Chapter Twelve
Le salon de thé d’Adéla?de, Whitehall
Four in the afternoon
Judith watched as everything about Mark Rydell grew still. His usually expressive face, his often-fidgety fingers, the leg that had been bouncing under the table for the past half hour. His pupils dilated, making his eyes dark and a bit menacing.
But she did not withdraw the question. Instead, as his silence continued, she decided to up the ante.
“Because one hears rumors of many kinds. You, too, returned from war a changed man. You roam at night. You acquired a single mistress, an actress, instead of a string of noble lovers as you did before you served. And now that your mistress has died, you are making plans to move into the house you purchased for her. Alone. With only a few servants.”
Rydell pushed his chair away from the table. “Am I to presume that our business concerning your son has reached its conclusion?” He pushed down on the cane, as if to stand.
Judith took a deep breath, watching his face as she grasped his arm.
The tension of his muscles beneath her palm told her exactly how far she had stepped over the line.
“No. Please stay. I will press no more about anything that does not concern Edmund. But I hope you will listen to my reasons for asking. I will require no answers, if you will only listen.”
After a moment, Rydell scooted his chair back under the table. “I will listen.”
She released his arm, then hesitated as Adelaide poked her head around the door. “Do you need anything, my friends?”
Judith shook her head, and the hostess vanished. She gazed over the display of food, most of which remained untouched. “I am afraid we are wasting this delicious array of treats.”
His face softened. “We have had other concerns.”
“We have indeed.” She pushed her teacup away and faced him.
“After I found out about our loss of funds, I have not trusted Edmund to tell me the complete truth, a skepticism that has proven accurate time and again, including today. I do not understand why he cannot lay all the events out in the open, but he apparently believes I will think him less a fool if I do not realize the extent of his mistakes.” She sniffed.
“Although why he should care about what I think, I do not know.”
“You are his mother.”
She chuckled. “If that is the case, then it is something he should have been concerned about prior to diving into the deep end of his desires. However, since I did not trust him, I have spent my time talking to others. Blackwell. Servants. Guards at other gaming hells—”
Rydell’s mouth twitched. “That must have come as rather a surprise.”
She grinned. “More for them than for me, apparently.”
“No doubt.”
“I went with guineas in my pockets and questions on my lips.”
“And what did you learn?”
“That guineas open many a door and surprises loosen many a tongue.”
“But what did you learn?”
She peered closer at his face, waiting to see his response. “That I was not the only one asking questions about Edmund and his wagers.”
His eyes gleamed but he remained silent.
“I went asking questions about you as the holder of his debts but found you had been there before me, asking questions about Edmund and his debts other than those of your club. And me. I was told that the night Miss Ashley died, you took your grief about her betrayal with Shropshire to the boxing ring, only to discover information about Edmund that sent you into the Rookeries in search of a particular person. A search that”—she gestured up and down at his torso—“led you into a bit of trouble on your own.”
The gleam remained. So did his silence.
“Was it worth it?”
He nodded. “It was.”
“You will not share this with me?”
“It will not be easy to hear.”
“The past few days, I have discovered that my son pays to watch unusual sexual encounters, makes bets the king could not cover about ludicrous things, and believes I am an ogre who could skin him alive. Yet you believe what you have found will be harder for me to absorb?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Possibly.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Edmund is being blackmailed.”
Judith’s chest tightened, and her voice fell to a whisper. “How so?”
“The holder of several of his debts, one Vincent Atkinson, convinced Edmund they could be resolved if he ‘procured’ a particular item from Devonshire.”
Judith breath caught. “The vase.”
Rydell nodded. “The vase.”
Judith put a hand over her mouth as she fought to catch her breath.
This was indeed worse.
Tears stung her eyes. All the ton knew about the disappearance of a Wedgewood vase from the Duke of Devonshire’s collection.
Reportedly the design of Joseph Flaxman, the priceless vase had been a cherished part of the duke’s family heirlooms. It had vanished after a grand ball and had been the talk of the Beau Monde ever since.
Rumors had flown that it had been stolen by someone close to Devonshire, despite the ton’s obvious preference it be a servant or other underling, which had been the first assumption.
Even the mere suspicion that the thief came from within their own ranks had horrified the ton.
Such a thief, if caught, would face dire consequences for himself and his family, socially if not legally.
“Do you think Edmund truly stole it?”
Mark stilled, on finger tracing along the edge of his saucer.
“So you do not.”
His eyes narrowed. “Atkinson has intimated that he has it. He has also hinted that he has resolved your stepson’s debt to him.”
“However . . .”
“He is demanding more money from Edmund, ransom money, if you will, or Atkinson will spread the word among the ton that Edmund is the thief. But I believe he is holding something else over Edmund’s head, although I am not sure what that is.
Whatever it is, Edmund has acquiesced because of it.
Atkinson has a go-between who is gathering the money and delivering it. ”
She lowered her hand as the news settled in her mind alongside all the other shocks about her son.
“So no matter whether Edmund is guilty, Atkinson has set it so that he will appear so, the truth be damned.” A realization settled over her and she stared at Mark.
“This is why you went into the Rookeries.”
“I wanted to verify the rumor. The go-between is a young man who lives there. He collects the money and delivers it to Atkinson.”
“Delivers it where?”
“Atkinson is the owner of a small and exclusive but profitable club in Bloomsbury.”
“You have been there.”
“Many times. I consider him a competitor.”
“So it would be in your interest to help me destroy him.”
Rydell gave a low laugh. “I would be most interested in seeing you try, although I’m not sure that’s possible. His clientele includes some of the most elite of the aristocracy.”
She nodded, resolve settling over her. “You provide me with a list of that clientele, and I will do the rest.”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I will send over a list tomorrow.”
Judith closed her fingers around his, squeezing gently, loving the feel of his skin against hers. “Meanwhile, I will plot. And I dearly wish an audience with your mother.”
*
Tuesday, 26 July 1814
Embleton House
Ten in the morning
Mark rested amidst his nest of pillows, his eyes on the dying fire opposite, his mind on Judith—and his family. The last five days had been a whirlwind.
Against all odds, his brother Matthew had found a bride, a dowager countess who had agreed to a marriage of convenience that would benefit them both.
He had met her on the previous Saturday and squired her around the park the next day.
On Monday, yesterday, Mark and Phyllida had met the lady—one Sarah Ainsworth, Lady Creswell—and today the three Rydells would be escorting her to the park yet again, a show of familial solidarity for the sudden betrothal.
And tonight, he and Matthew were to meet with yet another Bow Street Runner, this time about Sarah’s relative, her late husband’s heir, a nefarious man with a cruel and avaricious reputation.
Mark despised him already.
He took a deep breath, contemplating the coming day.
His ribs ached and his muscles remained sore and stiff, despite a continued improvement, and sometimes a sudden movement reminded him that his insides had not fully recovered from their pummeling either.
He glanced at the bottle of laudanum on his dressing table, the temptation tugging at him.
The willow bark tea continued to give him some relief from the pain, but he had not been able to rest as he should.
Sleep, even with nightmares, could prove beneficial at this stage.
Yet he dared not. He needed to keep his senses alert. It would not do to be seen stumbling about in the park as if he were a drunkard, much less meet with a runner. And he had far too much to do to laze about abed. Yet here he lay, annoyed. At himself. At his circumstances. At the world in general.
Mark shifted under the covers, trying to stretch his legs.
He had achieved a few tasks this morning.
After breakfast in his room and using the bed tray for a desk, he had made the list of Atkinson’s clientele for Judith and sent it over by messenger.
He had sent for Clara, meeting with her—with Howe standing in the open door as chaperone—about the progress on the Bloomsbury house.
He had been impressed with the preciseness of her information, and he sent her on her way with more money and instructions.
He had also sent Howe to the jewelers with the bag from Stella’s room for an appraisal.
So the morning had not been a complete waste.
Mark made circles with his feet under the covers, virtually the only parts of his body that did not ache when moved.
His restlessness made him itch to be up and moving, pain be damned.
He craved seeing Judith again, and his fingers curled, remembering the way she had squeezed his hand the day before and the strength in her arm when she had grasped his, urging him to stay seated.
His mind went over her every expression, including the one of shock when he spoke of the blackmail, followed by the determined resolve that turned her face hard and her eyes narrow.
It was as if each minute element of her being had entranced him.
Bloody hell, how he wanted her! His loins tightened as his eyes drifted shut, his mind creating a vision of his hands in her hair, pulling her closer, his lips on hers. Not that his body would cooperate with such a move at the moment . . .
Which is why Mark looked at the laudanum bottle again. Perhaps a small dose—
A rap on his door brought him back to earth, and he let out a sigh. “Enter.”
Howe opened the door, a rare smile on his ruddy face.
He had the bag of jewels tucked under one arm and held out a paper to Mark.
“Twice what you expected, my lord. Mr. Kingston was pleased but not surprised to see them.” The smile faded and a lock of ginger-colored hair fell over the man’s forehead.
“Apparently, he had heard about Miss Ashley’s unfortunate demise. ”
Mark glanced at the offer. “Apparently, the entirety of London has heard about Miss Ashley’s ‘unfortunate demise.’” He handed the paper back.
“Good. Tuck it and the bag away somewhere in the dressing room—obviously not out in the open. I’ll take it to the shop in a few days.
” He then gestured to the dressing table with one hand.
“And take that blasted laudanum away before I drink it in my sleep. Hide it so that I do not have to look at it all the time.” He took a deep breath.
“You know Matthew wants me to join him and Mother on this absurd excursion to the park this afternoon?”
Howe pushed back the lock of hair and nodded.
“I wish to write a few letters before you have to drag my ass out of bed for dressing.” He pointed to the bed tray, now sitting on the bench at the end of his bed. “Hand me that, along with quill, ink, and foolscap from the escritoire.”
“Of course, sir.” Howe disappeared into the dressing room a moment, then returned and fetched the items Mark had requested, placing them on tray.
Helping Mark into a more upright position, he settled the tray across Mark’s lap, then scooped the laudanum into his palm. “Would you like anything to eat?”
Mark shook his head. “If I continue to lay about like some wounded pigeon I will be as fat and useless as one before long.”
Howe sputtered, glancing down at his own somewhat rounded form. “My-my lord, I do not think—”
Mark chuckled at the suddenly red-faced valet.
“It is not the weight, Howe. It happens to most men sooner or later. Even Matthew is beginning to acquire a bit of a belly, and I am sure someday I will be as round as a king. Until then, I am merely cheap. I do not wish to have a whole new wardrobe made.”
“Ah.” Howe pointed at the door. “I-I should go.”
“Please do. Return at two so that I can get dressed for this bloody outing.”
Nodding, Howe left, and Mark began to write his first letter, to his business partner, Sir Rory Campbell.
If Judith planned to declare war on some of the ton’s gentlemen, Rory needed to be forewarned.
Because Mark had little doubt that whatever Judith intended, a lot of their own clients would be impacted as well.