Page 18 of A Story of Love

She strode to the filthy window across from his desk and glared out at the hustle and bustle of Fleet Street, chewing her thumbnail as her gaze absently flickered over the drably dressed men—and even a few women—who scurried about their business in the light rain.

Every publisher of any note was located within a stone’s throw of David Parker’s office. The smell of ink and ambition seemed to pervade the stones in the buildings, scenting the air with desire, not just for money, but for the knowledge and fame and immortality that often accompanied the printed word.

Lori loved being part of the publishing world. Thus far, unfortunately, most of the stories she had managed to get published were what David called puffery pieces—vapid society articles describing gowns and jewelry, and detailing attendance at ton balls—published under the Miss Emily byline.

Oh, she had contributed to plenty of articles, but never had she received credit for any. And yet she continued to struggle and scramble and obey his unethical orders in the hope that he would one day find somebody who wanted to publish her book.

Lori was no fool—at least not entirely; she knew that her desire for publication had made her a hostage to David Parker. At times like this she prayed for the strength to break free from the hold he had over her.

And yet she could not make herself say the words….

Instead, she turned on her heel and strode back to David, who was idly flipping through some journal that was open on his desk. “Do you know how I received this letter?”

He shrugged, boredom flickering across his face. “I assumed in the usual way.”

“Is the usual way for not one, but two, Bow Street Runners to hand deliver a letter?”

His eyes, which would have been a lovely whiskey brown had they not been so jaded and bloodshot, widened. “Two Runners? That seems a bit—”

“Excessive?”

“I was going to say bullying.” He heaved an exasperated sigh when she did not instantly concur. “Is this your way of saying this investigation is beyond your abilities?”

“You know that is not what I am saying.”

“I gave you this story because I thought you could get the answers we are seeking.”

“Don’t lie to me, David. You gave me this story because I have access not only to the London docks but also the ton functions where Severn has been—increasingly—showing his face.”

He shrugged again, unperturbed by her hostility. “That is true. Unfortunately,” he said, his gaze turning cold, “that doesn’t seem to be much of an advantage. You’ve been digging around for two weeks and thus far you’ve given me nothing.”

“Lord Severn’s brother has been dead for almost seventeen years, David. A good many of the people I meet at ton functions were in leading strings when Lord Perseverance died.”

“These all sound like excuses, Lori. Perhaps I should give the opportunity to somebody more seasoned if you feel you cannot manage it,” he said in a silky voice.

“I did not say I couldn’t manage it, David. I said it would take time. I have already spent a great deal of money and eleven of the past fourteen days packed into crowded, smelly stagecoaches haring across Britain.” Lori held up a hand and ticked off one finger. “I have traveled to the Marquess of Grandon’s county seat and spoken to old retainers, villagers, and anyone else who did not actively chase me away with a torch or pitchfork. When I found nothing at Grandon Castle to lend any credence to your theory, I traveled all the way up to the marquess’s estate in Scotland. Once again, I found nothing to indicate that Lord Perseverance did not die by his own hand. Incidentally, I was bodily threatened three times by villagers and tenants for prying into Lord Percy’s death.”

David sat up straighter in his chair, interested. “Threatened? If that is not a sign that you are getting close to something, I don’t know what is.”

“Rather it is a sign that I am dredging up painful memories about a man who seems to have been universally adored.”

He scoffed.

“I am serious, David. Whoever is sending you these letters claiming that Lord Perseverance was the victim of foul play is likely causing trouble for their own reasons.”

He set his jaw and shook his head. “I have verified the source personally and I am convinced of the veracity of his accusations. I am positive that Lord Percy did not commit suicide as everyone was made to believe. His grandfather tried to pass it off as a hunting accident even though one of the men who discovered the body reported that Lord Perseverance was found holding one of his own dueling pistols and the other pistol was lying nearby. Tell me, what man takes a pistol to go hunting, not to mention two of them? No,” he said before she could answer. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

Lori was amused by his Shakespearean reference. But not for long. “Why is your source so coy about offering evidence—or testimony—if they know something? Surely, they can at least provide some proof of what they are claiming?”

David leaned across his desk, giving her his complete attention for the first time since she had stormed into his office twenty minutes earlier. “What my source has provided is a lead, Lori. A lead for a journalist to follow. That is why I’m paying you. But thus far you have brought me nothing, making me wonder if you really possess what is necessary to do this job.” He paused and then added grimly, “I am beginning to suspect you do not truly want my help with your novel, either.”

It took all the effort she could muster to swallow down the savage response that beat against her teeth like a battering ram against castle gates. David would allow arguments and disagreements with his newspapermen, but he had a limit and—based on the glare he currently bent upon her—Lori had reached it.

“I am determined on both counts,” she forced herself to say, pleased by her cool tone.

He grunted at whatever he saw on her face and turned to his desk.

Lori heard the jingle of keys before David reached into one of the drawers and withdrew a familiar bundle wrapped in oil cloth and bound with twine.