Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I drift into thought but am soon pulled back when an urgent knock sounds at the door. It is wildly early. ‘Whoever could that be?’ I ask myself, rising from my chair. I enter the hallway and find Dalton answering the door.
‘I must speak with Mr Melrose at once,’ the voice says. A distinct voice – one broken by excessive pipe smoking and – as rumour would have it – raucous bellowing at any of the gentleman’s clubs he may be frequenting. I cannot confirm his behaviour within the walls of any club, but I can confirm that he is a man who indulges excessively in all things, and one of those things is elaborate tales of London’s happenings.
‘Mr Porter?’ I say, passing Dalton.
‘Ah, Miss Melrose. Fetch your father.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I retort, indignant. ‘I’m afraid he is sleeping. I’m sure,’ I say, catching a whiff of alcohol, ‘I need not enlighten you of the early hour.’ I expect by the way in which Mr Porter has presented himself on this morning at our front door, he has not long stepped out of one of the clubs he is all too fond of. Thank goodness that club was not Kentstone’s yesterday eve.
‘You need not.’ He pats at his pocket watch. ‘It is of an urgent nature, Miss Melrose.’
‘I’ll fetch my brother,’ I say, backing away. ‘I know him to be awake.’
His head tilts in interest. ‘Is he well?’
I laugh under my breath. ‘That is debatable, Mr Porter.’ I step back. ‘I suppose you ought to come in.’
‘Thank you,’ he says, shuffling into the hallway.
‘You may wait in the dining room. Dalton has set out a fresh pot of coffee.’ My nose wrinkles, Mr Porter’s closeness not agreeing with my sense of smell. I step back. ‘Excus––’
‘Porter?’ Father says, appearing looking sleepy, his entire usually well-turned-out form in disarray. ‘What of this early hour?’
‘My sincerest apologies for disturbing you so early, Melrose, but I’m afraid it’s rather pressing.’
Father frowns before motioning to his study across the hall. ‘Bring coffee, Dalton,’ he says, stalking off, leaving Porter to follow. Bugger! What is so pressing as to warrant a visit at this outlandish hour?
I watch Dalton leave Father’s study after delivering coffee, and, shame on me, I soon have my ear pressed against the wood.
‘And this comes from a reliable source?’ Papa says.
‘You know me, Melrose. I strive to achieve the utmost accuracy.’
I snort to myself. Porter has never let the minor matter of the truth get in his way of a good story. What is the story? I can only imagine it is explosive to warrant Mr Porter’s early visit. I also know that on this occasion I have not written it.
I hear footsteps. I gasp and dash away from the door, just as Papa swings it open. ‘I need to find my son!’
‘He came home last night, Papa.’ I say.
He appears relieved, his shoulders falling a fraction. ‘Dalton, get Frank, will you?’
‘Immediately, sir,’ Dalton says, appearing and disappearing up the stairs. Father doesn’t even bless me with a look before he’s slamming the door. What the devil is going on?
Five minutes later, Frank trudges down the stairs, looking no better than when he left me not so long ago. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks me, noting my position at the dining-room doorway opposite Papa’s study.
I can only shrug. ‘Something about a story, I think. Mr Porter arrived in a bit of a fluster.’
‘Oh?’
‘Stinking of alcohol and stale nicotine.’
Frank grimaces, looking to Father’s study door as his hand rests on his stomach, which I expect is turning. ‘Oh joy.’
‘I would hold your breath, brother.’
He heeds my advice and takes a long inhale before pushing his way into Father’s study. ‘Porter,’ he says on an exhale, and I laugh, imagining him pulling in air again urgently. He still looks rather green. ‘Father.’
‘I’m glad you’re home, son,’ Papa says softly before clearing his throat, getting back to business. ‘Now, tell me again, Porter.’
The door knocks again, and I frown as I wonder who on earth that could be. I hurry forward, pull it open, and stand still and worried as Lymington looks me up and down on a curled lip before pushing past me and letting himself into Papa’s study. I do not have one inkling what is going on, but I do not like it.
‘Miss Melrose,’ Dalton says, looking at me with restrained interest. ‘A muffin, perhaps?’ Translated: I can see you are itching to earwig but I must foil your intention. Damn it.
‘Thank you, Dalton,’ I say, wandering back into the dining room. I smile as I take a muffin and the moment Dalton has left the room, I’m up again and dashing across the hallway to Father’s study. I press my ear up against the door.
‘I have taken this newspaper from six sheets to twelve, Melrose. There is a certain pressure to fill those pages with something more than advertisements and notices.’