“It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of profit, selling as many newspapers as possible. He may know more that he’s planning, for future issues. I want to know what he knows.”
“I pity the poor man.”
I ignored that comment. “What of Mr. Eddington, Charlotte’s fiancé?”
He nodded. “I’ll call on Sir Mallory’s office and see if he will speak with me. It is a difficult time to be certain. It would be helpful to know if he intended to meet Miss Mallory that evening. However, he may refuse to speak with me.”
“Not that it has ever stopped you,” I pointed out.
It was late into the evening by the time I had made the last of my notes.
Brodie stoked up the fire in the firebox as I straightened his desk, which was buried in paperwork—a copy of the Times, a bill from the coalman, and other odd bits and pieces—which he claimed to know exactly what was there in a disheveled heap.
“What are ye about, lass?” he asked as I went into the adjacent room and turned back the blankets, then slowly removed the pins from my hair.
I was not good at early mornings, most particularly with only a faint sliver of light at the edge of the window shade, the cold as the fire in the coal stove had died down during the night. I burrowed closer to Brodie.
There was something to be said for the relative peace and quiet of the town house at Mayfair, with Mrs. Ryan’s efforts in the kitchen in another part of the house, perhaps the smell of coffee brewing…
As opposed to the baying of the hound, and the noticeable creak of the door in the outer office.
“What the bloody hell?” Brodie exclaimed as he retrieved his revolver and left the bed while I curled into the warm place he had left that smelled faintly of cinnamon.
I heard another muttered curse, then “What the devil?” as there were sounds of the outside door suddenly jerked open.
It did appear that I wasn’t going to get more sleep.
“Oh! Good mornin’ to ye, Mr. Brodie.”
I recognized that voice and the unmistakable Scots accent in spite of the months of lessons with her English tutors.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, taking the covers with me.
It was probably best that I rescued Brodie, though I was hardly dressed for callers. My camisole and bloomers were undoubtedly far more than he was wearing.
I went into the outer office, in my knickers and discovered him in his long woolen drawers and nothing else.
Quite a stirring sight. If not for our guest, I might have persuaded him to return to bed. As it was…
“Good morning, Lily,” I greeted her.
She had set upon a tray of biscuits left from supper the night before, a sign that she had not eaten before departing Sussex Square.
“Do we need to pay the coachman?” I inquired.
She shook her head. “Mr. Hastings brought me.”
I would have to have a conversation with him about allowing her to ride all over London in the wee hours of the day. It simply wasn’t safe.
“I had my knife as ye told me,” she announced as she took another biscuit from the plate.
Oh, dear. It did seem as if she was developing some familiar habits.
Lily sat at the small table in the main office, doing quite well with the biscuits. Brodie had disappeared back into the adjacent bedroom undoubtedly to make himself more presentable, dressed as he was in only his underdrawers.
However, it wasn’t as if Lily hadn’t seen a man in a state of undress in her former life in a brothel. “Is there coffee?” she asked.
Brodie had emerged from the bedroom somewhat more appropriately clothed, although his shirt was still unbuttoned as he hastily tucked the tails into his trousers. A most stirring sight.
