“Miss Lovelace,” he snapped impatiently.
“We whet the world’s appetite with a thirst for more. Feed their craving until he is at last found.”
Lowery paused. And then . . .
“Ain’t a story.”
Bloody hell.
“Egregious offense, you coming in here, trying to have me publish something that ain’t a story. In fact, not sure which is more egregious . . . that, or your making a show of yourself. It is unbecoming of my staff.”
Verity bit her tongue to keep from pointing out there’d been any number of egregious offenses that day: Fairpoint’s plagiarism. Lowery’s own use of the word “ain’t.” “Ah, but I disagree.”
His high brow creased, his thin lips pulled tight at the corners.
Oh, bloody hell. Verity spoke on a rush, in a bid to defuse his anger. “That is, I most respectfully disagree, sir.”
“As long as you do it respectfully.”
She brightened. Mayhap she’d unfairly misjudged the gentleman, after all. “Truly?”
Mr. Lowery snorted. “Of course not ‘truly,’” he snapped. Stubbing his cheroot out on a silver tray, he grabbed the pages Verity had tossed down a handful of minutes ago. “This is a story.”
“It was my story,” she could not keep from pointing out. The fury of having her work stolen redoubled in her breast.
He hurled them across his cluttered desk.
Verity hurriedly caught them to her chest, wrinkling those recently completed pages, the ink, still slightly damp, marring her fingertips.
“Papers are costly to run, Miss Lovelace. With the taxes—”
“I’m familiar with the state of taxation on newspapers,” she clipped out. In addition to having her work ripped asunder by a buffoon with poor grammar, she’d not be lectured on political events she was well versed in. “Quite so,” she added for good measure. It’s what accounted for the ruthlessness that had developed amongst reporters who were desperate to keep their assignments.
Mr. Lowery peered down his lengthy nose with such condescension she ground her teeth together again. “If you know that, then you know I can’t keep you around if this is the manner of nonstory you’ve given me.” With that, he came out of his chair. “I told you your assignment here was contingent upon your delivering the Lost Heir story.”
“And I did.” She could not keep the thread of desperation from her voice. Panic knocked around Verity’s chest as she followed her employer as he stalked off, but he began rummaging around the stacks of papers throughout the room. Muttering to himself while he searched for whatever it was he’d lost this time. Verity stopped on the other side of the table he currently searched. “It is a teaser, Mr. Lowery.” It was a desperate bid on her part. “Something to entice.”
He snorted. “Do you expect me to buy into that idea?”
Actually, since he’d newly taken over control of daily decisions from his father, she rather had. Either way, she knew men, and she knew their egos and, more specifically, how easily those egos were bruised. As such, she kept her lips wisely shut.
“You knew your post was on the line.”
“Yes, and I—”
“And it’s been four months,” he snapped. “Four months of you writing some other nonsense while you bring me nothing on the story that I really want.”
In fairness, it wasn’t solely the story Mr. Lowery wanted.
It was the story the whole world craved: the tale of the Earl of Maxwell, who’d been kidnapped as a boy and thrust onto the streets of St. Giles while usurpers had availed themselves of a lavish lifestyle at the child’s expense.
People had followed the downfall of those who’d robbed from the late earl, his wife, and his son. The only thing the world was missing now was the restored earl and an accounting of just how he’d survived these past years. What he’d done. And where he was . . .
She tried to reason with Lowery. “The gentleman has proven elusive. He does not wish to be found.” It was undoubtedly why Lowery had given her the blasted assignment. He’d been attempting to sack her for months.
“I don’t care what he wishes, Miss Lovelace. I expected you to find him. I expected you to interview him. Find out where he’s been. What he’s done. And publish that story in our damned paper.”
Expected . . . which signified the past tense and a telltale mark of her future here. And when she lost her employment here . . . what then?
What of Livvie’s future?
Bertha’s?
Our futures, together.
As if watching the life of another play out before her, she followed Mr. Lowery as he gathered up an armful of papers and beat a path to the door.
And when he stepped through it, then all hope would be lost. She’d no longer be Verity Lovelace, a woman with a respectable position and secure employment. She’d become an unemployed, unmarried, on-her-own female, prey to the whims and cruelties of heartless men, and with a younger sister to care for. And a rent she could not pay.
Verity came whirring back to the moment.
“Mr. Lowery,” she cried out, rushing after him. Ignoring the triumphant smile worn by Fairpoint, Verity gripped her employer by the arm. She ignored the outraged glint in his eyes as he took in her bold fingers. Panic lapped at the corner of her senses. “Please.” There were many too proud to beg. Verity, however, did not do this for herself alone but rather another, and it was that which made her able to swallow her pride and plead for her future. “I need this post.”
Shrugging off her touch, he proceeded over to his cloak and shrugged into it. “And I needed this story.” Mr. Lowery gathered several files and stuffed them inside a leather bag. And with that, he disappeared through the door.
Yes, a struggling paper needed every advantage, and Lowery had pinned the hopes for his paper’s rise to its former greatness upon that story.
Verity sprinted after him, and again inserted herself into his path. “Another week,” she appealed, all but shouting through the din of the room.
He wound his way around her, making for the entrance. “And what do you think a week will do, given that it’s been months?”
Hope. It was what had fueled her and enabled her to survive the whole of her existence.
Mr. Lowery opened the door, and a sharp blast of wind whipped through.
“We’re done, Miss Lovelace,” he said, drawing his gloves on.
Verity followed him outside. The previously bustling streets were now eerily quiet because of the impending storm reflected in the thick black clouds rolling overhead. That symbol of darkness and gloom . . . It is an omen . . . She thrust aside the tingling of unease working along her spine. “I’ve made progress,” she called after him. Lies.
And as he seemingly knew it, he continued on to the waiting carriage.
Verity bit the inside of her cheek, and then called, “I’ve determined his whereabouts.” Another blast of wind carried those words, stretching their echo.
That managed the otherwise impossible until now: Mr. Lowery stopped, one foot poised inside the carriage.
For one agonizing moment, she believed he’d climb inside that black barouche, ride off, and leave her hopeless once more.
Mr. Lowery stepped down and faced her. “You have three minutes, Miss Lovelace.”