Chapter Four
Verrey’s Café was an interesting choice. The main floor was long and narrow, dotted with small, square tables draped in white tablecloths that stretched back to a three-quarter wall of mirrored glass in the rear that gave the space an added sense of largeness. It was still early for lunch. Only a smattering of patrons sat at the tables.
The restaurant was quiet and of that Jasper approved as the ma?tre d’ led them to a discreet table at the back, partially hidden from common view by potted palms. Jasper approved of that, too. For all her boldness, it seemed Mrs Griffiths had a sense of discretion, as well. This was a nearly invisible table and she was dining in advance of the crowd. The woman liked her privacy.
‘I can’t decide, Mrs Griffiths, if you’re simply circumspect in your social behaviours or if you don’t want to be seen with me,’ he offered wryly as they took their seats. In truth, he preferred the privacy as well. There was less chance someone would recognise him and call him Meltham.
She fixed him with her green eyes, emeralds when scolding, grass green in her softer moments. They were emeralds at the moment. ‘I eat for fuel because my body demands it. I do not eat for the sake of being seen.’
He could not resist. ‘And the theatre? Is it fuel or for being seen?’
‘Fuel,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘For my mind, for my soul.’
‘And yet your gown last night was made to be seen,’ he prompted with a little argument. She might have sat alone, might have claimed she wanted no intrusion, but in that gold gown she had to have known she invited intrusion. She’d not passed the evening unremarked. His were not the only opera glasses that had lingered on her box.
‘I like fine clothes. They are a fuel of another sort, a fuel for my eyes, for my fingers. I love the textures, the layers.’ The confession carried a sensual quality to it or was his imagination running away with him at the thought of her touch on his sleeve, her fingers stroking the tight weave of his superfine coat? It was an unseemly thought about a woman who was most likely his enemy.
The waiter came and set the first course down in front of them, oeufs à la Russe with grey caviar for the discerning gourmet who would not appreciate black carp roe. Verrey’s was one of those fine restaurants where menus were not necessary. Regulars knew already what was served or at least knew with confidence that whatever the chef chose to put on the table would be excellent. To have a menu was to mark oneself as an outsider.
‘I must be seen, of course,’ she added with a touch of ruefulness when the waiter left. ‘It inspires confidence in those I do business with to see me out and about, expensively gowned as if I haven’t a care in the world. It tells them that the syndicate is solvent, that it is business as usual even if Adam Griffiths is no longer at the helm. To become a recluse would be to inspire panic and concern.’
Her comment struck a note of empathy within him. He understood that need to be seen. If it were up to him, he’d spend his life at Rosefields, puttering with his science experiments. But the title didn’t allow for that. The Marquess must be seen, the very sight of him a reassurance that all was well for those who counted on him. He spent his days in service to those people as Mrs Griffiths spent her days in service to her people.
‘Did the theatre feed your soul, then, despite the need for a public display?’ he asked as they ate. It seemed odd to him that one might find solace in a farce. A Shakespeare tragedy he could understand. But a comedy? They were made for laughing more than soul-searching reflection. But perhaps she’d had no choice if she wanted to be seen. What had she been looking for last night? He might examine later why it mattered so much to him to find out.
‘Yes. Last night I was thinking of my friends. Remembering. My husband and I shared the box with Lord Luce and Mr Popplewell and their wives.’ There was a shadow in her eyes as the waiter cleared the table and another set down plates of sole à la Dugléré. ‘I had not been to the theatre since the accident. Last year I was in mourning, of course,’ she explained, taking a flaky forkful of the fish.
Jasper felt like a cad. The evening had been of some significance to her, a private commemoration of sorts, and he’d barged in to disrupt it. He deserved every word of her set down and more. In retrospect, he thought he’d got off rather easily. ‘I must apologise again for my intrusion. It could not have been more poorly timed.’
She gave a small smile, but said nothing. What was he expecting? Absolution? Did he want her to say it was all right? She was too astute for that and he admired her for not letting him off for his intrusion. He’d behaved badly.
‘Are your friends, the wives, not in town? Could they not have joined you?’ Surely she hadn’t needed to face the box and its memories alone last night.
She shook her head, her mood lightening slightly. ‘They are both living abroad.’ She slid him a sly look. ‘Both of them have found new husbands.’ She raised her wine glass, containing a sharp white wine. ‘One of them has married the man who provides the wines to Verrey’s and other fine establishments in London. The other has sailed with her true love to Tahiti. They are not married yet, but they soon will be.’
‘I do recall now reading about the Popplewell department store fire and the story the London Tribune ran about the Popplewell’s contributions to the community.’ His mother had been devastated. She’d been looking forward to the new shopping experience.
‘Well, Antonia has turned tragedy into triumph.’
‘Yes, I hear she sold the store and her other business interests to the Duke of Cowden for a tidy sum.’ Was that what Fleur Griffiths envied? Did she wish to sell and unburden herself from the enterprises her husband had chosen? After a year in the editor’s seat, was it proving too much? Yet here she was, using her papers to renew interest in the Bilberry Dam. That scenario seemed unlikely.
‘Do you desire to follow in Mrs Popplewell’s footsteps?’ He studied her, trying to read her expression. What was hidden there? Regret? Grief? Envy?
‘To new lands or new husbands?’ she parried, meeting him with a bold gaze. ‘What makes you think I want either?’
‘You said you were missing your friends. It is not unrealistic to suppose you felt their new husbands have competed for their attentions and won.’ Fleur Griffiths struck him as the type of woman who enjoyed competition, but not losing. He toyed with his wine glass, shooting her a strong look at the last. ‘Perhaps you miss what they now have?’
Her retort was sharp. ‘And what exactly do they have?’ The boldness of his question was not lost on her.
‘They have love again and they both have a second chance for whatever their former lives failed to give them,’ he mused out loud.
‘I am happy for my friends, not because they have new husbands but because they have what they need. If that need comes in the form of a man, then so be it.’ She took a swallow of her wine. The swallow was manufactured, he’d wager, to cover emotion. He’d turned over a few rocks with his comments. Why not flip another one over?
‘What of your need, Mrs Griffiths? What would you do with a second chance?’ he enquired.
‘Perhaps I don’t need a second chance. Perhaps I have all that I require. I have my work. Running a newspaper syndicate is an all-consuming job. It leaves little time for other things,’ she replied hotly, outwardly offended by his assumption, but it evidently wasn’t the entire truth as something shifted in her eyes, darkening them with another shadow. This woman still grieved, although not only for her husband. She’d lost something more, something beyond Adam Griffiths, something her husband had perhaps been a gateway to.
A family? Children? How ironic that her husband’s job pulled him away from such things whereas Jasper’s position as a marquess drew him in, binding him and his family ever more tightly together. His fate was their fate, and their fates were his. Something he’d best remember when dealing with Mrs Griffiths. His intrigue with her was slowly leading him from the intended path. The questions that filled his mind weren’t about the dam or the information she had linking Orion to the disaster, but about her—what did she want from life? Did she enjoy the newspaper business?
‘I have all I need, Lord Umberton.’ She was cool again. ‘I have my work. There is little time for anything else at present.’
He paused his questions and took a small spoonful of the crème pistache that had just been set in front of them—cool and green, like Mrs Griffiths’s eyes. At this proximity, the comparison could not be escaped. ‘Is that why you’ve opened the dam investigation again? Your work demands it? Or does something more demand it?’ It was time to bring the conversation back to business.
‘My work is the search for truth. That is why I am bringing the Bilberry Dam to the public’s attention again. Is that not your work as well? As a member of the House of Lords?’
‘And you feel the truth is that Lord Orion Bexley is at fault for the entire accident? Your articles suggest as much.’ He watched her face carefully.
‘His name is the one thread that runs through the paperwork documenting the building of the dam, the issues with the dam’s structural integrity as well as the lax oversight of the commission. The verdict was clear that in order for a conviction to be made, there must be a singular culprit. I think one has emerged.’
She was so sure, so confident as she said the words. He saw the situation from her perspective: find a culprit, blame him, claim a verdict. And then what? Had she thought beyond that for herself, for all who would be affected? Her confidence did raise some concern for him. What did she think she knew that fuelled that confidence? What did she know that he did not? Because, not for a minute did he think Orion had told him everything. Worry in the form of sweat began to bead beneath his collar and pristine cravat.
He gathered his calm. ‘Forgive me for the bluntness, Mrs Griffiths, but what have you discovered that Captain Moody’s investigation and the subsequent enquiry did not see at the time? Captain Moody is known for his thoroughness. It is hard to believe something this significant went without his notice.’
‘The enquiry was thorough and it was expedient,’ she agreed, her tongue flicking over the tiny spoon of crème pistache in a manner that spoke to him of other ways that tongue might be employed. ‘But while expediency has its merits, it does not allow enough time for deep truth to bubble to the surface, for patterns to be unearthed and understood. But I’ve had time.’ The last rang like a warning in his mind.
‘If I am to come alongside your new efforts, I would want to know what those patterns are. You must understand that a man’s reputation is a precious commodity. I cannot squander it on conjecture.’
Her eyes flared and her shoulders straightened. ‘And a woman’s reputation is to be squandered on conjecture?’ He’d insulted her. ‘Do you think I am in the habit of running a newspaper syndicate on conjecture and rumour? I assure you, when I tell you I have real evidence by which the dots can be connected, that I have it.’
Another frisson of concern snaked down Jasper’s back. What if she did? What if Orion was indeed involved? Orion and Trouble were fast friends. He immediately felt disloyal to his brother for the traitorous thought. The onus of proof should be on this green-eyed minx who sought to stir up that trouble.
The waiter brought coffee to signal the end of the meal, a meal that had provided Jasper with food for both body and thought. ‘I would like to know your goals. What do you hope to accomplish?’
She fixed him with a long incredulous stare as if it wasn’t obvious to him. ‘Why, justice, Lord Umberton. It has been a year and more and there’s been no legislation introduced to improve dam oversight and there’s been no attempt to make a conviction.’
He was swift to correct her. ‘There has been an attempt and it was unsuccessful because a conviction was not possible. I do agree. The lack of forthcoming legislation is immensely disappointing given that the findings at the dam strongly identified a need for it. I can give you help with legislation.’ He gave a shrug. Legislation was something they could agree on, something he could help deliver.
On the strength of that common ground, she might entrust him with the information she had regarding Orion’s involvement with the dam accident. If he was to test the veracity of her information, he had to have access to it. His conscience stirred a bit at that. He was walking a fine line here. But the pursuit of truth and logic demanded he set aside empathy. How else would he know what he was really up against?
He did care about dam legislation. Meltham wasn’t far from Holmfirth. The dam project that serviced the rivers in that area was a constant concern for him. He’d hoped having Orion on the commission would have been a step towards better management. But the reverse had happened instead. It was imperative he know how deep in Orion was.
‘Legislation is a start, but it is not justice for what happened,’ she said in a stern tone. He could not miss the emotion beneath.
Jasper gave a slow stir to his coffee, mixing in the cream and watching it lighten as he carefully chose his words. ‘And justice is not the same as vengeance. I wonder if you’ve confused the two.’ He watched her go still and braced himself for an outburst that could very well see his coffee dumped on his lap. No matter how she tried to mask it, Mrs Griffiths had a temper. Emotion was beneath her words, beneath her choices. She wasn’t afraid to boldly speak her mind. She was a woman who felt things, a stark contrast to his own logic.
‘I think you overstep yourself on such brief acquaintance,’ she said quietly. Too quietly. ‘There are very few people who dare to speak to me that way.’
‘Then perhaps there should be more,’ Jasper countered. ‘Have you thought of what happens if Lord Orion Bexley is legally prosecuted? Or even if he is just socially prosecuted by his peers, which has already begun? Let me remind you that actions have consequences, Mrs Griffiths. For better or worse, a man’s life will be ruined, his family’s as well simply by association. And all for what? What will that ruination achieve? What will it change?’
She gave him a long look and for a moment he thought perhaps she’d seen through him, that he’d pushed too far and given away his hand. He didn’t expect his little ruse to last for ever. All she had to do was look him up in Debrett’s if she was interested in Baron Umberton. But he did prefer it last a bit longer until he could complete his reconnaissance.
‘He is the brother of a marquess. If anything, he ought to be held to a higher standard. He has all the advantages most people lack and his one responsibility is to take care of his people. He couldn’t even do that.’
‘Spoken like a woman who resents the peerage,’ he commented wryly. ‘Is that why you’ve picked him out? Because he’s a lord, even if just an honorary one.’
‘I don’t hate the peerage. I’m having lunch with you, aren’t I? I’ve picked him out because he is guilty,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t decide, Lord Umberton, if you are friend or foe. One moment I think we could be allies in this and the next you’re warning me off pursuing a legitimate culprit.’
He thought that, too. One moment he was trying to protect his brother, discover the truth of Orion’s association with the dam accident, and the next his mind was running riot with a thousand curiosities about Fleur Griffiths. ‘I’m not warning you off, Mrs Griffiths. I would not seek to decide for you or to know your mind.’
He certainly wasn’t seeking to obstruct the pursuit of the truth. He wanted to know the truth about Orion’s involvement as badly as she did, only for different reasons. ‘I am, however, cautioning you to consider the long-reaching ramifications of your choices and to think about your motives for them. I am merely offering counsel since you seem to have none to rely on.’
‘You mean I’ve been left unsupervised to run amok in the world, wreaking havoc.’ Her tone was cutting. Fleur Griffiths wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
He inclined his head. ‘I would hope not. I would hope you had more decorum and restraint than that. Business is not a place for hot heads. A newspaper is a powerful tool and must be wielded accordingly for the benefit of society.’
‘As is a title,’ she responded with the sharp heat he’d come to associate with her. He supposed some men would be turned off by her knife-edge sharpness. He was not one of them. Lord help him, but he found it deuced attractive. If it weren’t for his brother being involved... Who was he kidding? If it wasn’t for his brother, he wouldn’t have encountered Mrs Griffiths at all.
Wealthy newspaper widows weren’t exactly in his circle of association. She was of the City. He was of the ton and seldom did the two meet. There was only one path that would be acceptable for him to pursue with a woman like Fleur Griffiths—a private path that kept to the shadows and ended when he walked a different path to the altar with another woman. He put himself in check. Was he really considering an affair—even in the hypothetical—with the woman who wanted to use his brother as the scapegoat for her grief?
It was perhaps a testimony as to how attracted he was. If only the ladies of the ton were half as challenging, half as thrilling. Perhaps it was the danger, the risk that came with her that attracted him, or perhaps it was simply that Fleur Griffith made no secret of the fact that she would bite if provoked.
The bill came to the table and Jasper automatically reached for it, but Fleur Griffiths was faster, her eyes brooking no dispute. ‘I invited you,’ she said, signing the cheque.
Well, that was an interesting change. A woman had never bought him lunch before. Jasper rose and reached for her coat, holding it for her as she slipped it on. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It felt disturbingly as if he’d given up a modicum of control. She pulled on her gloves and stepped away from him, their eyes meeting, hers with a message: she who had her own money made her own rules.
He escorted her to the front of the restaurant, the place much fuller than it had been when they’d arrived, his hand light at her back, his body close enough to hers to breathe in the scent of her. ‘I shall take a cab from here. I need to return to the office, Lord Umberton.’ She made his dismissal clear. Their business was concluded. She would not allow him to drag it out with a cab ride. He found he didn’t like being dismissed any more than he’d liked having his lunch paid for.
‘I’ll wait until you’re safely on your way,’ he negotiated smoothly. His honour demanded he not leave even a self-sufficient woman alone on a street corner and his pride demanded he restore the balance of power at least a little before they parted. She needed to know that he would not allow anyone to walk over him.
He hailed her a cab. ‘I’ll be in touch, Mrs Griffiths, and the next time our meal will be on me,’ he said, helping her inside, breathing her in one last time, memorising the scent to decode later.
‘I hope our meeting was enlightening.’
‘Most enlightening.’ He was positively aflame with enlightenment. He could not recall the last time a woman had so tempted him while simultaneously terrifying him. She was indeed trouble. He gave away none of that turmoil. He smiled politely and shut the door, sending the cab off before his town coach pulled to the curb. His own afternoon would be busy indeed, his mind already formulating lists of things he needed to know and answers his brother needed to provide. Orion might have tangled with the wrong person this time. He’d accused her of seeking personal vengeance instead of public justice, but Jasper couldn’t shake the nagging question growing in his mind. What if she was right?