Page 3 of A Story of Love

People had begun to gather around them—not just Severn’s cadre of young bucks—and were watching their exchange with wide-eyed interest.

“Please, my lord. Can we not step outside?” She glanced meaningfully at their rapidly growing audience.

The nostrils of Severn’s fine, high-bridged nose flared, as if Lori was the rankest of vermin. “You must be off your chump if you think I will tell you anything that you can twist and contort and then print in Parker’s slimy rag.”

The urge to scurry away like the rat he obviously believed her to be was strong. Only the thought of David Parker’s displeasure if she did not deliver her story kept Lori rooted in place.

“I am going to give you a chance to admit or deny my findings. You should be thanking me for that opportunity rather than insulting me, my lord.”

For one long, tension-filled moment she thought he’d tell her to go to the devil.

But then he jerked his chin toward the French doors that led to the terrace. “Outside,” he barked. When the group of young bucks prepared to follow, he glared at them. “The rest of you stay.”

Before Lori could gloat over their shattered expressions Lord Severn snapped his fingers at her. “With me, Miss Fontenot!” He turned and strode toward the doors without waiting to see if she followed.

Lori seethed at his peremptory command but trotted after him like an obedient puppy. Severn didn’t have to push and shove through the crowd; they just parted for him as if he were some Biblical prophet of old.

Once they were outside, Severn didn’t stop on the terrace but continued down one of the well-lighted paths that led into the garden. When they were quite alone, he abruptly stopped, turned, and once again crossed his arms. “Speak.”

His arrogant behavior made her want to tell him to go to the devil, but she controlled herself and said, “I have recently acquired evidence about a smuggling ring that is being operated out of the West Dock. “

His black eyebrows descended. “So what? There are more smugglers in London than there are fleas on a cur, and a great many of them make use of the West Dock. What makes your smuggling ring so special?”

“It involves two ships, five London brothels, and an untold number of street procurers who abduct girls and boys and sell them to brothels in Marseilles. My sources confirm that your ship, the Vixen, and your brothel—the er, The King’s Purse—are both involved.”

His lips curved into an unpleasant smile. “How did you come by this information?”

“Three journalists have been tracking your movements.” Or so her employer claimed. Lori wasn’t sure she believed David, but she’d seen Severn talking to at least three of the procurers herself, so she felt secure in her claim.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice eerily without any inflection.

“That is so.”

“And what have they seen, pray?”

“You speaking to all five of the brothel owners involved in this child prostitution ring.”

He didn’t speak. Instead, he just stared.

Lori felt as if something invisible was pressing down on her, growing heavier and heavier by the second.

“How interesting,” he said after about a century. His voice was mild—far milder than it had been just a moment earlier—but, for some reason, it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Did you hear these conversations?”

“Er, no.”

“So, just observing conversations is enough for you to believe that I’m involved in selling children?”

She blinked at the question. “No. There is more evidence than just those conversations.” Not that David Parker, her editor, had shared any of it with Lori.

“Who provided this information, Miss Fontenot?”

“I can’t tell you that. A source’s identity is—”

He turned and strode back toward the house.

“Wait!” Lori called after him. “Where are you going?” She had to trot to keep pace with him. “Lord Severn! If you leave now, my editor will print this story, which implicates you as the—”