Page 64 of Solving Sophronia

“He stole my story.” Anger sharpened her scattered thoughts into a blade. “I must go, Father.” She rushed from the room.

“I’m not finished—” Her father’s voice came from behind, but she was already on the stairs.

When she reached her room, she flipped through her notebook, and fury made her hands shake. The pages of her investigation had been removed.

Za

In the carriage on the way to the newspaper office, Sophie read through the news story again. Not only had theIllustrated London Newspublished the police department’s information and the steps of the investigation, they’d also included witness names and testimonies from her notes. Were Martha Payne and Miss Primm in danger?

There, in black and white, was a picture of the murder weapon. Every advantage the police had over the murderers was gone. The enormity of what Sophie had inadvertently done threatened to crush her, and she wished more than anything she’d brought Mimi along for support.

She took the folder from her bag, feeling a bitter guilt as she held it. If she hadn’t been so inquisitive about Jonathan’s friendship with Tom Stackhouse, none of this would have happened. She began flipping through the pages with nervous energy, and she started reading.

Twenty minutes later Sophie threw open the door to the newspaper office and stormed inside. She marched past Mrs. Ingram, through the staring news reporters, and straight to the editor’s desk.

Mr. Leonard looked up, cigarette hanging from his lips, but did not have a chance to speak.

Sophie shook the paper in his face. “Explain this, sir.”

He gave a wide, walrusy grin and blew out a puff of smoke. “Miss Propriety, that is our best-selling paper, ever. It’s still morning, and we’re running another printing already. You should be congratulating yourself, my dear.”

She pushed the paper closer to his face, pointing at the drawing. “I am not your dear. Youstolethis information from me. I didnotgive you permission to print it.”

He folded his hands across his wide belly, and his eyes took on a shrewd look. “You left the article—however unfinished—on my desk, as you do every week.” He lifted his chin the slightest bit, as if daring her to argue.

“But you know I didn’t intend you to print this,” Sophie said.

His expression changed into something more calculating, and he set the cigarette in a tray. “My lady, you did marvelous work—far better than I’d have expected. You’ve proven yourself to be as competent a news reporter as any I’ve known.” He took the paper from her, spreading it out on his desk and smoothing it with his hands. “If you’re willing to accept a position as a senior news reporter, I’d be pleased to have you.”

Sophie snatched back the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and resisted the compulsion to throw it into his face or light it on fire with his smoldering cigarette. “I shall not, sir. Not now, not ever. Your selfishness has caused more damage than you could ever know.” She dropped the paper onto the ground and spun, needing to leave as quickly as possible. Jonathan would know how to fix this, but she had to make one stop before going to the station house.

She stepped outside and slammed the door behind her, saying goodbye forever to “Miss Propriety’s People and Prattle” and theIllustrated London News.

Chapter 19

Jonathan stared at the newsstory.She couldn’t have... she wouldn’t.He didn’t know whether his head or his heart hurt worse. Sophie had betrayed him. She’d used him for her news story. And he was the fool who had allowed her to do it. Who had allowed himself think that just maybe—

Sir Dennington pounded on the desk, shaking the portrait of his family hanging on the wall behind him. “. . . a visit from the commissioner himself!” the inspector said. “Says you infiltrated the marquess’s son’s engagement ball with the help of a disguise and a group of young ladies—that you accused the Kingsclere Hunting Club of concealing murderers!” He crossed his arms, staring across his desk at Jonathan and Sergeant Lester, awaiting their answer.

“I—yes, sir. But it was myself, and not the sergeant, who involved civilians.”

“What were you thinking, man?” Sir Dennington held up his hands, using them to chop the air and punctuate his words. He shook his head. “Impersonating nobility? I’ve had visits and letters all morning. The marquess is threatening to involve the prime minister.” He pounded the desk once more, and his voice echoed through the station house.

Jonathan wished the man would just hit him or throw him into prison—anything would be better than this ache in his heart. How had he let himself be so utterly deceived? It was just as Tom had always said:Never trust a pretty face. “We hoped to gain information we would otherwise not have access to. Most of the nobility won’t speak candidly to a police officer, sir.”

“And now a constable is wounded.” Sir Dennington sank into his chair, apparently done with his yelling—for now. “So tell me—what happened, Detective?”

Jonathan reported everything that had transpired since Sir Dennington had left his office two days earlier, explaining his reasoning for assuming a disguise and for recruiting the young ladies to assist in gathering information. He spoke in an emotionless voice, giving no personal details. Apparently they had all been imagined anyway.

He especially downplayed Sophie’s involvement in the planning. Part of him still wished to protect her from any repercussions, and the other was too ashamed to admit he’d been so taken in.

The inspector listened, nodding here and there and leaning close when Jonathan described the shooting.

“Did you see from whence the shots came?”

Jonathan looked at the sergeant, giving him the chance to answer.

“From the assembly hall, sir. Based on the angle of the bullets we pulled from the stable walls, I’m sure of it.”

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