Page 28 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
He opened one eye and met her gaze. “I always understood that income from advertisers was notoriously unreliable.”
“Indeed it is, which is why the printing works’ profit doesn’t rest on income fromThe Crieralone.”
He opened both eyes and waited for her to elaborate.
Leaning her elbows on the desk, she obliged. “WhileThe Criergenerally covers its costs, the bulk of our profit comes from our printing for the university, several museums, and various other institutions, for faculties, private scholars, and scholarly societies. All want a printing works that understands what they need and doesn’t charge exorbitantly. These days, most printing presses are so large it’s uneconomical to do short print runs or print small documents like pamphlets or guides. We can and do handle such projects, and over the years, we’ve made a name for ourselves supplying those orders on time and with excellent finish.”
“So you offer a service few others can replicate.”
“Exactly.” She clasped her hands before her. “Now I’ve answered your question, you can answer one of mine. How did you amass your amazing newfound wealth?”
“I visited the Californian goldfields and picked up a nugget. A large one.”
She widened her eyes at him. “And that was all it took?”
He grinned and straightened in the chair. “That nugget was worth a lot, but I took the money and invested in a succession of enterprises and, over the years, built my fortune into what it is now.”
“Why did you come back?”
He’d answered that question for others, and the answer leapt to his tongue. “Because, believe it or not, I decided I’d had enough adventure, and once I sat back and contemplated life, I realized I missed England.”
“Our green and pleasant land?”
“Indeed.” After a second’s hesitation, he added something he’d shared with no one else. “I also realized that the ultimate challenge I faced was creating a satisfying life, and my vision of that was anchored here, in this green and pleasant land.” He lightly shrugged. “So I came back.”
To make the most of his life—to create the best life he could; that had been the motive that had driven him for the past nine years. That and, in more recent times, a desire to live up to his name and make his family proud to own him.
He shifted to better face her. “You said you started this endeavor because you—and I assume that means your family—needed the income. Yet you could have easily married money, more than enough to be comfortable for the rest of your life.” He paused, then candidly observed, “I wasn’t the only ducal sprig hovering. Why didn’t you seize one of them?”
Izzy held his gaze and her tongue…then decided to throw caution to the winds. It no longer mattered, after all. “You’re correct in that I could have married several others, but after you left, I took stock and decided that, if I didn’tactivelywish to marry a particular gentleman, it would be better for everyone concerned if I didn’t and, instead, pursued other avenues to support the family—avenues I felt happier pursuing.” Just in time, she remembered to add, “Molyneaux intervened, but”—she gestured about her—“here I am.”
She was perfectly content to allow Gray to assume she’d married Molyneaux for love.
A faint frown shadowed his amber eyes; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
A door opened, and footsteps, light and eager, hurried toward the office.
Both she and Gray looked across at the doorway.
Digby appeared, wearing a gray dustcoat several sizes too big and carrying a sheaf of photographs.
His gaze had been locked on the photographs. He paused in the doorway, looked at her and Gray, and smiled delightedly. “I think they’re good. All of them!”
Smiling, she waved at the cleared expanse of her desk. “Come and show us.”
Digby crossed to the desk and eagerly set out the prints. Gray stood and looked down on the images.
“I made three copies like you wanted.” Digby arranged the prints in three long rows of seven. “I had to get the stove going to dry them, but the lines are nice and sharp, and there’s lots of different grays as well as black and white, just like Mr. Q said there should be.”
Izzy scanned the prints. “These are as good as any I’ve ever seen. The focus is excellent.” She picked up one and examined the details more closely.
Gray picked up a different print. “You said you expected three scenes a week. Which of these are the three forThe Crier?”
She waved the print in her hand. “This is taken in Regent’s Park, showing people walking the lawns and paths. That’s the sort of scene we use, so I would say this is one Quimby would have offered me.”
She scanned the row of prints nearest her and pulled three more out of the line. “These two”—she tapped her finger on the first and second—“are scenes in Hyde Park, but I wouldn’t have taken both. One, certainly, but not both.” She considered the third print she’d selected, the last in the line of seven. “This is Fleet Street, I think, and it’s the third photograph I would have taken forThe Crier.” She glanced up and met Gray’s eyes. “We use scenes of people about town.”
He nodded. “So these other three…?”
