Chapter Nineteen
“Head in the clouds, Berkley?”
Jeffrey came back to the present, looking across the green felt table of White’s at his friend, the Duke of Clarence. As always, the Duke’s hair was perfectly coiffed, his clothing immaculate. The duke prided himself on his appearance, be it the outward physical traits or his own behavior.
“It’s not like you to be so distracted,” Clarence continued as he took a sip of his brandy. “But it seems to have become a habit of yours as of late.”
Jeffrey snorted. He was far too aware of the truth of his friend’s words, unfortunately. And it was all because of a certain Lady Phoebe Winters.
Today, he would have his answer. When he appeared on the steps of her foyer, she would tell him, one way or another, if she desired a life with him as his marchioness.
He could hardly believe that he was pursuing a woman who might potentially say no to him, to turn him down. He was a man to whom all should say yes. He could have any number of young women of the ton and had been pursued by them and their mothers for years now. Unfortunately none of them, however, held any appeal to him. Now, the fact that he was even entertaining this idea of marriage to Phoebe, who was far from a sure thing … he shook his head. But he couldn’t help it. He was infatuated with her.
“While I am not one to subscribe to the gossip columns or to listen in on women’s chatter, one would have to be deaf not to hear the rumors surrounding the Marquess of Berkley and a certain Lady Phoebe Winters. Dances, visits to the theatre, a dinner with your family at your home, a walk in Hyde Park. You have not exactly been discreet.”
“I did not know that I was required to be,” Jeffrey said moodily.
“Of course not,” Clarence said with a laugh. “I only meant that it is not difficult to sense the reason for your distress. You have a woman on your mind. Should that not, however, be cause for celebration? I cannot recall the last time you showed any more interest in an eligible woman than a dutiful dance or polite words at a party.”
Jeffrey paused for a moment before lifting his own drink to his mouth, draining the contents of the glass before setting it back down firmly on the table.
“I’ve asked her to marry me.”
Clarence choked on his brandy, nearly—but not quite—spewing the contents over his pristine white cravat. Jeffrey merely sat back and enjoyed the spectacle until Clarence finally collected himself.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “You certainly took some time to share your news. Congratulations, man.”
He held out his hand, but Jeffrey made no move to shake it.
“Hold onto that thought,” he said, “for the woman has yet to agree.”
“What?” Clarence frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that I have not yet received an answer to my question,” he said slowly. “When I asked her, it was not entirely a fit moment to discuss the matter. She said she would provide me with a response later, and today I will determine exactly what that answer is.”
“She would be mad to refuse you,” Clarence remarked, to which Jeffrey nodded.
“That may be, but she can be an unpredictable woman,” he muttered. “Why I want her, the Lord only knows.”
Though that was not altogether true. He wanted her because she was bright, intelligent, honest, and remarkably alive.
“Well,” Clarence said, a wide smile on his face. “I wish you luck. And I sure as hell am glad that it is not me in your place.”
A few weeks ago, Jeffrey would have thought the exact same thing.
He bid Clarence farewell and rose to leave when the Earl of Totnes approached, a paper in hand and two lords Jeffrey recognized trailing behind him.
“Berkley! A moment?” he asked, and Jeffrey resumed his seat with both annoyance and trepidation. He knew all too well what this was about, and he would prefer not to have to discuss this, for he was just as disappointed as anyone that he had been far too remiss in finding answers.
“Yes?”
“Have you seen the latest rubbish to destroy these fine pieces of newsprint?” the earl asked, throwing the paper down upon the table between Jeffrey and Clarence as though it were covered in manure.
“As of this morning, I have not,” he admitted.
“Read it,” the earl commanded, and Jeffrey looked up at him, raising an eyebrow at the fact the man would dare to command him to do anything.
“If you would,” the earl amended, and Jeffrey opened the publication before him, perusing its contents.
“Is there anything in particular to which you would like to direct my attention?” he asked impatiently, wanting to leave White’s and find his way to Phoebe’s home now that it was an acceptable hour to call.
“Here,” Totnes said, stabbing a meaty finger into the pages, and Jeffrey’s eyes fell to the bottom of the page.
To all the women of London and beyond, consider this a personal letter, written to you directly from a lady.
Whether you are of the nobility, the landed gentry, or the daughter of an untitled man of sufficient means, you are likely expected to do but one thing with your life—marry, and have children. I understand that. It is what has been expected of women for generations.
While it is true that some women do work in order to make a living for themselves, there are few occupations that are acceptable and available for young ladies. Many women are required to work in order to support their families and typically find themselves performing laborious work. While it sounds like a difficult life to be sure, at times, I envy these women. It must be gratifying to have the ability to support oneself without reliance upon a man in order to provide the funds necessary for survival, which then provides him with the ability to determine what a woman will do with every waking moment of her life.
Not all gentleman are of such a mind, to be sure, but many do feel this way. Is this the way our world must continue? Why do women not have the ability to speak their opinions, to take whatever actions they wish, to marry whomever they choose and if they choose? When they do, should they not be able to retain whatever it is they bring into the marriage, without having to relinquish all to their husbands?
I am not suggesting that gentlemen are not capable of respecting women or their opinions, for there are certainly some that are understanding. What I am saying, ladies, is that we must take the next steps to fight for our rights to speak of what we believe in. To affect change. To work if we would so choose. To have a voice to create the changes that must occur in our country, in Parliament, to create a better life for all, not only for those who hold all of the power.
Together, anything is possible.
Jeffrey raked a hand through his hair. This was not good—not good at all. He was in a mess of trouble, that was certain. Why did it have to be him who was tasked with this unenviable position? Perhaps another could look further into it? He not only had enough to hold his focus at the moment, but he also had a household full of females, as well as a potential fiancée, who would not be altogether pleased if he took this route of persecution.
But someone had to. For this had all the workings of upheaval that he had been so cognizant of preventing. What would Phoebe say about this piece? It wasn’t much of a question. She would agree with it, he was sure. Though he was positive that Viola would as well. How had he managed to surround himself with women of such strong, at-times ignorant, opinions?
“Well?” Totnes challenged him, his hands on his hips, his chin quivering as he looked down at Jeffrey—who was not particularly pleased that the man would choose to question him so, in front of many others.
“Well,” Jeffrey said, standing to face him, as he knew he would tower over the Earl. “I said I would look into the matter. I have been and I will continue to do so. But really, Totnes, is such a piece truly so disturbing for you? Is it threatening your manhood?”
“I thought you agreed with me!” Totnes said, his eyes narrowing into slits.
“I do,” Jeffrey said cooly, balancing out the heat Totnes was throwing. “However, I am following up with this because I think it is the right thing to do, not because I am afraid of how a few women attempting to stir up trouble might affect me.”
“You always have thought that you were better than the rest of us,” Totnes sneered at him.
“Not the majority of you,” Jeffrey corrected with a pointed look at the man. “Just certain men in particular.”
And with Clarence’s bark of laughter trailing after him, Jeffrey exited the building.
*
As he drove his phaeton to Phoebe’s townhome, Jeffrey composed a list within his head of the actions he could take in order to put an end to this publication. He could compose a letter to the office, identifying himself as an advertiser and asking to meet with the publisher. He simply needed a way to make contact. That would be his in, and then he would reason with the woman, help her understand that her words were dangerous. He was sure that the threat of a marquess, as well as other men within the nobility, would be enough to worry her.
First, he needed to find the address of the blasted publication. Must it really be that difficult? The street urchins who delivered the paper had not been much help. He had actually been shocked by their loyalty. Their publisher must pay them well, for typically it did not take many coins in order to convince them for information, even upon their employers.
Finding himself now in front of Phoebe’s home, he halted his phaeton across the street, next to the square, and looked down at the paper resting beside him on the bench. He picked it up, rifling through the pages, perusing it for some clue as to who he may be dealing with. Published by a Lady, was all it said, and he wondered if he would end up knowing the woman.
He rifled through the pages, finding nothing and nearly throwing down the paper in disgust. But just then he paused—there, at the bottom of the back page, was a small mark. He looked at it more closely, seeing it was a lion and a seal poised overtop a ball. What in the—a printer’s mark. Jeffrey smiled triumphantly as he realized what he had found, though he berated himself slightly for not considering this earlier. It was his distracted state—but no longer. After this visit, he knew exactly where he was going.