Chapter One
There’d been no justice, just a vituperative, albeit sincere, outpouring of extreme dismay from the Government Inspector over the negligence surrounding the construction, maintenance, and oversight of the doomed Bilberry Dam. If one thing had been made clear in the investigation, it was that the dam had been plagued with misadventures from the start on all levels.
Sympathy and outrage were not enough for Fleur. It had not been enough last February when the inquiry concluded with a call for increased legislative oversight to prevent future disasters and it was not enough now, fifteen months later, which was why Fleur had scheduled a morning meeting with Government Inspector Captain R.C. Moody at the Newcastle Forge, one of the Northumberland papers owned by the Griffiths news syndicate. Owned by her.
It was one of the myriad changes that had occurred in the past year. Adam’s empire was hers now, hers to look after in his place, although it was not a role she would have chosen for herself. Being a newspaper magnate had been Adam’s dream, not hers. She’d wanted to be a storyteller, nothing more. Running the syndicate was a daunting task, but one that offered her the leverage to continue to pursue justice for the dam accident.
If the truth wouldn’t come to her, she would go to the truth. So, here she was, in Newcastle upon Tyne, sitting in Adam’s regional office, surrounded by Adam’s things, sitting behind the desk in the chair Adam used to occupy when he was in town. The company might be hers, but the office was still very definitely his. She took strength from that, from feeling his presence. Before her on the desk were the documents regarding the dam accident. How many times had she read them in the hopes that she might uncover something new? She tapped her fingers, impatient for Captain Moody to arrive. A glance at the small desktop clock encased in masculine walnut indicated her impatience was not warranted. Moody wasn’t even late yet. There was no basis for it except her own eagerness.
She’d met Moody before during the inquest. He’d been a perfect gentleman, considerate and well spoken, aware that his task as the Government Inspector was not only to investigate the cause of failure, but also to ensure the region recovered. He’d been sensitive to the rawness and depth of loss the people had experienced. In those days, she’d been just another widow, angry and grieving. Today, she was a businesswoman at the helm of a newspaper empire. She could not be handled with platitudes and consolation. Today, she wanted accountability and truth.
A knock on her closed door was followed by the paper’s receptionist announcing Captain Moody’s arrival. Fleur rose and ran a smoothing hand down her bodice and her green tartan skirts before straightening her shoulders. She would be politely charming, personally enquiring and, above all, professional. The past months had taught her the merits of such decorum when dealing with Adam’s testy board of directors who hadn’t liked change when it came in the form of a woman. ‘Send him in, Miss Grant.’
She could hear Miss Grant in the outer office. ‘Mrs Griffiths will see you now, Captain.’
That was her cue to come around the desk and extend a hand in greeting as the Captain entered the room, her domain. This was her space; she was in charge here, despite it being marked with Adam’s effects. ‘Captain, it’s so good of you to come. I know you’re a busy man these days overseeing the Royal Engineers in Newcastle.’ She smiled. ‘And somewhat recently married, too, I hear. Congratulations.’
He smiled the smile of the newlywed bridegroom, part-blissful enchantment, and part-bashful humility as if he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune. ‘Yes, Mrs Griffiths, you’ve heard correctly. Mary and I were wed last July.’ Quite the marriage it was, too. Fleur had done her research. The Captain’s wife was the daughter of an extremely wealthy industrialist and, rumour had it, already expecting their first child—not that she would bring that up.
‘Please, have a seat.’ She gestured to the leather club chair set on the guest side of the big, polished desk. She crossed to the matching console where Adam’s Baccarat decanters and a silver coffee urn were displayed. ‘It is probably too early to offer you a drink, Captain, but I have hot coffee and fresh rolls.’
‘Coffee, thank you, Mrs Griffiths.’ He took the seat, sitting with evident military bearing. ‘How have you been?’ he asked as she passed him a warm mug of coffee and a pastry plate, his question a reminder of how differently the year had treated them. Her marriage, her hopes for a family, had ended while his had begun.
She took her own seat behind the desk, a hand slipping surreptitiously to the flat of her stomach. There’d been no child. Perhaps there never had been. Perhaps all that had ever been in her belly was hope: hope for a child, for the type of family she’d been denied growing up, hope to redirect a marriage she’d sensed was coming to a volatile head between two strong-willed people who wanted different things. Instead of new life, she’d got death.
‘I’ve been well, thank you.’ It wasn’t quite a lie. She’d been busy and she supposed that was as close to well as she’d get these days. Busy enough to not miss Adam every waking minute. Busy enough to not be entirely eaten up with the regret and the guilt that surrounded that fateful night in Holmfirth. Busy enough to convince herself she was indeed moving on, that she was making progress in a man’s world with a board of directors who’d sooner oust her than support her. Some days she actually believed in that progress.
She took a sip of her own coffee and got straight to business. ‘I’ve asked for this meeting because it’s been over a year since the inquest delivered its verdict on the dam and nothing has been done. There has been no preventative legislation introduced and now I fear that momentum has been lost. The public has forgotten the urgency behind the issue.’ But she had not. She would never forget the horror of Holmfirth and the terrible days that followed when she’d roamed the streets helping survivors, grappling with the loss of Adam and all it meant.
Captain Moody gave a slight nod, but it was a nod of empathy, not agreement. She hoped he would not condescend to her with pity, which seemed to be a man’s default when dealing with a widow. ‘Mrs Griffiths, you were there when the verdict was read, and prior to that, when my own conclusions were presented. Even now, I will still stand by every word of my statement. While there was proof of gross negligence and ineptitude of such capacity that it turns my stomach to think of it, there was no one person or firm who could be charged with the irresponsibility that led to the dam’s demise. This made it impossible to render the charge of manslaughter,’ he explained patiently. ‘Truly, I understand how disappointing such a finding must be for you.’
Disappointment did not encapsulate the entirety of her feelings in that regard. She knew the words of those findings by heart. She’d heard them spoken out loud at the original presentation of the jury’s verdict. She’d read them over and over when the report had been published.
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 the devastating guilt 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 government had acted 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 after him?’ 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 do share in 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. No common man 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.
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 loud thwack! 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 from The 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.
‘They can’t keep saying these things about me! There’s been articles up north and now there’s one in the London Tribune.’ Orion abused the table with another swat of the newspaper, slouched into the chair and conveniently ignored the question.
‘Conveniently ignoring’ was a coping strategy his brother had cultivated as a boy and honed to perfection as an adult. The only other thing Orion cultivated with such care was his appearance—always immaculately groomed and expensively turned out, even, Jasper noted wryly, in the midst of his latest crisis. This morning, Orion wore a grass-green silk waistcoat, a sky-blue silk cravat and a bottle-green jacket of superfine, his jaw clean shaven, his champagne-blond hair—Orion’s term for a hue that was not quite gold or brown—neatly trimmed.
Jasper always felt a bit rough around the edges compared to his brother. His own hair was decidedly longer, a collection of unruly nut-brown waves that tangled easily no matter the amount of pomade his valet applied. He was too busy to think about clothes. He left that to his tailor and valet. Between them, they hadn’t failed him yet.
Jasper breathed in through his nose and gave a long exhale, preparing to jump into the impending fray. ‘What is it this time? Did the society column not care for your latest waistcoat? Or is it money trouble again?’ Perhaps a gaming debt that had lingered too long for repayment. It wouldn’t be the first time. He hoped that was all it was. He hoped it wasn’t worse—a wronged earl’s daughter caught kissing Orion in a garden at a ball, perhaps—because Orion would make a terrible husband. He loved his brother, but that didn’t mean he wished Orion on an unsuspecting wife.
‘Brother, you have to make them stop. It’s gone too far. It never should have been allowed to start.’
Jasper did not care for the accusatory tone with which the last part was said. Nor did he like the feeling that he’d entered in the middle of a play and didn’t understand the plot. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I am going to need more detail than that, starting with who “they” are in this little drama and what is the drama?’ Because it was always drama with Orion. Mountains from mole hills were his speciality, usually because they’d been ignored too long before they reached Jasper’s attention.
Orion shoved the paper the length of the table. ‘“They” are the London Tribune, the Leeds Messenger, the Sheffield Tribune, the Bristol Intelligencer and a host of smaller papers from here to York.’ Orion’s chagrin seemed genuine for once and, for a moment, Jasper sensed something else beneath it—authentic concern? Perhaps a sincere sense of worry? But it was gone as quickly as it came. Still, he thought, the observation was worth filing away.
Jasper reached for his glasses and picked up the paper, his brow furrowing as he read the half-page article, which was quite a bit of space devoted to an issue that was over a year old and one that had been settled. ‘This is about the dam accident in Holmfirth last February.’ More specifically, it was about the enquiry that had occurred afterwards. Orion had been on the Board of Commissioners for the Holmfirth Dam project, a position Jasper had arranged in the hopes of giving Orion a sense of purpose and direction when Orion had finished a brief, disappointing stint in the military with the engineering corps.
He looked up at Orion. ‘What does this have to do with you? The verdict was clear: there was no one person or organisation that was accountable for the accident.’ The dam had been a tragedy of collective errors, to be sure, and a travesty of bureaucratic nonsense.
‘Someone is attempting to reopen the investigation,’ Orion groused, reaching for the silver coffee pot and pouring a cup before pulling out a flask to enliven the brew. Jasper frowned. It was barely half past eight. A bit early, in his opinion, to be ‘enlivening’ beverages.
‘Let them search. They are not bound to get far. The law won’t retry a case without new evidence and there was no conviction last time due to there being no one or no group to bring to trial.’ Jasper failed to see what the worry was.
‘But that’s the point. Someone is looking for a person to pin it all on and that person is me!’ Orion blurted out with dramatic angst. ‘The newspaper articles have named me in a manner that suggests I am the someone who should be held accountable and whoever is doing it is using the papers to whip up support. You must put a stop to it,’ he insisted.
‘You want me to use my title to suppress the press?’ Jasper surmised bluntly. And when or if that failed, Orion would want him to use his title to suppress the individual citizen behind it. Did Orion even see the irony in that, given his voting record in Parliament regarding lowering the stamp tax on newspapers and abolishing the excise tax on printing paper? He championed free press. He didn’t censor it.
Orion leaned forward in earnest. ‘I want you to use your title to suppress slander, Brother. Someone is trying to ruin me.’ It was said with all the aplomb of a Drury Lane thespian—he was giving quite the performance.
Jasper nodded. Orion was named specifically. That alone required his attention. The family name must be protected from unrighteous scandal. But he also knew that with Orion there was always a nugget of truth involved and many other types of nuggets, too. There was likely more to this than what Orion was letting on. He just had to figure out what that more was. Regardless, the situation would have to be handled delicately.
Ifthe press was indeed slandering Orion, it would indirectly be akin to slandering the marquessate, which Jasper would not tolerate. His father had taught that lesson well and often. The Marquess must protect the family. Of course, that assumed that was indeed happening. Cases were never black and white with Orion. He would not let his brother be wronged, but neither would Jasper risk the marquessate’s good name by using it to undermine a free press, one of the life bloods of an evolving society, a view that often made him unpopular in the House of Lords. It was a view he’d fought for on more than one occasion because ideas—scientific, philosophical, or otherwise—were critical if a society were to modernise and advance, something the reclusive and often eccentric Marquessate of Meltham had long believed in. It was a legacy he was more than happy to keep alive.
He sighed. This was going to be tricky indeed. ‘I’ll look into it right away. Get me a list of all the papers that ran articles about you.’ He was already mentally reorganising his morning to move this to the top of his task list as a thousand questions clamoured for his attention, mercilessly drowning out the quiet.