Chapter Five
‘You think she’s right. You are taking her side. I cannot believe this.’ Orion paused his agitated pacing before the fireplace long enough to push an equally agitated hand through his hair. Jasper wondered if he’d practised the move. Perhaps it had been a mistake to give Orion advance notice of this meeting.
Advance notice had given Orion time to think about how to posture, how to position his arguments and his emotions. Orion was nothing if not the sum of his emotions, all of which he felt entitled to display whenever he felt them. Real adults weren’t ruled by their emotions, in Jasper’s opinion, or at the very least real adults controlled and contained those emotions.
The thought immediately conjured images of Fleur Griffiths over lunch today. She’d been emotional, heated and then cool in turn, calm at moments, angry in others. But she’d kept those emotions under control. It was fine to feel, just not to feel too much too often, that was Jasper’s credo. Too much emotion undermined Baconian law, after all, left a man feeling exposed, vulnerable. He’d had a strong taste of that after his father died. He wasn’t willing to drink from that cup again.
‘I am not siding with her,’ Jasper corrected from the sideboard that held decanters at the ready for a pre-prandial drink. ‘I had lunch with her today in order to hear her position.’
‘You took her to lunch?’ Orion said the words as if he’d indulged in the eighth deadly sin.
‘We took lunch together, at Verrey’s Café. To be honest, it had not been my intention. She invited me, if you must know.’ Jasper crossed the room and handed a tumbler to his brother.
‘Why?’ Orion swirled the brandy and gave a sorrowful look into its depths. ‘You’re always asking questions. Did you think of asking that one? Why would she invite a man to lunch whom she doesn’t know, who is, by the way, related to the man she seeks to pillory? It is not the done thing to dine with one’s enemies.’
‘Perhaps you should test some of the assumptions undergirding your last statement.’ Jasper took a swallow of his drink and waited one beat, then two as dawning came to Orion.
‘She doesn’t know who you are. You’ve given her some trumped-up name.’
‘Not trumped up, a real name. Baron Umberton. I did not lie to her. I am Baron Umberton.’ Although he hadn’t ever used that title. The Earl of Wincastle had been his honorary title growing up, one of his father’s titles bestowed on him at birth.
‘You made her believe you were interested in her articles,’ Orion went on.
‘Also not a lie. I was and continue to remain interested in her articles because they involve you, because you asked me to look into it. I did.’ That took a bit of the wind out of Orion’s agitated sails. It was time to be serious before Mother arrived in the drawing room. Jasper lowered his voice. ‘She has convinced herself you are a person of interest, the one common thread between all the separate pieces that went wrong leading up to the accident.’
Orion merely scoffed. ‘I could have told you that from the articles. That’s not new. You needn’t have gone to lunch to learn that.’
‘But I did learn something new, though. I learned that she is the driving force behind it. She’s the one who wants to reopen the investigation. She is not merely reporting what someone else has told her.’ He waited for the import of that to reveal itself to Orion. When Orion remained blank, he explained, ‘She is driven by emotion, by her grief. She has nothing but anger to sustain her. When she realises she has no proof she will have to let the issue drop and face the fact that she was seeking a scapegoat, not justice.’
‘But in the meanwhile, I am to bear the brunt of her tirades? The aspersions on my name, on our name?’ Orion’s sense of drama returned. ‘How long do you think it will take her to calm down? A week? Maybe two?’
That was a very good question. ‘I don’t honestly know.’ After meeting her today and taking her measure, Jasper wasn’t sure she’d calm down quickly or let go of her quest, not on her own at least. This certainly wouldn’t be over in a mere set of weeks without some form of iron-fisted intervention. Weeks were like eons to Orion.
‘It may take some time before she opens up to me and shares what she knows. She and I are both interested in proposing legislation for better dam oversight. I hope to build on that connection in order to discover just how strong she thinks her case against you is.’
His conscience gave another kick. He did not like the not entirely honest aspects of the plan, but it was already underway and what else could he do? His father had raised him to be honest, to seek truth, but his father had also imbued him with the importance of responsibility. There was no greater responsibility than caring for the family, protecting the family. What took precedence when the two came into conflict?
‘Your plan had better work,’ Orion groused ungratefully, oblivious for his dilemma.
‘If you don’t like it, you can always try cleaning up your own messes for once,’ Jasper growled. ‘Just tell me this—is there anything legitimate for her to base this new case on? We cannot afford to be ambushed.’ He didn’t think Fleur Griffiths was someone to make idle claims. If she thought she had something, she truly might. That worried him, especially when Orion hesitated too long to answer, their conversation cut short at the sound of rustling skirts in the hallway.
‘Cannot afford to be ambushed about what?’ His mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Meltham swept into the room, dressed for a night out. ‘I’ve got the Swintons’ ball tonight. Colonel Taggart will call for me after we eat.’ She looked between him and Orion. ‘Now, what is this about an ambush?’
Orion cleared his throat, a bit of devilry glinting in his eyes. ‘Jasper didn’t want to be ambushed by anyone on your list of lovely debutantes for him to consider this Season.’
Jasper shot Orion a quelling look. That damnable list was a sore topic because of the subject that always followed the list: when was he going to marry and ensure the succession? ‘I don’t need a list. I can find my own bride.’ He tried to prevent the inevitable production of the list from his mother’s pocket or her reticule or wherever she’d happened to stash it at the moment. It was always on her person. But he was too late. She produced it with a flourish. He winced. It seemed longer than the last time he’d seen it.
‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ she scolded with affection. ‘I assure you every mother in the ton has a list. We can go over the list at dinner so that you are not “ambushed”. I think you’ll see the candidates are all quite reasonable. There’s room in the Colonel’s carriage for you if you’d like to attend tonight. Many of these girls will be there. It would be very efficient and I know how you like efficiency.’
‘No. Thank you for the offer, though, Mother. I have some business that requires my attention this evening. You should take Orion.’ He shot his brother an I-am-getting-even look followed by a lift of his brow that said You-owe-me-because-I-worked-all-day-on-your-behalf.
Orion shot him a resigned glare before smiling at their mother. ‘I would love to go.’ The butler announced dinner and Orion offered Mother his arm. ‘Whose lists am I on?’ he asked as if he didn’t know the only lists he was on were the naughty ones. ‘Do you think I should marry soon? Perhaps a wealthy heiress?’ Orion was the king of distractions and he could make their mother laugh. For that, Jasper would forgive Orion nearly anything. It had been an invaluable gift in the early days after their father’s death when Mother had been inconsolable.
Despite his earlier dissatisfaction with his brother, Jasper couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he watched the two go in ahead of him, their blond heads bent together, Orion charming, his mother laughing as she said, ‘Oh, not you, not yet, my dear. You needn’t rush to marry.’
Watching them brought fond memories. It had always been this way ever since he and Orion had been allowed down to dine with his parents. He’d been fourteen, Orion seven, and he’d been the one to insist Orion be able to join them, that they should dine as a family when he was home from school. Orion and Mother made a habit of going in together while he and Father, the ‘men of the house’, had lagged behind, talking business about the estate.
He remembered how his father’s gaze would follow his mother in those moments, his eyes soft with contentment, shining with love. Some would argue his parents’ marriage had been the best of both worlds—a marriage made on the grounds of mutual respect, but which had blossomed into an abiding love over time. Then his father had died and he’d seen how the loss broke his mother, how she’d cried and wept, how her strength had deserted her for a time. He did not want that for himself. Love hurt; love cut deeply. To him, it was the greatest of illogical ironies that something meant to be beautiful could turn so ugly.
Would Fleur Griffiths agree with him? His thoughts seemed to drift rather too easily to her. Wasn’t she also proof of the damaging capacity of love? She was so wrecked by grief and anger that even a year later she was still looking for a culprit, someone to pin her loss on, even when empirical evidence already suggested she would not find that someone.
If that was what love did to people, he had no use for it. He was the Marquess. He could not afford to be weak. A weak man could not protect his family. He’d promised his father on his deathbed that he would care for Mother and for Orion always, that the family would go on, would continue to thrive. A weak man could not keep that promise.
No, he was quite certain that love was a luxury that was not for him. He had to protect his family, his people, his lands and for that he had to be strong. He glanced towards the family shield that hung over the fireplace as he passed. Officio et Diligentia Semper. Duty and diligence always. Love did not factor into it. Such was the life of a marquess.
Burning the midnight oil, toiling over ledgers and adding up unrelenting columns while everyone else had long gone home to families and hot meals. Such was the life of a news syndicate owner. Fleur sat back from the desk and stretched. She’d been working relentlessly since she’d returned from lunch. Her stomach rumbled in reminder that that meal had been ten hours ago. That meal had been a delicious feast for the tongue as well as the eyes, which was the very reason she’d assigned herself a punishing list of tasks that needed completing. If she went home she’d have nothing to distract her.
She’d spend her evening reliving lunch with the all too attractive Baron Umberton. He was exactly the sort of man her uncle had wished she’d married. The amount of thought dedicated to Umberton was a sure sign that she’d been alone too long. Not that she needed another sign. Last night had been proof enough. This afternoon’s luncheon was merely affirmation of what she already knew: she was lonely.
You ought to take a lover. That would appease your loneliness.
Her inner voice whispered the wicked temptation. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought of it. Nor would it be the first time she’d acted on it. She had taken a lover last autumn in the wake of Emma’s marriage. It had been an adequate experience. There had been comfort, but not much else. But perhaps it had been too soon. Maybe she’d expected too much, been too desperate. Perhaps with the distance of a year, it might be better.
Fleur walked to the sideboard and poured herself a midnight brandy from Adam’s favourite decanter of Baccarat cut-crystal. It had been a gift from Emma and Garrett one Christmas. Garrett had been a staunch believer in investing in Baccarat crystal. The memory made her smile. She raised her glass to the ghost in the room. ‘I miss you, Adam.’ She took a long swallow, letting the brandy burn her throat, wishing it could burn away the pain, too, burn away the sense of loss.
She felt closest to Adam in this space that had been his office in London where they’d spent most of their time. Like the Newcastle office, the room still bore the marks of him: the cherrywood panelling, the green damask wallpaper, the masculine accoutrements—the decanters, the globe, the paperweight, the heavy furniture and draperies—a shrine to a successful man who’d reached the apex of his career.
Yet Adam had not been perfect. The imperfections that had lingered beneath the surface of their life together, both personal and professional, had bubbled to the surface. She’d given up her life for him and in exchange he’d left her the burden of a news syndicate in debt. Revenue was down. Confidence in her leadership was down. How long would the board of directors allow her to continue if she couldn’t right their course? She didn’t know what to do. She’d tried generating more revenue by selling more ads, by offering subscription specials to bring in new readers, all the usual strategies. But still, circulation remained stagnant.
It was a hard pill to swallow in acknowledging that she was the reason for some of the stagnation. People were leery of a woman at the helm. It helped only somewhat that she was Adam’s widow. She understood that she borrowed credibility from him. But she was also honest. It wasn’t entirely her fault. There’d been debt before his death and he’d hidden it from her. Discovering the debt had felt like a betrayal.
Fleur felt anger flare. For both of them. Her anger had more than one source. How dare Adam leave her with this burden. Newspaper debt was a fact of journalistic life. It went in cycles. She could tolerate that. What she couldn’t tolerate was the secrecy. Adam had kept this from her and she’d been ambushed with it. She’d appeared unprepared in front of the board of directors. On a personal level, the betrayal went deeper. The secrecy was further proof she and Adam hadn’t been partners in the truest sense, that while she’d given him everything, Adam had two separate lives despite the fact that they lived and worked together.
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 the Tribune in 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 something to read. 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 to not sell 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.
She had a 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 the Tribune’s letterhead 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.