Not for the first time, reporter Polly Burton of the Evening Observer attended a society event and found herself bored to tears.

She had run out the door to be on time for the Covent Garden event being held by Lady Cavendish, and with working all day in the office, Polly had skipped tea and lunch. She had been on her feet, taking notes about gowns and jewelry, while panning for true gold: that lucrative gossip about an advantageous marriage, or the details of a financial deal that could make a meaty story for the paper.

However, today the gold was sorely missing. The event was a colossal waste of her time, and she was afraid her demanding boss would think the same.

“Fancy finding you here.” That voice made her look up from her notebook to see Mr. Richard Frobisher of the London Mail. Mr. Frobrisher had a funny sort of face, one with a long pointed nose, and a mouth that loved to smirk like he knew something you didn’t. She didn’t find it charming, but it was interesting with its dark eyes that snapped with the cynical intelligence found in all true reporters.

She and Frobisher had bumped into each other a few times. Once it was literally when they had raced after the same carriage shouting for the occupants to give them an answer on the latest rumor about the Herrington-Forsdyke gold mine in South America.

“I think the surprise is that you are at this posh society do,” countered Polly. “Society gossip isn’t your beat.”

“It isn’t,” agreed Frobisher. “Boss sent me down here to punish me for losing out on that Herrington-Forsdyke scoop. By the way, how did you beat us all to that one?”

“That would be telling.” Posing as a maid at a dinner party had helped her learn that piece of information, but she certainly wasn’t going to give him any trade secrets.

“Maybe we could team up on this one?”

“What you mean is I should give you all the names of the attendees, a description of their outfits, and the latest gossip, while you give me what? The latest tip on a horse at the track?”

He grinned. “But it would be a very good tip. The best you’ve probably had all day.”

As the two talked, they strolled through the gardens, Polly jotting down a quick note once in a while when she saw someone interesting. Frobisher didn’t bother taking out his notebook even once, which showed he was not taking the proceedings seriously. Even though Polly had felt the same, it still irritated her.

“Aren’t you even going to try being professional?”

He shrugged. “I’ll get the list of who’s here from the hostess, and what I don’t know, I’ll get from the photographer they hired.”

Frobisher nodded his head to the alcove that was set off with potted palms. A professional portrait photographer had a backdrop with a set of chairs and he was under the camera’s skirt, taking a photo of Mrs. Herbert-Schmidt and her adult daughter, Mrs. Huffington. Only the loud check of a tailcoat could be seen poking out from the camera’s black hood.

“A photographer here? Lady Cavendish really is going all out for this event,” said Polly as she made a note about the dresses of the mother and daughter, as well as their jewelry.

Frobisher tapped his finger on the side of his nose and winked. “She wants her husband to run for a higher office.”

Polly didn’t realize that, so said as if she already knew, “This entire event is to butter up everyone.”

“If she really wanted to succeed, she should have picked a photographer who was young and handsome. Someone who knows how to flatter. Not that old walking scarecrow.”

They were both standing quite close, and Polly, growing angry on the account of another working man, chided Frobisher, “Shush. That was cruel to say, and he might hear you.”

“Oh, he won’t care. He’s the type that wouldn’t say boo to a ghost.”

Once again, Polly found herself annoyed with her companion. “You should have more fellow feeling for the working stiffs who have to put up with the demands of Lady Cavendish. She isn’t the easiest lady to deal with. Why, he’s probably had to flatter these stuffed trouts all day.”

They moved away to the other side of the palms and Frobisher leaned towards her, asking, “Why don’t you and I get out of here and grab something to eat? I know a pretty good Italian place.

Polly stiffened her spine. She wasn’t going to be drawn into this type of banter, for she had seen what happened to her fellow girl reporters when they responded to flirting. They stopped getting scoops and found themselves on desk duty, or worse, fired. Maybe even married.

“You’re welcome to leave anytime, Mr. Frobisher. I won’t leave until the event is done. My work is important to me.”

“Miss Polly Burton writing about all the feathers and lace seen at Lady Cavendish’s splashy soiree? Is that what you’ll spend your day pounding out on your typewriter? The reality is you don’t want to be covering this fluff. You want a good scandal, or a better yet, a murder, to sink your reporting chops into.”

Polly couldn’t help the flush of excitement when thinking upon scandals and murders. That is what got your byline on the front page and above the fold! Today’s write-up even with the Cavendish name would be lucky it was seen before page twenty-four.

Mr. Frobisher tipped his hat back on his head and said seductively, “Tell me the truth. The Fenchurch Street mystery is what you’d rather be covering, Miss Burton.”

“But I’m not covering it, and neither are you,” Polly said crossly. There was no reason to dream what wasn’t going to be. Exciting stories like that were given to star reporters who had already made a name for themselves, not someone like Miss Polly Burton.

“If you are going, go. I have work to do.”

The London Mail reporter tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Miss Burton.”

Since Polly’s attention was fixed on the back of Richard Frobisher, she didn’t notice the photographer behind her, who had removed the camera’s black cape to observe them both.

Like Frobisher had taunted, he was a thin, older man with watery blue eyes behind bone-rimmed spectacles. Pulling out a notebook from an inner pocket of his frock coat, he started to write his own notes as Polly walked away, determined to find something story-worthy even if it was just to spite Richard Frobisher.