Page 48 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
With a wave and “I’ll be down shortly,” Izzy left the room.
Sybil, the dowager, listened to her elder daughter’s firm footsteps ascend the stairs, then sank back in her chair, a pensive expression overtaking her soft features.
Marietta studied her mother’s face. After a moment, she asked, “Lord Child—isn’t he the gentleman Izzy had her eye on all those years ago? And then he vanished, simply upped and disappeared, and the why of it was a mystery to everyone, his family included?”
Her gaze distant, Sybil nodded. “Yes, that was he.”
Marietta narrowed her hazel eyes on her mother’s uninformative countenance. “And am I right in thinking that after Child vanished, Izzy never looked at another gentleman—not in any meaningful way?”
Sybil refocused on her younger daughter’s face and faintly smiled. “Exactly so.”
Marietta held her mother’s gaze and, after a moment, smiled, too.
Chapter 7
Gray knocked on the door of Number 6 Norfolk Crescent at seven o’clock the following morning and almost blinked when the door was opened by a beaming Cottesloe, who bowed and welcomed him inside.
When Gray entered the breakfast parlor, Izzy didn’t turn a hair.
He pulled out the chair opposite her. “I assume you warned Cottesloe to expect me.”
“I told him to admit you if you should call.” She fixed him with a direct look. “So why are you here so bright and early?”
Gray paused as Cottesloe came in with the coffeepot and made a production of pouring Gray a cup, then the butler asked, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Cottesloe.” Gray lifted the cup, sipped, then smiled genially at the butler. “This will suffice.”
Cottesloe bowed and departed.
Gray lowered the cup and returned his gaze to Izzy. “Yesterday, you speculated that the killer might be pursuing a vendetta againstThe Crier. Given it’s a gossip rag, it’s not difficult to imagine that a motive for such an action might exist in some man’s mind. While we’ve fixed on Quimby’s photographs as providing a more likely motive, it occurred to me that, regardless of whether the killer’s motive lies in Quimby’s photographs or in somethingThe Crierhas previously printed, the killer might, from the first, have had you in his sights as well.”
His eyes locked with hers, he went on, “You were in the office and should have been alone that evening. He might have intended to attack you as well, but hadn’t counted on me being with you. If so, whatever his reasoning, he might still view killing you as a part of his campaign. More, if the photographs are, indeed, the source of his motive, once he learns of the special edition and that you mean to publish the photographs he thought he’d destroyed, he might well try again to stop their publication, and in that respect, you are as much of a target asThe Crieritself.”
From her arrested expression, she hadn’t thought of that.
Ruthlessly, he pressed the point home. “With you dead,The Crierwould simply stop—cease publication—at least for a while.”
She frowned.
He glanced at her crumb-strewn plate, then waved his cup. “Finish your tea. We can work out what to do for the best once we reach the printing works.”
Izzy met his gaze, then raised her teacup and drained it. He was right; her being a potential target for the killer was a subject better discussed far from household ears.
She rose, and he set down the coffee cup and joined her. Within minutes, they were bowling along the streets toward Woburn Square.
She spent the journey deep in thought, weighing what he’d said and trying to marshal arguments with which to refute his prognostication, but in the end, she let it lie unchallenged. Who could say with any certainty what their killer presently thought?
They transited through the Woburn Square house and walked briskly on to the mews. Although they were the first through the door, the staff arrived on their heels, all eager to get working on the special edition.
Far from having any time to think, much less discuss the prospect Gray had raised, Izzy found her hours claimed by a succession of issues that required her immediate attention. Because of the edition’s unusual nature, several situations demanded different solutions from those she and the staff routinely employed.
In between answering various questions, she worked on the lead article and Quimby’s obituary. Regardless of her occupation, she was incessantly aware of Gray, either by her elbow or seated in front of her. In the end, she took to consulting him on this and that and discovered that having another pair of intelligent eyes attached to a brain with a similar grounding in life as hers was a boon.
Especially given that mind was one she trusted…
She pulled herself up at the thought, surprised and somewhat taken aback, but there was no denying that assessment was accurate. Mentally shrugging the realization aside, she buckled down to complete her article; she wanted it done by the end of the day.
At ten o’clock, the bell above the main door jangled, heralding the return of Lipson, who had been out meeting their advertising clients, explaining about the hue and cry special edition and soliciting advertisements to run in it at the special, higher rate.
