“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 downThe Women’s Weeklyis 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 ofThe Women’s Weekly. Signed, A Lady, the Publisher.
* * *
Jeffrey was aboutto 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 ofThe 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 I had to conduct business?”
“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 always attend when sittings.”
“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?”
“Hector?” Jeffrey struggled to place the name, searching his memory for the man to whom his brother might be referring.
“The man who could make us money, who you so rudely ignored?”
“Ah, yes,” Jeffrey said, grimacing. “I was hoping to not have to revisit that unfortunate circumstance.”
He heard Ambrose sniff beside him, angry at his words, but Jeffrey didn’t altogether care. Ambrose had been foolish to even entertain the idea that Jeffrey would consider parting with any funds to such a disreputable source.
“Well,” Ambrose continued, “I thought it was a fine idea, despite your reluctance, and so I invested some with him anyway.”
Jeffrey stopped walking then and turned to his brother. His tone was measured and even, but he couldn’t mask the anger from his voice. “You did what?”
“I invested with the man,” Ambrose said, holding his chin high. “And Hector says the investment is doing well. He just needs a bit more—”
“Oh, bloody hell, Ambrose,” Jeffrey said, throwing his hands up in the air and continuing his forward progress to where his phaeton awaited, leaving Ambrose behind. As his brother continued to follow him, waxing on of all the benefits of investing in this unfortunate scheme, Jeffrey finally turned to him once more, a finger leveled at his chest.
“I told you what your options were, Ambrose — the Peterborough estate, a commission with the military, or to continue your education. I have given you enough time to ponder all of this, so tell me now — what do you choose?”
Ambrose glowered at him, the two brothers locked in a battle of wills.
“I choose to make my own way.”
“Fine,” Jeffrey said, his words coming from between clenched teeth. “Then do as you wish. But you will not do so with any help from me. You may live in Berkley House, but your allowance is cut off. You will have what you need to survive, but you will not be wiling away any more of our family funds, do you understand?”
“You were always so high and mighty, Jeffrey,” Ambrose spit back at him. “But fine, if that is what you wish, then so be it.”
Ambrose turned and walked off in the other direction, and as Jeffrey watched him, his anger faded, to be replaced only by sadness and some regret.