“I know you, Berkley. You were not particularly thrilled when you read this little paper, now were you?”
“No,” he said begrudgingly.
“Well, I thought it would put your talents to good use. Your task will not be altogether difficult.”
Jeffrey looked at him with some chagrin. “You, however, do not overly care about this drivel, do you?”
Clarence shrugged and began walking toward the exit as Jeffrey followed. “Not really. It’s a harmless little paper for women. They have arisen before, and they never last longer than a few months before they go out of print. What harm is it for ladies to have their fun? Besides that, they are not saying anything particularly blasphemous. So they discuss ladies having a brain in their heads? That is not exactly news. Tell me you have never spoken with an intelligent woman, Berkley, one willing to share her true thoughts?”
Jeffrey thought of Lady Phoebe and her forwardness, of his own sisters and their willingness to say whatever entered their minds.
“I suppose I have,” he said begrudgingly.
“If you find the owner, you get what you want. If not,” Clarence took his hat from one of the porters, fitting it neatly on his head. “There is no harm done, Berkley. Women are mystical creatures. Hell, if you ask me, the world might be better off with a little more injection of their thoughts to be heard. And it will be great fun watching you take this on. Well, good day, Berkley.”
And with his charismatic grin, he was off, Jeffrey staring after him, left wondering what had just happened.
Chapter Seven
“Do you have the fashion column, Rhoda?” Phoebe called across the room to the woman who was sketching out the order of this week’s final list of articles before they would send it to the press for printing.
“I do, it’s here!” the woman called back, her dark head, dusted with grey, bent over her work. Phoebe could not have asked for a better editor of the paper. The woman was efficient, dependable, and had a knack for knowing what would be of interest to readers. A widow, she had aided her husband in his own small publication before he passed, and when she had seen Phoebe’s advertisement, she had replied immediately. She was the first potential editor Phoebe had interviewed, as well as the last. She was perfect.
Phoebe spent as much time in the office as she could. She was drawn to the work, thrived on it really, but she had other engagements to see to as well, and so could not be exclusively here. Their team, however, was talented—frightfully so. And even better, their first publication had been widely read, judging by the reaction of other young ladies of her station. While Phoebe hoped women of all classes would benefit from the words of The Women’s Weekly, she was well aware that the cost alone would prohibit many from reading. Not only that, but the unfortunate way of it was many women simply couldn’t read, or had no time for leisure.
She hoped she could help change some of that. She didn’t know how, but perhaps in time she could do more. They could, at the very least, write of such issues to bring more awareness of the plights of many women to the noble and middle classes.
“We sold all of the copies last week, Rhoda?” she asked the woman, coming around to sit in front of the table where she currently worked, looking around at the drab brick walls to which she hoped to soon bring life.
“We did,” Rhoda answered with a returning smile. “All one-thousand of them. I hate to admit it, but I can hardly believe it. Do you suppose we should print more this next issue?”
Phoebe tilted her head, considering.
“No,” she finally said. “Let’s ensure it continues to remain in demand, and then we’ll print more the following week.”
“Very well,” she said with a nod. “And as for next week’s deadline—”
“Miss Phoebe!” Rhoda was interrupted by the young lad who raced through the doorway so fast he nearly collided with another of her writers.
“Slow down, Ned,” she admonished, but with a smile. “And do come in.”
He was one of her delivery boys. She paid them more than most young ones of their station would make, but she wanted them to remain loyal to her and continue to return, to not steal any of her profits.
“Now,” she said briskly once he was seated in front of her. “What is the matter?”
“There was a man asking after you, Miss,” he said, his blue eyes wide in his dirt-splattered face. Phoebe wished she could do more for these children, but at the very least they were taking home money to their families. They should be in school, really, but if they weren’t working for her, they would be working for someone else, picking pockets or doing something worse.
“A man?” she asked carefully, not wanting to rush the information, to ensure he imparted it thoroughly. “Was he asking for me specifically?”
“No, ma’am,” the boy said with a shake of his head. “He was asking about the publication. He wanted to know who the owner is, and the editor. He wanted to know where I receive my pay, but I wouldn’t tell him. He offered me decent money for it, he did, but I told him that I didna know anymore.”
“I see,” Phoebe said, standing, pulling a coin out of her small reticule, and the boy’s eyes gleamed. “Here you are, Ned, for the trouble and for your loyalty. Now, tell me, what did this man look like?”
“He was dressed fancy, he was, a nob to be sure,” Ned said with a nod. “He had the neckcloth choking him like fancy men do, and a fine jacket. Light hair. Dark eyes. His face was kind of … craggy. And hard.”
That’s all Ned seemed to remember as he then shrugged. Phoebe’s heart flipped in her chest as she listened to the boy’s description. Was she simply picturing the marquess as the man Ned described because he continued to infiltrate her mind? He had been so against her own words at the party. But would he truly go so far as to come after her newspaper?
“Did he give you anything, Ned? Any way to try to contact him?”
His eyes lit up. “He did! He gave me his card, said to call on him if I wanted to talk about anything further.”
He handed her over the slim white card.
“The Marquess of Berkley,” she read the embossed words aloud as unease and disappointment filled her in equal measure. “Just as I thought. Thank you again, Ned, you have been more than helpful. I shall not forget it.”
He blushed a bright crimson and nodded at her, then was out of the door and gone just as fast as she came in. Phoebe walked over to Rhoda, who had been listening intently.
“I know this man,” she said in hushed tones. She hadn’t told her staff of her particular status, though they were smart enough to know that she was of a fairly high station. “He is fairly relentless, and stubborn. I will do my best to stay apprised of his actions so that we are not surprised. But if he does come here, we cannot tell him anything.”
“Of course not, Miss Winters,” Rhoda agreed. “I knew when I came to work for you that this type of publication wouldn’t be accepted by all. But I believe in what we’re doing, and we’ll continue it.”
“Thank you, Rhoda,” she said, before turning to speak with the other two women who currently occupied desks in the large room, and were attempting to look as though they were not listening to the conversation. “None of us have done anything wrong. This is simply men trying to prove their dominance over us. We will continue to carry on. If they are scared, well, that means we are doing something right.”
The paper ready, her staff in understanding, Phoebe threw her cloak around her shoulders and left. So the marquess was coming after her. She refused to go down without a fight. And she had an idea.
*
“Lord Berkley, how lovely to see you here tonight.”
The marquess slowly turned toward her voice, drink in hand, his brown eyes hard as they raked over her, from the bottom of her toes in their cream kid slippers peeking out of her patterned hemline, up the skirts of her royal blue silk gown, over the embroidered waistband and up the gathered bodice, where they rested for a moment on her skin peeking ou
t the top before finishing at her face.
He had done it on purpose, she knew, to disarm her, but she refused to allow him to notice he had caused any sort of reaction within her. She smiled at him in the sultry manner of a woman interested in a man for more than his conversation.
He raised his eyebrows, and she wondered if she had begun too strong, if he would become suspicious following the tone of their previous encounters. She sucked in a breath as it was her turn to now take him in. She had forgotten how tall he was, how imposing his figure could be.
But she would not be cowed.
“Lady Phoebe,” he said after sending a nod of dismissal the way of his companion. Perhaps she had intrigued him after all. “I must say I am surprised to find you seeking out my company after our past … meetings.”
She was prepared for this.
“I simply wanted to apologize, Lord Berkley,” she said with what she hoped was a disarming smile. Should she try to bat her eyelashes at him? No, that would be going too far. “I have not seen you again following that day on Fleet Street, and I have since realized that you were simply looking out for my best interests, and I was altogether boorish toward you. As for our previous meeting … well, we remain in disagreement, but I must tell you how interesting it was engaging in such a clash of wills with you.”
One thing she could not do was to veer from her beliefs, to agree with his ridiculous notions. Best to not speak of it with him for now. He said nothing for a moment, studying her as he took a slow sip of his drink.
“Very well,” he finally responded. “I am pleased, if somewhat surprised, you feel that way. But, Lady Phoebe, I would happily challenge you to another test of wills. Would you care for a dance?”
“Pardon me?” Phoebe gaped at him, her mouth hanging open. He wanted to dance with her after one simple apology? She hadn’t expected this, wasn’t prepared for it. She didn’t dance. But—wasn’t this what she wanted? She hastily closed her jaw and nodded at him mutely. A wicked gleam came into his eye as he set his drink down and lifted her hand, placing it upon his arm.
The cacophony of noise around her, voices, music, booted feet, and laughter, blended together to become a chorus of sound that she hardly registered as she allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. Phoebe could feel each of the curious stares sent her way—that she, Lady Phoebe, a woman who lived on the outskirts of the ton, had captured the eye of the Marquess of Berkley, enough for one dance at least.
She didn’t care for the thoughts of others, she reminded herself as she held her head high, ignoring the stares. She had come tonight to the party of Lord and Lady Holderness with one purpose, and she was achieving it. She should be pleased with herself.
Phoebe was startled for a moment when the marquess abruptly stopped, then jumped when his hand curled around her waist and was nearly floored when he took her other hand in his, heat pouring into her from where they were connected, even through the thin layer of her white glove.
This is just a game, Phoebe. She felt his gaze upon her, but instead of looking up at him, she allowed her eyes to wander around the top of the ballroom, at the mural of angels on clouds painted on the ceiling above them, the crimson red of the backdrop and walls below providing a feeling of decadence. The Holderness family lived in grandeur, and they were pleased to show it off.
“Did you find a new gown?”
Phoebe whipped her head toward her dance partner, her eyes colliding with his. Damn, he was an attractive man. Not traditionally so, but there was something about him… what was he saying? A gown? Why was a man asking her about a gown? Oh yes—the dress shop.
“I did, Lord Berkley, thank you,” she said, avoiding the need for any details. “And your business the day we met?”
His jaw tightened. “All remains in order,” he said cryptically.
She nodded, and as she did so, she tripped slightly. She had never been a particularly adept dancer, and it seemed lack of practice had not increased her skill.
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, then stiffened when she heard the marquess snort.
“How ladylike of you,” he said, with the traces of a smile gracing his lips.
“I never purported to be ladylike,” she said with an edge of steel to her voice, and he shook his head.
“I am not disparaging you, Lady Phoebe,” he replied. “I was taken aback, that is all. I have heard such words on the tongues of my own sisters, though I believe they do it only to torture me, and I continually advise them to keep from uttering them amongst polite company.”
“I would hardly consider you to be polite company, Lord Berkley, considering our history with one another.”
The words were out before she even thought them through, and Phoebe bit her lip to keep from saying anything further. She was supposed to be attracting the man, for goodness sake, not pushing him further away.
But to her surprise, after a moment of stunned silence, the marquess laughed. A deep, low chuckle, it came rolling out of him, and Phoebe could only watch him in astonishment as she felt the rumble in his chest from where they were connected. Gone for a moment were the harsh lines of his face, the cold eyes, the intimidating bearing. Somehow he became … just a man, and she couldn’t help the true smile that spread across her face in response.
She looked down for a moment before meeting his eyes once more.
“Tell me of your sisters. I have had the pleasure of meeting Viola, but not yet the rest of them.”
And so he did. He described his sisters, his face retaining its soft look as he did so, and Phoebe could read how much he cared for them—not just because they were his responsibility, but because he loved them, nearly more as a father than a brother.
“How long since you became the marquess and have been looking after them?” she asked softly.
“Five years now,” he said with a shrug. “It is trying some days, but they keep life interesting, I suppose. Thank you for the dance, Lady Phoebe.”
Phoebe looked around, realizing the dance had ended, and she felt a fool as she noted she had continued to move. She stopped, nodded, and smiled once more.
“Thank you, Lord Berkley. I hope to see you again soon.”
Chapter Eight
“Phoebe!”
She heard her name being hissed from the shadows, and she smiled, knowing exactly what was coming. She picked up a glass of champagne to celebrate the first successful step of her plan, then stepped over into the dim light where the voice originated, finding three women standing around the other side of the bronze statue, waiting for her.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “I was looking for you.”
“And we,” said Sarah, “were looking at you. Why, Phoebe, you were dancing with the Marquess of Berkley.”
“I was,” she affirmed. “I am well aware of his identity.”
“But why?” Julia asked, her head tilted as she studied her. “Last time we spoke you seemed to want nothing to do with him.”
“Nothing has changed in my feelings toward him. He remains a disagreeable man of outdated opinions,” Phoebe said, though she felt a niggling of doubt at her own words. She pushed it aside and continued. “But something else has changed, and becoming close with him is the best possible solution.”
She told her friends, who were as rapt an audience as one could ask for, about learning the marquess had been asking about her, and her publication. On one of the weekly walks with her friends, she had finally told them of their encounter in the drawing room, of which they were all suitably shocked, though just as much at Phoebe’s own behavior as at the fact that the marquess had spied upon them. They were less surprised about his reaction or his words. Now they stared at Phoebe wide-eyed at her current plan of attack.
“The only reason he could be so interested in finding the publisher of The Women’s Weekly is that he wants us to cease operations,” she finished. “It is what I expected, though I didn’t think it would be so soon, nor that he would be the man to lead the
charge. As I learned this information through one of my delivery boys, I couldn’t very well walk up to the marquess and ask him why he is persecuting us. I do not want him to be aware that I have any involvement. And so, I decided the best way to determine what he has planned and what his actions may be was to become close with him myself.”
She finished triumphantly, looking around to see her friends staring at her. Sarah wore a shocked expression, Elizabeth looked rather worried, and Julia grinned.
“Brilliant!” she said, leaning forward toward Phoebe, but her exuberance was cut short when Elizabeth held up a hand to protest.
“I am not so sure about this,” she warned. “Clearly you are not keen for anything more than a flirtation in order to ascertain the marquess’ movements. How long do you plan on maintaining this charade? At some point you will have to break things off. He is a marquess, Phoebe, a respectable man, and he will not associate with a young lady for an overly acceptably long period of time for anything more than what might potentially lead to courtship, and then marriage. Yes, marriage,” she said at Phoebe’s shocked expression. “I understand what you are doing, Phoebe, and I support you, I do, but I simply do not want to see you hurt. I do not see this ending well—for either of you.”
Phoebe took a breath. Elizabeth was looking out for her best interests, she knew that. And yet, her friend was pointing out the issues with her plan that she herself was unsure of, but had determined were not nearly as important as saving The Women’s Weekly.
“I understand that Elizabeth, I do,” she said. “But I promise you that I will not allow this to get out of hand. It’s a mild flirtation, that is all. Besides that, I am clearly not the type of woman in whom the marquess would ever have a serious interest. Look around this ballroom—or any ballroom, for that matter. Do you see many other outspoken women who are not afraid to speak their ideals, who can hardly dance a step, who spend their inheritance instead of saving it for a dowry? No. It’s because those types of women are not the ones who will marry gentlemen of title. In fact, they will likely not marry at all.”
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