Page 39 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Gray owned to being increasingly keen to meet Mr. Barton. Aside from anything else, he felt he owed the man his gratitude. Izzy had been forced to deal with a terrible situation more or less on her own, and Silas had been there and had helped when…
When I thoughtlessly ran away.
And left Izzy to shoulder the burden of taking care of and protecting her family entirely on her own.
Neither saw a need to talk as they walked. Unfortunately, that left Gray a prey to his thoughts. He knew what he’d heard that fateful afternoon, knew why he’d fled, but…he now had to consider the possibility that the words Izzy had uttered had, in the context in which she’d stood, been more a statement of fact than of feeling.
The long and short of it was, hehadintended to offer for her, and hehadbeen wealthy.
But he’d heard what he’d heard and felt as he’d felt, and he’d reacted and walked—run—away.
Now he knew that while he’d been adventuring, taking risks, gambling like a fiend, and eventually, recklessly losing every last penny and landing in a gutter, only to have Fate lift him out of it and grant him one last chance…while he’d been doing all that, constantly pursuing life to the fullest, living high and low and taking no responsibility for anyone but himself, Izzy had been dealing with the horrendous situation in which her father’s gambling had landed the earldom, making difficult decisions, managing as best she could, and shouldering the responsibility for all her family.
Until today, he would have described some of his past years as rough and hard. He had a sneaking suspicion that in comparison to Izzy, he didn’t know what the word “hard” truly meant.
He knew he wasn’t responsible for the troubles that had beset her, but equally, he would have made her life infinitely easier had he stayed.
Had he honored the unspoken promise that had lain between them.
As they turned onto Bernard Street, pacing beside her, he forced himself to draw in a deep breath, then slowly let it out.
From now on, he would keep his eyes open, take in all he saw, and properly reassess.
Not just their past but their present.
And not just her but himself as well.
They reached the door to the printing works a few minutes before eight o’clock. Izzy fished in her reticule, hauled out her keys, unlocked the door, and led the way inside.
From the reports Gray had received the previous night from Tom and Young Bill, he knew that, although the police hadn’t seen fit to post any watch, no one had tried to break into the workshop, at least not during the day.
Reassuringly, everything was as it had been when he and Izzy had left on Saturday.
Izzy went straight to the office and hung up her bonnet and coat, then headed for her desk.
After scanning the workshop, Gray ambled for the office while, in the distance, the city’s bells tolled for eight o’clock.
He’d just hung up his coat when the bell above the door tinkled. He looked across to see the staff arriving.
Izzy rose and walked past him, into the foyer. She greeted the staff who were doffing their coats, and they gathered around.
Gray lounged in the office doorway.
Once everyone had arrived, Izzy explained about the photographs Digby had printed, again thanking him for his excellent work. The others beamed and patted the lad’s shoulder, leaving him blushing and bashfully ducking his head.
“So what are the photographs of?” Lipson asked.
Izzy described the seven scenes and the progress they’d made in identifying the people in them. “I’m sure the police will return sometime today, and we’ll explain our thinking and give them the extra set of prints Digby made. They might see something in the photographs that we haven’t. Meanwhile, however, I’ve decided we should go forward and publish this week’s edition, including a section on Quimby and his murder.”
The relief in the staff’s faces was apparent; their expressions suggested the news gave them heart.
“Not to cast a spanner,” Maguire said, “but what will we do for photographs? Do you want to use the three Quimby did for us last Friday?”
Izzy frowned. “I’m not sure we should, not if they’re somehow linked to Quimby’s death. That doesn’t seem”—she wrinkled her nose—“appropriate.”
“We could use photographs from before—like from early last year,” Digby suggested. “Even though we’ve used them once, the punters aren’t likely to remember, and the backgrounds will be winterish.”
“That’s true enough.” Lipson nodded approvingly. He looked at Digby. “Do you know where they are?”
