Chapter Ten #3
“You were never truly a child. I swear you arrived on the planet with a plot and a prank in mind, even as you had a thumb in your mouth.”
“Timothy will reach his majority in six months, and he has been at school since he turned twelve. He is hardly a child.”
“Scarcely my point—”
“You reared my brothers.”
Phyllida gave a low growl. “My point is that your mind never ceases plotting about something. You watch and you plot.”
Mark glanced at his mother. “Apparently, I am not the only one who watches and plots.”
“I am a matron of the ton. That is my right.”
He nodded at Lady Sculthorpe. “Something is going on with Judith.”
“You mean other than that her stepson is in the process of bankrupting the family? And please do not use her Christian name with me. The implication disturbs me to no end.”
“So you have heard?”
Phyllida huffed. “Of course, I have. I suspect most of the ton will have heard by now. So, from the look of her tonight, has your precious Jud—Lady Sculthorpe—despite the machinations of the earl to keep the information from her. Neither that blundering fool nor his shrew of a wife have been very discreet otherwise. And the implications of what he has been up to have been rather horrendous. I suspect that is why Lord Blackwell cornered Lady Sculthorpe. To warn her of the social, governmental, and financial ramifications if the situation is not resolved. The ruin of one family is not without much wider consequences.” Phyllida lowered her fan.
“You do know that your name has been bandied about.”
Mark studied Judith as she whirled through a quadrille, the dance reminding him of how she had felt as his partner. Confident. Sensuous. Alluring. The feel of her skin . . .
His loins tightened.
Damn it. He shifted again. “I do, although the on dit about it has apparently been tempered by a murder accusation.”
“You will be the death of me.”
“True. But not for many more years, during which you can continue to torment me to your great pleasure.”
“Not if you move into that brothel.”
Mark stilled for a moment, unsure of precisely to which brothel his mother referred. “Mother, I do not think—”
She waved a hand. “Oh, I know it was just the one, and she’s gone and you own the house outright, but I still think—”
Ah. That brothel. “Mother, one mistress does not a brothel make.”
Another wave. “It is the profession, not the location.”
“Her profession was acting.”
“And you, of course, paid her for her ‘acting’ talents.”
Mark’s teeth clinched. He had to extract himself from this conversation before he added to the gossip already surrounding his family. “I believe you need a beverage.”
Phyllida glared at him. “I most certainly do not—”
He pushed up on his cane. “I shall retrieve one for you.”
“Now, just a moment—”
Mark did not wait. As much as he relished bantering with his mother—and he knew she did with him also—his mood had soured as the evening had brought little relief from her sniping and Judith’s indulgent dancing with other men.
Young men.
The quadrille had ended, and the first notes signaled the beginning of a reel as the dancers milled and mingled. Judith had dismissed her latest partner with a quick curtsy before retreating back to the tree, new cup in hand.
Annoyance tugged at Mark’s mind as he circumvented the dancers, his cane thumping on the floor.
He had not been jealous of a woman since .
. . well, never. Jealousy simply did not play a part in his dealings with fairer sex.
If a woman preferred another’s company to his, he wished her well and turned his interest elsewhere.
Prior to following Matthew to the Peninsula, more than a few women had sought him out, some still did—he had no lack of interested partners.
Any jealousy had stemmed from the ladies, yet another reason why his arrangement with Stella had made sense.
He cared not for the dramatic antics of the ton’s women.
So it made no sense for one he barely knew to stir this unexpected feeling of .
. . what? Ownership definitely did not describe it—no man on this planet could ever claim such a thing of Judith Lovelace, Lady Sculthorpe.
And without even investigating it, Mark knew any man who tried would risk life and limb.
Which he might be doing even at this moment, approaching her from the other side of her tree.
But as he did so, Judith seemed inordinately fixated on the cup of lemonade clutched in her hand, as if the beverage held the answers of all the world’s ills.
“Champagne”—Judith jumped, and Mark lowered his tone—“might be of more solace.”
Her scowl deepened. “Why are men so fascinated by what I am drinking?”
“Perhaps if you were not studying that cup as if it contained the Elixir of Life.”
“Hmph. Believe me, immortality is the last thing I would desire at the moment.”
“Perhaps you might tell me what it is you do de—”
She glared through the branches. “Did you truly push my son into bankruptcy?”
Mark stared, blinking at her. Definitely not the greeting he had expected. Especially after their last encounter at the theater. “I do not think that—”
“It is a rather simple question, my lord. A yes or no should do nicely.”
Mark studied her a moment, then allowed his tone to match her own. “May we speak without the bloody tree between us?”
Her chin rose and those emerald eyes flashed. Then she set the lemonade down in the tree’s pot, stepped from behind it, and faced him. “Is this to your satisfaction, my lord?”
Mark shifted, trying to ease some of the discomfort in his chest, and winced. Judith’s face mirrored the wince for a moment, then hardened again, even as her voice softened. “Would it not be better for you to sit?”
“In a moment. For me to sit next to you would create more difficulties for me than the pain is.”
Her mouth jerked. “Your mother still has no fondness for me?”
“A generous way of putting it, but you are correct.”
“Then we should conclude this as rapidly as possible so you can return to her side. Please answer my question. Are you the one pushing my family toward the brink of ruin? It is what I have been told.”
Mark hesitated, his mind roiling through a half dozen answers, all of which would lead to more questions than could be answered on a dance floor. “I suspect Edmund has also led you to believe the situation is more simplistic than it actually is.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No. It is not. The only person truly responsible for the current predicament is Edmund himself. But there are others involved whose advice to him has been less than well intentioned.”
“Does that include you?”
“Not precisely. What did Lord Blackwell tell you?”
“That I should speak with you. However little good that is doing at the moment.”
“Does that not convince you that this is not a simple situation?”
Judith let out a long sigh and clutched her hands together in front of her, as if she were trying to avoid hitting him. “Not since you are talking in circles.”
“May I call on you?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“A lot of elements are at play, more than I can detail on a Society dance floor, some of which I only discovered recently myself. And I greatly desire that you understand everything fully. May I call on you at a time when Edmund will not be in the house?”
Recognition seemed to register in her eyes, and Judith glanced around. Yet another young man approached from the far side of the room, and Mark resisted emitting a low snarl.
She straightened her shoulders. “I would suggest neutral territory.”
Probably a good idea, especially if she truly wishes to hit me. “Any suggestions?”
She looked him up and down as if evaluating a lame horse. “I suspect you are not up for a stroll in the park.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Hardly.”
“Storey’s Gate. St. James.”
“Still a park.”
Her mouth twisted. “Meet me there. There is a tearoom down the street, suitable for women but without the gossipy crowds of Gunter’s. They have some private alcoves for quieter discussions.”
“And you believe that you and I could have a quiet discussion in an alcove?”
Her eyes suddenly gleamed. “I believe, sir, that we already have.”
Mark coughed a laugh, grimacing as yet a new ache arced through his chest. “Humor is not currently good for my health.”
“Then we will focus on the truth instead. Meet me there Monday. At three. We will need tomorrow to recover, and the tearoom is not open on Sunday. Besides, I plan to have Edmund at St. George’s on Sunday, for service and a chat with the rector.
” With that, she turned to the approaching young man and accepted his arm.
This time, Mark did snarl as the couple eased through the crowd. They paused briefly as another man approached Judith, motioning at her dance card. She shook her head, her arm to her side, and the man moved away.
Mark’s scowl deepened, but this time he was puzzled. The gentleman she had refused compared admirably to her other dance partners of the evening. Handsome, well-bred and well-known, and—as usual—young. So why would she . . .
Married. This one was married. Newly so.
Mark stood a little straighter. Most of the ton suspected that Judith took lovers—not exactly scandalous, as she was a widow in her prime.
So having a man, any man, request a dance should not be unusual.
Mark’s gaze moved from Judith to her previous partner.
Then another. And another. All of them, to a man, had two things in common.
Their youth . . . and none were courting or married.
Not one had made an attachment this season.
A smile worked its way across Mark’s face. His ebullient “wanton harlot” had a distinctive moral streak to her character. Unmarried men. St. George’s. “So, dear Judith,” he muttered, “what will your reaction be when hearing exactly how far off the mark Edmund has strayed?”