Chapter Six
Embleton House
Half-past two in the afternoon
“You look like hell’s own hound. What in God’s name happened to you?”
Mark raised his newspaper to conceal a wince, turned a page, and stretched his feet out toward the low fire in Matthew’s study. He ached with every movement—remarkable, given how numb his spirit felt.
His brother was not having it. Matthew closed the study door and turned the key, then stood in front of Mark’s wingback.
“Put down that blasted paper and talk to me. The servants are all chattering about your return this morning, looking like the cat’s latest hairball.
Many of them were already awake when you cast up your accounts in the kitchen yard, then broke two sconces trying to maneuver the back stairs.
Your young valet is tight-lipped as always—”
Mark kept the paper up. “Nice to hear Howe is earning his money.”
“But the rest all know the hall boys dragged a tub and buckets of hot water up to your room for a bath before breakfast. Which was also brought to your room. As was lunch. Neither of which you ate.”
“Food remains particularly unappealing at the moment.”
“No doubt, as it would have to compete with the brandy still in your gut. I can smell it from here, even after your bath.”
“There were a few applications of said liquor after said bath.”
“No doubt. Mother is fit to be tied and demanding answers, and it took a great deal of persuading to keep her out of here—”
“God, no.”
“So tell me what the bloody hell happened before I have to quiz every servant. Because I know they will be full of tales far more gruesome than the truth.”
“I would not promise that.”
“Fine. So no Banbury tale about an honest boxing match. You’ve been in a row to end all rows.”
Mark sniffed, although one side of his nose remained blocked. “Why”—he stopped, swallowing something heavy and thick the brandy had not been able to clear out—“why should I have to explain—”
“Because I’m the bloody duke, that’s why!” Matthew’s tone softened but only slightly. “You did not look this bad when you took a load of grapeshot in your back—”
“I was farther away.”
“And you are my brother, you arse.”
Indeed. Mark finally folded the paper and laid it on an accent table next to his chair, where a significant amount of brandy waited in a bowled goblet. He nodded at the wingback opposite his. “Sit.”
“Mark—”
Mark took a sip of the brandy, which burned the cuts on his lip and inside his mouth. He grimaced. “Trust me. You will want to sit.”
Matthew did. “Mark—”
“Stella bedded Shropshire.”
The three words rocked Matthew back into his chair, a rough bark of startled disgust bursting from him. “She must be mad! Why would she?”
Mark shrugged one shoulder, then stilled as every muscle in his chest, and at least two ribs, protested. “I am not sure. Perhaps she thought I was tiring of her . . .” His words faded as he stared into the brandy.
“Were you?”
He took another sip, managing to avoid the wince this time. “Perhaps. But I thought I disguised it well. I would never have completely abandoned her.”
“Because of the girl.”
Mark nodded. “Yes. The girl. Olivia. Her name is Olivia.”
“But now you have.”
“Yes. Stella. But not Olivia.” Another sip. This time with the wince. “Matthew”—he looked at his brother over the rim of the glass—“she bedded Shropshire.”
Matthew stared at the fire, his eyes half-lidded. “How long?”
“The past two or three weeks. She could not be certain.”
His brother faced him again. “No. I meant you.”
“Ah. I was with her Monday last, which would have been the first time after she took Shropshire. Then Friday night. Saturday morning. So it will be at least another two to three weeks before the first sore would appear.”
“If you have it.”
“Yes. If I have it.”
“Will you take the mercury?”
“Or a bullet.”
Matthew paled. “Mark, you cannot—”
“Oh, yes, I can.” Mark set the brandy aside. “What I cannot do is tolerate all of it. The night horrors, the constant pain, the madness the disease can bring on—”
“Not for a long—”
“It does not matter!” Mark pushed out of the chair, pain twisting every joint and fiber of his body, raging through him like a ravening fire. He groaned, then leaned against the mantel, staring into the flames, fighting for control.
Matthew joined him. “What happened last night? After.”
Mark straightened a bit. “Boxing. Truthfully. But also a row in a pub. Another in the Rookeries.”
“Did they rob you?”
Mark hesitated, then nodded. “I gave it to them, poor buggers. I was trying to find out—they told me—” No. He could not tell his brother that part of it. Not yet. “There were others—they had no idea what they had taken on.”
“A drunken soldier with no will to live?”
“Something like that.”
A knock on the door silenced them both. Then Matthew called out. “Please leave us!”
Stephens, their butler, called back. “Your Grace, a Bow Street Runner is here. He insists on speaking with Lord Mark.”
Matthew cut his gaze toward Mark. “Are you sure it was just a row in a pub?”
Mark straightened and took a deep breath. “I believe so. At least I do not think I killed anyone.”
Matthew shook his head. “Mother may be right about you.”
Mark finally found his smirk. “Heaven forfend.”
His brother crossed the study, then unlocked and opened the door. “Bring the man up.”
As the butler’s footsteps faded, Mark leaned against the back of his chair, squeezing his eyes tight, then reaching for his brandy.
“When he is gone, you should go to bed.”
“I do not think—”
“I want Dr. Oakley to look at you. Make sure nothing is bruised or broken that you do not know about.”
Mark took a long breath, wincing again. “Trust me. I know about them all. Mostly bruises, although a couple of ribs may be cracked.”
“And will need wrapping.”
“Howe can—”
Stephens appeared in the doorframe, holding the brim of a soiled bowler with two fingers.
“Mr. Jeremy Smith.” He stepped back and a tall man moved into the room.
His blond hair, which needed a good washing, had been mauled by the bowler, but his rough woolen suit and waistcoat appeared clean and well-made, if plain and on the shabby side.
He nodded at Matthew. “Lord Mark Rydell.”
Mark stepped from behind his brother before Matthew could take offense. “I am Lord Mark Rydell. This is my brother, Matthew, Sixth Duke of Embleton.”
Smith executed a short bow toward Matthew, although his gaze remained on Mark. “Apologies, Your Grace.” He straightened, his blue eyes narrowing a bit. “Rough night, my lord?”
Matthew gave a low growl. “That should be none of your concern. State your business.”
Smith’s focus remained on Mark, his face impassive. “I am afraid, Your Grace, Lord Mark’s overnight activities may be a part of that business.”
Mark remained silent, an uncomfortable twist growing in his gut. Some of the men he had battled had left the worst for wear, but surely they had not—
“How so?” Matthew’s voice remained calm, but the gravel in it told Mark that he too had become worried.
Smith took a slip of paper and a rough pencil from his pocket. He unfolded the paper and glanced down at the writing. “Lord Mark, do you own a property in Bloomsbury? Near Russell Square?” He gave the house number as well.
That twist in his gut tightened as Mark fought the urge to look at Matthew. “I do.”
“Is that your primary residence?”
Mark swallowed. “No. I live here.”
Smith looked up at him, his eyes narrow. “Who occupies the property?”
“A woman, a friend, along with her maid.”
That blue-eyed gaze did not waver. “Her name?”
“Stella Ashley.”
“The actress?”
“Yes.”
“And you were with her last night?”
Matthew bristled. “Now look here, Smith—”
Mark put a hand on Matthew’s arm. “No. It’s fine. Our arrangement was not exactly a secret.”
“Was?” Smith’s eyebrows arched.
He nodded at the runner. “Yes. I was there briefly, around midnight. I ended the arrangement. And I asked her to move elsewhere.”
Smith hesitated, glancing down at the paper again, then back up to Mark. “You ended it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mark tried to stand a bit straighter, although his ribs did not approve. “I—she—Miss Ashley has found another protector. I am not interested in sharing her affections.”
“Was the parting amicable?”
Mark’s gut began to ache. He did not like where this conversation was headed. “As reasonably as could be expected. She continued to shout at me as I departed. Her maid could attest to that. The girl and I spoke as I left.”
The runner paused, his mouth tightening. “So Miss Ashley was still alive when you left?”
Oh, dear God. The numbness that had consumed Mark’s mind now spread over his body with a chilled flush. He staggered backward. Matthew grabbed his arm to steady him as Mark whispered. “What do you mean . . . ‘still alive’?”
Smith folded the paper and tucked it away. “Miss Ashley is deceased. Her maid found her body in the back garden this afternoon. She had been strangled.”
*
Monday, 18 July 1814
Hyde Park, London
Half-past three in the afternoon
Judith paused and closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of the sun’s unexpected glory.
Clouds had hung low and heavy over the city earlier in the day, but now the sweet rays from above warmed her through the silk of her golden yellow gown and the soft linen of her chemise.
She had donned tawny-colored boots of fine kid leather, which matched the straw of her bonnet with its yellow ribbons dangling strategically around her face and down her back.
Another gown carefully refurbished by her modiste; the bright color of the silk had been augmented by delicate medallions of green embroidered on the puffed sleeves, around the hem, and on the backs of her matching gloves. She felt as golden as the day.