He didn’t know when it had happened, but sometime between that day in the park and now, she’d damn near captured his heart.
And he didn’t know what to do about it.
Careful not to wake her, Max rose and peered through the crack he’d looked through earlier.
Matilda would stop running any minute now.
The copies of today’s paper had been folded and were stacked in bundles of twenty-five. The carriers would arrive just before dawn, when Mr. Jones, who would be returning soon, would ensure they were distributed correctly—for delivery throughout London, but also all of England. And recently he’d made arrangements to send them overseas. Because trade had only grown, and even the traitorous Americans occasionally appreciated reading their news.
With the pressmen still busy, and the room otherwise seemingly empty, Max silently slipped out of the closet and dashed around the tables so it would seem he’d just returned from his office.
Perfect timing too, as the pressmen stopped turning Matilda’s large drum, slowing the steam engine’s momentum. With a few clanks and some groaning, the two tons of metal making up the press crawled to a halt.
“Looks good.” Max announced his presence.
Crenshaw stared at Max curiously, but then shook his head. “Some gents want to talk to you, boss. Summerhope… Wintersnap… fancy titled bloke. Other one didn’t say his name. Looks like he’s from the docks, though.”
Winterhope and Beckworth. What the devil did they want?
Max pulled out his fob watch and had just enough light to make out the time. It was too late for rabble rousing and too early for Rotten Row.
“What did you tell them?” Had they looked for Max?
The man’s gaze slid to the closet door and then back, but he had the good sense to refrain from making any comments. “I don’t share your business, Mr. Black. Not unless you want me to.”
Max exhaled and then scrubbed a hand down his face.
Ever since Caroline drifted off to sleep, a distinct possibility had lurked in the back of his mind. Crenshaw’s response meant it was more of a probability.
A damn near certainty.
Max was going to have to marry her. Not that he resented it—not even a little. But he was going to have to tell her the truth. He wouldn’t marry her without coming clean. He hoped she didn’t end up resenting him.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he decided he’d deal with Winterhope first. “Where are they now?”
“Waiting in your office. Unless they’ve given up and left.”
Wonderful.
“Right, then.” Max rubbed the back of his neck. “No problems with the run?”
“Not today, sir. I’ll finish cleaning up and go home.”
Max winced, waiting. Because Caroline was asleep in the closet.
“Where’d you go off to? Not like you to abandon Matilda so early…” The low voice sounding behind Max was none other than Leopold Beckworth—a self-made man, the only amongst their team who didn’t hold a title—unless one counted his unofficial one, which was that of the Bond Street Bounder.
“We need a word,” Winterhope added, looking more serious than usual.
Winterhope and Beckworth were night and day, black and white. But both made for powerful cogs in the wheels of Malum’s team.
And they would not have come to his office unless it was important. The fact that they were both here made his nerves jump.
“In here.” He resisted the urge to glance toward the closet before leading them through to his office. These men were too astute not to notice something like that.
Max would wake Caroline after he heard what these two had to say, settle her into his carriage. Steal a kiss or two.
Propose marriage.
