Page 5 of A Deal with the Rebellious Marquess
‘I need you to ascertain if Mrs Griffiths is in town,’ he told his secretary. He was fairly sure she was. It was the Season, Parliament was in session and all the news was here, after all, as well as the syndicate’s headquarters. ‘If she is in town, I want to know where she’ll be tonight.’ And he would miraculously be there, too. Not as the Marquess, of course, but in the guise of one of his lesser titles. Perhaps the Baron, Lord Umberton, would make an appearance this evening. The irony did not elude him that sometimes acquiring the objective truth often required a bit of subterfuge and, according to his secretary when he returned a couple hours later, a ticket to the theatre.
The Adelphi on the Strand was not the type of theatre Jasper was used to. It was not Covent Garden or Drury Lane—the theatres wherehehad boxes—but its façade was imposing despite its less than aristocratic population. Jasper tugged at his white waistcoat, feeling a bit overdressed. To be fair, there were a few aristocratic swells in the crowd—young bucks out for adventure beyond the confines of Mayfair—but most of the attendees were salaried clerks who worked at Gray’s Inn or at firms throughout the City writing briefs, tallying ledgers and hoping for eventual promotion. Certainly, it was an educated if bourgeois crowd. Still, these were nothispeople. However, theywereMrs Griffith’s people and that was interesting, informing.
Jasper purchased a playbill from a young usher and tried to draw a picture in his mind of Mrs Griffiths; perhaps she was a stout, determined older woman. He could imagine the sort: iron grey hair, a double chin from good living, a bosom worthy of a ship’s prow and a waistline that corseting had long since failed to define. Perhaps, despite her age, she enjoyed an evening out among the younger set and embraced the novelties of the new modern era, which seemed likely if she had indeed taken over her husband’s news syndicate after years of perhaps assisting him from the sidelines.
His own mother would be the first to tell him behind every great man there was usually a strong, tenacious woman and Adam Griffiths had been at least a great businessman to have acquired such a news network. Aristocrats didn’t hold the monopoly on greatness as they once did. His father had predicted it, prepared him for it, prepared him to embrace change even as those in his set resisted it with every fibre of their being.
Jasper scanned the crowd as he took a seat on the floor. He’d not sat on the floor amid the masses before. But he didn’t plan on being here long. He took out a pair of opera glasses and scanned the boxes.She’dbe in a box. Griffiths would have been on top of the food chain here, the very sort of man these clerks aspired to be.
Jasper began dismissing boxes as his opera glasses roamed. No, not that box, not that one, not this one...all of them were full of grey-haired businessmen with their wives or perhaps, in some cases, their mistresses. Whoa! His opera glasses came to a full stop on the woman in the second box from the end. A lone woman dressed in a gown of burnished gold silk, cut fashionably low to show off a lovely bosom, auburn hair smooth and well coiffed, her bearing straight-backed and regal amid the heavy red velvet draperies framing the box.Maybe her?
Or was that just wishful thinking because she was positively stunning and bore no resemblance to the picture he’d drawn in his mind? His opera glasses would have lingered on her regardless of his errand. But it was her posture that made him consider her as a candidate for being the woman he sought, because goodness knew nothing else about her fit the anticipated mould of what he’d expected Adam Griffiths’s widow to look like—a woman who was commensurate in age to Griffiths and well past the first blush of beauty.
This woman was thirty at most and she sat like a queen, her spine straight with authority, her shoulders squared with confidence, her chin tilted up a fraction of an inch as if to say, ‘I dare anyone to come to my throne.’ And like a queen, she was alone, unapproachable, untouchable. Thoughts of Queen Elizabeth teased the edges of his mind. Perhaps it was the red hair that sparked the comparison.
He checked the remaining box to be sure he wasn’t overlooking anyone. No contenders there, just an older man and a woman with white hair—too old for what he was looking for. Jasper returned his opera glasses to the prior box, to his queen. Despite her surprising youth, it had to be her—the expensive gown and the confident bearing of one who was used to being in control. And she was alone, which spoke volumes to him as the house lights flickered, prompting the audience to take their seats. Before the house went dim, he summoned a fruit seller and pressed a coin in the girl’s hand. ‘At the intermission, tell me which box belongs to Mrs Griffiths.’ He needed to be one hundred per cent right on this. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself and approach the wrong woman.
The play was a performance of John Morton’sA Desperate Game, a one-act farce which would be followed by other performances after the intermission, but sitting in the dark as those around him were excitedly impatient for the curtain to rise on the stage, Jasper’s attentions were engaged inwardly instead, mulling over the woman in the box above him and her defiant aloneness. If he set aside his adherence to Baconian Law and engaged in the luxury of the loose logic of assumptions, things began to make sense now that he was sure he’d sighted her.
Bereft too young of a husband, she wanted justice. No, she wanted more than justice. She wanted rectification. She wanted someone to pay for her husband’s death and she thought that someone should be Orion. It was there in the tilt of her chin. She wouldhungerfor it perhaps with a vengeance, a passion, that had become misguided despite the purity of its initial intent to see right done.
He knew a bit about good intentions gone wrong. Much of what he tried to do for his brother seemed to end up in that category. He could certainly empathise with the wanting to do good. But he could not sympathise with it when it meant allowing the marquessate to become the whetstone for the brutal knife of her grief.
When the house lights went up, the fruit seller was waiting to confirm his hopes. The woman alone was indeed her. He made his way to the stairs leading to the boxes and fought his way upstream. The Adelphi did brisk business among the middle classes and the house was full tonight. At last, he reached the box tier. It was quieter up here and far less crowded. Ushers were positioned outside the boxes to see to the needs of the patrons within them and at the entrance to the saloon in order to prevent interlopers from intruding.
Jasper counted the boxes and approached the one containing his quarry, another coin at the ready, just in case he needed it, a hum akin to the thrill of the hunt thrumming in his veins. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Griffiths.’ He watched the usher’s gaze move over his dark evening clothes and white waistcoat and conclude he was someone of import. But it wasn’t enough.
The usher consulted his list. ‘Mrs Griffiths is not expecting anyone in her box tonight.’
‘Of course,’ Jasper demurred in agreement, ingratiating himself to the usher. ‘I did not know if I’d be able to attend tonight. It was all rather last minute.’ Not a lie. He’d not had a ticket until two hours ago. ‘If you could tell her Lord Umberton is here, it would be appreciated.’ He offered the coin. He’d let the usher do his job and announce him. He had no desire to get the young man into trouble, but he would follow him in. He wasn’t going to stand outside the box waiting to be refused. It was much harder to evict a man once he was inside. He did do the usher the courtesy, however, of a two-step head start.
In the dimness of the box, the usher cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Griffiths, Lord Umberton to see you,’
Jasper stepped around the usher as she turned her head, meaning to take advantage of the moment of surprise only to find the tables entirely turned on him. Viewing her from a distance had not done her full credit. Stunning was an inadequate word to describe this woman. Proximity provided details. Up close, her eyes were green. Her skin was pearly luminescence and porcelain smoothness from the sweep of her check to the expanse of decolletage. She rose and the susurration of gold silk called attention to the exquisite simplicity of her gown and how it made love to every curve and angle of her, the body within the gown’s only ornamentation. She was elegant beauty personified and his body answered to it, roused to it, most dangerously, because this was not logic.
In the heat of the moment with his usually organised thoughts in a riot, he could not recall the last time he’d responded so immediately, so thoroughly to a woman and so inconveniently. Very well, he rationalised. Being aware of the nature of his attraction meant he was forewarned against it. He was here to take her measure—objectively. Her green eyes were on him in cool perusal, his moment of surprise slipping away. He found the words to intercept the refusal before she could evict him. ‘Pardon the intrusion. When I saw you were in attendance tonight, I wanted to take the opportunity to share my interest in the articles your paper has been publishing about the Bilberry Dam.’ Also not a lie. He was interested but in a way that differed from the interest of her news syndicate.
A slim auburn brow arched. ‘I do not come to the theatre, Lord Umberton, to discuss business.’ It was meant as a rebuke, a cool scold, but it did not entirely hide the spark of another type of interest. Neither did he miss the subtle sweep of her gaze. She might not approve of the interruption, but something in her gaze said she approved of him.
He pressed his advantage. ‘Perhaps I might persuade you to join me for supper afterwards. I have a private table at Rules. What do you say to oysters and champagne?’ He could see the idea tempted her even as they both understood how daring the offer was. In the circles he usually ran in, such an offer would not be made. They’d not been formally introduced. But this was not a pink-wool-wrapped debutante. This was a woman of the world, a woman of a man’s world, to put a finer point on it. She ran a newspaper syndicate. One could not do that without getting a little dirty.
Her hand fingered the gold and pearl pendant at her neck, her auburn head tilting in consideration. ‘Since I do not know you, Lord Umberton, nor you me, I will take mercy on you and offer you a lesson instead of a set down. I do not come to the theatre to discuss business, or to spend the evening in the company of gentlemen with whom I am not familiar.’
He chuckled. He probably deserved that. He’d behaved audaciously and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that either. Still, he was no quitter. He might not know her, but neither did she know him. It was his habit to never leave a room until he got what he came for. Her refusal only meant she was careful, not that she wasn’t interested. He gave a nod, allowing himself the luxury of a little flirting. ‘Whatdoyou come to the theatre for?’
She snapped open the fan that hung at her wrist, an expensive black and gold creation. ‘I come to forget, Lord Umberton, to set aside the world for a bit.’ It didn’t take much to read between those widely spaced lines as she no doubt intended. The house lights flickered. It was time for him to close the deal.
‘I do apologise for my poor timing.’ He gave a gracious bow. ‘Perhaps tomorrow at your London offices would be more appropriate. I shall call on you at ten o’clock.’
‘Will you be up by then?’ she queried. He was up right now, to be truthful, but that wasn’t the kind of up she was referring to. ‘I was unaware lords rose before noon.’ There were all sorts of wicked responses he could make to that given the rising action he was experiencing at the moment—nothing outrageous or obvious, he had more self-control than that—but certainly his interest flickered like the house lights, prompting, prodding.
‘Rising by ten will be no problem for me, I assure you.’ He offered a cool half-smile. ‘I’m a different sort of lord, Mrs Griffiths. You’ll see.’ He exited then, before she could refuse. He’d got what he’d come for and quite a bit more, but it appeared he was up for it in all ways.
Chapter Three
Fleur had been up most of the night. The unexpected visitor to her box had been the perfect—as in perfectly upsetting—ending to an already difficult day: Adam’s birthday. He would have been fifty-nine. She’d not been in the mood for people. But the man himself had been upsetting in an entirely different way that transcended the intrusion.
Even now, as she paced her office at theLondon Tribunewaiting for the clock to chime ten, her sleepless body was full of restless energy, her mind insisting on recalling every detail of Lord Umberton in vivid colour and imagined tactile texture: the tousled tangle of rich nut-brown waves that tempted a woman to run her fingers through them, to tame them as a woman might wish to tame the man; the topaz depths of his gaze that managed to be both gem-sharp and warmly inviting; an intriguing combination which explained why she’d almost accepted his offer of oysters and champagne at Rules. That, and the fact that she’d been vulnerable last night, missing her friends. Missing Adam.
