Yet his instincts remained insistent, and despite whatever had happened in the past, given how frequently his and Izzy’s attitudes aligned, he had to wonder if she didn’t, in her heart, still feel as he did about her old home.
That it was simply the right place to make his—or her—own.
Short of putting the question to her, there was no way he could tell.
Thinking of the house, he resolved to send a message to his man-of-business that evening, instructing him to arrange for a trusted builder-surveyor to examine the place.
For all he knew, with all that paneling, it had woodworm throughout.
First things first; he needed to know if the house was as sound as he thought it was. As solid a prospect as he believed.
If not…there was no reason to potentially cause Izzy pain by even mentioning the place.
At twenty minutes past five o’clock, Izzy stood, surrounded byThe Crier’s staff and the others who had helped throughout the long day, and stared at the massive stacks of copies ofThe London Crier’sHue and Cryedition.
It was a staggering reality, with one hundred bound stacks of fifty copies each covering the typesetting table, the layout table, and fully half the counter, as well as on the floor, lining the inside of the counter.
She blew out a breath. “That’s it. We’re ready for distribution at eight o’clock tomorrow.”
Digby sent up a cheer, which was taken up by all the males, while Mary and Izzy shared a smiling glance.
There were several loose copies lying about. Donaldson had picked up one and had been leafing through it. “The more I look at this, the more I’m convinced that no one in London will be able to resist seeing who they recognize.”
Maguire smiled at Izzy. “It’s a truly sensational edition.”
She grinned. “Indeed.”
Baines, who had returned about an hour ago to see how things were going and had been promptly conscripted to help with the herculean task of folding five thousand copies, huffed. “I freely admit I’ve never seen the like, but the proof of the idea will be if it gets us any further with catching this murderer. Speaking of which”—he fixed his gaze on Littlejohn—“best make sure you have enough men tonight to have a few constables patrolling the street.” Baines looked pointedly at the stacked paper, then at the wide front window. “A bottle bomb thrown through that window will set all this alight in seconds, no matter who you have inside.”
Littlejohn sobered, as did those who’d volunteered to stay and guard the premises.
“I’ll send Blight here”—Littlejohn jerked his thumb at the young constable who had been there all day—“to the watchhouse to make sure they send us enough men.”
Baines nodded. “If you need to, draw from other watchhouses as well.” He looked at Izzy. “Perhaps mention that Winchelsea’s behind this?”
“By all means,” Izzy agreed.
Baines grinned at Littlejohn. “That’ll get us the men we need.”
Izzy looked at Lipson; he, his son, and Gerry planned to remain overnight inside the workshop, along with Littlejohn and at least one constable.
Tom Lipson caught Izzy’s eye. “Don’t worry, ma’am—we’ve got plenty of fire buckets. We’ll fill them and put them out all around once everyone leaves.”
Izzy smiled encouragingly, including Lipson Senior and Gerry in the gesture. “Thank you for agreeing to stay. I’ll be able to sleep, knowing you’re all here watching over the place.”
Not being able to sleep otherwise wasn’t entirely an exaggeration. It cost money to buy paper, ink, and coal, let alone pay the staff’s wages. Molyneaux Printing Works had a sizeable amount of capital sunk in the copies stacked about the workshop. If they lost those before they could be sold… That really didn’t bear thinking of.
With all done and settled, those who were leaving fetched coats and hats and filed out of the front door. Lipson confirmed for Izzy that the rear door was still locked; as far as she knew, other than for taking out the rubbish and fetching in coal, it hadn’t been unlocked since Quimby’s murder.
She was the last one out of the front door, and Lipson locked it from inside. She went down the steps behind Tom Corby, who, judging by his expression, had had a thoroughly enjoyable day. When, amused, she questioned that, he agreed, launching into a recitation of all he’d found strange and wonderful and eye-opening. While talking, he walked beside her rather than behind as was proper, but she refrained from pointing that out. He was an engaging lad, and she enjoyed his company, and that distracted her from dwelling on whom he’d replaced.
But once she was alone in the carriage, rolling through the streets to Norfolk Crescent, inevitably, her mind turned to Gray and how his house hunting had gone.
A house in the country. The vision that conjured was still painfully sharp and clear and took conscious effort to banish. She replaced it with an image of Lyndon Hall, where Julius now lived—the new seat of the earldom—and thought of how pleasant the country was around there.
She missed living in the country and always had. But…
Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
