Page 11 of A Deal with the Rebellious Marquess
She shook a fist at the empty room. ‘You should have told me. Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me?’ Had he doubted her? Was that why? ‘You set me up for failure,’ she said to the ghost in the room. She didn’t need any help there. She’d become quite good at failing all on her own. She could not fail him in death as she’d failed him in life. She owed him. It was too late to atone for being a selfish wife, for not kissing him goodbye that last night, for pressing him about a child when he’d been clear he didn’t want one. How could she atone if she couldn’t do this, couldn’t hold on to the thing he’d spent his life building? Saving the syndicate was her last chance.
She’d spent the night racking her brain for a solution. The best she could come up with was that she could sell some of the smaller papers, focus her attentions on the papers in the significant regional cities and theTribunein London. That would keep the business stabilised for a while until she could figure out a way to increase growth. But the choice undermined Adam’s mission to bring news to all parts of England and with it to bring literacy to rural villages.
To Adam, news was about information, about sharing power with all citizens and that required the ability to read and the ability to have access to somethingtoread. When she’d first met him, she’d been as attracted to that vision as she was the man. Here was a man who felt as she felt, believed as she believed. She’d cherished that similarity between them. Together, they had nurtured those ideals. It would positively gut her to sell off those rural papers. But what else could she do?
Even that decision was not risk free. There would be ramifications to either choice. To sell might be akin to signalling blood in the water. Selling might make investors and subscribers all the more hesitant. But tonotsell meant she had to find another way to generate subscriptions and funds. Perhaps she should consult with the Duke of Cowden who she knew through his wife, the Duchess, and the charity work on the literacy ball. Cowden had a mind for business and investment. He would have advice about the direction she should go. Meanwhile, she needed a good story, something that would sell papers.
Shehada good story. There’d been a slight uptick in sales in the north when she’d run the Bilberry Dam articles. Of course, the dam accident was still very much on their minds. In the north, by Holmfirth and York, people lived with the residue of the accident daily. They were still recovering fiscally and physically from the ruins. And of course, Meltham was in the north. Lord Orion Bexley was a person of interest to northerners more so than he’d be a person of interest to someone in Bristol in the west. Perhaps it was time to run another article. If she wanted to bring about justice, she had to keep the pressure on.
Umberton had called her justice vengeance today in that quiet but firm tenor of his, those topaz eyes studious and considering. There was no doubting he was a serious man with serious thoughts. Which stirred her anger. What did he know of it? It was only an accident to him, whereas it was a disaster to her. It had changed everything. She simply could not share the same level of detachment he brought to it. But he could still be her ally. He was the one person in London who’d shown direct interest.
An idea came to her as she finished her drink. He could be the first link in the chain she’d forge, the first of the powerful lords and MPs she could rally to her banner if she could gain an introduction through the right kind of person—and Umberton was definitely the right kind of person.
Not just for politics either.Her inner voice was active tonight.Perhaps you might have a dual purpose for him? There was more than business between you last night and again this afternoon.
Perhaps. Perhaps it would be all right to mix a little pleasure with business just this once, especially since there would be no expectations beyond the moment.
Fleur returned to her desk and drew out a piece of stationery with theTribune’sletterhead on it and drafted two notes, one to Cowden and one to Umberton, realising as an afterthought she had no idea where to reach Umberton. She stifled a yawn. She’d tackle that in the morning. For now, weariness had found her at last. Thank goodness. Sleep was all too rare for her. The downside was that she was too tired to make her way home. She would sleep on the long leather sofa in the office. After all, what did it matter if she slept at home or here? Either way, she’d be sleeping alone. Nothing awaited her but her dreams. That was her penance. It was no less than what she deserved.
Chapter Six
The letter was waiting for him at White’s when Jasper arrived the next afternoon, looking for peace and quiet, none of which was to be had at Meltham House. Today was his mother’s at-home, the one afternoon a week when she invited every worthy matron and their eligible daughters to flood her drawing room in the hopes he’d make an appearance. He’d done his duty today, mostly to appease his mother and to make up for not having gone to the Swintons’ ball with her last night. He’d spent twenty minutes in the drawing room meeting some of his mother’s favourites from the list before he’d made his escape.
Jasper took his usual seat in a club chair at the back of the room. He turned the letter over, studying the crisp, strong hand in which the address had been written:Lord Umberton, White’s.
A rather simple address that offered not a lot of information other than that it was fromher. Only Mrs Griffiths would call him that. She’d written, so soon after their lunch. The thought of seeing her again made his blood hum, like a soldier preparing for battle. But that humming was quickly tempered, two thoughts occurring to him before he even broke the seal.
First, she’d been rather ingenious to send it here in her deduction that the odds were decent he was a member—many lords were. He saw, too, that this message was an attempt to balance the power between them. If she could find him, she could level the playing field. Right now, he was the only one with a way to contact or reach her. He knew where she worked. He could contact her at any time. But she could not contact him. Not without some guesswork, which was what this was.
That led to the second realisation. The staff at White’s had known he was Umberton. If they knew, did she know? Was his element of surprise up already?
The waiter came with his brandy and the newspapers. ‘Stay a moment.’ Jasper halted him when he would have slipped away with customary unobtrusiveness. Jasper waved the note. ‘How did you know I was Umberton?’ It was not a title he’d ever publicly used. It was simply one more thing that had come with the entailment. The waiter looked nervous. ‘I am only curious, I mean nothing more by it,’ he coaxed the man to relax.
‘We didn’t know, my lord,’ the waiter confessed. ‘We weren’t sure who to give the letter to, so the manager looked it up inDebrett’s. We keep a copy downstairs for membership purposes.’
‘Very good, I like that. Taking initiative to solve a little mystery,’ Jasper complimented to assure him he’d done nothing wrong. ‘Thank you.’ He dismissed the waiter with a smile, but he was already making a mental note to find a better way, a lesspublicway, for Mrs Griffiths to contact him.
He slipped a finger beneath the sealing wafer and read. It was good news and bad. The good news was that she was eager to meet again to start working on a legislative proposal. The bad news was that in her boldness, she’d already concocted a plan. She wanted him to take her to a ball or two for the sake of making introductions to others in Parliament who might be of help. She even had a list enclosed. Jasper sighed. What was it with ladies and lists? Perhaps it was something they were born with.
He scanned the balls she’d chosen. He couldn’t possibly comply. People would know him there. He’d be Meltham to them. There were solutions to that, though. He took a swallow of brandy for thinking. One option was to come clean with her. Telling her was inevitable anyway, it was just a matter of when. Timing was important because therewouldbe repercussions. Most likely, he would be cut off from further participation in her investigation. She would be furious for what she would perceive as duplicity.
Originally, that hadn’t mattered to him. He’d thought to see her once, determine what she knew and what she meant to do with it. That would be it. He’d not planned on there being more to learn, more to do. He wasn’t ready to let the association go.
Be fair, his conscience nudged,you are not ready to let her go. You’re attracted to her and her saucy tongue.
The other option was that he knew where she’d be. He could make sure he wasn’t in the same place. Of course, he’d have to persuade her that splitting their attendance at events was in their better interest, that they could cover twice as much ground. He would attend events she could not get invited to and she could continue to cultivate her circles. But to persuade her, he’d have to see her. A letter would not suffice.
He gestured for the waiter. ‘Can you send an errand boy to Fortnum and Mason for a tea basket? I need it delivered to theLondon Tribuneto Mrs Fleur Griffiths.’ He pulled out his pocket watch. ‘By three o’clock.’ Two hours from now. That should be plenty enough time to gather his thoughts and prepare for a battle of wits, a prospect that was more thrilling than it ought to be.
A thrill ran through Fleur at the sight of the tea basket delivered to her desk by a wide-eyed clerk.He was coming.With his topaz eyes, tousled curls and argumentative nature. Her pulse raced. She didn’t need a note to tell her that. He’d warned her as much yesterday at the curb.Next time our meal will be on me.He’d not liked the idea of ‘owing’ her. Well,she’dnot liked the idea that by not giving her a way to contact him, he had seized control of determining when they might meet again. Clearly, her shot in the dark—or at least in the semi-darkness...many lords did belong to White’s, after all—had paid off. Her letter had reached him and this was his response: a basket brimming with every possible delicacy and utensil needed for a proper tea right down to a stone bottle of hot water and a pot to pour it in.
How much time did she have? She glanced at her clock. Fifteen until the hour. With hot water on the line, she’d guess he’d be here at three. She set about laying out the tea on the low table by the sofa where she’d slept last night. She unpacked white pastry boxes containing iced lemon scones, ginger nut biscuits and violet crèmes, boxes that contained triangular-shaped finger sandwiches of ham and chicken. There were two hand-painted teacups with matching saucers, linen napkins and two small plates meant for cakes and biscuits, all of which matched the teapot. She wondered if he meant to make a gift of the tea set afterwards? And if he did, what did it signify? Their relationship was still in a nebulous phase where they were neither business partners nor personal acquaintances. A gift at this point would make things...interesting, if not escalated.
Umberton arrived at three, dressed in a jacket of blue superfine and a top hat, a walking stick of blackthorn finished with a brass knob in his hand. He looked like a gentleman out for an afternoon stroll rather than someone making a business call. Is that what she saw because that was what she wished? That this was more than a business call? Fleur smoothed her skirts, suddenly conscious that she was wearing the spare dress she left here for occasions like last night when she didn’t go home. It was a nice dress of bright blue cambric patterned with pink and yellow flowers, the short sleeves and scooped neck trimmed in the palest of ivory lace, but it was not a fancy dress, something that had not bothered her until now.
‘Your tea has arrived.’ She gestured to the table as he took off his hat and made himself at home. ‘It is quite lavish, more like a meal than a snack.’ She led the way to the sofa, acutely aware that there would be little separating them beyond the voluminous layers of her skirts. Every fibre of her being seemed to be intensely aware of his presence today in new ways. Perhaps that was due to the new thoughts that had plagued her last night.
‘I remembered what you said about meals being merely fuel. I guessed you might not be in the habit of fuelling up as regularly as you ought.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Am I right? Did you skip breakfast this morning? Perhaps even lunch?’ He sat, crossing a long leg over one knee. If their closeness on the sofa was of particular note to him, he gave no sign of it.
