Chapter 5

“I could go to gaol, David!” Lori waved the now crumpled letter from the two Bow Street Runners in front of her employer’s face.

David Parker was sprawled lazily in a big chair behind a desk that was so cluttered with papers there was no hint of wood. His handsome but rather debauched face wore the sort of indulgent, superior smile that made Lori want to slap him. It was the sort of smile that said a woman was—yet again—overreacting and being overly emotional.

“You are overreacting, Lori,” he said, confirming her suspicions.

She briefly imagined hurling his inkwell at his head, enjoyed the mental image, and then carefully tucked it away and said, “That is all very well for you to say as it is not your name on this letter.”

The letter in question was from Lord Severn’s solicitor. Or battalion of solicitors, rather, because the man had an entire building full of them.

“It is just a scarifying tactic employed by the rich and powerful to suppress the truth and intimidate journalists,” David said in an irritatingly soothing tone.

“Well, it is working,” Lori snapped and the turned her back on him before she really overreacted and said something that would both get her sacked and lose any chance of getting her wretched book in front of a publisher.

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.

He thumped it onto the surface of his desk. “I received this back from Merrow two days ago. They politely declined to print it.”

Merrow was the editor of a well-respected publishing house and David’s words were like a knife to her belly.

Lori swallowed. “Another rejection.”

“Yes. But I was just getting around to giving it to Jessop first, and then Lackington if Jessop is not interested.” He tapped his fingers on Lori’s manuscript, the culmination of four years of work. “Should I bother? You could always take this along to either of them yourself—you haven’t talked to them yet, have you?”

Lori gritted her jaws. David knew that she hadn’t approached Alfred Jessop because the man was notorious in his dislike of female writers. As for Lackington, she needed somebody like David to submit her work as Lackington didn’t accept manuscripts without a recommendation.

David pushed the manuscript towards her. “Or perhaps you would like to submit it to Newman? He accepts submissions from anyone.” He smiled.

He was referring to the owner of the Minerva Press, which published sensational gothic novels.

“I could give you a letter of recommendation for Newman,” he goaded when Lori merely glared.

She chewed the inside of her cheek bloody to keep from saying something that would end their association without even a letter to the owner of the bloody Minerva Press.

David again tapped the bundle. “Well?”

You are so often your own enemy, my dearest Lori. The next time you are tempted to behave hastily, take just a moment to consider the result of your actions.

Lori clamped her jaws tighter as her friend Freddie’s voice echoed in her head.

One thousand and one.

One thousand and two.

David lifted his eyebrows, his expression one of mild amusement mixed with impatience. “I’m waiting for an answer, Lori.”

“Don’t give the assignment to anyone else. I have some other ideas about Severn that I shall pursue,” she lied.

Fortunately, David didn’t bother to inquire as to what those ideas were. “Good,” he said, his smile insufferable. “While I cannot share my informant’s identity, he has assured me that the killer was somebody Lord Perseverance knew.”

Lori’s jaw sagged. “Are you saying you know who the killer is?”

“No, I am most certainly not.”

“But your informant does? If that is the case, then why—” she broke off when his expression began to turn ugly. “At least tell me this much: are you leaning toward Lord Severn as the guilty party?”

“You won’t get me to utter those words aloud—not even in the privacy of my office, my dear.”

So, yes, in other words. Lori felt sick to her stomach at the thought.

“I take it that you are aware both Lords Percy and Stand Fast were in love with the same woman—Lady Louise Sibley—so you should look into that.”

“She is recently deceased, so I probably won’t get much out of her.”

David’s eyes narrowed at her sarcastic comment. “I wasn’t suggesting you talk to her. I was pointing out all the rumors that swirled around about the three of them. Chiefly, that Lady Louise would have married Percy if not for his untimely death.”

“I know that,” she said, unintentionally echoing his own words and drawing a frown from him. She hastened to add, “Her father was pressuring her to marry Lord Percy because he was the heir. As things turned out, she married the Earl of Moreland after Stand Fast left England.”

“Have you gathered any information about why Stand Fast fled so hastily?”

She knew that David wanted her to say that Stand Fast had been driven from England either by his own guilt or by his grandfather’s banishment—or both—but Lori refused to utter the words. And she refused to believe it, either.

“I will keep looking,” she said instead.

His lips twisted into a bitter frown. “Are you sure you are up to this?”

“Yes,” she lied again. “I have information that Lord Severn’s grandfather is coming to London for the first time in years. He will bring his household with him and many of those servants have been with the family for decades. I hope one or more of them will be able to offer insights into the relationship between the twins, especially right before Lord Percy’s death.” Lori didn’t really believe the Marquess of Grandon’s servants—especially old retainers—would be so loose lipped, but what else could she say? She would simply have to come up with some other idea. Hopefully.

David nodded and pulled her manuscript back toward him. “Good. That’s the sort of attitude a newspaperman, er, woman needs if she is to succeed.”

Lori clamped her jaws shut.

He took one look at her face and sighed. “You will need to learn to hide your emotions better than that if you have any hope of competing in a man’s world, my dear.”

Lori bit her tongue until blood flooded her mouth and forced a bland expression onto her face.

“Better, but still less than convincing.” David gave her a long, piercing look, and then—evidently satisfied that he had put her in her place—said, “I want you to investigate another matter at the same time you are looking into Lord Perseverance’s death.”

Dread rendered Lori immobile. Oh God. What did he want her to investigate now? Lord Severn’s long-dead grandmother’s sexual escapades ?

“Oh?” was all she could manage to choke out.

“I have information that Severn wasn’t just engaged in capturing French vessels for their prize money during the war, but that he was neck deep in smuggling—not just contraband, but slaves, as well.”

Lori opened her mouth to point out the obvious, but David slammed his fist onto his desk, causing the inkwell and other debris to jump.

“Do not say it,” he warned her.

She closed her mouth.

“I know he weaseled out of any responsibility for that bloody child slavery ring,” he all but snarled, his face an ugly red mask of fury.

Lori enjoyed a brief fantasy of reminding him that Severn had not only not been responsible, but he’d been praised to the skies as one of the people who’d helped to catch the vile filth who were guilty.

Wisely, she kept her taunting to herself.

If David wanted to stick his nose into Lord Severn’s business again, after almost having it bitten off the last time, who was she to say no.

“Who is the source on this matter?” she asked, taking the small note pad and pencil stub from the pocket of her cloak.

He pursed his lips.

Lori groaned. “Good Lord! The same person who sent the anonymous letter about Lord Percy?” She wanted to weep when he just stared. “Please, please, please give me something more, David.”

“No, my source is most adamant on that matter, so stop your damned begging. But you can trust me when I say the man is imminently reliable. He claims that Severn doesn’t just own a brothel so that he has constant access to free whores, he likes to stay close to the waterfront to keep a hand in his illegal trading.”

“But he has retired from privateering—indeed, he has given up life at sea entirely. I believe it is his former first mate, er”—Lori flipped through her notebook—“James White who is now captaining the Vixen for him. As for smuggling, I already checked with customs and the last few runs the Vixen made have been filled with legitimate cargo according to His Majesty’s officials.”

“First off, White wasn’t Severn’s first mate but his second. Piers Amory Gregg—a man who is possessed of such a mysterious past that he must be concealing an unsavory character—was for years Severn’s first mate but has joined the viscount in whatever chicanery he is up to at that whorehouse. Secondly, Severn is hardly bringing slaves to the London docks, but he is running his operation from his vile nest at The King’s Purse. It is your job to determine the structure of his enterprise.”

Yet another impossible assignment. Most likely because there was no truth to it.

“By the way,” he added before she could speak, “if you can find anything out about Gregg that will mean a bonus for you. I have already set several of my better journalists on the man and they’ve come up blank. Gregg is a ghost—a shade with no connections or history for all that he is obviously English.”

Lori wanted to ask how she was supposed to ferret out anything about Gregg if all David’s crack newspapermen had failed. Instead, she said, “If the Vixen isn’t smuggling anything directly into England, then is your source claiming Severn has been running slaves to America? Because his ship hasn’t made that journey in almost four years.”

“If I knew the answer then I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?” he asked acidly.

Lori glared sightlessly down at her note pad, willing herself not to explode.

“One more thing.”

Good. God. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming, lifted her eyes to David, and said, “Yes?”

“The last journey Severn was on—after he left England last summer—his ship was alleged to have rescued a number of mutineers from the Sea Ranger .”

“ What ?” she all-but shrieked.

David nodded smugly. “I have a signed confession attesting to the fact that he picked up several mutineers after they ran the ship aground on some godforsaken rock off the coast of South America.”

“I do not believe it! Severn operated under a letter of marque; he would be honor bound to bring any mutineers back home to stand trial.”

“I know all that, Lori,” David said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “But he didn’t bring any mutineers back, did he?”

“You said he rescued them. What do you mean by that? Rescued them from what or whom? And if he didn’t bring them here, where did he take them? And why?”

“Those are all excellent questions, and I look forward to the answers you find.”

“Accusing Severn of abetting mutineers is a deadly serious matter.” A great deal more serious than the accusations David had made against Severn last year.

David’s smile was snakelike and reminded her of why she didn’t trust him any farther than she could throw him. “Oh, my dear Lori, I’m not making any accusations. I will wait and do that after you do your job and bring me the evidence I need.”

What a novel concept for a journalist , she wanted to retort. Lori held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. I will see what I can find.”

“Good.” He abruptly broke eye contact and began to shuffle the papers on his desk, her cue to leave. “Now. If there is nothing else, you are free to leave.”

Lori glared at the top of his bowed head for a long moment, willing it to combust. When her fantasy failed to materialize, she turned on her heel and left without another word.

David Parker was an infuriating, odious toad. The only way she could be rid of him—and get her book before a reputable publisher—was to find the information he had so arrogantly demanded. To allow his obnoxious behavior to drive her to do something reckless would only confirm his belief that she was incapable of the job she had been given.

As Lori stormed past his startled clerk, she swore to herself then and there that she would do whatever it took to prove the insufferable rodent wrong.

Or die trying.