Page 33 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Gray admitted, “I didn’t ask. I concentrated on making the case—Martin’s and mine as well—that exposing our wealth to all society would not just bring the matchmakers down on our heads but would also severely compromise our abilities to invest and generally do business. Luckily, when I explained all that to the proprietor, Mrs. Molyneaux, who turned out to be Isadora Descartes as was, she saw the light and agreed not to run the exposé and, instead, substitute some other sensation.”
“What?”Therese’s shocked exclamation brought Gray up short.
Before he could ask what had so exercised her, she leant forward and, her eyes locked on his face, demanded, “Did I hear you aright?IsadoraownsThe London Crier?”
Slowly, he nodded. “That’s what I said.”
Therese sat back, her expression suggesting she was flabbergasted—not something that often occurred. She stared unseeing across the room. “How exceedingly…boldof her.”
Starting to sense he was missing something, Gray added, “She’s the chief writer as well.”
Therese’s gaze returned to his face. She was still plainly stunned. “Good heavens! I had absolutelynoidea!”
That she was stunned by the fact she hadn’t known something made perfect sense to Gray; a glance at Devlin saw amused appreciation in his expression as well. Therese prided herself on knowing absolutely everything that went on in ton circles; to have been completely ignorant of two juicy pieces of gossip, one concerning her own brother, would, naturally, set her on her heels.
Then her expression grew puzzled. “But why Mrs. Molyneaux…oh!” Her face cleared. “Of course! To conceal her identity. Obviously, she wouldn’t want that known.”
Gray frowned. “No, because she married Molyneaux and is widowed—”
He broke off, because Therese was now staring at him with amazed eyes and a very strange expression.
If Lady Isadora Descartes had married, Therese would know. It was beyond impossible that she wouldn’t.
Gray stared at Therese, while in his chest, something moved in a disconcerting way. “Izzy didn’t marry, did she?”
Therese shook her head. “Not only is there no chance in Heaven that I would have missed an event such as the wedding of Lady Isadora Descartes, I met Isadora and her mother and sister at Lady Hitchen’s ball a few months ago, just before we left town.” Therese blinked, then added, “And of course, Molyneaux is the dowager countess’s maiden name—she was the last of the Suffolk Molyneaux.”
Gray was stunned, not only by the discovery but even more by his visceral reaction to the news that Izzy hadn’t married. That she hadn’t been some other man’s…
He hauled his mind from that unsettling tack and refocused on what he’d come there to do. “Well, that’s interesting, but it’s really neither here nor there with respect to what’s brought me to your door.” Although Izzy’s deception in portraying herself as a widow only increased the potential for Quimby to have been blackmailing her, Gray accepted that her true marital status needed to remain concealed at all costs.
Glancing at Therese, he realized she was debating whether to allow herself to be distracted from the intriguing news of Izzy’s unexpected ventures, and he firmly stated, “There’s been a murder. While Izzy and I were in the office of the printing works, talking about replacing the exposé, the photographer who worked forThe Crierwas stabbed to death in the darkroom, mere yards away.”
That proved sufficiently dramatic to distract even Therese. “Good Lord!” Her hand rose to her throat. “Is Isadora all right?”
“In general, yes. However…” He described the situation in broad strokes, explaining that the police plainly needed assistance to find the killer.
At that point, they were interrupted by Edwards with the news that luncheon was ready to be served whenever they wished.
Therese invited Gray to share the meal, and he readily accepted, and they adjourned to the smaller dining room.
“So,” Devlin asked, once they’d served themselves and settled to eat, “what are you doing to help the police?”
Gray gathered his thoughts, then said, “One thing that seemed notable was that despite almost certainly knowing Izzy and I were there, talking only yards away, after killing Quimby, the murderer took the time to find and wreck all the photographer’s daguerreotype plates—the originals of the photographs he’d taken. That suggests that the motive for the murder lay in the photographs Quimby had taken.”
Therese frowned. “If the photographs are all wrecked… Did the photographer keep a record of what he’d taken?”
Gray blinked. “That’s an interesting notion, but sadly, we haven’t learned of any such record as yet. However, after the police left the workshop yesterday—they came and interviewed the staff—Izzy and I met with the staff and talked things over, and we learned that Quimby had changed the way he takes photographs, and the photographs he’d taken on the day he died were still safe in the darkroom. His young assistant printed up copies, and those are what’s brought me to you.”
Therese’s eyes were wide. “How can we help?”
“There are seven photographs in all—seven scenes about London. Our working hypothesis is that there’s something in one of those photographs that the killer doesn’t want others to see. All seven photographs could have ended up published in a newspaper—The Crieror others—and that’s what the killer was prepared to murder to prevent.”
Devlin was nodding. “That seems a reasonable argument.”
“So we think.” In between talking, Gray had cleared his plate. He laid down his cutlery, dabbed his napkin to his lips, and set it aside. “The thing is, there are lots of people in the photographs—ladies, gentlemen, men, women—and we need to identify them all. Izzy and I know a few, but naming the others was beyond us.”
Therese pushed her empty plate away. “You’ve brought the photographs with you?”
