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

by Mary Lancaster

  “Jeffrey…” she began, but then there was a knock at the door and Aunt Aurelia sailed in.

  “Phoebe, darling I—oh.”

  They all stood there staring at one another, until Jeffrey, having been bred and raised with only impeccable manners, broke the silence.

  “Lady Aurelia,” he said, striding to the door, picking up her hand and kissing it. “It is lovely to see you.”

  “And you, Lord Berkley, although I am not exactly sure this is proper, for the two of you to be alone together at eleven o’clock at night in a home without any chaperone.”

  “That would be my doing,” Phoebe said, stepping up to the pair of them where they were standing by the door, and Jeffrey shook his head at her. He appreciated the fact that she was willing to be honest about the original circumstances of their meeting, but he had an overwhelming need to protect her name, even if it was only in front of her aunt, who he was sure knew her better than nearly any other.

  “Actually, Lady Aurelia, I’m afraid it was my fault. I called upon Lady Phoebe, unsure of whether or not you would be in residence,” he said, which was in fact, entirely the truth. “I should have left upon finding that you were not home, but I could not keep myself from a moment with your lovely niece.” He was proud of himself for not telling one word of a lie to Phoebe’s aunt, though his “moment” was greatly underplayed.

  “Now then, I suppose I should be going,” he said, striding out the door, turning to take a few steps backward through the threshold. “It was wonderful seeing both of you. Phoebe—Lady Phoebe—we must speak again soon. Very soon.”

  He sent her what he hoped was a meaningful gaze, and he assumed she understood him as she slightly nodded at him.

  “Goodnight,” he said, holding her eyes.

  “Goodnight,” she whispered softly, and with that he was down the stairs, found his hat and cloak, and was out the door and into his carriage. He thought of stopping at White’s but decided that what he had just experienced with Phoebe was so pure, so wonderful, that he didn’t want to spoil it by having to go to the club and having to make pleasantries without being able to share what was truly in his heart. For now he knew. He loved her, and could not wait until she was truly his wife. He ordered his carriage home, whistling a cheerful tune all the way.

  *

  “Good morning, lovely ladies!” Jeffrey greeted his sisters and his mother as he sat down to breakfast the next morning. “And of course good morning to you as well, Ambrose. It’s wonderful to see you awake at this hour. Jolly good to see you’re alive!”

  He chuckled as he poured his coffee, but then looked up when he heard nothing but silence. Six faces wearing various expressions of disbelief stared at him. Penny had her fork halfway to her mouth, and now the morsel of egg she had been about to eat slowly slid off and back onto her plate.

  Viola’s eyes were wide behind her spectacles, Rebecca’s mouth was open in a wide ‘o,’ and Ambrose had actually looked up from his plate. Jeffrey’s mother wore a slight smile that was filled with confusion, and even Maxwell, who lay at his feet, had raised his head, while he typically kept it low to the floor in search of a dropped—purposefully or not—crumb of food. Annie was the first to finally break the silence.

  “Are you all right, Jeffrey?”

  “Of course!” he said with a bit of bluster. “What could possibly be the matter? It’s the lot of you that is worrying me, sitting there staring as though you have lost all the words that are normally chattering about the table at this hour.”

  “It’s just…” Rebecca began, looking around at her sisters for support. “You’re almost jovial this morning. Has something happened?”

  “I’m always jovial!” he defended himself, and Penny snorted at that, holding a hand in front of her mouth when her mother shot her a look of consternation. “Am I not, Viola?”

  Jeffrey looked to his usual champion for support, but at her hesitation, he realized he was going to lack defense even from her, and he was slightly put out for the moment.

  “You are certainly pleasant, Jeffrey,” she said with her usual diplomacy. “As for jovial, well, I wouldn’t necessarily use the word to describe you, especially at the breakfast table. You much prefer to grumble about and read your papers. Which is fine. We cannot all be jolly in the morning.”

  He did grumble a bit, then, but even his family’s astonishment couldn’t break his spirits. The woman he desired more than anything he ever had before returned his affections and was going to be his wife. His affairs, his family, his home was in order. What more could a man ask for? Well, there was the business of that blasted publication, but he would worry about that afterward.

  “It’s the woman, isn’t it?”

  Jeffrey looked over at Ambrose, who now leaned back his chair, a sly smile crossing his face. Some of Jeffrey’s joyful spirit slightly diminished. He knew that smile, and it wasn’t one of which he was particularly fond. For when Ambrose smiled like that, it spoke of trouble.

  “I believe you mean Lady Phoebe, Ambrose,” Lady Clarissa slightly admonished her son, and Jeffrey smiled at his mother, always the peacemaker, as she had to be with six—well, make that five—slightly unruly children, and then himself.

  “Very well, then,” Ambrose corrected, though the glint in his eye remained. “The lovely Lady Phoebe. Has something happened?”

  They all looked at Jeffrey, their shock turned into expectant expressions. Jeffrey shifted slightly in his chair. He and Phoebe had not had the opportunity to actually discuss much of their betrothal, and he felt somewhat uncomfortable in sharing the news with his family until he had the opportunity to speak with her again. And yet, he had never lied to them, and he wasn’t about to start this morning.

  “Something has happened, yes,” he said, and one of his sisters—Annie or Penny, he wasn’t entirely sure which—squealed from the other end of the table, while his mother gasped and Viola and Rebecca both grinned. Ambrose simply regarded him with a calculating look on his face.

  “And?” Rebecca prodded, but he shook his head.

  “At the moment I am not able to say anything further,” he responded but accompanied his words with a slight smile. “But rest assured that you will be the first to know should there be any further developments.”

  “Ooh, Jeffrey, you can be positively vexing!” Penny exclaimed, and he winked at her, to which she did not entirely know how to respond, as Jeffrey was not the type to wink at anyone, least of all his sisters.

  He felt a cool, soft hand on his arm.

  “As long as you are happy, Jeffrey, that is all that matters,” his mother said gently, and he smiled at her. He knew how lucky he was to have been raised by a woman like her. He had loved his father as well, of course, but in a different way. He had been impressed by him, respected him, but the marquess had expected so much that Jeffrey always felt he had fallen short of what the previous Lord Berkley had required in an heir. Then again, most young gentlemen did not take on their title at the age of eighteen, so he supposed if he had more time before doing so, his father might have appreciated his efforts a little more.

  But that was neither here nor there at the moment.

  “Thank you, Mother,” was all he said.

  “Oh, Jeffrey,” Rebecca called from down the table. “You haven’t forgotten about the Dennington’s party this evening, have you?”

  “Of course not,” he said, he hoped somewhat indignantly, though, in fact, he had forgotten all about it. He wondered if Phoebe would be in attendance, and hoped very much that she would.

  “Good,” his sisters said, approving of him for once, he thought, and he shook his head ruefully as he let the idle chatter and speculations as to his current state of relationship status continue around him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Phoebe paced the floor of The Women’s Weekly writing pit, as they had come to call it—the place where the lot of them congregated. She noticed Rhoda and the other writers glancing up at her from their
pages time and again, but there wasn’t anything she could say to them. For how could she explain that she had fallen in love with the man who was trying to put an end to their dream? He could destroy not only the publication, but also their very livelihoods and what they held dear—the moral beliefs that she had pushed them all to share, that they risked their very reputations to defend.

  The door creaked open—Phoebe made a note to have it fixed so it didn’t make such a noise—and footsteps echoed down the corridor, Julia walked in with a smile on her face. Phoebe had never been so pleased to see her friend. She needed counsel more than anything right now.

  “Julia!” she exclaimed, walking toward her and taking her hands in hers. “It is wonderful to see you.”

  Julia beamed. “Such a welcome certainly makes one feel appreciated, Phoebe,” she said, then spoke in a near whisper so no one else would hear her. “Is anything amiss?”

  “Everything,” Phoebe said forlornly, and Julia’s eyebrows jumped in surprise.

  “That is not exactly what I expect from you, Phoebe,” she said, her voice continuing in its low tone, but Phoebe had enough of her reporters’ questioning looks, and she pulled Julia back down the hall and into her office.

  “I came to deliver my column in person—I love the idea of being a part of this, with the other writers, but it seems that I am required for something other than my love of racing and my surprising writing skills,” Julia said, gingerly taking a seat in the second office chair, the rickety wooden thing that seemed as though it would break even under Julia’s tiny frame.

  “Sit here,” Phoebe said, ushering her instead into her own chair, which, while faded and ugly, did not look as though it were going to fall apart. “I cannot sit anymore myself.”

  She continued her pacing, though it was significantly more difficult in her office, which was so much smaller than the larger room down the hall.

  “Phoebe, you must tell me what is the matter before you fall over from your exertions, or wear a hole in the floorboards,” Julia demanded, her voice surprisingly strong and fierce, and Phoebe obeyed, stopping to face her.

  “I love Jeffrey. And I made love to him.”

  Julia sat there, stunned into silence as she stared at Phoebe, who could feel tears beginning to prick the back of her eyes.

  “Oh, say something, damnit!”

  Julia stood and crossed over to Phoebe. While Julia said nothing, she wrapped her slim arms around her, squeezing so hard that Phoebe could hardly breathe. With her friend providing her the support she so needed, Phoebe finally let the tears begin to fall down her face, and Julia simply held her, letting her feel all she needed to emote.

  Finally Phoebe nodded into her shoulder, telling her she was all right, and Julia stepped back, holding up a dainty handkerchief. Phoebe took the offering and wiped her eyes and nose before finally sitting, defeated, in the rickety old chair that, despite its questionable look, faithfully held her up.

  Julia sat on the edge of the desk in front of her, a sympathetic look on her face. She placed her hands under Phoebe’s chin and lifted her face.

  “I know you are in turmoil right now, Phoebe, but for a moment, celebrate the fact that you are in love! How wonderful does that feel?”

  Phoebe smiled ruefully. “That part of it, I suppose, is rather lovely.”

  “And,” Julia continued, a wicked look coming into her eye. “You must tell me what it was like to make love to a man. I can hardly wait!”

  Phoebe laughed at that, though she found that she couldn’t say much about it. What had happened was something to be kept between her and Jeffrey, and it was too difficult to murmur a word of it even to her very closest of friends.

  “Honestly, Julia,” she said instead, “There are no words that can accurately describe what it is like to make love to a man for whom you hold such feelings. Not that I would know what it is like to be with a man whom I do not love, but still… it is nothing like what I could have ever expected, and no one could ever have properly prepared me for such a thing.”

  Julia smiled dreamily then, before she was brought back to Phoebe’s plight when Phoebe sniffed into the handkerchief.

  “As for your conundrum with Lord Berkley,” Julia said, attending to the matter that she knew was ruining Phoebe’s hopes for happiness, “I can see how you might be in some distress.”

  “Oh Julia,” Phoebe began, running her hand over her hair, which was tied back today in a messy chignon, for she had not had the patience this morning to allow her maid much time with it. “My time with him was glorious, and yet my heart was breaking with the realization that it was likely the first and last occasion I would be with him. Was it worth it? Yes. For while I have not been able to use words to express what I feel for him, I was able to show him with our physical love. He proposed to me once more, said all sorts of lovely things to me, but never once did he say that he loved me, so I could hardly say the words first, now could I?”

  “Of course you could have!” Julia exclaimed from her perch on the desk. “You are too proud, Phoebe.”

  “Perhaps,” Phoebe said with a sigh. “But he keeps speaking about my damn honesty, and here I have been lying to him for weeks now. When it all comes out, he will not believe anything I have said. I meant to tell him all last night, Julia, truly I did, but then things got out of hand, and Aunt Aurelia came in—”

  “Aurelia came in? During….” Julia’s shocked expression made Phoebe burst into laughter, and she shook her head vehemently.

  “No, thank goodness. Afterward, when I was about to tell him once more of the paper and my role as publisher. Then he left, and now I must make an effort once more. I never exactly responded to his request for marriage, but I suppose he now believes following my actions that I am in agreement.”

  “Well, of course,” Julia said, nodding. “A man such as the marquess would not take such liberties with just any woman, nor expect them returned by a young lady. But one who was his betrothed … well, it is more likely.”

  “He attempted to apologize afterward, but I quickly told him that was rubbish and if he respected me he must dismiss those feelings of guilt at once,” Phoebe said with a nod. “Anyway, I must choose now. For even if, after I tell him the truth, he decides he still wants to marry me, then his quest to bring down The Women’s Weekly is complete. For you know as well as I that if he were my husband, all of this—” she held her hands in the air to signify her surroundings “—becomes his. The building, the staff, the paper, all of my funds that are tied into this, and even those that are not. He can do whatever he likes with it all, and we know that he will not keep it in operation. Is my heart worth this? Is it of equal value to the change that we are making, the jobs of the women who write for me, the very fabric of all I feel is so important to make a difference among society? It is selfish for me to choose love?”

  She was breathing heavily now, so impassioned she felt about what she was saying, and Julia nodded in agreement.

  “I understand, Phoebe, truly I do,” she said. “And I am afraid I do not have the answers you are looking for. All I can suggest is that you follow your heart, that you do what feels right. And perhaps, once you speak with him, all will not be as lost as you currently feel it is.”

  “I don’t know, Julia,” Phoebe said, shaking her head sadly. “I just do not know.”

  But even so, despite her melancholy, regardless of the knowledge of what the future could bring, she penned a note in deliberately neat handwriting—altogether different from her usual scrawl—requesting a meeting with the Marquess of Berkley tomorrow at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, at the offices of The Women’s Weekly. Signed, A Lady, the Publisher.

  *

  Jeffrey was about to leave Parliament to begin his trek to 53 Fleet Street when he was intercepted by a secretary and a piece of correspondence for him. He was delighted by what he found inside—an invitation to meet with the publisher of The Women’s Weekly, tomorrow. Splendid. It was exactly what he was after�
��a chance to reason with the woman, to make her come around to his way of thinking. It was far preferable to have an invitation than to push his way in the door uninvited.

  He whistled as he wandered down the corridor. All was going very well in the life of Jeffrey Worthington, he realized, though his spirits somewhat dimmed when he found his brother awaiting him outside the doors of the Palace of Westminster.

  “Ambrose,” he greeted him with a nod, though he didn’t stop. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I was hoping for a word with the great Marquess of Berkley,” Ambrose said, pushing away from the wall and falling in step with him as he turned down Abingdon Street.

  “You have my ear anytime you wish, as we live in the same home, though I should say it is high time you found your own quarters,” Jeffrey said, looking ahead at the bustle of people on the walkway in front of him. “Surely you must have good reason for finding me here, in the middle of London after a sitting of Parliament?”

  “I do not understand how you do it every day,” Ambrose said with a sigh, shaking his head. “I would find it altogether far too boring.”

  “Which is why it is fortunate for all of us that you are the second son and nothing untoward has yet happened to me,” Jeffrey said with a stiff grin, and Ambrose smiled ruefully.

  “I suppose this is true,” he nodded. “And despite your noble demeanor, I am well aware that you do not attend every day.”

  “I have a less than perfect attendance, I will admit,” Jeffrey said. “But I do my very best, as do most lords similar to myself. Now, what can I do for you today, Ambrose?”

  Ambrose’s mouth was set in a grim line, and when he didn’t answer immediately, Jeffrey only sighed, wondering what it was Ambrose had gotten himself into now.

  “What is it, Ambrose?”

  “You remember Hector, do you not?”