Page 9 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
“Here.” He offered Izzy the cup. “Drink up—it’ll make you feel better.”
She accepted the cup and saucer and took a tentative sip, then a bigger one. “Thank you.” Her voice was low and hoarse, as if she were holding herself together via sheer will alone.
He was cravenly grateful she was making the effort; emotional females—especially those of his class—made him nervous.
He reached for the other armchair, angled it beside hers, and sat. “Give me your hand.” Judging by the way she held the saucer, the sensation of dried blood on her skin was bothering her.
She balanced the cup and saucer on the chair’s arm and extended her hand, delicate and pale with the long, slender fingers he remembered.
Cradling her hand, palm up, in his left hand, he ignored the sensation of her skin against his and gently wiped the last traces of blood from her palm and fingers.
There was a spot of blood on the very edge of her coat sleeve. Deciding that her maid would know better than he how to remove it, he left the spot untouched.
Once he was satisfied her skin was clean, he straightened and released her hand, unnerved to discover that he had to force himself to do so.
She cleared her throat, whispered, “Thank you,” and resumed sipping her tea.
He rose, took the pink-stained rag back to the sink, rinsed it clean, and returned to the office, wondering when the police would arrive.
He settled in the armchair beside her. She’d unbuttoned her coat; he hoped she was recovering her customary poise. He glanced at her face and was unsurprised to see a frown haunting her eyes. “I checked the rear door and found it open. Should it have been locked?”
She grimaced. “Quimby has—had—a key to that door and usually came in that way. He didn’t work regular hours. He traveled about the city, searching out scenes to photograph forThe Crierand his other clients. Neither I nor the staff could be sure when he would be here, hence the absolute adherence to the darkroom sign. If it was set to Occupied, he was in there, working. As for the rear door, he was supposed to lock it if he was the only one still working, but I suspect he often didn’t.”
“Otherclients. So Quimby wasn’t an employee solely ofThe Crier?”
“He wasn’t an employee at all. He and I had an arrangement. He needed a darkroom and didn’t have one, andThe Crierhad one, but no photographer. So we struck a deal—Quimby got unfettered use of our darkroom in return for supplying three photographs of scenes about London for us to run in each week’s edition.” She paused, then added, “He provided his own supplies and stored most of his equipment and what have you here.”
A hammering on the front door made her jerk.
She set her empty cup on the desk, and he rose. “I’ll see who it is.”
He strode across the foyer, opened the door, and hurriedly stepped back as three constables barreled in.
“Where is it?” the first belligerently demanded. With a ruddy face and thinning greasy hair, he appeared to be the oldest, carrying a paunch and the attitude of being in charge.
He looked around wildly, then swung to Gray. “The dead body!” he barked. Then he actually looked at whom he was confronting, swallowed, and more temperately added, “Sir.”
With the faintest of cold smiles, Gray replied, “It’s ‘my lord.’” He rarely used his title, but in such circumstances… “And you are?”
The man stiffened into a semblance of attention. “Senior Constable Perkins, m’lord, from the Guildford Street watchhouse.”
“I specifically asked that an inspector from Scotland Yard be summoned.”
Perkins and his compatriots nodded.
“Indeed, my lord,” one of the others responded. “A message has been dispatched.”
“But see, we can’t tell how long it might be before an inspector gets here.” Perkins thrust out his chest. “So we’re here to see what’s what.”
Perkins’s gaze deflected toward the office. Gray glanced that way and saw Izzy standing in the doorway, pale as a ghost and all but wringing her hands.
“In that case,” Gray stated, “you’ll find the dead photographer in the darkroom.”
All three constables peered uncertainly down the long workshop.
Surreptitiously, Gray signaled to Izzy to retreat into the office, then stepped forward. “Come—I’ll show you.”
The three started to follow, then Perkins paused and hissed at one of his juniors, “Stay by the door and make sure no one leaves.”
