Page 33 of A Story of Love

She laughed. “Of course not! I found it—and several more copies of the same—in his clerk’s rubbish.”

David’s jaw sagged. “You—you went through Lord Vincent’s rubbish?”

“Yes. Every day for weeks.”

“That’s—” he broke off, blinking rapidly. “That’s excellent work, my dear. Most ingenious, in fact. Bloody brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, adding in a much louder voice as he turned back to the story in his hands, “We can run this on the first page.”

Lori perked up. “That pays better, does it not?”

“Indeed, it does; twice your usual rate.” He unlocked the drawer holding his strong box and she heard the clink of coins.

Her usual rate was what David paid her for the Miss Emily columns. Although the tidbits of gossip did not pay a great deal, it was at least a constant source of income. Freddie charged her so little rent that she was able to put aside more than half of her earnings. Of course, the ballgown she was buying would cut into that, but—

“By the way,” David said, glancing up and pausing his counting, “how is your story on Severn coming? Or should I say stories?”

“I have nothing new on either investigation.” Indeed, she’d been hoping he’d forget the foolish story about Severn’s brother’s suicide completely. Evidently, she was not to be so lucky.

He glowered. “Because you haven’t been working on either of them?”

Lori decided to address the mutineer issue, first. “I’m sorry, David, but I fail to see where I’m supposed to find information for an alleged incident that took place halfway around the globe, and which the individual in question denies ever happened.”

“Did you talk to anyone down at the docks where his ship is berthed?”

“The Vixen isn’t due back for several weeks, so there isn’t anyone to talk to.” An image of Mr. Gregg, Mr. Barker, and the other men she’d met at the brothel flitted through her mind. “Not that I think any of his crew will be eager to gossip about the man who controls their livelihood. I believe they are quite loyal to him.”

“There is always somebody who will have an axe to grind and want to complain.”

“But is that sort of person really a reliable source?”

“A ship’s crew is in constant flux, Lori. There will be somebody willing to talk about Severn,” David went on, ignoring her question, or perhaps not hearing it at all. Sometimes she wondered if he simply closed his ears to her. “Sailors like to drink and when they do, their tongues loosen.” He gave her a hard look. “Or perhaps that is something you do not feel capable of doing?”

“What? Going to sailor’s haunts? It is nothing I haven’t done before,” she said, not entirely truthfully. She’d gone into two pubs in her life, one in the small village where her brother lived. The second one had been not far from Viscount Severn’s country home, Grandon Castle. That was the pub where three of the local men had—not very subtly—warned her against prying into the Marquess of Grandon’s family.

“There are dozens of such establishments, David. Surely it is more prudent to pursue this line of questioning once the Vixen is—”

“I’m tired of your constant excuses!” David snapped. “You need to start asking questions now. You need to get out there and prod and poke now. This”—he held up the contract she’d found in the rubbish—“is excellent work. I want you to show the same initiative when it comes to Severn.”

“I hardly think I’ll find a murder confession in Lord Severn’s rubbish—or a document admitting that he ferried mutineers around on his ship.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, my dear,” he said in a dangerously silky voice. “More to the point, I don’t care to hear that tone from one of my subordinates.”

“I apologize,” she muttered.

He grunted and resumed his counting.

Lori went to stare out the window. What was taking him so long? You’d think the man was parting with his personal fortune rather than few quid.

“You mentioned the last time you were here that Lord Severn’s grandfather was coming to London?”

She turned around at the sound of his voice. “I did.”

“Find out why the old man is coming to town. Is he angry at his grandson? Perhaps he is coming to banish him again.” He gave an abrupt laugh. “See, that’s the sort of information that you’re uniquely positioned to find at all these balls you attend. You must have more invitations than you accept?”

“Sometimes,” she said, unhappy with where his question might be leading.

“You should accept everything that comes your way. That is the way to gather more information.” He grinned insincerely. “That is how one pleases one’s employer, Lori.”

“I’m hardly equipped to accept every invitation,” she said, unable to keep a hint of irritation from her tone.