Page 43 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
She’d reached the point of describing how the distribution of the paper was handled, when Louisa’s expression suddenly lit, and she flung up her hands. “Wait—wait!”
Everyone, her husband included, stared at her. From her expression, she was following some mental trail, then she refocused on Izzy and beamed. “I know how to catch the murderer!”
Drake viewed his wife with undisguised trepidation. “How?”
Louisa kept her gaze trained on Izzy. “I’m sure you’re intending to report on the murder in the next edition. I assume that will be this week’s?”
Izzy nodded. “It’ll go out this Friday.” Cynically, she added, “Having a murder on the premises is a sure way of gaining the public’s attention.”
“Just so,” Louisa returned. “And what if you state that it’s believed the reason your photographer was killed lies somewhere in the last photographs he took?” Louisa waved at the sheets. “Publish all seven and tell the readers that the vital clue to identifying the murderer lies in the pictures. Can they spot it?”
Enthused, her face alight, Louisa leaned forward. “Print the photographs in the paper and ask your readers for any information or insights they have. For instance, who are the people in the photographs—the people we don’t know?”
Drake stirred and also sat forward, studying the uppermost sheet, then he flicked through the stack and examined the others. “That just might work. These are all clear enough, detailed enough—it would be a pity not to use them.” He looked at Izzy. “And offer a reward. It doesn’t have to be much—ten or twenty pounds would do it.”
Izzy’s mind was whirling. She felt Gray’s gaze and glanced his way.
“That’s an excellent idea,” he said. “I’ll put up the reward.”
His eyes said:Especially as this will banish all memory of the exposé from the minds of your public.
She smiled and nodded.
“You’ll need to state that the reward is for new information that actually leads to the killer, but”—eyes bright, Louisa met Izzy’s gaze—“this will be just like an old-fashioned hue and cry. All we’re doing is adapting the concept to the modern age by using a newspaper rather than the town crier…” She laughed. “And how appropriate it is that a newspaper calledThe London Crierwill run the piece.”
Izzy continued to nod as the possibilities firmed in her mind. “We’ll include a photograph of Quimby himself—I’m fairly certain we have one—and ask if anyone saw him on Friday, especially if he was with any others.”
Drake inclined his head. “That’s a very good notion.”
They discussed the ins and outs and the potential wording of their appeal to the readers. Izzy took notes, and it was plain all four of them had been completely won over by the idea of a modern-day hue and cry.
The jeweled clock on the mantelpiece chimed melodically, indicating that it was half past twelve. Louisa glanced at it, then looked at Izzy and Gray. “Please say you’ll stay for luncheon. We can continue our discussions over the table. I’m sure we’ll come up with more good ideas if we give ourselves the time.”
Izzy looked at Gray. “There’s nothing that requires my immediate attention at the printing works.”
He nodded and looked at Louisa. “By all means, we’ll stay and keep working on this idea.”
“Mybrilliant idea.” Louisa rose and went to tug the bellpull. “And because it was my idea, I’m going to demand to know all the details of how Izzy plans to execute it.”
Izzy laughed and, as it truly had been a brilliant idea, gracefully inclined her head in acceptance, then the butler arrived and confirmed that luncheon was ready to be served, and they rose and adjourned to the dining room.
With Drake, Gray followed the ladies, who despite the disparity in their heights, had their heads together, planning and plotting.
Eyeing the pair, Drake shook his head. “There’ll be no stopping them now, but I do think a hue and cry edition will be the fastest way to flush out the murderer.”
Louisa led them to what was plainly a personal dining room; the table was round and would hold only six at a pinch. They sat, with Izzy opposite Drake and Gray facing Louisa. The butler served the soup, and after swallowing her first mouthful, Izzy glanced at Drake. “In bringing our problem to your door, I hope we haven’t hauled you away from any pressing concerns.”
Drake shook his head. “In fact, I’m pathetically grateful to have a mystery into which I can sink my teeth. It’s been rather dull of late—in this season, political intrigue tends to take a holiday.”
“For which, I’m sure, we can all be grateful,” Izzy responded.
The conversation flowed freely. Courtesy of his recent return, Gray was the one with least to contribute, so he listened as three of arguably the keenest observers of the ton traded quips and comments as they entertained themselves and him.
As Lady Isadora, Izzy effortlessly fitted into this milieu. This was her true station, something Drake and Louisa—of similar station, as was Gray himself—instinctively recognized, unquestioningly accepted, and automatically responded to. The observation fed Gray’s appreciation of just how remarkable her performance as Mrs. Molyneaux was. At the printing works, she was accepted as the owner and manager, and he was quite sure not a single person there suspected her of being an earl’s daughter who regularly appeared in the major drawing rooms of the haut ton. Whether it was her innate confidence or an acquired knack, she had mastered the art of dealing with people as people regardless of social rank, without relying on her inherited status.
His attention caught, he watched more closely, studying her in this incarnation, one he hadn’t seen since returning to England. This Izzy was the mature version of the young lady he’d left behind, and her poise and self-assurance were impressive, even judged against Louisa’s mercurial brilliance.
The more Gray observed of Louisa’s and Drake’s responses to Izzy, the more it was borne in on him that, for an aristocratic spinster of her age, she occupied an unusual position of acceptance within the ton. After some cogitation, he decided the reason had to lie in the grandes dames and those like Louisa and her ilk knowing, or at least suspecting, more of the family’s true history than he had known.
