Page 113 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

Victor stared out the window into the night as the carriage moved along the city’s streets. Darkened windowpanes of shops and vacant streets announced the late hour. Gas lamps burned low, casting ominous shadows against the empty pavement. Black wreaths hung from doorways out of respect for the king’s death. Heat from the day dissipated, and an odd chill settled against his face. Fog hung low, obscuring his vision and providing a moody atmosphere on his journey.

When the carriage halted in front ofThe Knave of Hearts,Victor shivered, but not because of the cold. Was it folly to answer the call of an anonymous correspondence? An odd tingling of his skin crept over him as if death breathed down his neck, and he raised his hand to tap on the carriage roof and tell the driver to take him back home. Withdrawing his hand, he brushed it off as silly superstition and chided himself for his lack of courage and overly dramatic nature.

He would see this through. For Juliana. For himself. For all who had been harmed byThe Muckraker.

Victor stepped from the carriage a determined man.

“Place is closed,” the driver said, as if it weren’t obvious from the lack of light and activity within.

Victor ignored him and strode toward the back entrance. The narrow passage was deserted with only the scurrying of what must have been rodents seeking a morsel of food. Pulling out his pocket watch, Victor checked the time. Three to ten. The hackney had made good time.

Light from a window on the building’s uppermost floor caught Victor’s attention, and it seemed out of place from the otherwise darkened gaming hell. A silhouette of a man passed infront and stopped as if he were gazing down at the back street below.

Victor pressed his body closer to the wall, then relaxed at the scrape of a window being opened. Whoever it was probably only wished to let in the cooler night air. Still, he wondered if the person was his mysterious correspondent.

Horses’ hooves clipping against the cobbles slowed, and the scrape of carriage wheels came to a stop.

Victor peered down the back street’s dark passageway toward the sound of the halting carriage, and his heart kicked up its pace as a figure appeared. He blinked, clearing his vision, his mind not making sense of what his eyes saw.

A woman approached. Was she mad? Washemad?

“Who’s there?” he called out.

“Victor? It’s me. Lydia.”

Lydia? What the blazes?

She appeared to be alone, which made even less sense. “Lydia, were you the one who summoned me? Do you know who’s responsible forThe Muckraker?”

Dressed in black, Lydia almost melted into the dark shadows. Her gaze darted nervously around her as she stepped closer. “Why is it so important to you, Victor? Is it because of the gossip about you and Lady Nash in the orangery?”

Victor sucked in a calming breath. How could she not even consider the harm the paper had done to others? “Among other things.”

“I could retract my statement, explain that it was all a misunderstanding and what I saw was a simple exchange between friends.”

“Then do it. Why call me to a deserted passageway at night?”

“Will you promise not to resume your betrothal to Miss Merrick if I do?”

His patience worn thin as the cloth he used to clean his brushes, he gritted his teeth to restrain himself from grabbing her arms and giving her a good shake. “And return to courting you?”

“We are a good match, Victor.”

“By whose standards? Yours?” Definitely not by his. They would make each other miserable in less than a year.

Still, she flinched at the vitriol in his voice, and shame flared in his chest. Raised to be a gentleman, he prided himself on respecting women. But Lydia pushed him to the limit.

“What if I told you if you don’t, you will put Miss Merrick’s life in danger?”

Hair prickled on his neck at her threat. Was she truly that desperate to sink her hooks into him? Losing all his restraint, he took her by the arms. “What do you mean? How?”

“Please, Victor, you’re hurting me.”

Her cries had the desired effect, and he dropped his hands to his sides. If Lydia was telling the truth, how could he jeopardize Juliana’s life? “Tell me what you know, and I’ll consider your ultimatum.”

“The person responsible forThe Muckrakerhas a vendetta against the Duke of Burwood and his family.”

When he opened his mouth, she shook her head. “If you’re going to ask, ‘Why,’ I don’t know.”

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