Heart of Honor Read Free

the footman escorted her up the wide granite steps to the massive front doors of the mansion, then returned to his place at the rear of the carriage. The coach rolled away and Krista’s father stirred on the seat across from her, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
    “Are we home yet?”
    “Soon, Father. We’re just round the corner.” Like Coralee, Krista came from a family with money, at least on her mother’s side. Margaret Chapman Hart had been born the daughter of an earl, and though she had married Paxton Hart, a near-penniless scholar, her status as a member of the aristocracy gave Krista entry into the highest ranks of society.
    As far as Krista was concerned, it was more a burden than an asset.
    They reached the house a few minutes later. The butler, Milton Giles, opened the door and, once they were inside, helped them remove their evening wraps: her father’s silk-lined cloak and Krista’s hooded cashmere cape.
    “It’s been a long night,” she said. “I am going up to bed. I shall see you in the morning.” Lifting her full silk skirt out of the way, she started to climb the curving staircase, then turned back. “Are you not coming, Father?”
    “In a bit. I have an Old Norse text I’ve been studying. There is a passage in it I would like to review before I retire. I’ll only be a moment.”
    Krista knew how long one of her father’s “moments” could be. She started to argue, to remind him he needed his sleep, but she knew it would do no good. Her father was as passionate about his studies as Krista was about her ladies’ magazine.
    Thinking of the article she needed to finish in the morning before the gazette went to press, she continued climbing the stairs.
     
    The three-story brick building that housed the offices of Heart to Heart Weekly Ladies’ Gazette sat on a narrow street just off Piccadilly. The soul of the magazine, the heavy Stanhope printing press, one of the most modern presses of the day, sat on the ground floor next to a box that housed metal type, the letters, numbers and characters used to print the weekly publication.
    Krista walked over to the wooden box. She had finished the article she had been writing for this week’s edition, and except for one minor change, the gazette would be ready to go to press the next morning.
    Along with Krista, her father and Corrie, the staff included Bessie Briggs, who did most of the typesetting; a printer named Gerald Bonner; his young apprentice, Freddie Wilkes; and a part-time helper who did whatever jobs were needed to get the paper out to its subscribers.
    The crew was working late, as always on the night the gazette went to press. It was dark outside, the streets mostly empty, a brisk April wind blowing in off the Thames. Standing next to the press, Krista adjusted a section of metal type, then turned at the sound of footsteps on the cobbles outside the paned window at the front of the office. Glass shattered and one of the women screamed as a heavy brick sailed into the room, missing Krista’s head by mere inches.
    “Good heavens!” Corrie gasped.
    The brick landed with a clatter and rolled several times across the wooden floor as Krista raced to the window.
    “Can you see him?” Corrie rushed up beside her. “Can you tell who did it?”
    Down the block, the glow of a streetlamp revealed a lad in coarse brown breeches running madly toward the corner. An instant later, he disappeared out of sight.
    “It was only a boy,” Krista said, turning away from the window, wiping ink from her hands with a rag. “He is already gone.”
    “Look! There’s a note!” Minding the broken glass, Corrie knelt on the floor and retrieved a piece of paper from around the brick, fastened by a tightly tied bit of string.
    “What does it say?” Krista walked up beside her.
    Corrie smoothed the crumpled bit of paper. “‘Stay out of men’s business. If you don’t, you will pay.’”
    Krista sighed. “Someone must have paid the boy