“May I speak to the owner of this establishment?” Heath asked, careful to keep both his voice and his countenance free of distaste.
“No.” The lad moved to shut the door.
Heath stopped it with the toe of his boot before the latch could fall into place. “I am willing to pay.”
The lad’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
Heath lifted a shilling from his waistcoat pocket.
The lad grabbed it with dirty fingers. “Master ain’t here.”
Heath reached into his pocket anew and this time pulled out a sovereign.
The lad snatched the gold coin even faster than the shilling. The suspicion in his eyes gave way to confusion. “He really ain’t here. I’m the apprentice, so I run the machine.”
Heath retrieved another coin from his pocket, but held this one just out of grasp. “I know this house publishes the caricatures.”
The lad looked longingly at the coin. “Everyone publishes caricatures. But I ain’t never seen Cruickshank or Gillray, if them’s who you’re looking for.”
“They are not,” Heath said with equanimity. “I speak of the most recent phenomenon, drawn by an anonymous hand.”
“Oh, those.” The lad’s chin jutted out with pride. “We may have published those.”
Heath held the coin closer. “What is the artist’s name?”
The lad stared at the coin with hunger. “I would tell you if I knowed it. The pictures come in anonymous, and that’s how we print them.”
Heath’s ears pricked with interest, and he handed the lad his coin. “How exactly do the caricatures arrive?”
“You’d have to ask my master. I ain’t allowed to touch the post.” The boy made a careful fist about his new reserve of coins. “He might be interested in speaking to a rich toff. What did you say your name was?”
Heath reached into his pocket for a calling card. “Mr. Heath Grenville, at your—”
With an audible gasp, the boy slammed the door in Heath’s face and engaged the lock.
Heath jumped backward in surprise, then pounded again upon the door.
His knocks went unanswered.
He slid his unneeded calling card back into his pocket and returned to his landau. It would be a simple enough matter to determine the owner of the establishment and his place of residence.
From there, a man so disreputable as to profit from such rubbish must also have a price at which he’d be willing to betray a confidence with an anonymous caricaturist. The mystery would be solved in a trice.
Heath checked his pocket watch, then directed his horses toward his parents’ town house. He would have to continue on the morrow. There was no time. He had sent a note to his father earlier in the week, requesting an audience this afternoon at promptly two o’clock.
As he drove, Heath pushed the case from his mind and focused instead on far more pleasant matters. His visit to the Dulwich Picture Gallery had quickly become one of his favorite recent memories.
His daydreams about someday opening his own small gallery had taken on a new and unexpected dimension.
Now when he imagined the tour he would give during his own grand opening, he pictured Miss Winfield at his side, giving her unique perspective on each piece and associated artist.
Poppycock, of course. He would not be opening a gallery, nor would Miss Winfield be anywhere near his side.
But reality’s hard truths were what made one’s innermost daydreams so bittersweet.
When he pulled up to his parents’ town house, a groom awaited his arrival. Excitement raced along his skin.
For once, Father truly was expecting him! Heath handed off the reins and loped up the steps to the front door.
