Chapter Eleven
Money never lies. Those words drove real fear into his heart. There was a knock and a clerk entered with tea. She cleared the coffee table, making a space for the tray. ‘It’s not Fortnum and Mason’s...’ she smiled ‘...but it will do. The bakery down the street makes delicious lemon scones.’
How odd, he thought, watching her fix his tea, that everything was still right-side-up in her world when his had been turned upside down. She was calmly stirring cream into his tea while his mind was running riot. What if she was right? What if Orion had pocketed the money? His brother could be tried for manslaughter, eighty-one deaths laid at his door. But Orion was not a murderer. He was a wayward young man with no sense of direction, struggling to find purpose in a world that gave him few options as a second son.
If anything went to trial, his title couldn’t protect Orion then. But it could protect his brother now. It could prevent this enquiry of hers from ever getting that far. Would he use his title, though, to obstruct justice? Would he suddenly turn away from his voting record championing free press? To do either of these things would paint him as a traitor to his own beliefs and positions. But perhaps that was the sacrifice required: trading his reputation for Orion’s.
She passed him the tea and the warm liquid seeping through the cup settled his thoughts and soothed his nerves. His mind began to work. She had information, she had a hypothesis, but she’d not yet tested it and she didn’t have all the research she required to support it. He needed to remember that instead of allowing himself to jump to dire conclusions.
‘How would you get a gentleman’s accounts? That’s very private information.’ He hated himself for asking, knowing full well he was not asking honestly, but asking in order to plan his next move, to decide what he needed to do to protect Orion.
Should he need to.
Yes, he couldn’t forget that most basic premise. A man was innocent until proven guilty. It was just that in Orion’s case, he held out little hope of that. Innocence and Orion weren’t the closest of companions.
‘A warrant, of course. If the accounts are evidence for a proceeding, they can be acquired.’ She took a bite of scone, a crumb lingering on her lips.
‘But you’d have to prove that first. I can’t imagine banks go turning over gentlemen’s personal accounts on just anyone’s request.’ It might take her a while to get that approval. She’d have to win the argument that Orion’s bank accounts mattered in order to have access to them. If her arguments weren’t compelling, it would all be over before it began. A good barrister could surely punch enough holes to call her argument into question. It only had to be enough to deny the procurement of those accounts. There was hope in that.
But there was no honour. No ethic. It would be using the arbitrary nature of the courts and his own privilege to prevent an action that might lead to the truth. Or to scandal. There was already scandal enough to upset Orion. The longer this went on, perhaps the more validity it gained in the public eye, the more teeth it had, teeth like a saw blade that cut both ways. He’d not considered that.
He set his teacup aside. ‘I think this is a dangerous game you play. If you are wrong, the newspaper could face charges of slander. I think it’s been a good idea to scale back publicising this. I know there’d been several articles published in your papers before we met’—for it was thanks to them they had met—‘but there hasn’t been any lately and that is to the good until you are certain of the claims you’re making.’
‘The board of directors would not agree with you. Safe news isn’t interesting. It doesn’t sell newspapers,’ she said sharply, some of her calm leaving her. This was apparently a sore subject.
‘They certainly wouldn’t welcome being sued for slander either.’ He watched her carefully, a thought coming to him. ‘Are you being pressured to pursue this?’
‘No, I want to pursue this, but the board would like to pursue it more flagrantly despite the missing pieces.’ She crumbled the remainder of her lemon scone on her plate. ‘The story sells newspapers, especially up north where people are more concerned with the accident.’
He reached for a scone. ‘Do you need to sell more newspapers?’ This was an additional angle he’d not considered. Francis Bacon would call it a variable. This was not merely a question of his brother’s waywardness colliding with Fleur Griffith’s grief-driven search for justice as he’d originally thought.
‘Quite a few more.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘It’s really not a surprise, is it? There’s a woman now at the helm of one of Britain’s largest news syndicates and no one knows what to make of it. It’s not normal. It raises questions of competence and capability. Subscriptions have declined. As a result, advertisers have pulled back, choosing to advertise elsewhere in other papers where they perceive there is a larger readership. It makes for a vicious cycle. The London Tribune needs to prove itself. I need to show everyone—readers, advertisers, the board of directors—that I am personally capable of delivering the kind of news the paper has always delivered.’
She leaned forward in earnest. ‘If I can break this story about Lord Orion Bexley, I can do all of that. Additionally, the story will serve as a way to restore interest for our legislation on dam oversight.’
Jasper saw all that she imagined and more. She could vindicate herself and her husband’s death in one fell swoop while getting the board of directors off her back. It was a potent vision and it was no wonder she was compelled by it. No doubt, she felt as if her whole world hung by this one thread.
Against his will, his heart went out to her. The indomitable Fleur Griffiths looked quite vulnerable at the moment, her hands clutched about her teacup, frustration vying for defiance in the green sparks of her eyes as she waited for his approval, wanted his approval. Every manly attribute he’d been raised with to protect surged to the fore, urging him to take her in his arms, to offer her comfort, to offer assurances that everything would be all right. But such actions would ignore other aspects in their relationship—that she had used him for sex, made him a stand-in for her dead husband and he had not been entirely forthcoming with her about who he was.
These were not small things. Their relationship was established on the rockiest of foundations, assuming that what they had between them was a relationship at all. It ignored the pivotal reality that for things to be all right for her, things would not end well for him, and vice versa. For him to have the things he wanted—his brother’s safety and the family name cleared of scandal—he would have to give up his fascination with Fleur Griffiths and his reputation for equality and reform.
‘I see,’ he said solemnly. Perhaps for the first time he did see. He saw the complexities of what it meant to be Fleur Griffiths. It was as complicated to be her as it was to be him. Too bad. He rather liked her, rough edges, silk gowns and all. She was unlike any woman he’d ever spent time with. He would have liked to have spent more time with her, but to what end? To what purpose but hurt? This afternoon had shown him how impossible that would be.
Soon, he would have to act on his brother’s behalf and she would know who he was and what he’d kept from her. She’d think her suspicions were right, that he’d tried to seduce her to distract her. It would set her against him entirely. She had a newspaper to save and he had a family to protect. There was no option. He had to end this now.
He set aside his teacup and reached a hand to her cheek, cupping her jaw. He wanted to remember her like this—the way she looked at him before she hated him—her auburn hair parted and smooth, gathered in a chignon at the base of her neck, her face smiling back at him, a bit of coquetry lighting her eyes. Beautiful, intelligent. A one-of-a-kind woman but not the woman for him, unfortunately. He would go home and throw himself into protecting his brother, and wife hunting, letting the attention on him distract the ton from attention on his brother. But first, he’d have one last moment. He drew her close, taking her mouth in a sweet kiss that tasted of lemon and sugar to mark a short interlude that had come to an end.
Fleur knew a goodbye kiss when she saw it—metaphorically speaking. One didn’t see a kiss as much as felt one. She’d definitely felt goodbye in Jasper’s kiss.
The days that followed his departure had confirmed her gut instinct as she’d sat on the divan and let him walk out the door, intuitively knowing that he would not walk back through it.
She told herself it didn’t matter. She had too much work at present between the Bexley story and arranging to sell a few of the smaller papers to devote time to cultivating a relationship or simply taking a lover. A lover required time as well, which was something she convinced herself she didn’t have. But as the last weeks in May blended into early June, he was never far from her thoughts and those thoughts had questions.
He’d simply left. Why? Mixed messages abounded in answer. Their one night in the Harefield’s garden had been explosive, both of them matching the other in need and ferocity. As lovers, they’d been a good fit. The kiss he’d given her that last afternoon had been tender, sincere. It was not the kiss of a man who wanted to leave. And yet he had. There’d been no note, no attempt to contact her, to explain.
Perhaps he thought she’d know the reasons he’d left. There was no future for them. Class stratification made it an unlikely pairing. A peer with a businesswoman, special emphasis on the woman. Her position was controversial within her own circles. It would be a scandal in itself among his ranks. Titled ladies didn’t run newspapers, didn’t hold down jobs that required they put in long hours away from home. But she wasn’t looking to marry him.
Of course, he needed to marry and that added its own complications. She would not settle for being a married man’s mistress. She would not be the wedge between another woman and that woman’s husband. Neither did she think he was the sort of man who would have such an arrangement, although she knew many peers did. Such arrangements seemed sure pathways to disappointment and failure.
Perhaps he’d left because he’d realised the relationship was impossible not only romantically but practically. He’d not been comfortable with her case against Lord Orion Bexley. He’d been clear about that from the start and when she’d brought it up again that last afternoon, he’d not been enthusiastic. Her line of reasoning and proof should have excited someone who claimed to be interested in the dam situation.
To his credit, he’d listened as she’d requested. He’d asked pertinent questions and he’d pressed for explanations, but he’d not been imbued with the eagerness she’d hoped solid proof would engender from him. There were even points where she’d sensed he was horrified. At her? At her discoveries? It was hard to tell, further fuelling her suspicion that something was off.
He had softened though, at the end, when she’d shared the situation at the newspaper and how the Bexley story fit into her predicament. But he’d still walked out of her office as suddenly as he’d walked into her theatre box, without warning, without reason.
Fleur paced her office, looking down on to Fleet Street, home to many of London’s great newspapers and publishers. It was early evening. Clerks were starting to go home, vendors were working hard to make a few final sales before the day was done. She wondered what Jasper was doing. Was he preparing for an evening out? Had he, perhaps, resigned himself to his fate? Would he spend the night waltzing with girls off his mother’s list? Those broad shoulders and tousled hair would be wasted on a debutante. She’d been attending balls in order to carry on discussions and encourage interest in legislation. She spent a large part of those evenings looking over her shoulder hoping to see him. She had not.
Fleur turned from the window at the sound of a knock on her door. ‘Mrs Griffiths, this has come in.’ The clerk left a large envelope on her desk. In her experience, large envelopes were usually promising. She opened it and sat down to read. It was an offer for a couple of the smaller newspapers Cowden had recommended she sell up north. This was good. The board would be pleased to have such rapid results. It was a sign that their presses were coveted, valued. She looked at the offering price. Yes, definitely valued. The buyer was willing to pay the asking price. No negotiation involved. Was that cause for celebration or for alarm? Who didn’t negotiate?
She knew the answer to that: someone who wanted something urgently, no questions asked. But she would ask questions. Mainly the question of who? Fleur scanned the document for the name of the party or parties involved, her gaze landing on the name at the bottom of the proposal: the Earl of Wincastle. She could not recall him from personal acquaintance. Perhaps he was an acquaintance of the Duke of Cowden’s? How like him it would be to send a buyer in her direction. She glanced at the copy of Debrett’s sitting on the bookshelf. This was one of those times when looking someone up would be necessary. She could not take this offer to the board of directors uninformed.
Fleur retrieved the tome from the shelf and set it on her desk, flipping to the section on earls and then towards the back to the ‘W’s.
‘Wincastle... Wincastle,’ she murmured, her finger running over the columns. There it was.
Wincastle, also a title currently held by the Marquess of Meltham.
Her gaze froze. Her mind raced. Wincastle was Meltham? She knew what this was, an attempt to silence the stories about Lord Orion Bexley, his brother. How convenient for him that he could do just that so close to home by purchasing those presses.
She very nearly did not check the cross-reference. It was enough to know that Wincastle was a guise for Meltham and that Meltham was her sworn enemy. It was nefarious enough, this idea that the Marquess would attempt to covertly silence her, but some inner voice urged her to do it, perhaps out of habit to leave no piece of information unclaimed.
Fleur found the listing for Meltham. It was large and contained a detailed family tree going back several generations. The Marquess of Meltham was a well-established title. Her finger scrolled down to the most recent limb of the tree.
David Harold Arthur Bexley, b. March 2nd, 1782, d. Aug. 19th, 1840. Married to Mathilda...
She hurried past that to their ‘issue’. Two sons. Jasper Bexley and Orion Bexley. Jasper... Hmm... A somewhat uncommon name and now she’d encountered it twice in a short time. She read further.
Titles associated with the marquessate: Earl of Wincastle, Baron of Umberton.
She sat down hard on the desk chair, letting the shock sink in. Jasper was Umberton. And if Jasper was Umberton, he was also Meltham. The realisation of what that meant was stunning, overwhelming on so many levels. That made her lover, her confidant, a man whom she’d understood to be her ally her enemy because at the core of it all, he was Lord Orion Bexley’s brother.
Common sense argued that it couldn’t be otherwise. Brothers would support one another, like Adam and Keir and Garrett had supported one another, though they had been a brotherhood of businessmen, rather than blood relations. Cross one of them and you crossed all three. Hadn’t Captain Moody warned her that morning in Newcastle that to tangle with Lord Orion Bexley was to tangle with the Marquess? That was to be expected. But she’d made a miscalculation. She’d also expected everyone would play fair, that the Marquess would approach her directly, that she would see him coming and, when he did, that it would be an approach through an open confrontation, not through stealth and seduction.
Oh. Seduction. Oh, God.
She moaned, recalling the Harefield ball. She cringed. Shuddered. In hindsight she’d been stupid and careless in her loneliness. She’d slept with him. Well, sort of. A romp against a fence wall didn’t necessarily constitute ‘sleeping’. He’d been eager to accommodate. Now she understood why. It was a first step towards working his way into her confidence, the first step in binding them together.
And it had worked. She liked him. He was handsome and intelligent and intuitive. As a result, she’d been attracted to him and she’d trusted him with her body, with her secrets. She hadn’t talked to anyone in depth about what she knew about Lord Orion Bexley, preferring to keep her own counsel. But with Jasper, she’d laid it all out voluntarily. What a fool she’d been!
Now she knew why he’d left. He’d had no reason to stay. He’d got what he came for. Was he even now laughing at her? Thinking what a prank he’d pulled? Flirt with a lonely widow, listen to her stories, give her a little fun against a fence and she’ll tell you anything? Had he taken her information and bolstered his defences so that she’d never get past them? Never get to his brother as Captain Moody had predicted?
Recriminations came hard and fast. Somehow, she ought to have known. If it had just been the sex, she might not feel so badly. But it was everything that was attached to it. It hadn’t just been sex. Beneath the self-recrimination simmered another logic. She might have trusted too soon. But he had betrayed. And betrayal was a far bigger crime than trusting. One ought to be able to trust by default. People ought to be honest as a basic, expected practice. That he’d not been spoke more poorly of him than it did of her.
Later, when her anger had passed, she’d take solace in that. This was the very crime she’d railed at Adam’s ghost for. He’d betrayed her, too.
Fury simmered. Her words had no effect. Adam was not here to be scolded. But Jasper was and she would not tolerate his betrayal. Not when she was so close to justice. Not when she had so much personally on the line—all of which she’d sat here in this very room and outlined for him as if he were a trusted friend. She stood up and grabbed her coat. At least now she knew where to find him: Meltham House on Portland Square. There was going to be a reckoning. No one played Fleur Griffiths for a fool and got away with it.