Page 41 of A Story of Love

“You can hardly drag this big box all over the city. Send it by messenger if she refuses to tell you.”

Lori sighed. “Fine.”

“It would be perfect for the Archer ball tonight,” Freddie murmured, gazing almost lovingly at the beautiful gown.

“Are you saying that you like this gown better than the one I just purchased myself?” Lori asked with exaggerated surprise.

Freddie opened her mouth, but then closed it again, clearly not wishing to give offence.

Lori laughed. “I am teasing you, Freddie. I tell myself that it’s not so much that I have horrid taste as that I’m a terrible nipcheese. I always go into a dressmaker’s shop with the best of intentions, but I find myself quickly overset by the shocking cost of things. I chose that blue material because it cost a fraction of anything else.”

“Yes, that is what I thought,” Freddie said mildly, making Lori laugh again. She cast another admiring glance at the gown over her arm. “I truly hope you can’t find out who gave this to you, Lori.”

***

Two hours later—and after a heated discussion in French, with Madam Thérèse—Lori had failed to obtain the name of her anonymous benefactor.

She had also managed to delay writing her article for another day, a matter that weighed on her mind and wiped the mystery of the ball gown from her thoughts as she made her way back home.

Despite David’s rather harsh directive to drum up an article about Lord Severn—either about the mutineers or his brother’s suicide—she was instead working on a story about the Earl of Ashby and his disastrous curricle race to Brighton, which had resulted in the death of a thirteen-year-old boy who’d been walking beside the road when Ashby lost control of his horses.

None of the articles Lori had read mentioned that the peer had been intoxicated and whipping his pair into a bloody froth when he’d lost control of them. That was a piece of information Lori had discovered after talking with over twenty witnesses to the reckless event.

She hoped the story would take David’s mind off his obsession with Severn and at least buy her a few weeks reprieve.

This was the sort of article she felt proud to write. Ashby deserved to be punished and if she were fortunate enough to get the truth published it would hopefully help build public sentiment against him.

Writing about the race without sensationalizing it had proven more difficult than she’d believed, but the boy deserved better than to have his death turned into nothing but a lurid piece of gossip.

But now the story would have to wait.

Lori sighed and glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice after she’d hung up her hat and cloak. She barely had half an hour and would have to hurry if she was to be dressed and ready for dinner on time.

She’d just finished a quick sponge bath when Freddie paid her a visit, holding the freshly pressed ball gown over her arm. “Well? What is the verdict, Lori? Do you get to wear it? Or will you break my heart and send it away?”

“That stubborn Thérèse woman wouldn’t speak so much as a word, so it looks like I’ll be keeping it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t forget to ask Serena about it—and ask the others, as well—in your next letter.”

“I won’t.” She hesitated and then said, “You could always write to our friends yourself, you know.”

“I do write, just not every week,” Lori protested. Or every month, truth be told. She knew it was more than a little ironic that the writer among their group was dreadful at correspondence.

Freddie laid the dress carefully across Lori’s bed and then turned to her. “I’m going to arrange your hair for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Freddie. I know you have the twins to—”

“The twins are having dinner with their grandmother, so they shall meet us at Lady Archer’s.”

“It will be just the two of us?”

“Yes.”

“That’s capital!”

“We will have to take a hackney rather than the Barton’s fine coach,” Freddie warned.

“It is worth a ride in a filthy hackney to get you to myself without the presence of your wittering charges.”

Freddie ignored Lori’s unkind comment and motioned toward the dressing table. “Take a seat and unplait your hair. I’ll return with my beauty box.”