Chapter Six #2
Judith had left the curricle to stroll along the Serpentine, soaking in the summer beauty of the park.
In the height of the season, depending on the path chosen, a stroll could mean either the overwhelming fragrances of flowers or the scents of horses, trampled grass, and dust. Slow, soft breezes brought along the laughter of children or calls of friends.
Judith smiled at the knots of children racing back and forth between their nannies and the water’s edge, where ducks and geese gathered, begging to be fed.
“Do you think Nanny brings William and Robbie to see the birds?”
Epworth, stepping closer to stroll at her side, nodded. “I believe she brings William quite often. Robbie, less so now that Mr. Thompson is preparing him for Eton.”
Judith sighed, whispering, “Too soon.”
“Mr. Thompson does say that both Master Robert and Master George are exceptional in their studies. Scholarly even.”
“I do hope so. I hope there is something out there for them that is not the church or military service.”
“Both are honorable professions.”
“True, but I wish we could—”
“Good afternoon, Lady Sculthorpe!”
Judith turned, and Epworth took four discreet steps behind her, gaze pointed to the ground.
Epworth might take liberties with her—which Judith allowed and even relied on—when they were alone.
Neither would ever reveal such a thing in public.
Judith’s eyes widened as her fair-haired lover, Lord Peregrine Gower, approached with a frail slip of a girl at his side.
A chaperone—not a maid, most likely a sister or cousin, given her garb—followed a few steps behind them, lips pursed so tightly she looked as if she were about to break into a whistling contest with the birds.
The wan beauty next to Perry seemed familiar, however, and Judith greeted them with a smile and a nod.
This was hardly the first time she had unexpectedly encountered Perry in public.
“Lord Peregrine. How pleasant to see you! You are looking well today.” Indeed, with his height—well over six feet—and his silk indigo frock coat and top hat, rouged cheeks and kohl-lined eyes, he made quite the luminous sight in the afternoon sun.
“I believe we last saw each other at the Huntingdale ball.” Ah, that was it.
The girl had been at the ball. Had danced with Perry .
. . and Mark. Judith blinked, turning her attention to the sour-faced miss, whose light-blue frock, slight frame, and pale complexion rendered her almost invisible next to the preening Perry.
Even her hair seemed . . . fragile. As if the wrong turn of her head would cause it to shatter.
She clutched her reticule in front of her with both hands, as if terrified the thing would jerk from her grip and skitter away.
Judith’s eyebrows arched in anticipation.
Perry leapt into the gap. “Lady Sculthorpe, may I present Lady Carys Morgan.”
Judith smiled at the girl, who could not have been more than seventeen. “Lady Carys. I believe I saw you at the Huntingdale ball as well.”
Lady Carys gave a sharp nod and quick curtsy, then looked up at Perry as she nudged him.
Perry jumped as if the child’s elbow were as sharp as the collarbones protruding from her neckline. “Ah, yes. That is, in fact, where I met Lady Carys. Lord Mark Rydell introduced us. She is a superb dancer.”
Lord Mark’s opinion to the contrary . . . Judith swallowed a laugh. “I see. And you are already . . . walking out? In the park?” Do not say it. Do not say it.
A blush started at the top of his cravat, spreading rapidly, a clear recognition of her implication.
A young man did not stroll with a young woman in Hyde Park, even with a chaperone, if he did not have serious intentions toward her.
Intentions already known to her family. “I—um—I know this may seem very unexpected. Very . . . sudden.”
Judith gave a dismissive wave. “Not at all. Happens all the time. You meet someone, and you know immediately you will be suited to marry and spend the rest of your life together, forsaking all others.”
Epworth had a sudden coughing fit.
The blush turned blotchy, and Perry tugged at his cravat. “Yes, well, I—um—”
Judith turned a blazing smile on Lady Carys. “Congratulations, my dear, on a successful and beneficial debut season. Lord Peregrine is a fine young man.”
For the first time, the sour expression eased but her words were barely audible. “Thank you, Lady Sculthorpe.”
Judith looked up at Perry. “I most sincerely wish you both all happiness, Lord Peregrine.”
He let out a sigh, and his color almost returned to normal. “I appreciate that, Lady Sculthorpe.”
“I do hope you enjoy your stroll. I will leave you to it.” Judith turned, motioned to Epworth, and resumed her walk. After a few moments, Judith sniffed. “Geese. I really should bring William to see the geese.”
Epworth barked a laugh, then cleared her throat. “He’ll be back.”
Judith shook her head. “The man is simple but not even he is that daft. Infidelity may run rampant through the ton, but that does not mean I condone it. And he knows that.” She paused.
“I do feel sorry for her, though. He will be on the hunt for a mistress within the year, as soon as he is guaranteed an heir.” Judith turned her steps back toward the gravel path of Rotten Row, where they had left the curricle.
“I am starving. One more circuit and I will be in desperate need of an early supper.”
Epworth readily agreed and fell into step, although slightly behind Judith as they approached numerous groups of the Beau Monde out to see and be seen.
Judith knew most, greeting a few by name and nodding in deference to those of a higher rank.
She had been Countess Sculthorpe for almost twenty years, dowager for the past few months.
Most of the ton knew her by sight, as she had been in frequent attendance at Society events since she had come out of mourning, slowly slipping into the role of one of the ton’s dragons—one of those women who held power behind the scenes of the aristocracy.
She had been instrumental in Edmund’s courtship of Margaret—she had secured a voucher for one set at Almack’s for Edmund last year and had influenced two of the patronesses to offer one to Margaret and her mother as well.
One waltz and one quadrille later, both had been smitten.
Judith herself did not attend Almack’s much anymore, but she knew all the players and who to discuss with whom.
Those two patronesses, Lady Jersey and Lady Cowper, in the company of a third woman Judith knew well—Lady Blackwell—approached her now. They looked at her closely, then exchanged glances. They looked again. More glances.
Something was amiss.
Judith resisted the urge to check her gown to see if some untoward stain had appeared. She knew better—Epworth would have raised an immediate alarm if anything about her appearance had gone awry.
Instead, as they grew closer, she heard Lady Cowper’s whispered concern. “We should tell her!”
Judith slowed her steps, dipping her head, determined to let her friends take the lead. “Lady Cowper. Lady Jersey. Lady Blackwell. I hope you are having a pleasant outing today. It is a lovely afternoon.”
“It is indeed.” Lady Blackwell’s expression tightened, although her voice remained calm, friendly.
More glances.
Judith let out a long sigh. “Apparently, you three ladies are only adept at keeping secrets from the gentlemen of the ton. Pray tell me, what is your concern?”
Lady Cowper’s shoulders dropped a scant inch, even as Lady Jersey stiffened, as if facing the guillotine. She pursed her lips, as Lady Cowper leaned closer to Judith. “Because you are our friend.”
Definitely serious.
“Then I am grateful.” Judith waited.
Lady Jersey gave a single nod and squared her shoulders. “Would you consider yourself ‘a certain fair widow of renown’?”
Judith stared at her. “I beg your pardon. A what?”
Lady Blackwell stepped closer. “Has anyone in your acquaintance referred to you as ‘a certain fair widow of renown’?”
Judith scowled, confusion clouding her. “I do not think—I am not—”
Epworth cleared her throat, and Judith looked around at her. She mouthed, “The earl.”
Judith’s eyes snapped wide as she recalled the night. They had been in the withdrawing room after a congenial dinner with friends of Edmund. Two other couples. Playing cards. And he had teasingly called her . . . “my stepmother, a certain fair widow of renown.”
The phrase had made its way through the servants to Epworth before the final hand of cards.
Judith looked back at her friends. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”
More glances. “Do you know that the gentlemen keep a wager book at White’s?”
Judith nodded. “This is a well-known fact, however much the gentlemen liked to think it a surreptitious item.”
Lady Jersey looked around, as if searching for eavesdroppers. “We have it on good authority that a new wager has been placed in the book, concerning”—she cleared her throat—“Lord Mark Rydell and ‘a certain fair widow of renown.’”
Oh, dear God.
“Of course,” Lady Blackwell put in, “they would never include a lady’s name. It would be too scandalous and dishonorable. But apparently a good many people believe it refers to you.”
Of course they do.
Lady Cowper looked a bit chagrined, an unusual look for the patroness. “Surely, the earl would not—”
Judith sighed. “I would not bet on that. Edmund likes to gamble. And for some reason, he would like to see me involved with Lord Mark Rydell.”
The three looked startled, and Lady Cowper’s usual haughtiness returned in force. “Then let us hope he abandons that idea and quickly.”
Odd. “I realize Lord Mark is somewhat notorious—”
“Notorious?” Lady Jersey’s exclamation abandoned the pretense of secrecy. “Now we hear he is also a murderer. That he has killed his mistress!”