Chapter Ten #2
The room shone as bright as a summer afternoon, lit by dozens of candelabra and six 120-candle chandeliers.
Guests, expecting the best in fare and décor, wore their finest garb.
Gowns glittered and swayed with frills, metallic embroidery, and gauze.
Men wore kits of bright colors and intricately designed waistcoats, their eyes fashionably ringed with lines of kohl and cheeks dotted with rouge.
Even cravats varied from white into reds, golds, and indigos, all of them tied with the latest in unique knots and secured with jeweled pins.
The wealth of the ton shone—even the dragons and spinsters in their rows of out-of-the-way chairs seemed to shimmer with gems and pearls.
All of Society had gathered to see and be seen.
Judith, too, had arrived in a similar effort.
Her modiste had spent a week refurbishing one of Judith’s favorite and most alluring gowns—rose silk with a gold gauze overlay on the skirt and slits in the sleeves and bodice that allowed glimmers of gold silk to peek through.
The original hem had been trimmed back and replaced with a weighted and ruched gold border.
Gold silk embroidery on her décolletage drew every man’s eyes down, and Judith kept her posture straight, shoulders back.
Her gown—and her dancing, as vigorous as it had been—were means to an end: to locate and draw the attention of the two men whom Edmund had claimed as his friends—and nemeses: Rydell and Sir Rory Campbell, the latter a nephew and presumptive heir of a currently childless duke.
When her rage had first flared earlier in the week, she had craved confrontation and restitution. But as she reviewed her conversations with her stepson over the past few days, her desire had evolved into something else: a need for verification.
Edmund had lied to her for months. What assurance did she have he did not continue to do so?
Judith took another sip, wincing as she glanced down at the yellow swill in her cup. She pressed her lips against the syrupiness and forced a swallow.
“The ratafia is infinitely sweeter, Lady Sculthorpe, but equally as disgusting.”
Judith coughed a laugh, then peered through the branches of the ficus tree to see Lord Anthony Blackwell, one of the more distinguished men of the ton, watching her with curiosity.
Tall and lean with hair the color of platinum, Lord Blackwell and his wife also hosted one of the premier balls of the season and frequently attended the assemblies at Almack’s, although they both circulated through the ton for reasons more political than social.
They knew everyone—and apparently everything.
Judith dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Rather so, my lord. I had hope for the lemonade, but it has proved a disappointment.”
“Much like seeing you lurking behind the decorations.”
Judith grinned. “I needed a respite from dancing. I did not expect so many gentlemen to desire a turn with an ancient widow.”
“Which would not be you, my dear lady. You may be a widow but are far from ancient. And anyone with eyes can see that while you are a lively dancer, you remain most intrigued by the one man who is not doing so this evening. Also that your energetic display on the floor has an ulterior motive.”
Judith stilled and glanced down at her cup. “I am unsure—”
“He is injured. Seriously so.”
She stared at the man. “I beg your pardon.”
A slight smile creased Lord Blackwell’s gently lined face.
“Rydell. That is why he is not dancing. And why he looks like the apocalyptic horse of death. Most of the ton is surprised he is even here. Some altercation in the Rookeries left him with a few broken ribs and bruised innards. While he is much better now, the on dit has been circulating for a couple of days that this is why Bow Street dismissed him in the death of Miss Ashley. He would not at that time have been physically capable of rendering injury to her.” He gave a quick smirk.
“Of course, as is the nature of ton prattle, many are unwilling to pass on such a delectable idea. Yet.”
Judith studied him through the leaves. “Why are you telling me this?”
Lord Blackwell shifted his gaze to the dancers, who were concluding a country dance. “Your late husband and I were good friends.”
“I remember.”
“I admired what he had endured, what he had built, and his ability to increase his fortune and his family after his marriage to you. His father and older brother were not entirely wastrels, but they were distinctly inefficient managers. Your husband turned that estate around through wisdom and care, building a rather impressive legacy. I would hate to see any of that tarnished because of foolish mistakes.”
Judith stepped out from behind the tree to face Blackwell directly. “Apparently the on dit has been rather extensive.”
He gave a single nod. “Apparently. And you are not being given the entire tale.”
Judith’s eyes narrowed as she spotted her next dance partner approaching from the far corner of the room. “How so?”
Lord Blackwell lowered his chin, speaking a bit more intimately.
“You are an intimidating woman, my dear. It is one reason our Edmund cherished you so completely by the end. He trusted your cleverness and your competence. He knew you could manage the estate after his death. But there are those who fear your wrath—and your extraordinary ability to manage your own affairs—should you know all the gruesome details of what has transpired with your estate. This includes your pusillanimous stepson. So you are being misled.” He glanced at Rydell.
“I know you love the young Edmund but look deeper before you make any accusations elsewhere.”
Judith scowled. “How do you know?”
The elder gentlemen smiled kindly. “You are hardly a stoic, my dear. And out of respect for my friendship with your late husband, I would like to see you resolve the issues his heir has stumbled into. For your sake, the sake of your family, and the health of the ton. We have always had rats and mice—minor vermin—in our midst. It does no one a fair turn to invite the weasels to our tables as well.”
Her next partner had almost reached them. “So who should I look to?”
He cut his gaze toward Rydell again. “Despite what the man has claimed, he did not go into the Rookeries merely looking for a row following his disagreement with Miss Ashley. That he took to a boxing ring. But it was at that boxing ring that he discovered information about your stepson that sent him excavating for more information. He has some of the missing pieces you need. Also, I suspect he would enjoy chatting with someone other than his mother this evening.” With that, Lord Blackwell bowed slightly and slipped away.
Judith watched him saunter toward his wife, even as she barely acknowledged her latest partner, a young baronet who had received his title only this past New Year’s.
The na?ve gentleman, a kind sort who still often stumbled on his way to finding his place among the ton, waited patiently.
Judith did not keep him waiting long, despite the turmoil churning within her, a miasma of emotions that tamped and fueled her anger at the same time.
She knew now that her stepson would definitely lie to her without remorse or hesitation.
Something Judith would make sure he would come to regret.
*
Mark watched Lord Blackwell ease his way through the crush of dancers moving onto the floor, gathering for a quadrille.
The statesman had been sequestered with Judith near a potted tree long enough for her face to move through a dozen expressions—surprise, annoyance, suspicion, and curiosity, among others—even as she had repeatedly glanced in Mark’s direction.
She had taken the arm of her newest partner with a continued look of anger, however, and Mark found his gaze slipping from Judith to Blackwell more than once as he studied them both.
Lord Anthony Blackwell had been a privy advisor for King George III and an important voice in Parliament—and he still had the ear of the Prince Regent.
Although well past sixty, his posture remained perfectly straight, his frame trim, and his eyes bright and clear, like an old general with a military bearing and discipline.
The ball he and his wife would host later in the season remained one of the most desired invitations, and the man could squire even the liveliest young women about the floor with ease.
Yet he had not danced with Judith. Instead he had engaged her in a private conversation of obvious import, much has he would a fellow peer on a matter of political significance.
Why?
The unexpected feelings of jealousy that swirled through Mark’s gut as he had watched Judith move from one handsome—and usually young—partner to the next throughout the evening had been eased by her conversation with Blackwell.
Her presence at a Society ball normally meant a light, fun experience on the floor.
But tonight she had danced with a fierce enthusiasm, intimidating most of the men.
Even some of the Society mavens had noticed, dragons who watched her from behind flipping fans, their gazes following her through each set.
What are you up to, dear Judith?
“What are you plotting?” His mother’s low demand came from behind her own fan.
He sniffed. “In case you had not noticed, I am rather incapable of plotting anything at the moment.” He shifted on his chair, trying to give his aching ribs a bit more room. He felt stronger, more able to move about, but the lingering aches were sharper at times than others.
“You do not need to move to plot, and you have done so since you were a child. Observing your brothers and devising some prank or other to embarrass or humiliate them.”
“They should not be so easily embarrassed.”
“They were children. Some still are.”
“So was I.”