CHAPTER12
Well, she certainly got to the point quickly. He had hoped to draw her out slowly, to ask his questions with more tact. But that, apparently, was not to be done with Lady Phoebe.
He didn’t want her to think that the only reason he had invited her to dinner was to question her — but after Viola had asked, he had realized what an opportunity it could be. He was, however, enjoying her company more than he cared to admit.
After he and his sister had visited her yesterday, Viola had spent the entire carriage ride home entertaining him with the many wonderful attributes of Lady Phoebe, and how perfectly she would fit in with their family — “Just you see!” she told him, when she explained that was the very reason she had invited her for supper. She seemed to think that the woman was exactly what — or who — Jeffrey needed. Jeffrey wasn’t so sure.
He tapped his finger now against the arm of the chair.
“I do not wish to cause discord between us once again, Lady Phoebe,” he began. “However, as you may know, this publication we have previously discussed continues to come to my attention. As you share … similar beliefs as the publisher, I was hoping that, perhaps, you might be of some assistance to me.”
She said nothing, hardly showing any reaction. She nodded slightly for him to continue. He cleared his throat.
“I have been tasked, so to speak, with determining the identity of the publisher, though it is proving rather difficult. Anyone holding any apparent association withThe Women’s Weeklyremains tight-lipped on the subject. I thought that perhaps others within your circle might have some information in regards to who I might be looking for.”
Lady Phoebe remained silent, stoic, staring at him with her hands folded in her lap. The only sign of any response regarding his request was the slight nibbling of her bottom lip. She looked down at her fingers for a moment, and he was distracted by her long, dark eyelashes.
She looked back up at him, meeting his eyes.
“I cannot say whether or not I would be able to help you unless I know how the information would be used,” she said. “If you do unveil the identity of this publisher — what exactly would you plan to do?”
“Speak to him or her,” he explained, though that was not entirely true. His ultimate goal was to encourage — or threaten or bribe if needed — the publisher to quit operations entirely, though a cease to the contrary articles would be agreeable. “Perhaps it might be possible to find a solution that would allow the publisher to continue without putting our entire society at risk.”
“At risk of what?” she challenged, sitting forward in her chair now, her eyes flashing. “At risk of change? And what would be so wrong about that?”
“It could mean turmoil,” he countered. “There has been enough conflict in our world in recent years — why do we need to add to it? I am told this publication suggests that women should receive more education. Can you imagine if women spent the same amount of time as men at school? What would happen to our homes? Who would learn how to raise a family?”
Her stoic countenance changed as he spoke. What had been a face of serenity grew more tumultuous at every word, until now her fingers were grasping the arms of her chair, biting into the bronze floral mounts at the curve of the arms.
“Thank you, Lord Berkley,” she said, her tone clearly not at all grateful, “for reminding me of all of the reasons that I should want nothing to do with you.”
“I did not mean to upset you. I am simply stating facts,” he said, maintaining his control on his temper. “And I believeyousought me out, initially.”
“Tell me,” she said, not moving, though not relenting. “Do you believe men to be smarter than women?”
He thought on that for a moment. They were certainly more educated. Did that make them smarter? He compared Viola to Ambrose and knew with certainty that she was much more intelligent. But were all women like his sister? He stole a glance at Lady Phoebe. This one assuredly was. But when he compared her to the many other women of theton,or, at least, how they presented themselves…
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said at last. “Some are, some aren’t.”
She nodded, apparently content with his assessment. “And when a woman marries,” she continued, “do you believe that her husband should receive all of her property, all of her funds, everything she owns?”
He shrugged, his brow furrowing. “That is the way of it. Then he can care for all of the financial matters. Often the husband needs those funds for his own estate.”
“Because he has mismanaged it himself.”
He sighed and stood, hands behind his back as he wandered over to the room’s sole window, pushing back the curtains to look out at the dark night beyond.
“Neither one of us is ever going to win this battle of wills.”
“On that, I agree,” she said, her voice just behind his ear, and he jumped slightly, not having realized she had moved from the chair.
“I must tell you one thing, however,” she said, leaning close enough for him to smell the slight hint of perfume she must be wearing. It was sweet, akin to orange blossom, with a hint of spice. Cinnamon, perhaps? A mix of the unexpected — just like its wearer. “Even if I could, I would never, ever help you in your quest.”
He turned to her and narrowed his eyes. This conversation had followed the course he had assumed it was likely to take, but nonetheless, he had to try.
“I do not understand it,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
“What’s that?”