a woman like Lady Inglis.

When the butler leads us into the parlor, I see a man and remember that Lord Simpson lives with his younger brother. I presume that’s who I’m seeing. The man is rotund, with jet-black hair and equally dark whiskers. When he turns, I see he’s older than I thought, and the very dark hair likely comes from a bottle.

“Lord Charles Simpson,” the butler says. “May I present Dr. Duncan Gray and Miss Mallory Mitchell.”

Okay, this was not what I expected, but that’s on me, isn’t it? Lady Inglis is an intelligent and discerning woman who will expect more than a handsome face in her lovers, and the sparkle in Simpson’s eye suggests the bon vivant I imagined.

“Dr. Gray,” he says, taking Gray’s hand. “It has been too long. So good to see you. And Miss Mitchell. Welcome. I am so pleased to hear that Dr. Gray has found a proper assistant. The last time we spoke, he was having a terrible time with that.”

Simpson engages in a few moments of small talk, striking the perfect balance between being a convivial host and recognizing that we’re here on business. When he asks after our health, it’s in that way some people have of making you feel they actually care about the answer. Then it’s a quick exchange on the weather and how the cold is a nuisance but the snow is lovely, and there seems to be actual sunshine today, yes?

By the time that’s done, a maid arrives with a tea tray. He tells her to shut the door behind her and warns that this is business and he’d rather not be disturbed unless it is urgent. Once she’s gone, he pours the tea before speaking.

“You are investigating the missing letters,” he says.

“We are,” Gray says. “Lady Inglis requested my help, and while it is not my area of expertise...”

“I have heard you are doing some detective work,” Simpson says. “With the police. Consulting on murders and such. You really must let me take you out to dinner, Gray, so I may ask all about that. I amfascinated. The idea of using science to solve murders? Brilliant. Can you imagine where such a thing could lead? In a hundred years, if a person is murdered, science could lead us straight to the killer and prove they did it. No need for police to investigate nor for lawyers and judges to try the case. Science will prove guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

Gray sneaks a look at me, but I see no point in poking a hole in Simpson’s enthusiasm. It’s like telling modern people that the idea of flying cars doesn’t actually, well, fly. Let them dream.

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