He had been about to ask her once more about his marriage proposal, to tell her so much more eloquently all that was flowing through his mind, but her words to him had told him something else entirely—that, perhaps, his decision on this blasted paper would affect her own thoughts.
And so, instead of asking what he had really wanted to know, he simply told her how he felt, leaving quickly so there was no pressure on her to return his words one way or another.
Jeffrey had the printer’s mark now, but he wasn’t entirely sure where to begin. He found a place to leave his phateon and then began walking down the street at a quick clip, looking in one shop window and then the next before he finally found what he was looking for. This must be a printer’s shop, judging by the advertisements displayed on the window. He pushed open the door, waiting a moment until a man finally came out to greet him.
“Good day. May I help you, my lord?” the man asked, his thick mustache bobbing along with his words.
“I hope so,” Jeffrey replied, holding out the paper. “I am seeking the publisher of this paper. I am unsure where to find the building’s location, but I was hoping you may help me. This is the printer’s mark—would this be yours?”
“No, my lord, I’m sorry, but I cannot help you,” the man said with a shake of his head. “If you look at our sign, we have an entirely different mark.” He paused for a moment. “If you find your way down the street a few doors, I believe you’ll find the printer you’re looking for. Though if you are needing printing of your own completed, be sure to come back here to Flynn’s!”
Jeffrey nodded at him gratefully before he continued on his quest, soon seeing the sign the previous printer had pointed out. When he entered this establishment, it seemed not quite as clean, not quite as efficient, but then it was likely less expensive, which would be important for a fledgling publication.
“My lord?”
Jeffrey was shocked when a woman came out of the back to greet him. Well, he thought, recovering himself, this made much more sense. Of course, The Women’s Weekly would choose a printer in which a woman was, if not the owner, firmly established within the business. Though this may prove trickier for him to determine how to receive the information he sought.
“Hello,” he said with as much charm as he could muster, though he was aware that it did not exactly come naturally. “I was hoping you could help me.”
“I hope I can as well, my lord.”
“I am an admirer of one of the publications you print, and I am hoping to get in touch with the publisher in order to offer my support.”
She eyed him warily. Apparently this was not a usual request.
“Which publication are you interested in, my lord?”
“The Women’s Weekly.”
Her eyes widened, and then she shocked him by letting out a snort of laughter. “I’m sure you are, my lord. Unfortunately I cannot help you.”
“No?” he asked. “That is too bad. I have a substantial financial donation to provide them.”
Her laughter died as she considered him. “And just what would a man like yourself be after with support of such a paper?”
“I am blessed with four sisters who greatly enjoy the publication,” he said. “I would like to make the donation on their behalf.”
“How about this?” she asked. “If you leave me your information, I will send it onto the publisher and have her contact you.”
“Very well,” Jeffrey said, realizing he wouldn’t get any further with this woman, who was as loyal as everyone else seemed to be to this elusive publisher. He passed her his card. “As quickly as possible would be greatly appreciated.”
She nodded and wished him good day, watching him carefully as he left the building. He did not, however, continue home. No, instead he waited around the corner. It took some time—longer than he would have liked. But he was rewarded for his patience, as soon enough, he saw a young lad—a messenger no doubt—scamper out the front door. Jeffrey had to set a quick pace to follow, but luckily it wasn’t far until the lad opened the door of a building just down the street—53 Fleet Street. It was fairly nondescript, not showcasing any of its true identity from the exterior. At the slab gray front punctuated only by a smoky window, he wondered at the prosperity of the publisher. While this clearly wouldn’t have been the most expensive real estate available for offices, he wondered at where a woman would find such funds. Perhaps the “lady” moniker was simply a ruse, and there was a man behind the scheme, making a significant sum off of the publication that women were apparently flocking to in droves.
Did one knock at the entrance of such an establishment? No, he decided, pushing open the door, which creaked slightly as he did so. A small, scarred wooden desk sat near the door, a chair behind it, but no one was sitting awaiting him or any other arrival. He walked down the short corridor, looking in to find one small, dim, empty room, then another, before finally an open door revealed a rather large space, filled with rows of desks, a bank of long, narrow windows lining the side wall, showing nothing beyond but another building beside.
Here, a couple of women sat at the tables, one scratching away on the paper in front of her, the other lining up rows of sheets of paper, and he wondered if she was determining the layout for the next issue. The boy he had followed was just about to pass the note to one of the women, but paused when Jeffrey entered.
“Pardon me,” Jeffrey said into the quiet of the room, and both women gasped, the one standing turning to him as she clutched at her breast.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said a bit breathlessly. “I did not hear you come in.”
“There was no one at the door when I entered,” he explained, and she nodded.
“Quite right,” she said. “Quite right. There will be in due time.”
Whether she meant later that day, or later on in the future, he had no idea, but he didn’t question it any further—it didn’t make much difference to him.
“I am here to speak with your publisher,” he said, and the woman’s eyes narrowed slightly as she looked him over. She was a bit plump, around his mother’s age, the thought, her hair dark with a touch of gray. But she looked quite … competent, he decided, and he wondered if he had found the woman he sought. “Would you be the woman I am looking for?” he asked when she said nothing.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, not so much in denial of his words, but as though bringing herself out of a trance of some sort. “Forgive me. I am Mrs. Ellis. Rhoda Ellis, and I am the editor of this paper.”
“’Tis a pleasure,” he said with all of the politeness he had been bred with.
“Might I ask what business you have with our publisher?” she asked bluntly, not sharing any information in regards to whether or not she was available.
“It is a personal matter,” he said, “One that requires a conversation with the publisher directly. You see, I am a supporter of the newspaper, and I would wish to speak with her of what I could possibly to do help see to this publication’s success.”
Mrs. Ellis crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against one of the tables. The other woman present—a girl, with blonde, swept-back hair, watched their exchange with interest.
“Our publisher … she is not in at the moment,” replied Mrs. Ellis, and Jeffrey stored that piece of information—so the publisher was a woman, as he had initially suspected. But how did a woman manage an operation such as this? “In fact, it is the day when many of our writers are out gathering material for their columns and stories. Perhaps you might come back tomorrow?”
“Very good,” he said. “Perhaps I shall do that. Mrs. Ellis, I do not suppose you might show me around the offices? If I am to offer my support, I should like to see where it is needed.”
She was somewhat apprehensive about his request, he could tell, but finally she nodded her head and waved a hand to for him to follow her.
“There’s not much, really, not at this point,” she said as they walked back into the
corridor. “We were just in the room where the writers congregate when they are in the building, though many choose to write their columns in their own homes and send them into us. We do meet in there as well from time to time. Only two other offices are currently in use. This is mine, to your left, and then beside me, one door over, is our publisher’s.”
He stepped into the publisher’s office, finding hardly anything of note with the exception of scattered papers across the desk, a quill pen on the surface of it, and smudges of ink upon the wood peeking out beneath it all.
Jeffrey leaned over the desk in an attempt to see what might be on the top of the pile, at the very least, but Mrs. Ellis was clearly aware of his intention as she stepped firmly in front of him, a strained smile covering her face as she held an arm out to usher him out of the door.
“That’s all there is to see,” she said politely, yet with some tension.
“I did not hear your publisher’s name,” he said as nonchalantly as he could as they continued back to the front entrance.
“That is because I did not tell you, my lord,” she replied. “And what of yours?”
“Forgive me,” he said, finding a card in his pocket and passing it to her. “Jeffrey Worthington, Marquess of Berkley. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Ellis. I shall see you again tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
By the time Phoebe herself arrived at 53 Fleet Street, she was no closer to retaining a handle on her emotions. She had a tendency to let her thoughts and opinions get away from her, to cause her to say things she shouldn’t, or show too much thought or emotion. What was new to her, however, was this indecision that was plaguing her. Typically it did not take long for her to make up her mind and follow through with the next steps ahead.
She pushed open the door to the offices, rounding the corner to find a few of her writers were in the building, with Rhoda jumping to her feet the moment Phoebe walked into the room.
“Miss Winters!” she said, coming around and Phoebe’s consternation rose.
“What’s happened?” she asked, reading the concern on Rhoda’s face.
“The man—the one that was asking around about you before, who Ned told us about? Well, he was here.”
“The marquess.” It was a statement, not a question, and Phoebe pulled out a chair and took a seat, suddenly noticing that Ned was in the room, sitting by the window, his feet dangling over the floor.
“Ned,” she said, holding a hand out. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Miss Phoebe,” he said. “Thanks very much to you. My mam said to thank you as well.”
“Of course,” Phoebe said, knowing Ned’s circumstances: that it was only his mother at home, with no one else to provide. She was a seamstress, but with another couple of young ones, it was hard for her to keep up. Phoebe knew it wasn’t exactly the best business practice to pay Ned—or the other boys—as much as she did for distributing the paper once a week, but at least it was helping to make a difference in families who needed a hand.
“When Ned stopped in for his pay, I asked him to stay for a moment so that you could determine if it was the same man, but it sounds as though you are already well aware of his identity,” said Rhoda, and Phoebe nodded, leaning back in the chair.
“He asked to speak with you,” Rhonda continued. “Well, not you specifically, but the publisher. He said he was here to meet with you about providing financial support to the newspaper, and he was quite believable, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Told him you’d be back tomorrow if he wanted to speak with you directly. I wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. I’m sorry if it wasn’t.”
“There is nothing at all to apologize for, Rhoda,” Phoebe said, rising from her chair. “This shouldn’t be your issue to deal with. In fact, he is right to ask for me, for as the publisher, this is my role—to handle these types of situations, while you look after the editorial. I know the man and I shall speak with him.”
“Will he shut us down?” Collette asked from behind Rhoda, her eyes wide. “I need this job, Miss Winters. I have to work for a living, and if I’m not writing, well, my options are rather limited, I’m afraid. I have no training in anything but becoming a wife one day, being part of the gentry and all, but now supporting myself…”
Though she trailed off, Phoebe could practically read her thoughts. Collette had refused to marry her parents’ choice of a husband for her, and so they told her the only other option was to leave. They would no longer support her, not when they had found a husband to do so instead. Collette had left her home in the countryside and made her way to London. She told Phoebe she hadn’t the patience nor the skill to become a governess, she would likely be fired the first day as a servant, her sewing skills were dismal, and becoming a mistress was too frightful to bear.
When Collette had seen the ad for a writer, she had felt as though all her prayers had been answered.
And now Phoebe certainly didn’t want to disappoint her, nor any of the women or young lads who worked here—and especially not the people who read and supported The Women’s Weekly.
“We will not allow him or anyone else to threaten our existence,” she said firmly, though truthfully she wasn’t nearly as confident as she seemed outwardly. Men like the Marquess of Berkley and his peers had power the likes of which she could never imagine. “Leave it to me.”
And, entrusting the preparation of articles for this week’s edition in Rhoda’s capable hands, she left to her office, finding a sheet of paper and pen. She scribbled a note, sealed it, and then penned on the outside of one of the most respected addresses in all of Mayfair. Tonight Jeffrey would know not only of her role, but of her determination not to lose it.
*
Jeffrey wearily sat down in the wide leather chair behind the desk in his study with a sigh. Peace and quiet—finally.
After his visit with Phoebe and then onto the newspaper offices, Jeffrey was filled with indecision. Stepping through the foyer of his home, he hardly had a moment to even take a breath before his sisters descended upon him. As always, they were eager to question him about the latest engagements they had been invited to, their requirement to find a new gown that was both in the latest fashion and yet completely different from what any other woman would be wearing, and to question him about what he himself had done all day.
“It’s not fair,” they would sigh regarding the fact that Jeffrey could do whatever he pleased, while they had to seek permission and a chaperone to accompany them wherever they went.
“I am a marquess,” he would remind them, though they were not nearly as impressed by the fact like most other people, for they would only roll their eyes at him and continue their incessant chatter. After managing to escape them, he made the necessary niceties with his mother and then secluded himself in his office. There, he found correspondence awaiting him—of course. It never ended. His heartbeat quickened, however, when he noticed a note on top with what had become rather familiar handwriting covering its exterior.
“Well, well, what have we here?” he wondered aloud, and Harper, who was bustling around the office to ensure all was in order for his master, though Jeffrey assured him he wouldn’t be long, looked up with question in his eyes.
“My apologies, Harper, I was speaking aloud to myself.”
The butler nodded, but then Jeffrey continued. “When did this last correspondence come?”
“Shortly before you arrived, my lord.”
“Very good,” he nodded, wondering what Phoebe would have to say that was not already stated in their conversation earlier today. He was sure she was waiting to find out what he had chosen to do with his quest in bringing down The Women’s Weekly. He knew she enjoyed reading the blasted paper but did it really mean that much to her? More than a marriage to him? Though deep down, he was well aware that it was more than the paper. It was the difference in beliefs that had been instilled within each of them.
They were at a stalemate, and were this to go any further,
one of them had to break, or else… he didn’t want to think on it. He quit wondering what could be and read her quickly scrawled note. It was no love letter, that was for certain, but rather she was requesting for him to come to see her tonight—long past an acceptable social hour, particularly for a man to be calling on an unattached young woman. Would her aunt be in attendance, or was this a request for the conversation he hoped—that she would accept his marriage proposal despite whatever he chose to do regarding his responsibilities as a peer? For that’s what this was, and nothing more.
*
As requested, Jeffrey found himself on the doorstep of the house bordering Cavendish Square at precisely ten o’clock. Should he knock? He instantly felt like an idiot at even thinking thusly. Of course he should knock. He was not here for some secret assignation. He had been invited here for a polite discussion with the lady of the house. True, it was not exactly conventional, but it was Phoebe who had invited him, and as he had previously ascertained time and again, she was not a particularly conventional woman.
He was slightly surprised when she herself answered the door. He could only stand there for a moment as he took her in. Her green eyes seemed as though they were beckoning to him, the way she looked up at him through the dim light. She wore a gown of midnight blue, which, though modestly cut, without gloves and her dark hair swimming around her shoulders, drew him in like a siren calling sailors into the rocks—full of danger yet completely impossible to resist. At this moment she could ask him anything and he didn’t know how he could possibly refuse.
She stared back at him in equal measure, a lone sconce on the wall behind her outlining her silhouette, until finally she seemed to realize she had yet to say anything.
“Oh, forgive me,” she said, shaking her head as a slightly abashed smile teased her lips and she opened the door wider. “Come in, please.”
He did so, turning to face her once they were within the small, interesting foyer.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 57