Chapter 4 #2
Luca sat alone in his cramped office at The London Gazette, the scent of ink and paper lingering in the air.
Stacks of newssheets lay scattered across his desk, columns of dull Society notices staring back at him like a personal indictment.
He raked a hand through his hair in frustration.
Blast it! His brother had been right. The Society page was uninspired, a droning account of balls, gowns, and tedious engagements.
His readers wanted sharp wit, intrigue, scandal dressed as elegance.
And the only person who could provide it was Miss Winslow.
The trouble was, he had made a sport of teasing her, of delighting in ruffling the feathers of the diamond of the Season.
He’d reveled in her quick retorts, and the spark in her eyes when she bristled at him.
But now that he needed her pen, she wanted nothing to do with him.
Fool that he was, he had turned an amusement into an obstacle.
A knock broke his reverie. Luca lifted his head. “Enter.”
His secretary, Mr. Wright, slipped into the office, his posture as stiff as the starched collar around his neck. “I searched through every record I could find on The Chelmsford Asylum,” he reported, clutching a stack of papers, “and discovered it is owned by the Ravenhurst Trading Company.”
Luca sat forward, interest sharpening. “And who owns that company?”
Glancing down at the papers, Mr. Wright replied, “It doesn’t say, but a solicitor’s name appears on the registry. A Mr. Jacob Griffin. No partner or backers are listed.”
“Botheration,” Luca muttered, drumming his fingers against the desk. His instincts prickled—this reeked of secrecy. “It might just be a company on paper.”
“That was my thought as well, but I intend to dig deeper.” Wright produced another slip of paper. “I was also able to trace the sister of the late Duchess of Brackenford. A Miss Blythe Dawlish. She has let out a townhouse in Cheapside for the Season.”
“Good. I will want to speak with her at once.”
“As I assumed.” Wright offered the address, his tone prim. “Shall I accompany you?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Very well. Will there be anything else, my lord?”
Luca’s jaw tightened. “Not at present. And what have I told you about addressing me as ‘my lord’ while we are in the office?”
The secretary flushed. “Apologies, sir.”
Before Luca could dismiss him, a far too jovial voice rang from the doorway.
“Tell me, did you manage to convince Mr. Fairchild to join this godforsaken newssheets operation?”
Suppressing a groan, Luca looked up to see his irreverent brown-haired writer, Mr. Hillstead, leaning against the doorframe with his usual grin.
“Need I remind you that you work for this ‘godforsaken newssheets operation’?” Luca asked.
Hillstead merely shrugged. “Yes, but it is a catapult to something greater. Did you speak to him?”
“I did. He is… being difficult.” Luca chose his words carefully so as not to betray Miss Winslow’s confidences.
Hillstead dropped into a chair without waiting for an invitation. “Well, at least you tried. I suppose that’s a start.”
Wright bristled, his frown deepening. “If you wish to speak with Lord Luca, you must schedule an appointment.”
“I have a standing appointment every day at…” Hillstead produced his pocket watch and squinted. “… precisely two in the afternoon.”
“It is not on my schedule,” Wright retorted.
“Then block off every afternoon for me.” Hillstead tucked his watch away with an infuriatingly casual air.
Before Wright could reply, Luca cut in. “It’s fine. He won’t stay long.”
When Wright reluctantly departed, Luca fixed his friend with a stern look. “Why do you insist on tormenting my secretary?”
“He is too tense,” Hillstead remarked.
“He is efficient,” Luca countered. “Unlike you at present. Shouldn’t you be writing your next article?”
Hillstead waved a hand. “I will. I’m waiting on a lead.”
“So you decided to bother me instead.”
“I was hoping to convince you to come have a drink with me.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy. One drink won’t kill you.”
“With you, it is never one drink.”
Hillstead laughed. “Guilty. But you’ve never complained before.”
Luca leaned back, folding his arms. “I am working on something important.”
“You’re always working on something.”
“This is about The Chelmsford Asylum.”
Hillstead’s humor dimmed. “Ah. That.”
“Something sinister is going on there,” Luca pressed. “The Duchess of Brackenford and Lady Coldwyck both died within five months of being committed. And the listed cause of both deaths is influenza. But I don’t believe it.”
“And you have what proof to back that up?”
“I am working on that.”
“I know you have been looking into that asylum for weeks now, but I fear it is a fool’s errand. People die, especially in filthy places such as that.”
“I can’t in good conscience just walk away now,” Luca said.
Hillstead studied him with sober eyes. “Then trust your gut, but be cautious. The Duke of Brackenford is a powerful man and has friends in high places.”
“I am well aware.”
“Then let me help.”
“No. I won’t risk anyone else if this investigation goes awry.”
Hillstead gave a crooked grin. “I’d risk it. But only for you. Not for anyone else.”
Luca smirked faintly despite himself. “I might take you up on that later. For now, I mean to speak with the duchess’s sister.”
Hillstead rose. “Good luck. And if you change your mind about that drink, you know where to find me.”
With a slight chuckle, Luca said, “I should never have let out a building so close to a tavern.”
“That was your folly, not mine,” Hillstead joked.
As his friend departed, Luca checked his watch. The ride to Cheapside would take time, but it could not be avoided. He left The London Gazette, gave his driver the address, and opened the door of the coach.
But as he stepped inside, he froze. A burly man sat opposite, a pistol leveled at his chest.
“Get in,” the stranger ordered.
Luca slid onto the seat, schooling his face into cool disdain as the hackney lurched forward.
“I hear you’ve been poking into matters that don’t concern you,” the man said grimly. “Particularly The Chelmsford Asylum.”
Luca’s pulse thundered, but he kept his tone even. “Who sent you?”
The man’s eyes glittered with menace as he leveled his pistol just low enough to make the threat casual, deliberate. “Who sent me doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m here to give you one warning. Stop asking questions, or you’ll regret it.”
“I do not take kindly to threats.”
“This isn’t a threat,” the man sneered. “It’s a promise.” He rapped his knuckles against the roof of the hackney, and the driver brought the carriage to an abrupt halt.
The door opened, the man shifted as if to step down, but then he paused. His head turned, voice pitched low and cutting. “If you aren’t concerned about yourself, you should be thinking about Miss Winslow.”
Every muscle in Luca’s body went rigid. “What does Miss Winslow have to do with this?”
“I am merely saying…” the man drawled, his smirk widening, “… that I would hate for her to get hurt.”
Luca forced his expression into disdain, though his hand curled into a fist at his knee. “Miss Winslow is nothing to me.”
The man gave a mocking chuckle. “So say you.” With that parting shot, he stepped down from the hackney and disappeared into the London crowd.
For a long moment, Luca sat still until he let out a sharp breath, leaning back against the leather cushion.
Fury battled grim satisfaction inside him.
Someone was terrified enough of what he might uncover to send a brute with a pistol.
That meant his investigation into The Chelmsford Asylum was rattling the right cages. He was close.
But Miss Winslow—blast it all! He had dragged her into this, even if unwittingly. His own reckless teasing had already alienated her, and now his inquiries had put her in danger. He could not allow any harm to come to her, no matter what he pretended to others—or to himself.
His jaw tightened as the coach rocked forward again into the press of traffic. No warning, no matter how dire, would make him abandon the truth. But now, more than ever, he needed to move carefully. The late Duchess of Brackenford could wait. He needed to warn Miss Winslow before it was too late.