Page 3 of A Deal with the Rebellious Marquess
We regret that the reservoir being under the management of a corporation prevents us bringing in a verdict of manslaughter, as we are convinced that the gross and culpable negligence of the commissioners would have subjected them to such a verdict had they been in the position of an individual or firm.
Regret was a mild word compared to thedevastatingguilt she felt. Regret was what one felt when one had to decline an invitation to afternoon tea. It was a polite word. Politeness had no place when discussing the loss of eighty-one lives, or the deaths of people swept from their homes in their sleep. Mildness was an inappropriate response when listening to the tales, as she had in the early days of the flood’s aftermath, of those who watched, helpless, as loved ones were carried away by the angry torrent. There was no room for complacency when people realised the river had stolen lives and livelihoods, that the flood had devastated their economic well-being.
She wanted to give in to the rage the issue deserved, but she remembered in time the promise she’d made herself earlier. She would be professional. No one respected hysterics. A man was entitled to an angry outburst, but a woman, never. ‘You are right, Captain Moody. It is extraordinarily disappointing.’ Fleur cultivated careful neutrality, letting him see only the steady steel in her gaze instead of the rage in her heart. ‘Especially when you acquired an impressive record of names. Your enquiry clearly stated that if there was an individual or firm on which blame could be fixed, prosecution would be possible.’ Justice would be possible.
His gaze narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting, ma’am?’
‘That your enquiry, while timely and thorough, should be viewed only as the beginning, not the end of the interrogation on the dam.’ The governmenthadacted with surprising alacrity. The inquest had opened immediately on the sixth, the day after the flood. By the eighteenth of February, Moody had given his report to the jury and by the twenty-seventh, the jury had come back with their final conclusions. The amount of paperwork he’d amassed in those two weeks had been impressive and detailed, as was the list of names, both of individuals and companies who’d been involved with the dam at any point in its construction and maintenance. ‘The inquest should be reopened and individuals investigated more thoroughly.’
To his credit, Moody took the suggestion seriously. ‘On what grounds? It is not the custom to try a man or a firm twice for the same crime unless there is new evidence come to light that reshapes our understanding.’
Fleur reached for a folder lying beneath the papers on her desk. ‘There is this.’ She slid it across the desk to him and gave him a moment to peruse the single sheet inside. She steadied her own breathing. Everything hinged on this. Some might say her case hung by a thread, but she thought it wasn’t so much a thread but a rope—a strong rope made of hardy hemp, the kind that didn’t unravel at a first picking.
She’d spent the last fifteen months reviewing every detail, retracing every step that had led up to the dam disaster, starting seven years prior. She’d had the time to dig deeply that Captain Moody had not. And she’d found something.Someone.A singular person whose actions had caused the disaster. The singular person needed who could be prosecuted and held accountable.
‘Lord Orion Bexley?’ Moody quirked a brow and set the folder down. ‘You want to go afterhim?’ It was not a challenge, but an opportunity to make her case.
She gave a sharp nod. ‘He’s the only one who was a consistent presence at the dam. The others—Mr Sharpe, Mr Leather, Mr Littlewood—they’re contractors, inspectors, and masons. All of them are people who temporarily intersected with the dam at various points in its development. None of them was singularly responsible for the accident, although,’ she added a stern pause, ‘all of them dosharein the blame, all are responsible in part.’
‘But you feel Lord Orion is somehow more responsible?’ Moody asked.
‘Yes, he was on the board of commissioners and didn’t sign off on certain reports. It’s all there. Much of the mismanagement can be traced directly to him. Particularly this order, which was initiated by him, but, even after funds were delivered, the repairs were never executed.’ Follow the money. Adam had been fond of claiming that as one of the top rules of good investigative reporting. Money and blood always told.
Captain Moody was silent for a long while. ‘I admire your tenacity and your zeal to see justice done, Mrs Griffiths,’ he said at last in quiet tones. ‘However, I do not think you are aware of what or who you’re up against. It will be legally difficult to get to Lord Orion Bexley even if you had an ironclad case against him, which you do not. You have some interesting leads and conclusions, but be honest—they are not airtight.’ He was right. She had strong leads, but it was entirely possible they might go nowhere. Still, she wouldn’t know until she tried and she simply couldn’t give up.
‘What do you mean that I cannot get to him legally?’ That had grabbed her attention. ‘No man is above the law. Just because he has a title does not mean he is automatically blameless.’
Moody chuckled. ‘Unless that man is the brother of a marquess. Then it’s a bit trickier. You know that, Mrs Griffiths. Nocommonman is above the law. Lord Orion Bexley is far from the common man.’
She sighed. She knew first-hand that the peerage played by its own rules when it suited them. She’d learned that lesson the hard way through her uncle. She hadn’t realised Bexley ran quite that high in the instep, though. ‘A marquess?’
‘Yes, the Marquess of Meltham, an old and venerable title. The family seat is near Holmfirth,’ Moody supplied, discreetly filling in her gaps. She’d not looked up Bexley’s title specifically because she preferred to let a man’s actions speak for him rather than a title he had not earned beyond the accident of his birth.
She refused to be daunted. ‘Well, if I can’t get to him legally, perhaps I can get to Lord Orion Bexley socially.’ An idea was already taking shape in her mind—a publicity blitz. ‘I would think some articles suggesting Lord Orion’s culpability would bring him under social censure.’
The Griffiths news syndicate owned seven papers in the north that spanned the distance between Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Sheffield. Those papers could expose the role played by Lord Orion Bexley and apply pressure by making regular appearances. The more often the public saw an issue in print, the more likely they were to view that issue as important and give it their attention.
‘The peerage may not have to answer to the law, but it does answer to society and popular opinion. No one cares to be disliked. Society has its own unwritten rules. Blacken a person’s name enough, throw enough aspersion in one’s direction and there will be socially unpleasant consequences.’
‘Unpleasant consequences for both parties, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying so. If you were wrong, for instance, it would go poorly for the papers and for you. I do not know the Marquess personally, but I would guess he’d not take kindly to his brother, his family, being slandered.’ It was only slander if she was wrong. And she knew in her gut she wasn’t.
‘Truth is indeed a double-edged sword, Captain.’ She gave a polite smile. ‘I have lost my husband, sir, due to carelessness and cavalier neglect. His death and the death of others were senseless, purposeless. That loss will not go unavenged while I have the ability to see justice done.’ She rose to signal the meeting was concluded. ‘Thank you for your time, Captain.’
Moody stood. ‘I wish you luck and I urge you to take care. Tweaking noses can be dangerous work, Mrs Griffiths.’ Especially when those noses belonged to powerful marquesses, but such was the price of justice, and she would pay it if need be. She might not be able to get to Lord Orion Bexley legally, but often, what the law couldn’t do, the press could, and it would start today.
Meltham House, London—
Three weeks later
Jasper Bexley, Marquess of Meltham, liked to start his day with quiet and coffee in the morning room, a bun drizzled with icing for his sweet tooth at his elbow, a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs before him and the latest newspapers at the ready. But if he had to choose between the food or the quiet, he’d choose the quiet. He preferred quiet above all else.
Quiet was a sign of order, of steadiness, of readiness. Most of all it was a sign that all was right in his world and Jasper Bexley was a man who valued that rightness in all its forms. It allowed a man to think rationally, plan methodically, engage with his world logically. For him, silence was indeed the golden currency of quietude, especially during the Season when the demands on a marquess’s time were extreme.
So, when his brother’s strident tones, accompanied by the loudthwack!of a newspaper on the polished surface of the breakfast table set Jasper’s cup to jangling and his coffee to sloshing in its saucer, much more than the pristine silence of the room was broken. His train of thought was broken, the peace of his morning was broken, and such things were not easily mended or restored.
Jasper sighed and dragged his gaze fromThe Times. The morning was giving every sign of going downhill from here. He took off his wire-rimmed spectacles and set them aside. He suspected it would be a while before he got back to his reading. With Orion it was never just a single interruption, but the beginning of a long line of other disturbances.
‘Don’t you have rooms at the Albany?’ he queried coolly, fixing his younger brother with a freezing stare, both of which were meant to remind him that this was to be the Season of his living independently and embracing his adulthood. It was beyond time. Orion was thirty, eight years older than Jasper had been when he’d become the Marquess.
