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shrewd businesswoman.”
    Ruggles said, “I’ll take you up on your bet, Waldo. Ten guineas says you won’t get Lady Tellall’s real name from Mrs. Chesney. And just to make it interesting, let’s put a time limit on it. Let’s say by midnight on Sunday. That’s three days from now.”
    “I wasn’t in earnest,” protested Waldo. “It was just a manner of speaking. And I wasn’t thinking of applying to Mrs. Chesney. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. I was thinking I might approach the managing editor, Mr. Nevin, you know, man-to-man.”
    Henry smirked. Ruggles yawned. Waldo sighed.
    “All right,” he said. “Ten guineas it is. Satisfied?”
    “I am,” said Henry, beaming. “Ruggles, you should have wagered a hundred guineas. You can’t lose. Jo won’t tell him anything.”
    “We’ll see about that,” said Waldo, but his voice lacked conviction.

C hapter 3
    T he
Journal
’s offices were still busy when Jo left to go home for dinner. Usually she worked only till noon, but Thursday was their busiest day.
    It was raining when she stepped out, but not heavily, and anyway, she’d come prepared. She unfurled her umbrella and struck out briskly toward Holy Trinity Church on the bank of the river Avon. There were a few stragglers going her way, pilgrims mainly, who wanted to pay homage to Stratford’s bard. Shakespeare was buried in Holy Trinity’s chancel. Jo did not enter the church. The grave she wanted was in the churchyard, by the south wall. The inscription on the headstone was simple:

    Sacred to the memory of
    John Saxon Chesney
    1783–1814
    In God we trust
             
    This was the third anniversary of John’s death.
    Here, in the lee of the church, the air seemed warmer, the rain less driven. There were clumps of daffodils massed along the walls. John would have liked that—shades of Wordsworth, his favorite poet. She’d preferred Shelley, until he ran off with some woman and broke his wife’s heart. After that, much to John’s amusement, she refused to read Shelley.
    There were no other Chesneys buried here. John’s family came from Bath, and his only surviving brother was in America. The reason he’d made his home here was because an uncle had left John the house on Church Street. And the
Journal
. That was the draw.
    John wouldn’t have appreciated her marking his passing in this way. He was the least sentimental person of anyone she knew—no tears, and no maudlin sentiments.
    She swallowed and said, “The
Journal
is doing really well. At this rate, we’ll soon have the funds to buy one of those Stanhope presses that you always wanted.”
    John would have a chuckle over that.
    The rain had stopped. She was struggling to let down her umbrella when something slammed into her back with enough force to make her stumble. She righted herself and turned quickly to see a towheaded boy of about seven or eight summers disappearing around the corner of the church. She knew who he was. He was Eric Foley, and he lived with his grandmother in a cottage not far away on Orchard Street.
    She looked down at her feet. He’d thrown an onion at her. Last time, it had been an egg. At least he hadn’t taken to throwing stones yet. Horrid, horrid little boy!
    Her troubles with Eric started almost from the day he arrived in Stratford, about a month ago, and she knew who to blame for that. Mrs. Foley, his grandmother, had taken a dislike to Jo just because the vicar had asked her to act as convener for the altar guild. It seemed that Mrs. Foley thought the position should have gone to her. In Jo’s opinion, it was a fuss about nothing. All her little guild had to do was arrange for fresh flowers in the sanctuary every Sunday. She would gladly have relinquished the position, but in a fit of pique, Mrs. Foley retired from the guild and that was that.
    All this happened years ago, when Jo came to Stratford as a bride, but Mrs. Foley had never forgiven Jo for usurping her position on the guild.