Chapter Twenty
March 5, 1819
William groaned as he shifted his leg on the pillow that propped it up on the low sofa. Four days ago, after he’d seen Francesca home and looked after by a surgeon—he’d encouraged her parents to call upon Doctor Marsden, who was the brother of his cousin-in-law, Lady Jane—the man had called upon him.
Which was how William had come by five stitches in his thigh as well as two in his calf. Doctor Marden had also recommended rest—at least a week—but William wanted to pay a call on Francesca. Already, he wished to climb the walls, for he’d hoped to have secured her hand. Instead, he’d been stuck either in his bed or on this sofa.
“Do you need anything?” his mother asked from her spot on the matching sofa. A low table rested between them in the drawing room with the detritus of a tea service decorating the surface. “A refresh to your cup?”
“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable from forced inactivity.” He’d been away from Whitehall for four days, resting as he’d promised Chief Inspector Pryce. “Or you can keep my secret if I slip out to go across Mayfair to call on Miss Bancroft.”
“Your young lady will wait,” his mother said with a smile. “Besides, I spoke with her mother yesterday. She’s still recovering from her ordeal and has been advised not to talk for a few days more as her vocal cords heal.”
“That’s all well and good, but I—”
“A rest is good for you,” Andrew said as he swept into the room with a folded newspaper beneath his arm. “You’ll need to gather your strength for all the notoriety you’ll face upon your return.”
“What are you talking about?” He frowned at his cousin. “Do neither of you understand I haven’t been with Miss Bancroft since that horrible night? I want to see for myself she’s well.”
“I can tell you what she’s been doing.” Andrew held up the paper. “She might not be able to speak, but she doesn’t need her voice to convey her point.”
“Damnation, Cousin, out with it.” William resettled himself against the mound of pillows he had propped behind his back.
“Here.” Andrew shoved the paper into his hand. “Read for yourself.”
Slowly, while his cousin and mother looked on, William grabbed his spectacles from a small, rose-inlaid table at his elbow and settled them on his nose. Then he unfolded the copy of the General Evening Post. An article on the front page caught his attention but not as much as the by-line that read: F. Bancroft, contributing reporter.
“Dear God, she’s no longer in the society page,” he said in a hushed whisper.
“Oh, no. Miss Bancroft has managed to break the story of the year for her editor.” Andrew flashed a grin. He sat in a chair near William’s chair. “Read it.”
The headline sent heat up the back of his neck. “‘Bow Street’s Storme Hailed Hero’”
“How wonderful!” his mother said. She perked up for the first time in days. “Please read the article aloud for me.”
With nothing else to do, William began to read. “‘For the past two weeks, I’ve had the special honor of accompanying Inspector Storme as he investigated a series of horrific murders that have plagued London. Over the course of working those cases, I came to see the man behind the title. Not only did he care about solving the murders, but he also truly showed compassion regarding the victims of the crimes. He once told me that it was highly unlikely a serial killer could be a woman, but I maintain that when a woman’s emotions and affections have been constantly toyed with and when promises are couched in shallow flirting, a woman can conjure deep-seated rage that would allow them to kill.’”
He shot a glance to his cousin. “She wasn’t wrong.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine she was,” Andrew said with a grin. “The women we attract into our lives seldom are, and they make certain we know that.”
William chuckled and then continued reading. “‘Such is what happened in this case, or rather cases. I am not making excuses for what the unfortunate Miss Newton did. She acted with vile intent, willfully engaged in murder, and shattered a handful of lives because of it. My own life was in jeopardy by the end, but if it hadn’t been for the heroic actions of Inspector Storme, fighting the madwoman even while stabbed, I wouldn’t be here to write this article.’”
A lump of emotion lodged in his throat. He quickly cleared it, but the hand holding the newspaper shook. “She took absolutely no credit in that capture, when it had been her notes and insights that had led to the identification of the killer.”
Andrew shrugged. “Modesty is a good quality to have, and to find it in a reporter is even more rare.”
“Yes, well.” He once more cleared his throat, and for a few seconds, the words on the paper blurred due to moisture in his eyes. “‘Thanks to his attention to detail and his unrelenting determination, the threat has been neutralized, and London can once more rest safe… until the next time.
“‘Below is an interview I conducted with Inspector Storme that will give you some insight into the daily operations of a Bow Street Runner, but don’t try and call them that, for they prefer the term Principal Officers.’”
He declined to read the interview aloud, but he passed the newspaper to his mother so she could peruse it. Then he met Andrew’s gaze. “What? I can see the amusement in your eyes.”
“And I can see the embarrassment in yours. You don’t like praise.”
“I do not. I was merely doing what was asked of me in my position.”
“With the assistance of the reporter. You’re near bursting with pride for her.”