Girls who wrote or the paper. For the moment, atany rate.
If she didn’t get this story . . .
Eliza tugged her bonnet lower across her brow toprotect against the light drizzle alling and dug herhands into the pockets o her coat.“I you don’t get this story,” Mr. Knightly had toldher plainly as she stood in his Fleet Street oce justyesterday, “I can no longer employ you as a writer or
The London Weekly
. I cannot justiy it i you are notsubmitting publishable works.”It was perectly logical. It was only business. Andyet it elt like a lover’s betrayal.Knightly didn’t need to say that she hadn’t beenturning in any decent stories—they both knew it.Weeks had turned into months, and not one article ohers appeared in its pages.Oh, she used to write the most marvelous sto-ries—a week in the workhouse undercover to exposethe wretched conditions, exclusive interviews withNewgate prisoners condemned to death, detailingthe goings-on in a brothel to show what the lives oprostitutes were really like. I there was a truth inneed o light, Eliza was up to the task. I adventure,danger, and the dark side o London were involved,so much the better.Lately she hadn’t been inspired. The wordswouldn’t come. Hours, she spent with a quill in hand,dripping splotches o ink o a blank sheet o paper.
But this story . . .
Knightly’s assignment was plain: to uncover everylast secret o the Duke o Wycli. All o Londonwas panting or the intimate details o his ten yearsabroad. It wasn’t
that he was a duke—and the