Page 94 of A Story of Love

Lori was rendered speechless. Lord Severn didn’t exploit the women at The King’s Purse? He found respectable jobs for the ones who wanted to get away?

It sounded like a fairy tale. Could Mrs. Marlowe be lying?

“You can talk to any of the other women here if you don’t believe what I’m saying.”

Lori jumped at the offer. “I would like to talk to anyone who is willing.”

“Under the same terms you already agreed to.”

Lori nodded. “Yes.”

“I will agree to that. In exchange for one thing.”

Lori laughed. “You really are quite a haggler. What do I need to concede now?”

“Mr. Gregg mentioned you’d used a butter knife to pry off the bars. Don’t try to escape. It will make my life a great deal easier.”

“Why? Because you fear Lord Severn’s wrath?”

Mrs. Marlowe gave an exasperated sigh. “No, Miss Fontenot, not because I fear him. He’s been good to us, and I’d like to do something for him in return.” Her eyes narrowed. “And another thing. If he is keeping you here, I daresay he has a good reason.”

Again, Lori felt heat creeping up her neck, but she held her tongue.

They held each other’s gazes. Lori didn’t know why she didn’t just agree to the other woman’s terms. Especially since she’d already decided to wait around for Severn’s return. Even if she managed to escape—which was doubtful—she’d still have no money and be stranded in a part of town that wasn’t kind to women.

Besides, after languishing at The King’s Purse for the better part of four days she had no hope that she still had employment with David. He would be furious that she’d not checked in when the deadline for her story arrived and went.

While she felt a sharp, painful regret about the future of her manuscript—although future was an inaccurate word at this point—she couldn’t help feeling relief that she no longer had to torment her principles by working for the man.

All she had to look forward to upon leaving the brothel was the agonizing process of finding a position with another newspaper. And that, she was in no hurry to face.

Besides, she was curious about Severn and what he was up to. And now, after learning of his strangely humanitarian bent when it came to the brothel, she was doubly curious to grill him when he returned.

Lori met the other woman’s patient gaze and nodded. “Very well. I give you my word that I won’t try to escape.”

***

Lori’s promise to Mrs. Marlow turned out to be far easier to keep than she ever would have guessed.

The madam didn’t just answer questions, she also allowed all of her employees ample time to talk to Lori if they were so inclined.

To Lori’s astonishment, every woman in the place—and even the few men who worked there—spent several hours talking about their lives and what had led them down this particular path.

At first, she had thought only to write an exposé on the subject of prostitution—something she could sell to one of the more reputable newspapers like The Times—but the more time she spent taking notes and learning peoples’ stories the more she envisioned something that was both larger in scope while at the same time less…limiting.

Because there was no denying that if she wanted to sell something to a newspaper, she would need to heavily censor many details. Even if she did so, the subject was one that could too easily be made into something that titillated rather than informed.

A novel, on the other hand…

It did not take long for that idea to take hold.

She continued to interview during the days—when most of the workers were at leisure—but at night, when the huge house around her came to life and everyone went to work, Lori wrote.

Indeed, she didn’t just write, she scribbled more furiously than she’d ever done in her life, the words pouring from her quill as if they could not wait to make their way onto a piece of parchment.

Day after day, night after night, passed this way—time flowing in a blur as she composed something so compelling that she was almost afraid to look at it for fear it might only be a product of her fevered imagination.

It was on the seventh night after she’d first spoken to Mrs. Marlowe—late, perhaps four o’clock in the morning—that she reached the end of an extremely rough draft of her story.