Chapter Three
Sculthorpe Manor, Berkeley Square, London
Half-past ten in the morning
The longcase clock on the first-floor landing sounded half-past ten, and Judith’s mouth twitched.
She had been awake for more than an hour but had remained in bed, staring at the burgundy damask-lined canopy, her mind lost in the events of the night before.
She had not even bothered to ring for Epworth, which she should do soon lest the entire household began to think she had taken ill.
Only her monthly courses took Judith out of her daily activity, and Epworth would know those had finished a few days before.
Otherwise, half-past nine was late for Judith, much less an hour after, even though she had only returned home at three that morning.
Between her boys and her desire to be up and out of the house in all but the most beastly weather, Judith never slept late.
Too much life awaited outside these walls to lie abed, and the bright rays of sun that pierced through the curtains told her it would be a lovely day to be out.
But not even in her own mind could Judith decipher why she so focused on the previous night that she had become immobile.
Her thoughts tumbled over themselves as she stared at the pleated cloth over her head, her eyes following the lines of the fabric from the four corner posts to the center medallion again and again.
Even more surprising, Judith had spent the night alone.
Perry had wanted to join her, making it so obvious that she had almost scolded him on the dance floor for his indiscretion.
She had not done so, nor would she ever indulge in such a public display, and normally she would have felt flattered by his attention, preening under his compliments.
But he had seemed far too much like a relentless child, whining for a treat and annoying her.
Over the evening she had become increasingly unsettled, unwilling to choose any of her previous lovers or cultivate a new one among the interested parties.
Instead, she could not rid her mind of a twisted smirk and glistening blue eyes. A wit of uncanny sharpness. A firm grip. A keen, muscular dancer. Dark hair with a bare wink of silver.
Ridiculous.
Lord Mark Rydell had to be at least five and thirty.
At least. More than a decade older than most of her lovers.
Perry Gower was but three and twenty. Judith preferred the younger men, those not yet ready for a wife, eager for an enthusiastic tumble and little more.
She also refused to take a married lover.
And Rydell, a rake with a reputation for preferring married women, reportedly had a current mistress, an actress.
Judith had circulated in the ton long enough to know most of the scoundrels, their relationships, and their family histories. And she knew Rydell’s as well.
But much of the scuttlebutt about his sexual proclivities stemmed from a time before he had joined his brothers at the battlefront.
Although the youngest of the children remained in the family home, the three oldest Embleton sons—including the heir at the time but now the duke, Matthew—had followed Wellington to the Peninsula.
Lord Mark Rydell was a soldier who had been more than five years at war, venturing back to England only on rare occasions.
They had, obviously, returned to England when their father had died, but the on dit about them told of men who had not returned unscathed.
Matthew was said to be surly and unapproachable.
The third son, Luke, had returned to France after healing from an almost crippling wound.
And Mark, now the heir with all the responsibilities that go with that position, had supposedly lost the ability to sleep, with a tendency to wander at night in the most dangerous sections of the city, seeking fights in the roughest of boxing salons and gambling hells.
Reports of numerous lovers had all but disappeared.
Except for the actress. And only the actress, a relationship that had developed during one of his trips back to England.
Rumor had that he had purchased the townhouse where she lived more than four years ago.
Convenient. Long term. Almost as if she were a wife.
How very curious for a man who seemed to revel in his reputation for bedding dozens of women.
Thus, between his desires and hers, no two people in London were less suited to each other.
So why did Edmund insist on introducing him to me?
Edmund knew she took lovers but had ignored it in his everyday dealings with her.
Margaret had slyly mentioned “the young men of the ton, so adorable, like new toys” when she and Judith had been alone in the boudoir.
Margaret had been tending to her needlework while Judith attempted to read.
Docile or not, Judith knew her daughter-in-law craved the juiciest of details and had blithely ignored the comment, finally setting aside her novel and turning the conversation to the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. Fashion always distracted Margaret.
Something was amiss. Had Edmund begun gambling? Did he owe Rydell money? Did he think he could pay it back with Judith’s portion? That she would surrender it to Edmund if she married a duke’s heir?
No, that made no sense. She knew exactly how deep the coffers of the Sculthorpe estate ran, and any but a stupendous debt could be paid by selling some of their holdings or artwork.
And unless a marriage was in the plotting, no guarantee could be made that Judith’s money could be circumvented into another’s pockets.
And Lord Mark would remain the heir only until the new duke had children of his own.
So did the motive arise from the other direction?
Was Rydell looking to marry a rich widow?
She would qualify, but her sources indicated that the Embleton sons wanted to avoid the state of marriage altogether.
Lord Mark was a second son, but there were no indications that his family withheld funds from him, especially as long as he remained the heir.
If the rumors about the actress were sound, then he had to be supporting her, which was not a frugal proposition.
Judith knew of the woman, knew her reputation.
Stella Ashley had expensive tastes and made no secret of it.
And even during the second dance, Rydell had given no indication that he was there for any purpose other than enjoying himself.
The cotillion—not a dance for in-depth conversation—had been a slightly faster one than most, and his strength as a partner once again had shone during their moments together.
Despite the rumors of battlefield injuries, he showed no signs of physical weakness.
If anything, he seemed the opposite of wounded, with firm muscles, a trim waist, and obvious strength in his legs and arms. He had flirted with her, yes, but all men did.
And he had once again challenged her to meet his mother.
Judith had accepted, but the duchess was not to be found, which had puzzled and concerned him.
When his mother could not be seen in the small ballroom, he had escorted Judith to the next dance partner and excused himself.
Neither of the Rydells had been seen again.
Judith scowled. He had remembered who her next partner was from seeing the name on her card. He had commented on others, humorously, cautioning her about which ones would be a danger to her slippers.
He had clearly taken note of the other men with whom she had danced.
Why would he do that? Were he and Edmund working together in this?
On what?
Judith scolded herself for her speculations, searching for something that most likely did not exist—an ulterior motive for Edmund wanting to connect her with Lord Mark Rydell. Perhaps he is just an intriguing friend.
“Or you could just ask Edmund.” Judith said it aloud, then smiled. She did have a tendency to put too much thought into such a situation, especially when it puzzled her, often seeing connections where none existed. “Do not be a dolt. It was one evening. Two dances.”
She took a deep breath and pushed up in the bed, shifting the pillows and bracing her back against the headboard. “But,” she whispered, “if Edmund has some nefarious reason in mind, he might not be honest about it. Do I want to push him into a lie?”
Her mouth twisted. “Or he could choose to be honest.”
After a moment, Judith sighed. “Or you could stop dwelling on nonsense, get your arse out of the bloody bed, and start your day.” Perhaps a stroll in the park would clear her head.
It was Sunday, after all, and Rotten Row would be crushed with people enjoying the delightful weather—the summer had been unseasonably cool, which meant sunny, warmer days brought out the ton in thick droves, as if they were all glad to get out of their houses.
Throwing back the covers, Judith slid her legs over the side and stood, padding to the bell pull.
Tea would help, along with a bit of toast. Perhaps some butter and jam.
Judith no longer had the figure of a debutante wraith, but last night’s gown had been a bit loose—she could allow herself some delicious jam.
She sat on the dressing table stool and pulled her nighttime plait—the protective style she kept when sleeping alone—around to the front, slipping the ribbon off the end and running her fingers through the golden-brown strands to separate the braid, as her mind moved from the ball to the park.
The sun would be blissful, and she made a mental list of the friends she might see.
She would wear the blue today, a walking kit that came with matching kid day boots, a spencer, and a lovely buckskin bonnet, complete with an ostrich feather dyed to match the deep tourmaline blue of the gown.
Blue.