Chapter Four
Whitehall, London
Half-past four in the afternoon
The squeal of a young child, Mark decided, had to be the most joyous sound on the planet.
A happy noise layered with the glee of living and the wonder of discovery.
Rose Ashley, Stella’s mother—now that she was well enough—had become a rather adept gardener, and the small back garden of the house where Olivia and her grandmother lived held a plethora of flowers, multicolored rocks, small bits of carved stone, and a dozen or so delightful mud puddles, perfect for splashing whenever Granny had looked away.
Abandoned bits of iron and wood, rescued from neighborhood piles, had become trellises for vines and homes for birds.
Also hundreds of insects, which did not bother the girl in the least. Instead she clearly found the many varied shapes and colors of the crawly things fascinating, eagerly scrambling after them, sometimes on all fours herself.
At three, Olivia had lost some of her baby plumpness and walked with more confidence.
But she spent a great deal of time bending down, touching everything in front of her, exclaiming over each new bug or flower, asking endless questions of her grandmother, and listening patiently to the answers.
She laughed as she bounced through puddles and snatched at a bird in a bush—both of which earned her a scolding from the old woman.
In his carefully chosen and shadowed alcove across the alley, Mark watched, as fascinated by his daughter as she was by an everyday flower.
Observing her made his chest tighten, a craving that burrowed deep within, a longing he knew would never be satisfied.
He had discussed with Matthew the possibility of acknowledging Olivia publicly—it was not unheard of for aristocratic men to do so—but his brother had urged him to wait until the lineage had been secured.
They also doubted Phyllida would welcome the girl into their home, and Mark could not protect her otherwise.
For her to be publicly known as his child would leave the girl vulnerable to predators and other schemers. Perhaps someday. But not yet.
And there would be no other children, at least not legitimate ones.
Mark cast his gaze to the ground. While he could not share this with his mother, he knew to his core that no woman would want to spend an entire night with him, much less a lifetime.
Better to keep them all at bay, playing the rogue.
While he had become renowned as an adventurous, skilled, and tender lover, when sleep did come—a rare event—it far more resembled the horrors of battle than a gentle slumber in a lady’s arms. Screams. Limbs flailing wildly.
Terrors that sent him stalking the halls, sometimes even while still asleep.
Mark occasionally awakened bruised and bloody from hitting solid objects unawares.
More than once, he had come to consciousness in the mews behind their house, his brother at his side, both unaware of how he had gotten there.
Since they had returned to Embleton House from the war, Matthew had helped Mark mask some of the ills of the nighttime, but the two of them had now put into place a plan to find Matthew a wife, which would bring another innocent into the house.
Mark needed his own home, with locking doors and servants sworn to secrecy, so that search had also begun.
Olivia screeched, a less than happy sound.
Mark stiffened, his head jerking up, heart clutching. He stepped from the alcove before halting abruptly.
The girl had taken a tumble, tripping over some unseen object.
Her grandmother helped her up, brushed off her clothes, wiped Olivia’s hands on her apron, and kissed a palm, murmuring to the child.
Olivia nodded, brushed away a tear, and smiled.
She gave her grandmother a quick hug about the neck, then pointed to a stand of lavender.
Olivia wandered that way as Rose began to pinch dead blossoms from a nearby rosebush.
The girl brushed fingers over the purple blossoms, then lifted her head—her eyes meeting Mark’s.
Mark stilled.
Olivia tilted her head to one side, studying him, and raised her hand. Her smile seemed to brighten the day, and Mark returned the greeting. Olivia waved. Mark did as well, then pointed at her grandmother and pressed a finger to his lips. Olivia glanced at Rose, then nodded at him.
With a sigh, Mark slipped back into the shadows.
Olivia resumed her play, and Mark watched until the two returned to the house, most likely for a nap or early supper.
The afternoon had turned ever cooler, and overhead the gathering clouds held the promise of the rain Stephens had mentioned.
Mark slung his cloak about his shoulders and headed toward his original destination of White’s.
Reaching the storied club, he passed between the two stone pillars at the edge of the pavement and trotted up the steps to enter the comfortable realm of men.
Sanctuary. He handed the cloak and chapeau to one of White’s butlers, ordered a brandy, gathered up an abandoned newspaper, and found a spot near the fireplace in one of the front rooms. He would wait to view the betting book until he knew who else lingered in the club.
He did not have to wait long. He had barely begun to read when he heard his name.
“What-ho, Rydell! I figured you would be in the park chasing the merry widow. I heard she traipsed along Rotten Row today, bold in her curricle, a bluebird on the hunt for a mate, taking a gander at every blade on the path like an urchin eying a row of sweets.” A man dropped into the chair opposite, his emerald-green frock coat, purple waistcoat, and cream buckskin trousers contrasting with Mark’s usual black-and-white kit.
Mark did not care for the peacock colors that some of the younger gents wore.
He peered around the newspaper at the new arrival, smirking.
“You are the one dressed for an outing with the ladies, Harding. Did your tailor mistake you for a parrot or has he gone blind?” The cut was his favorite remark about the preening dandies among them, and he used it often.
“Ha!” Harding leaned back in the chair and motioned for a footman to bring a brandy as two other gentlemen wandered closer. “The ladies appreciate a man who can afford the finer things in life. It satisfies them to know they could have a secure position with me.”
Mark folded his paper and set it aside. “I supposed you would have to satisfy them with your wallet, Harding, since I hear you are unable to do so otherwise.”
Men around them chuckled, murmuring, as Harding bristled, red spots blooming over his cheekbones, emphasizing the kohl lining his eyes—another habit of the young blades Mark disdained.
“Apparently, sir, you suffer from the same lack of proficiency, since your current paramour has been sniffing around other sources for her . . . satisfaction.”
A guffaw sounded behind Mark’s shoulder, followed by a jovial, “Oh, touché, Harding.”
Mark let out a long sigh of exasperation, intentionally masking the spike of concern that had tightened his gut. Surely Stella would not . . . “If you are referring to a particular lady of my acquaintance—”
“That wanton is hardly a lady—”
“Then you have no true understanding of our arrangement—”
“My understanding is that your pockets—or some other element of your bearing—simply do not reach deeply enough. The on dit is that she is currently attempting to pick the pockets of other nobles, and that she has tried on more than a few for size.”
Mark shook his head and took a sip of brandy, letting his gaze linger on Harding a moment. He set the glass aside, twisting it to study the residual glaze of liquor on the side of the glass. “Do you know why the ladies of the ton refer to you as ‘the Apprentice’?”
Harding’s eyes narrowed. “I have not heard—”
“Because you have yet to become skilled with your tools.”
A raucous round of laughter echoed through the room, as Mark stood, clapping Harding on the shoulder and leaning closer.
“If you do not believe me, just ask at Almack’s.
Those women know all the best rumors.” He straightened.
“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have a bet to place, then I am off to the theater with my shallow . . . pockets.”
Mark checked the wager book. As suspected, the bet about “a certain fair widow of renown”—no one would dare mention a lady by name in the book lest they wanted to be called out—was in her stepson’s handwriting.
He then gave a jolly farewell to the butler.
But as he strode the pavement outside, a deep dread built in his gut, and he prayed that his suspicions—and Harding’s insinuations—about Stella had no foundation at all.
The alternative held an unimaginable horror.
*
Sunday, 17 July 1814
Theater Royal, Haymarket, London
Nine in the evening
Midway through the second act, Judith’s left foot began to tingle, and a cramp crept up her calf, tightening the muscle and escalating the ache.
She shifted in her seat, trying to stretch her leg out without kicking either Edmund’s or Margaret’s chair and pressing down with her toes.
The family box on the third tier of the Haymarket Theater had more than enough room for the three of them, but they had crowded close to the front in order to hear the actors over the murmuring of the crowds below as well as in the adjacent boxes.