Littlejohn nodded to the three. “You heard—eight of the clock, and you’ll have your extra copies. That’s the best you’ll do.”
Disgruntled, but recognizing that arguing with the law would do no good, the three reluctantly turned and left.
Baines cleared his throat. “You might want to put a notice in the window.” When Izzy turned to him and arched a brow, he said, “Something along the lines of: ‘Copies of the latest edition are still available and will be distributed from this office from eight o’clock Saturday morning. Also from that time, the owner ofThe London Crier, I. Molyneaux, will be available at this office to receive any information pertinent to the recent death of Mr. Horace Quimby, as detailed inThe Crier’s latest edition.’” Baines paused, clearly running the words through his mind, then nodded. “That should do it.”
The sense in the suggestion was obvious; Izzy returned to her office, wrote out the notice more or less as Baines had stated, and returned to place the card in the front window, where she propped it up in the corner by the door with a piece of wood kept there for the purpose.
She waved the three men ahead of her through the door, then followed and locked it.
Gray offered her his arm, and she took it, and in the company of the policemen, they walked around to Woburn Place. After parting from Baines and Littlejohn, she and Gray continued toward Woburn Square.
Everything seemed so normal. As they neared Number 20, she sighed. “It seems quite anticlimactic—all the excitement of getting the edition out, but now we have to wait and see.”
Gray smiled and caught her eye. “Patience.”
She shook her head. “That never was my strong suit.”
He chuckled and escorted her up the steps and inside.
They spent a pleasant twenty minutes with Agatha Carruthers, relating the events of the day. Izzy was amused to note that Gray had become a firm favorite with the older lady, who appreciated his ability to tell a tale.
When they finally said their goodbyes and walked through the house to the back door, it struck Izzy that Gray had somehow become a part of even this minor aspect of her life.
The thought would have made her stop and think, except he was following at her heels. She continued down the garden path to the lane where Fields waited with her carriage.
Gray handed her inside, but made no move to follow.
When she arched a brow in question, he smiled. “I’ve an evening engagement I can’t avoid. It’s faster if I head south from here.”
Reminded of her own schedule, she sighed. “I’ve got an unavoidable engagement, too.” Resigned, she met his gaze and inclined her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He grinned. “Buck up. According to Baines, tomorrow will be the day on which everything happens.”
“One can hope.” She looked at him questioningly. “Will you be around for breakfast?”
He nodded. “Most definitely. Your cook is well worth the effort.”
She laughed, and smiling, he shut the door. He stood and watched the carriage roll down the narrow lane, then exit it and disappear.
He started walking down the lane. He would have preferred to go with her regardless of where she had to go that evening, but…
On reaching Russell Square, he headed for Woburn Place, keeping an eye out for a hackney to take him to Jermyn Street. He had just enough time to reach his lodgings and make himself presentable and get to Matcham House, whither he’d been summoned by his paternal aunt for dinner.
Knowing his aunt, she would have music as some part of her evening. He just hoped it didn’t involve an impromptu concert of young ladies playing the pianoforte or harpsichord.
He quelled an instinctive shudder and strode on.
Chapter 12
Gray paused in his aunt’s drawing-room doorway. While her butler, Gilchrist, announced him, Gray swiftly surveyed the summoned multitude of ladies and gentlemen, ranging in age from their early twenties to his aunt’s elderly years, and concluded that although his aunt’s “small dinner party” might include a dinner and might qualify as a party, it most certainly wasn’t going to be small.
His social mask firmly in place and with a charming smile curving his lips, he walked in. Aware of the many eyes turned his way, some overtly but many more covertly, he took wary note of the numerous couples with marriageable daughters in tow. Evidently, his aunt was up to her old tricks, and he was slated to feature as one of the principal attractions of the evening while she sought to prod, entice, or simply steer him into matrimony. Railroading, as the Americans so aptly termed it.
The thought of his aunt as a steam-powered locomotive deepened his smile as he approached the sofa on which she sat in splendorous state.
Halting before her, he took the hand she offered and bowed over it, then bent to buss the cheek she angled his way.
“Child. I’m delighted to see you.” Lady Matcham pressed his fingers warningly before allowing him to release her hand. With her fan, she indicated the haughty matron sitting beside her and the younger lady standing alongside. “Allow me to present Lady Alberfoyle and her daughter, Marguerite.”
