“That issomeconsolation.” His expression was bland but his eyes were dancing behind his lenses, because they both knew that when a once-in-a-blue-moon Sentinel column made it intoThe Tribune, their circulation tripled. If he realized she chose the deserving and perfidious subjects of the column carefully, he wisely kept it to himself. He also guarded her identity like a state secret. Outside of this office, her alter ego was a ghost. A mystery. Or perhaps a myth. If anyone asked him—no matter how important—Charlie Palmer always said hand on heart that he knew nothing, and that the incendiary stories just arrived as if from nowhere. Like magic or sorcery. A layer of security this devoted father of two daughters had specifically created when one of the leads she followed for the gossip column revealed criminality so hideous, he would only print it if nobody could trace it back to her.
“Two Sentinel exposés in the same month will certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons and make our competitors sit up straighter.” He rubbed his hands with glee then pinned her with his gaze. “Who’s the damsel in distress?”
Perhaps he did realize how she picked her perfidious subjects after all.
“Lady Melissa Hargreaves is being bullied into mortgaging her house so her brother can buy a stake in the company. She is due to return to town to sign the papers in three weeks; therefore, time is of the essence.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for her in your absence to make sure she doesn’t.”
“Thanks, Charlie.” She smiled and meant it, because herfriend was one of the rarest of commodities on earth—a truly good man.
“Miss Merriwell.” One of the print boys stuck his head around the door. “There’s a toff downstairs to see you.”
“What toff?” Because as much as she believed Jeremiah’s fanciful concerns over the Sentinel’s safety were a gross overreaction, she was always cautious and so was Charlie. Her name was never printed in the paper, no matter how innocuous the piece she had written, so it was odd that someone would come here in search of her. “And are you certain he asked specifically for me?”
“He wouldn’t give his name, but he’s tall and dark and adamant he has to speak to Miss Merriwell and no one else. He told me to tell you he urgently requires the services of a nitpicking grammarian.”
Chapter Six
Diana found Giles staring in fascination at the steam presses as they churned out the final copies of today’s paper, still emblazoned with the headline announcing his father’s death. As he had been yesterday, he was dressed in all black, but with the typical sartorial twist of a white carnation pinned to the lapel of his greatcoat. He didn’t hear her approach over the cacophony of the machinery but seemed to sense her anyway because he turned and smiled when she was only a few feet away. That was when the concerned part of Diana, which she always tried to ignore, noticed the shadows under his eyes and the unusual slump in his irritating broad shoulders.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Irrespective of his recent tragedy or his sudden elevation to a dukedom, she knew he wouldn’t appreciate being treated any differently. “Or should I be curtsying,Your Grace?” She dipped into a deep one with undisguised belligerence, and his lip curled in mock distaste at her effort.
“That’s quite enough of that, thank you! There shall be no airs and certainly nogracesbetween us, Diana. Besides, and frankly there is no other way of saying this without framing it as a compliment so please do not take it as one, subservience doesn’t suit you.”A glimmer of his usual mischief danced in his dark eyes despite the circles beneath them. “You are too rebellious and lack the sincerity we dukes expect from our lowly subjects, so if you cannot commit to doffing your cap with convincing reverence, I would rather you didn’t attempt it at all. After all, if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well.”
“For once, you are so right…Giles. And do not allow that compliment to go to your head, either, as even a stopped clock is right twice a day.” Diana folded her arms as she leaned against the only idle printing press. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Shropshire already?” As she understood it, the cortege was supposed to have left at dawn. “Or has there been a change of plan?”
“No. The carriages left at a snail’s pace as the cock crowed, so I shall easily catch them up. I wanted to meet with the solicitor first to go over the terms of the will. His office is in the city.” He flapped his hand in the direction of the door. “As the appointment is not till one, I decided to enjoy the fresh air first.”
“And you thought you’d find fresh air on Fleet Street?”
“If one ignores the stench of the fetid River Fleet and the pong of the throng of commoners blocking all the pavements, it’s a rather charming place.”
“What really brings you to this insalubrious part of town, Giles?”
“I wondered if I could beg a favor?”
“Does it involve spelling and punctuation?”
“Obviously.” If she were a betting woman, she would say he was anxious about something but was doing his best to hide it. “Why else would I need the services of the most prickly nitpicker I know?” He gestured to the noisy machines and the hubbub of theprint room around them far too casually. “Is there somewhere a bit more private we can go?”
Anticipating listening ears, most notably Charlie’s, and in case her wily employer realized who her mystery visitor was and demanded immediate answers to all his questions direct from the horse’s mouth, she had donned her pelisse, making ready for a quick escape. “If you’re peckish”—which, of course, Giles always was—“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese around the corner does excellent pies and should be open already. Fleet Street never sleeps, so the ponging throng eat at all hours.”
“I can always find room for a pie.” They walked the first few yards in a silence that felt more loaded than companionable. “I can always find room for Cheshire cheese, for that matter. Do they serve that, too? And more important, exactly how old isye olde?”
He waggled his arm but clearly wasn’t ready to talk yet, and she respected that. For Giles to ask a favor and to have sought her out when they had never had that sort of relationship set alarm bells ringing. For him to have come to the newspaper, too, rather than Hugh’s house, when he must have other, more pressing things to do today, meant it had to be personal. For the most closed book she knew apart from herself, that was out of character as well.
“Positively ancient.” Diana matched his jokey tone as she slipped her hand around his elbow and tried to ignore how nice it felt to be there. “Rebuilt after the Great Fire, or so the innkeeper brags, with plenty of dark nooks and crannies to discuss punctuation and spelling emergencies in complete and utter privacy.”
They stuck to small talk on the short walk to the inn, ignoring all the rival newspaper hawkers shaking their papers in the air and shouting variations on “A Duke Is Dead!” to every hurried pedestrian on Fleet Street. They discussed the weather, the surroundings, Hugh’s besotted fussing over her pregnant sister. Anything that avoided acknowledging the duke was indeed dead, and his reluctant replacement wasn’t anywhere ready for it.
As it was an hour too early for the lunch crowd, the pub was quiet. She found a secluded table in the back while he ordered them drinks and food. When he finally sat down, the mask of the superficial Giles slipped slightly, enough that her sympathy leaked out. “How are you bearing up?”
“Oh, you know me. Giles Sinclair is always stoic.” He shrugged, doing his best impression of a shallow man unaffected by the blow he had been dealt, but he looked tired. There was a tightness about his dark eyes she had never seen before. “It is no secret there was no love lost between the duke and me, but I didn’t wish him dead.”
“Which doesn’t answer my question at all.”
“No… I suppose it doesn’t.” He had sought her out specifically, yet still seemed unsure about whether to trust her with whatever it was that had brought him. Unless he simply needed someone to talk to who understood his situation?
