Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two

by Mary Lancaster

  “Of course I do,” he retorted. “What other answer could there be?”

  “Well,” she said slowly. “Perhaps Lady Phoebe has a point.”

  Jeffrey looked up at her in shock. “You agree with her? You cannot, you—”

  “Why not?” Viola asked, widening her hands in front of her. “Because I am your sister? That doesn’t mean I do not have my own beliefs. Think of it like this. If you had to trust one of your siblings with your entire life—God forbid you became ill, and you could no longer look after your estate, your investments—who would you trust?”

  Jeffrey was silent for a moment. Of course, if anything did happen to him, the title and all it entailed would fall to his brother, Ambrose. But Ambrose was not exactly the most … responsible man he knew.

  “You,” he finally said begrudgingly.

  “You see?” she asked, a smile brightening her face. “You would trust me, a woman.”

  “That’s different,” he finally said, unwilling to meet her eyes.

  “How so?”

  “You are practical—rational. You are intelligent and would not make decisions on a whim.”

  “So you think I am an anomaly, then?” she asked. “That no other woman is like me? It does not matter whether a person is a man or a woman, Jeffrey. What matters is the person.”

  And with that, she simply shook her head at him—in regret? Or dismay? He wasn’t altogether sure—and rose from the table, striding out the door with her head held high and no returning look his way, though she did stop to quickly pet Maxwell before continuing on.

  Jeffrey sighed as he rubbed his temple. This was going to be a long day.

  Chapter Four

  Phoebe picked up her teacup, absently adding in more sugar as she read the papers in front of her. Her breakfast table was set for one, as her aunt always preferred to spend her mornings in her room, particularly if she had been out the night before. Phoebe didn’t overly mind. It gave her time to read, to become caught up on the day’s news. Not that there was anything of particular interest today.

  She was about to skip over the gossip pages—none of it was ever true anyway—when initials jumped off the page toward her, and she leaned in for a better look.

  Lady P.W. was seen leaving the drawing room at the home of the Earl of T. with a look of consternation on her face. Minutes later, the Marquess of B. was seen departing the very same room. What were the two of them doing within—alone?

  Phoebe threw the paper back down on top of the pile in disgust. Well, perhaps some of it was true. It was bad enough that the marquess had listened to her private conversation. At the very least, however, he had the courage to admit to it. Not like this particular coward, whoever it was, who spied upon people and then fed it to the gossip columns—and for what purpose?

  She closed her eyes and resolved to push the entire issue—the words of the marquess, the reporting of their meeting—completely from her mind. She had more important things to see to.

  She forced down two more bites of toast before pushing back from her circular rosewood breakfast table. She loved this quaint room, a little nook in the corner of the house off of the main dining room. She ate many of her meals here as she was so often alone and it seemed silly to use the larger, more formal dining room, which was often cold and rather drafty.

  She continued down the hall toward the study. It had once been her father’s, and while she had kept many of the paintings in the same style he had preferred, she had added her own touch to the room, making it slightly softer, a little more feminine. There was now an ornate brass mirror on the wall where an elk’s head—a hunting trophy—had once been showcased, and the portrait of her grandfather had been moved from its previous place of prominence to another wall in order to make room for a portrait of her parents within an oval frame. She looked up at them now, wondering what they would think of her latest scheme. Would they be proud of her, or would they frown upon her thoughts, and her resulting actions?

  They had raised her to have her own mind, to believe that she could create possibilities for herself. Even if they would not have completely approved of her plans, she felt that they would understand it was something she had to do. Aunt Aurelia had been concerned over Phoebe’s safety, more than anything, when she explained to her the idea running through her mind.

  But in the end, Aurelia had offered her support, for which Phoebe was particularly grateful.

  She sat down now in front of the satinwood desk, running her hands over the gilded edges. When she closed her eyes, she could still see her father sitting here, bent over his ledgers and papers, his quill pen scribbling furiously. She missed him—she missed both of her parents. It had been the three of them for so long, and then everything changed when her mother became ill, her father soon following. Phoebe had always thought that if he had fought harder, perhaps he could have beaten it. Her mother had always been so frail, and she went quickly, but her father … his heart had gone with her mother.

  Phoebe wondered if she would ever find a love such as that of her parents, with a man who would support her, who would love her for the outspoken woman she was. If not … well, she shrugged, she would create a good life for herself. Her parents had ensured she had the means to do so, at any rate.

  Phoebe opened the top drawer of the desk, pulling out a piece of paper and laying it on the flat surface in front of her. She dipped her pen into the ink and then began making a list of everything she needed. The ideas beginning to flow, she found a new sheet of paper, beginning to organize her thoughts into sections, columns, and headlines. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, scribbling away on multiple pieces of paper until the desktop in front of her was scattered with sheets full of notes in her untidy handwriting. Despite the disorder, a swell of purpose coursed through her, unlike anything she had felt in a long while. This was it. Now, she only had to put her plan into action.

  She stood to find her butler, to tell him to have the groom ready her carriage, but was startled when he appeared in the doorway before she could take a step forward.

  “My lady? Lady Julia Stone here to visit you. Shall I tell her this is not a good time?”

  “Oh, no, of course not,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I will greet her in the upstairs drawing room. Could we have some tea sent in?”

  “Of course, my lady,” he said, and was gone as silently as he had arrived. Phoebe looked down at herself. She had a morning dress on still, though it wasn’t her best—an old navy dress that was comfortable more than anything. Her hands were stained with ink, and she didn’t even want to know what her hair looked like at the moment. Oh well. Julia would understand.

  She gathered her papers, binding them together with a strand of twine as she made her way down the corridor to the drawing room. This had been her mother’s domain, but again Phoebe had simply put her own touch on it. The gold walls gave the room a feeling of grandeur, with the wainscoting, intricate ceiling roses, and gilded cornices providing a touch of extravagance. The delicate furniture was feminine, setting off the expensive pianoforte and musical instruments along the wall—instruments she never played, but that her mother had so loved.

  “Julia, how lovely of you to visit!” Phoebe said with a true grin, bending to greet her longtime friend with an embrace. Julia looked as lovely as ever, of course, her blonde hair pulled back away from her face, with the slightest corkscrew curls round her forehead, her blue eyes wide.

  “Of course,” Julia said with a smile as she took a seat upon the pink floral motif of the stenciled and gilt settee. Phoebe took the matching one across from Julia. Phoebe noted as she did so that, somehow, the tea had already arrived and was centered in the middle of the table in front of them.

  “I had to speak with you about last night,” Julia continued. “You left so quickly, I was sure something untoward must have occurred with the marquess. Whatever could he have wished to speak with you about?”

  “Oh that,” said Phoebe with a sigh.
“Just another belligerent man making his opinions known.”

  She no longer felt like discussing the entire conversation, now having something much more exciting of which to speak.

  “But oh, Julia, following our discussion last night, I’ve made a decision. One that will change things—forever, I hope.”

  Julia raised her eyebrows, leaning forward slightly at Phoebe’s exuberance.

  “This sounds particularly consequential,” she remarked. “Do tell.”

  “Very well,” said Phoebe with a grin, appreciating Julia’s interest. “Last night we were discussing one newspaper article in particular, but the truth is, that is only one of many. Even worse, most times women are not even discussed except in the columns of the gossip pages.”

  “Oh yes, speaking of that, I saw—”

  “That matters not,” Phoebe cut in, tired of any discussions regarding the marquess. “But this does. What became rather apparent is that nothing is ever going to change, because all discourse is created by men. Well, it’s time to take action. I am going to begin a paper, Julia. A newspaper that only includes the opinions of women, written for women. It will include everything they may be interested in. News articles—from a women’s point of view. Opinion pieces. Some articles on various pastimes of women—many of which I am not particularly fond, but I understand that many women are. Fashion. Advice. It will be brilliant.”

  Julia’s eyes widened the more Phoebe spoke, and now her mouth opened in surprise.

  “Oh, Phoebe,” she said, her voice just over a whisper. “I must say … that sounds magnificent!” Phoebe grinned at Julia’s support. “I would read it, to be sure, and not just because I’m your friend. I often become bored by the newspapers and journals available. If you can do it right, this would be of interest to so many ladies. You would be the talk of London! Though,” Julia mused for a moment. “You would be met by those who would not be supportive. You would be considered scandalous. Besides that, it would be quite the undertaking. How would you even propose to go about it? To fund it?”

  “I have my inheritance,” said Phoebe, holding up a hand when Julia looked as though she was going to protest. “When—if—I ever marry, it would only go to my husband. This allows me to do something with it that would make a difference, that would have meaning. I will be sure there is always enough to manage the household, my everyday living, and provide for Aunt Aurelia, of course. Besides that, the idea is only to use it to begin, and then sales would take over. I will find a building, hire staff, acquire a printer. I actually just finished making notes of all there would be to do when you arrived.”

  Julia was nodding at her words, though she began to tap her foot on the floor, a sure sign that she had thoughts to share. “I must say, Phoebe, when you are determined about something, there is no stopping you. Though you must be careful. If word emerged that this is of your doing, you would be ostracized. I’m not sure that any gentleman would want to tie himself to a woman who is making such statements. You would not attach your name, would you?”

  “I have thought of that,” Phoebe said and, remembering the tea tray, piked up the pot and poured a cup for Julia. “I will keep my name anonymous. I will hire an editor and writers, though I will write a column myself. And, if for any reason, my name should come out, then so be it. I would rather do this than do nothing but complain about the way things are.”

  “You are brave, Phoebe,” Julia said in an awed tone. “I admire you for it. I must ask one thing of you, however.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have room for a column on horse racing?”

  “It is certainly a topic we could try,” she said, looking at Julia with interest. “And why do you ask?”

  “Would you consider me as a writer?”

  “Of course!” Phoebe exclaimed, reaching a hand out to shake Julia’s. “I welcome you as the first employee of The Women’s Weekly.”

  “I love it,” said Julia. “And I thank you. What you are doing, Phoebe, it is extremely admirable.”

  “Someone has to do it,” Phoebe said with conviction. “So why not me?”

  Chapter Five

  Phoebe had dressed with care in a modest cream gown, a simple matching cloth bonnet over her black waves. She was determined that she be taken seriously today, woman or not. Finding her aunt awake, but still in a state of undress despite the fact it was well past noon, Phoebe had bid her a quick farewell. Aurelia was, for propriety’s sake, her chaperone, true, but Phoebe was certainly no debutante. After Phoebes’ parents passed, naming Aurelia her guardian, she and Aurelia had a frank discussion regarding their arrangement. They came to the mutual understanding that while they enjoyed spending time together, they each could continue to enjoy the freedom they so treasured.

  Now as the publisher of a periodical, Phoebe would have others relying upon her. She did not see the need to disrupt Aurelia’s life by requiring her to follow Phoebe around during her business pursuits.

  For her first task, Phoebe knew exactly where to go—Fleet Street, where all of the printers and publishers were known to operate. She began by stopping to meet with her banker to determine exactly what funds were available to her, and then she began her second mission—to find an office.

  She had perused the papers that morning to determine available properties, and with a list of addresses in hand, she conversed with her driver and then they were on their way. The first building on her list was a few streets away from her desired location, but the rent was low. It did not take long to determine why, as she could smell the interior before she even walked in the door, and with a quick shake of her head she was onto the next. When that one proved equally dismal, its floorboards rotting, and some indiscriminate liquid dripping from the ceiling, her heart began to sink. Perhaps this was a futile effort. There must be a better way. Her aunt had suggested she hire someone to find a place for her, but this was important, and Phoebe was determined to find exactly what she was looking for on her own.

  The third property was slightly more expensive than she would have liked, but it was a small office tucked between two larger buildings on Fleet Street, and she walked in to find a jovial man sitting behind a desk waiting for her.

  “Hello, there,” he said with a smile. “Are you lost? May I help you find where you are going?”

  Phoebe suppressed a sigh at the man’s assumption but smiled, for he seemed kind and genuinely wanted to help her.

  “Are you renting out this property?” she asked instead, walking over to the desk.

  “I am,” he acquiesced with a nod.

  “I’m interested in it,” she said with a smile. “What can you tell me about it? Can you show me around?”

  The man looked her over for a moment, as though assessing her sincerity, determining whether or not she was jesting with him. Finally it seemed he determined she was serious, as she stared right back at him, her jaw set and a very slight curve to the edge of her lips.

  “Very well,” he said, standing himself. “Come with me.”

  An hour later, satisfaction filled her as she strode down the busy street, filled with all manner of businesses. After a thorough tour of the building as well as a careful review of the review of the rental contract, Phoebe had decided that it would suit her needs. A property in place, now she needed people to fill it. That she would do through an advertisement in some of the current newspapers, but in the meantime, she needed to find a printer. Someday, she thought wistfully, she would have her own press, but that would prove far too expensive for her current budget. In the meantime she would have to hire the work out, so it was imperative she find a printer she could trust. She was looking into shop windows, deep in thought, when she crashed into something so hard she nearly fell backward, saved only when a long, strong arm reached out and caught her.

  She gasped, looking up to find herself staring into the dark, searching eyes of none other than the Marquess of Berkley—the very man she had spent far too many hours pushing from
her thoughts.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” she said sardonically, to which he nodded his head. At least there was one thing they were in agreement upon. After what seemed like minutes though was likely simply a few seconds, he wrenched his gaze from hers to look over her head behind her.

  “Where is your chaperone?”

  She nearly jumped. It had been only an evening prior that she had last heard his voice, and yet she had forgotten how deep and husky it was.

  “She does not accompany me today,” she responded, not seeing the need to provide him any further answer. What business of his was it whether or not she was alone?

  His frown deepened, his thick eyebrows sinking low.

  “You should not be wandering London unaccompanied,” he said, showing his clear disdain regarding her actions.

  “I am not unaccompanied,” she said with a sniff. “My driver follows behind in the carriage. I simply decided it would be easier to walk from one appointment to the next. Now if you will excuse me.”

  She made to brush past him, but a strong, warm hand reached out to take her arm in a firm grip.

  “I will escort you wherever it is you wish to go,” he commanded, and she bristled.

  “Thank you, but I am fine without you,” she said, wresting her arm away. “I have no need for an escort, or I would have found one of my own choosing.”

  “I cannot allow you to continue on alone,” he said, and some of the hardness of his face lifted slightly. “I am only doing what I would ask another to do for one of my sisters.”

  Her frustration melted slightly then, remembering Viola, who was a sweet girl, though it was difficult to believe she was related to the hard marquess. Somehow it was a challenge to imagine him holding any emotions besides disdain and derision.

  “Very well,” she said, realizing that the best way to be rid of him would be to simply allow him to think he had done his duty, then he would be on his way. “I am simply walking to Madame Boudreau’s around the corner to have a dress tailored. But do not allow me to keep you from your business, Lord Berkley.”