Chapter Thirteen
Sculthorpe Manor, London
Half-past ten in the morning
Do I have the right to ruin a man’s family—or many families—just because he tried to ruin mine?
The question had haunted Judith since her meeting with Lord Mark Rydell. Now she stared at the stack of missives on her escritoire, dozens of letters, sealed and waiting for her scheme to take flight.
Yet she had not sent them. And something deep inside told her not to.
For the hundredth time, she fingered the list from Mark.
Atkinson’s clientele. Each and every one of the men was nefarious, and she had spent the past few days gathering proof of their outrageous peccadillos, proof that would keep their wives on edge and the ton’s gossips busy as bees.
Proof that had been carefully locked away in her escritoire, in a drawer that now felt like Pandora’s box.
Did she dare open it?
At first, blackmail for blackmail had seemed the easiest way to ruin Atkinson, to resolve his hold on Edmund.
Convince his clientele to abandon the club.
Bankrupt the man. It had taken so little—a few quid and a sweet smile, in most cases—to persuade servants, merchants, and paramours to give up details that could shatter reputations and spread scandal.
How fragile we all are . . .
She had known corruption and more than a little depravity ran rampant through the Beau Monde, but she had not realized the widespread nature or depth of it.
And Edmund was hardly the only one Atkinson held at ransom.
He had convinced at least two others that he would ruin them with tales of the stolen vase should they not pay him.
Between them, they were paying Atkinson a king’s fortune.
Four days. That’s all it had taken to gather her own material for blackmail. But now Judith’s very soul twisted with the idea.
There has to be another way.
Her mind settled, Judith stood, scooped up the letters, and dropped them onto the fireplace grate, where they landed with a whispery whomp before crisping as the flames licked at them, curling the edges and tingeing them brown. She watched them burn, an odd peace easing over her.
Judith pivoted and headed downstairs, finding Edmund in his study, his focus on one of the estate ledgers. He looked up, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrow. “What do you want now, Mother?”
She dropped into an armchair in front of his desk. “Tell me about Vincent Atkinson.”
His jaw went slack.
Judith sighed. “Have you not yet realized there is little that goes on among the ton that I do not eventually get word about? I was countess for almost twenty years. Everyone knows me. Most trust me. And anyone with a tale they can’t keep to themselves seeks me out.
You were only able to keep your errant ways a secret for so long because I was not paying attention.
Stop being so surprised by this. And, for god’s sake, stop trying to hide anything from me. Now. Did you steal that vase?”
Edmund stared at her, eyes wide.
“Yes or no. It is not a complicated question.”
He swallowed hard. “No. I wasn’t even at Devonshire’s ball when it went missing.”
“So why does Atkinson believe he can substitute your debts with extortion?”
Looking down at the ledger, Edmund fingered the quill. “I have no proof I was somewhere else.”
“Where were you?”
He remained silent, his eyes on the numbers in front of him.
“A brothel.”
A nod.
“Watching women.”
Edmund hesitated, continuing to stare at the page. “Yes and no.”
Judith blinked as the implication sank in. Mark Rydell had said, “watching,” but had not been specific. “Watching but not women.”
A single, brief nod as color left his cheeks.
As Rydell had said. “This is the hold he has on you. Two-fold. You cannot tell Bow Street about the vase because of the second part. You pay him or he lets everyone know you stole the vase and prefer men. You might survive one but not both.”
“I love Margaret.” His words came on a bare whisper.
“I’m sure you do.”
“She is with child.”
“I know many women like her.”
Edmund finally looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Judith’s heart softened, aching for this son. “She is hardly the only woman who will have children with a man who prefers . . . others. Does she know?”
He shook his head.
“Watching would be scandalous but not illegal. Have you broken the law?”
He shook his head.
“Where did these visits take place?”
He named an establishment unfamiliar to her, but she knew she would never forget the name.
“Does Atkinson have actual proof of your visits to this ‘salon’?”
“No.”
“Are you willing to tell Bow Street about the vase?”
“Mother, I cannot. If I do, Atkinson will tell them about . . .” He focused on his fingers again.
“The men.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you not let me take care of that part?”
He looked up, his eyes filled with confusion. “How—I mean, you cannot—”
“Do you trust me?”
Edmund hesitated.
“Have I ever failed you before when you needed my help?”
“No.”
Judith gave a quick nod and stood. “Do not pay him again. When that young man from the Rookeries returns, have the servants bring him to me.”
Edmund’s mouth fell loose again.
She strode to the door but glanced back at him. “One day, you will learn. Dragons rule the world.”
*
Monday, 1 August 1814
Embleton House
One in the afternoon
Mark glanced around his bedchamber—his former bedchamber—more as a final farewell than to see if he had forgotten anything.
“Shipshape and Bristol fashion” had been Howe’s pronouncement earlier that morning, as the last of the trunks and crates had been hauled down the backstairs and loaded onto the wagon waiting in the rear courtyard.
The phrase amused Mark, as the young and rotund Howe had never been near a naval ship in any of his few years on the planet.
But his meticulous valet had been correct.
Even the mattress on the bed where Mark had slept since childhood had been curled away from the edges, awaiting a good thrumming as the staff prepared to turn this room into a space for guests.
The Bloomsbury house too had been declared ready for its new occupant the day before—most of the repairs complete and staff in place.
Howe would double as butler for the time being, and the new cook and housemaid were working well with Clara.
Mark had waited until after Matthew’s marriage to Sarah—which had taken place the previous Saturday—to announce the move to his mother, although it had never been exactly a secret to her or anyone else in the household.
The wedding preparations had provided some cover and explanations for all the activity of packing, but the now-dowager duchess, Phyllida, Lady Embleton, had never been blind or deaf to her children.
She had become even more aware since, after his unfortunate encounter in the Rookeries, attempts to conceal his ongoing nightmares had been abandoned.
And Mark had become increasingly exasperated at how the entire household stared at him come the dawn.
Mark tapped his cane on the floor. He no longer relied on it—he had certainly been well enough to stand beside Matthew as best man in his polished and pressed military regalia—but found he’d grown accustomed to having it handy.
He took a deep breath, then turned, closed the door, and headed down the front stairs to one final luncheon with his family.
Yet he stopped in the doorframe, his gaze taking in the almost vacant space.
The dining room table held only two place settings.
His brother’s place at the head of the table, as well as his new bride’s at the opposite end, remained unoccupied—as did most of the others.
His mother sat in a chair to the right of the duke’s; an empty one awaited across from her.
“Where is everyone?”
Phyllida focused on a letter in her left hand as she sipped from a glass of white wine in her right.
“The boys are off to . . . something to do with horses. Matthew and Sarah are meeting two of our stewards for luncheon in town.” She glanced up at him.
“To be truthful, I am grateful. You and I have a lot to discuss, and I’d rather the rest of the family not hear. ”
A deep feeling of misgiving tightened Mark’s gut.
Perhaps he should have skipped this meal as well.
He pulled out the chair and sat, leaning his cane against the chair next to his as a footman appeared at his side, pouring wine.
“As long as it does not have anything to do with a ball or another wedding.”
Phyllida laid the note aside and nodded to Stephens, who stood patiently next to the buffet. The man disappeared through a servant’s door at the back of the room. “No, it does not. Although you will attend the Blackwell ball.”
Mark held back a sigh of frustration. Instead he sipped his wine, then muttered, “I am much too old.”
“Your age is irrelevant.”
“And when is this unctuous ball?”
“The nineteenth. A Friday. And you will not insult Lord and Lady Blackwell by refusing to attend. You will gather me here before the event and we will go in the ducal carriage.” She put a finger on the note and moved on from what she obviously considered a settled issue.
“Judith Lovelace, Lady Sculthorpe, has invited me to visit her this afternoon.”
Stephens emerged from the servants’ door with a tray holding two bowls of soup. He placed one in front of Phyllida, then Mark. A fish and potato concoction that smelled heavenly. He hoped his new cook had the talent of the Embleton one. “Why?”
“She does not say. She asks that I come at four.”
“Are you going?”
“I am. I admit I am rather curious.”
“Are you not afraid to be seen in the company of a—what did you call her—ah, yes, a ‘damnable hussy’?”
Phyllida sniffed, then tasted her soup. “She is still a member of the ton.” She paused for wine. “And I have been hearing some most intriguing rumors about her.”
“Oh?”
Phyllida set down her glass, scowling at him. “Do not play coy with me. I happened to know a letter for you arrived at the same time as this one, and that you have been down with the servants, asking all kinds of questions while you pretended to be moving.”
“I am, in truth, moving, Mother.”
She gave a dismissive wave. “But you were not, however, discussing your relocation with the servants.”
“I attempted to hire most of them away from this house. They would have been tempted but for fear of repercussions from you.”
“Nonsense. They adore Matthew, despite his surly nature, and most have already developed a fondness of Sarah. What nefarious request did Lady Sculthorpe have of you?”
“She wanted to know the name of the Bow Street Runner who has been looking into Stella’s murder.”
Phyllida Rydell froze, wine glass halfway to her lips.
After a moment, she set it down. “Intriguing. The rumors I have encountered say that she has been spending a good deal of money—money I do not believe her family has at this time—gathering reprehensible information about various male members of the ton. Apparently in some misguided attempt to salvage her stepson’s reputation.
” She lowered her chin and peered at Mark.
“You are not involved in these efforts, are you?”
Mark scooped up the last spoonful of his soup and focused on keeping his expression stoic. “We both know the activities of the ton’s gentlemen are usually above Bow Street’s purview. I cannot image how the two would cross paths.”
“Hm.” His mother motioned for Stephens to remove the bowls, remaining silent as the soup disappeared and an entrée of lamb and potatoes appeared, the fragrance speaking of pungent summer herbs.
The white wine goblets vanished, replaced with broader glasses, which Stephens filled with a deep-red Bordeaux.
“I also hear the name of Mr. Vincent Atkinson being bandied about.”
Mark stared at the wine, his fingers caressing the stem. “I doubt—”
“I know who he is. What he does. With that degenerate establishment of his.”
“If you plan to meet with her this afternoon, why do you not ask her?”
“I absolutely will.”
“I would not think otherwise.”
Phyllida paused as she cut into the lamb and took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I suspect that Lady Sculthorpe and I do have one thing in common.”
“And what is that?”
“We would do almost anything to protect our families.” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her serviette. “I have been a duchess for a great many years. She a countess. It would be unwise for anyone—anyone—to challenge that.”
A truer statement Mark had never heard.