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.”
“I have time,” he said simply and took her arm in his once more. Phoebe held herself stiffly away from him, and yet she cursed herself for feeling the burn of his hand upon her, for noticing every time his body came into even the slightest contact with hers. When they rounded the corner and the dressmaker’s shop came into sight, she couldn’t extricate herself fast enough.
She turned, and with the slightest dip of her head, offered, “Farewell, Lord Berkley. Until we meet again.”
And with that she practically flew into the dress shop, where she waited by the window, watching him depart as she determined just how long she would have to wait until she could emerge once more.
He was being generous with his time, chivalrous even, for which she certainly could not fault him. And yet it irked her that it would be so untoward for her to walk through the streets alone. Really, what could happen to her in a street filled with businesses in the middle of the day? she wondered as she politely thanked Madame Boudreau for her offer of assistance, but told her she was would have to return another day when she had more time to browse. It wasn’t as though she were strolling along the streets of the Seven Dials without a care. Why, the marquess could have just as easily taken advantage of her as any other man.
She frowned when the thought of his body against hers in a way altogether improper caused not the consternation she would have hoped, but rather a warm flush to begin to flood through her. Stop it, Phoebe. You’re being ridiculous.
Men such as the marquess were the very reason it was better to become a spinster unless one found true love. Aunt Aurelia had never married and enjoyed life just fine—just as Phoebe would.
A grin took over her face, however, when she thought of just what the marquess would think if he knew what she was truly doing here near Fleet Street. Not shopping for dresses—the riot of color around her was beautiful, to be sure, but did not captivate her attention as it did many women. Oh no, it was the thought of printing presses now that made her blood rush quickly through her veins. The marquess would be scandalized. Which was exactly the point.
*
Jeffrey took one long last look at the dress shop, shaking his head as he continued on his way. Lady Phoebe. Just when he had successfully omitted her from his thoughts, there she was, rushing back in again. He couldn’t determine exactly what it was about her that caused such turmoil to arise within him, but she was like a storm—majestic and astonishing, yet so tumultuous and destructive.
She needed someone to watch out for her. He pitied her for the loss of her parents, but it wasn’t right for a woman—particularly a young woman such as she—to be alone in the world without a man to protect her. Despite her protestations, it wasn’t natural—as was apparent by her wandering Fleet Street completely alone, save for her driver a fair distance away. What kind of chaperone was her aunt, allowing Lady Phoebe the freedom to act completely as she pleased?
But this lady wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself as he continued on a few streets off of Fleet to meet his brother at the address provided to him on the note he had sent. Jeffrey had enough to deal with himself, including four sisters, as well as a brother who seemed intent to destroy him.
What Ambrose was up to now, he had no idea. His note had been cryptic, but Jeffrey feared it was another scheme of his, trying to make himself quick coin. By his own choosing, Ambrose lacked any sort of purpose, and the majority of his time was occupied spending his entire allowance, using most of it in a fool’s quest to become independently wealthy. The more Jeffrey tried to convince him that it would never work and that he should make himself an honest living, the more determined Ambrose was to prove his brother wrong. Jeffrey continually found himself thrust into situations in which he had to save his brother, and he was tired of it.
Finding the correct address to be a small, rather unkept building crammed between two others, he knocked, only for the door to swing open at his touch.
“Jeffrey, there you are!”
Wary, Jeffrey took a slow step inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Despite the fact that the sun was shining, the windows were smoky, the floorboards scuffed and dirty, and the odd assortment of furniture was scattered around the room in various states of disarray. Finally he found his brother sitting on one such rickety wooden chair, a hefty man sitting in the shadows across the table between them.
“Meet Hector,” Ambrose said, sweeping his arm across the table with a flourish. “He’s about to make us rich.”
“Hector,” Jeffrey nodded toward him before returning his attention back to his brother, ignoring the chair to which Ambrose gestured. “Make us rich, will he? How so?” he asked with sarcasm.
“Well, all we need to do is to give him a small sum of money, and then within a year, he will more than double it. Perhaps even triple it!” Enthusiasm lit up Ambrose’s face as Jeffrey rubbed his brow. He had cleared his afternoon for this?
“Come, Ambrose, let’s go,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Excuse me, Hector. Our apologies.”
Ambrose stood but refused to move, stubbornness setting in. “Can you not even listen to his plan?”
“No.”
“He lends money, Jeffrey, then charges interest back. It’s a sure thing, for if people do not pay, then—”
“I said, no.” Not wanting to argue with his family in front of a stranger, Jeffrey strode over to the door without looking back, wrenching it open as he stepped outside, allowing it to slam behind him. He was pulling his gloves back over his fingers, breathing deeply to find a sense of calm, when Ambrose finally joined him.
“That was terribly rude, Jeffrey. Hector didn’t do anything wrong, and you hardly even acknowledged him.”
“Hector is making his money off of people’s misfortune. That is not the way I do business, Ambrose, and I should hope that neither do you.”
“He’s helping people, really,” Ambrose attempted to reason as Jeffrey began walking down the street to where his carriage awaited. Ambrose’s charming, handsome face, which he had used to extricate himself from more than one scrape, was beaming up at Jeffrey now, but he would certainly not be fooled by his brother. Oh, no, he knew him far too well, had allowed him too much leniency in the past.
“It’s time you began acting like an adult, Ambrose,” he said as a father would, though he was only two years older. “You have a choice.”
Ambrose looked at him warily but said nothing.
“You have the small estate near Peterborough. You could actually take some responsibility for it, grow it to the point where it is much more profitable.”
“But it’s so far from London! I—”
“Or, I would purchase you a commission.”
“The military?” Ambrose looked horrified. “Do you really think I would be fit for the military, Jeffrey?”
No, he certainly did not, though it would teach Ambrose some required life lessons.
“Or, you could continue your education and become a barrister.”
“A barrister? Jeffrey, do you know how much work that would entail?”
Jeffrey continued his straightforward march back toward the busy Fleet Street, pausing to look at his brother only when he reached the carriage.
“Three options, Ambrose. Choose wisely.”
“And if I do not wish to take any of the paths you suggest?”
“Do you fancy the church?”
Ambrose snorted.
“Continue as you are and your allowance will be cut off. Now, are you getting in, or not?”