Chapter Eleven
Storey’s Gate, Whitehall
Quarter past three in the afternoon
Judith paced before the stolid and plain block building of Storey’s Gate, praying that Rydell would show soon and that her temper would have calmed enough by the time he arrived that she did not box his ears as if he were an errant child.
Because she dearly wanted to. And not merely because he had kept her waiting, although that annoyed her to the bone.
His delay had left her to endure the obnoxious chattering of dozens of birds, all caged and in the trees lining the avenue leading from the gate.
Most of the ton considered the birds to be a visual and auditory delight.
Judith thought it cruel to keep such lovely creatures caged, and she regretted choosing the meeting spot from the moment she stepped from the Sculthorpe carriage and dismissed the driver.
She had only been thinking of the tearoom, where they could have a bit of seclusion without actually being in private with each other.
A quiet place but one with lovely people around. People she actually trusted.
Because she did not trust herself to be alone with Mark Rydell behind a closed door.
The very concept sent her mind toward thoughts of silk stockings and bare thighs, firm hands and promises of far more pleasurable activities—all when she should be focused on rectifying her family’s plunge toward financial ruin.
Another reason to box his ears. During yesterday’s chat with the rector, Edmund had gone into more detail about Rydell’s involvement, laying blame directly on him for some of the worst investments.
Edmund had spoken of this before in more general terms, but yesterday he had provided more details—details that made sense—and included a scheme involving a gaming hell, fixed fights, and a web of outrageous bets.
The deeper and more convoluted this became, the more Judith understood Edmund’s desperation, the unrelenting panic of a young man in over his head with older men primed to take advantage of his youth, his money, and his status.
She did not need to be thinking about Rydell’s kisses. Or the firm stroke of his hand on her thigh.
A clattering of wheels on stone interrupted her musing, and she turned to see the Embleton ducal carriage approach, the family crest a glimmer of gold on the door.
It stopped next to her and a footman descended to open the door and lower the steps.
But Rydell did not emerge. He remained still, his shadowed form backlit by the windows on the other side of the vehicle as he spoke.
“Is there any reason we cannot ride to this tearoom of yours?”
She crossed her arms, her reticule bouncing against her stomach. “Other than I would prefer not to be alone with you in a carriage?”
His head bowed and he chuckled. “I assure you the entire ton knows that I am incapable of anything untoward at the moment.”
They stared at each other a moment, then Judith sighed and gave the direction to the driver. The footman helped her inside, folded the steps, and closed the door. Once she had settled on the seat opposite him, Rydell rapped with his cane on the roof, and the carriage moved forward.
“Your injuries are the only reason I have not heaped bodily harm upon you.”
He fought a smile, his hands twisting the cane against one palm. “I surmised as such. You have had a rather nasty shock.”
“For which you are partly responsible.”
He dipped his head. “I will admit to playing a part, although probably not as large a one as your stepson may have implied.”
“Do you or do you not have part ownership of a gambling hell called At Wheel’s End? A rather nonsensical name, I might add.”
He stilled. “Recently acquired, yes. And it refers to the Wheel of Fortune. Rota Fortunae.”
“Apropos. How recent?”
“A bit over three weeks ago. Just before”—he gestured toward his torso—“this. A few days before Miss Ashley’s murder.”
A wave of annoyed confusion settled over Judith, making her head ache. Only three weeks? But Edmund had declared . . . “This is provable?”
He gave a single nod. “There are records of the transactions. The partial purchase of the gaming hell is an investment to help out an old friend.”
“Sir Rory Campbell.”
His eyebrows arched. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Sir Rory is set to inherit a title, money, and a rather large estate from his uncle. He wishes to divest himself of some of his less reputable properties before that happens. He foolishly desires to find a wife among the waifs of the Beau Monde and believes becoming more respectable will help those efforts as well as his position in Society as his uncle’s heir.
Eventually, I will buy him out completely. ”
“Because you are less concerned with reputation.”
“I believe we have established that much already.”
“And where did you get the money? You are a second son. I know your family is generous, but I cannot see your mother—or your brother, for that matter—approving such a thing enough to fund it.”
“I have my own sources of income.”
“Such as?”
He shifted uncomfortably as the carriage drew to a halt. “I believe, madam, that we are here to discuss your stepson’s lack of fortune. Not the acquisition of my own.”
Rotter. Judith really did want to box his ears. “As they are entwined with yours to his detriment, I find all related topics up for discussion. Do you or do you not hold most of his vowels? His debts? Have you not, in fact, called those debts to account, escalating his situation and desperation?”
The door opened, and they fell silent. After a frozen moment, Judith moved to exit, accepting the footman’s arm. She stepped away on the pavement, turned . . . and her breath caught.
Mark Rydell’s lips were almost as pale as his face, and fine beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Both footmen moved forward to help him down, and he leaned heavily on each until he could regain his balance.
He walked a bit easier than he had at the ball, but his progress remained slow and calculated, with a great deal of weight on the cane.
His mouth twisted into a smirk as he caught her expression.
“As I said, I am not capable of anything untoward.”
“You looked more healed at the ball.”
“I am progressing. But it has been a rather eventful three days, and I may have overestimated the level of my recovery.”
Judith paused as the footmen remounted and the carriage lumbered away. “Then you have not rested as someone in your condition should have?”
He held one arm wide, even as he braced on the cane with the other. “The life of a rake is never dull.” He looked up at the brick-and-timber building before them, his eyes lingering on the name stenciled on a curtained window next to the door: Le salon de thé d’Adéla?de. “Who is Adelaide?”
“You will see.” Judith suddenly ached to inquire whether he were truly up to this meeting, then decided that he would not have come if he could not manage it. And she thought he wanted answers from her almost as much as she did from him.
Rydell opened the door and held it for her.
She entered, pausing inside to inhale the delicious aromas of pastries, teas, and seasoned meats, and to let her eyes adjust to the dimly lit room.
Judith adored this establishment, with its low, heavily beamed ceiling, small tables, and ambiance of feminine rebellion.
Rydell closed the door behind him. “It does smell heavenly. And not at all like the normal ladies’ tearoom. More like a pub for women.”
“Wait till you taste her clotted cream.”
“Lady Sculthorpe! My darling Judith!” Adelaide’s clear alto echoed through the room as she approached, the shawl draped around her arms and tucked underneath her elbows flowing and weaving as much as her voluminous, multicolored skirts did as she made her way through the tables of customers.
Judith heard Rydell chuckle as Adelaide, her wild red tresses of hair ebbing and flowing about her head, engulfed Judith in a hug.
“My darling lady, it has been too long. I was so thrilled when I received your message. And this is the gentleman you referenced?”
“It is.”
Adelaide gave Rydell a quick study, head to toe. “Well, he is much more handsome—and older—than I imagined, although he does look as if he has spent far too much time in the boxing salons.” She turned and motioned for them to follow. “I have saved the best table for you, ma chérie. Come.”
They did, moving through the small tearoom, whose customers—unlike those at Gunter’s—kept their eyes on their own teacups and their voices low.
Women with women, women with men not their husbands, men with men.
A community of secrets. Adelaide led Mark and Judith to the back of the central room, then down a short hallway to an alcove with one table and four chairs.
A fine linen cloth covered the tabletop, and two formal place settings lay waiting for an afternoon tea.
Although no door closed off the entryway, the privacy of the space impressed Judith.
Only one other alcove branched from the small hallway, currently empty.
“Please sit. I will bring sustenance.” Adelaide bustled out of the room, muttering to herself.
Rydell waited for Judith to sit, then slowly eased down onto a chair facing the door, bracing on his cane and the back of the chair. “The lady is definitely not of the Beau Monde.”