Chapter Five #2
Epworth changed the brush for a comb and began to style Judith’s hair. “And all this rain. Like God’s calling on Noah again.” She paused to open a box of ribbons. “What will you be walking out in today?”
Peering into the box, Judith pointed at a yellow silken loop. “Let’s chase a bit of the gloom away, shall we? And hope the rain gives a pause.”
Epworth pulled the ribbon out, shook it free and draped it over her own shoulder as she continued to plait, pin, and twist Judith’s long chestnut strands.
“By the by, the servants were all a-chitter this morning about something that happened at the theater last night.” She leaned closer, her tone sly. “About the Embleton gentleman.”
Judith froze, staring at her maid in the dressing table mirror. She licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “Um, what about him?”
Epworth’s voice dropped to just above a whisper.
“Apparently, that actress he’s been, um, visiting got herself into a spot with another man.
Before and after her show, right there in the theater.
Word is, you could hear ’em rutting—oh, pardon me, my lady—talking, through the door of her dressing room.
And the Embleton chap right outside, hearing it all, pacing and fussing like a mare in heat.
He didn’t break in or nothing, but they said he looked like a thunderstorm.
Apparently followed ’em back to the place she lives.
When her maid came out to buy milk this morning, she told some folks her mistress had to move.
That the gentleman who owned the house had tossed her out on her heels. ”
Judith could not believe it. “He evicted her because she—she—”
Epworth had embraced the heart of it now. “Her maid—Clara, sweet girl if a bit dim—said it had to do with the man she—well, it were the Duke of Shropshire.”
Judith’s stomach clenched as she stared at Epworth in the mirror. “No! Why would she—”
Gesturing with a rat-tailed comb, Epworth nodded. “Clara said her mistress claimed to not know about his—well, what everyone else knows.”
A veil of dread settled on Judith. “That he has the pox. But everyone does know that. Do you think she is lying?” Mark’s face returned to her mind . . . and the look he had given her when she had said something about current mistress. Cold and dark.
“She must be. How could she not?”
“Perhaps she thought he had money.”
“Well, my lady, he is a duke, pox or not.”
“But an impoverished one. The man is a scoundrel who gambled away everything he owned . . . or gave it to one of his many doxies.”
“I don’t think everyone knows that part of it.” Epworth began weaving the yellow ribbon into Judith’s hair. “My lady, I don’t understand that. I thought every title came with an income. And land? Stuff they cannot sell.”
Judith shook her head. “You are speaking of what is called an entail—property, usually, although sometimes money—that is tied to a title and cannot be divested from it. The property and its management provide an income, although some titles have a yearly stipend from the crown. Shropshire’s does not, and the only entail was his country house and a small acreage around it.
The larger estate—family-owned land—earned an income through tenancies and farming.
When he became duke, the estate had been stable and rather wealthy, even by Beau Monde standards. ”
Judith paused, thinking suddenly about other men who had followed the duke’s same path.
“But like a lot of profligate men in the aristocracy, Shropshire could not manage his way across the auction lot at Tattersall’s.
He virtually lived at gambling hells and brothels instead of learning to manage his heritage.
Finally, he had to sell what he could and abandoned the rest. His beautiful house now sits empty and rotting.
Unless one of the new merchants with all their growing wealth buys it, it will probably collapse in a few years. ”
“What a shame.”
“Indeed. But even if the actress did not know about the money, it seems odd she would take such a chance with his reputation.”
Epworth paused, her expression thoughtful. “When you’ve been desperate, my lady, and starving, that fear never really goes away. You would do anything not to go through it again.”
Judith gazed over the absolute riches that littered her dressing table.
Riches she took for granted every day. Silver-handled brushes.
Combs with mother-of-pearl teeth and bejeweled edges.
Gold inlay boxes holding ruby, emerald, and diamond earrings and bangles.
She could live for several years by selling just the things that lay in front of her.
Shropshire was a fool. And, desperation aside, so was Stella Ashley. “So what”—she swallowed—“what did Lord Mark do after he . . .”
Epworth gave a light shrug. “No one is sure. But one of the Embleton hall boys was out with their housekeeper at market this morning. He said the gentleman came home around dawn, stumbling in the back way, all bloody, bruised, and soaked to the skin by the late rains. Cast up his accounts in the kitchen yard, looking like he’d been keelhauled. ”
Or gone several rounds in the boxing ring.
Judith peered at Epworth in the mirror. “As my Lord Sculthorpe used to look sometimes?”
Epworth shrugged again, her eyes focused on Judith’s hair. “Perhaps.”
Judith closed her eyes. She had seen it, knew what it looked like when a man turned to that sport out of anger or pain.
Edmund had done it when his nightmares grew too powerful or his frustration too great.
Some of her lovers even participated in rough sport, thrilled at how bareknuckle fights exhausted and cleansed them.
She shuddered. She would never understand.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
Judith opened her eyes and forced a smile, sitting a little straighter, pushing the affairs of men to the back of her mind. “I will be, once I see my beautiful boys.” She smiled at Epworth. “Let us get the day started, shall we?”