Page 2 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
The door opened, and a young woman—laughing at something—emerged, followed by two men in their twenties, another slightly older man, and two middle-aged men. All were garbed as respectable workers. The last man to leave, a burly, broad-shouldered individual with graying hair, pulled the front door shut, but didn’t lock it.
In a loose group, the printing works’ crew walked toward Bernard Street and were joined by workers emerging from the neighboring shops.
Once the printing works’ staff were two doors down the street, Gray left the shadowed alcove, crossed the cobbles, and climbed the steps to the printing works’ door. He grasped the handle and opened the door. A bell above the door tinkled loudly as he stepped inside.
He shut the door and walked slowly along the counter, taking note of the metal monstrosity looming in the dimly lit space beyond the barrier; he assumed it was the printing press. A scent drawn from ink, metal, and oil teased his nostrils.
The single lamp left burning at the end of the counter had been turned so low that, other than the shapes of two worktables and cabinets along the wall, he could distinguish little else in the body of the workshop. Closer to hand in the foyer, wooden benches ran along the front wall below the wide window, and a shorter, more comfortable bench sat against the side wall between the counter and the door.
No doubt summoned by the bell, brisk footsteps approached from inside the office. As he’d thought, wooden panels separated the office from the rest of the workshop. A half-glazed wooden door stood open, affording him a view across the brightly lit office to a wall of well-stocked bookshelves.
A woman appeared in the doorway.
With the bright light behind her, she initially appeared as a silhouette. A very attractive silhouette—tall, slender, yet nicely curved, with a well-shaped head topped by fashionably coiffed dark hair, a pale oval face, and a long, swanlike neck. Her gown was of some dark material, fashionably cut yet subdued in style.
She stepped into the foyer and, abruptly, halted. Then she stared.
Gray’s eyes adjusted to the poor light, and her features—stunned and shocked—came into sharp focus.
He blinked and stared back.
His senses hadn’t lied. She was definitely a lady.
Barely able to believe his eyes, he struggled to get his tongue to work. Eventually, he managed, “Isadora?” He felt as if his mental feet had been knocked from under him.
Lady Isadora Descartes couldn’t stop staring, but as the apparition had spoken, he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Warily, she responded, “Grayson?”
He kept staring, and so did she—as if they couldn’t get enough of seeing the other. The seconds stretched, and his gaze seemed to grow more intense, almost…hungry.
So much had changed, yet so much hadn’t. Her leaping senses informed her he was just as tall as he’d been ten years ago, but he was carrying more muscle on his long frame, and even in the dim light, his hair seemed brighter—more burnished. His skin was more tanned than she remembered it ever being, and his features possessed a hard, harsher, sterner edge.
His amber eyes still held a glowing warmth she could drown in, yet the intellect behind those lovely eyes was, she sensed, significantly sharper.
A frown slowly claimed his face. Although he seemed to have to fight to do it, he forced his gaze from her and, frown deepening, looked over her shoulder into the office.
From where he stood, all he could see were the bookshelves filling the opposite wall.
He refocused his frown on her. “What are you doing here?”
The suspicion in his eyes and tone wasn’t surprising but served to snap her wits into place. Coolly, she met his gaze and, challengingly, raised her chin. “More to the point, what areyoudoing here?”
What possible business could have brought him there?
He was the last person she would have expected to walk throughThe Crier’sdoor, and beyond question, he was the very last person she wished to encounter there, let alone speak with.
He didn’t immediately answer. His still-confounded gaze raked over her again, this time comprehensively, taking in her ungloved hands with their ink-stained fingers and the severe plainness of her slate-colored day dress, specifically selected to conceal the smudges she invariably picked up while moving about the workshop.
He stirred and prowled closer.
Her senses skittered and leapt; that stalking walk was infinitely more predatory, more powerfully impactful than before. Locking her eyes on his, she fought to ensure not a whit of her instinctive reaction showed.
Four measured steps, and he halted directly before her. He searched her eyes. “I’m looking for I. Molyneaux, the owner ofThe London Crier. Or failing him, the editor.”
You’ve found them both.
His nearness was sending distracting frissons of sensation up and down her spine. She frowned and eased back a step. “Why?”
His amber eyes narrowed to shards, and he took another step.
