Chapter Fourteen
Sculthorpe Manor
Quarter past four in the afternoon
Judith stood by the fireplace of the receiving room, relishing the warmth from the low fire in the grate.
The unusually cool temperatures, which had started with a winter so frigid the Thames had frozen over, had continued, even into August, and this Monday had turned surly, with a harsh breeze bringing in low clouds and a chilled mist off the river.
Yet Lady Embleton, Phyllida Rydell, now the dowager duchess following her son Matthew’s recent marriage, had accepted Judith’s invitation, arriving a few minutes after four in a snug linen-and-wool afternoon gown, the deep-purple color accented by a black collar, black stripes on the sleeves, and embroidered black spirals around the hem.
A small black bonnet topped her gray-and-blonde coiffure, and curls of black and purple ribbons circled it and flowed down the back of her gown.
Black turned most women pale and wan, but it seemed to highlight the rosy glow in Lady Embleton’s cheeks and emphasize the pure blue of her eyes.
So like her son’s.
As the butler announced her, Lady Embleton swept into the room, her hem weighted with moisture.
Judith greeted her, then motioned toward an armchair near the fire.
“You might be more comfortable here. This room seems to have held a chill most of the year.” She looked at the butler. “Please bring tea for Lady Embleton.”
He nodded and left as the dowager duchess settled in the armchair, snuggling her reticule in her lap. “Thank you.”
Judith sat in a matching armchair on the other side of the grate. “I appreciate you accepting my invitation.”
Lady Embleton gave a slight wave of her fingers. “Lady Sculthorpe, if my son’s descriptions of you are accurate, then I suspect we share a disdain for the trivial niceties of Society conversations. So let us speak plainly. Why am I here?”
Judith repressed a burst of laughter. “Indeed. I suspect you are correct. I have invited you here because I need an ally and advice, and of all the women I know or know about, I believe you would be the most helpful, if you are willing.”
“I will not help you with that vulgar bet concerning you and my son.”
Judith’s eyebrows arched, her chin lowering. “Nor would I ask you to.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
“Mr. Vincent Atkinson’s attempts to ruin my family—and those of at least two other men.
I believe he has declared himself to be at war with the Beau Monde and is in the process of using our own foolish natures as ammunition against us.
He is, in particular, mired in competition with your son’s new venture, and he hopes to further his own ambitions by smearing Lord Mark’s name as well as that of the others. ”
“And what do you wish to do?”
“I think the ton should fight back. More precisely, I think you and I should fight back. These men are our family and find themselves unable to combat Atkinson on their own. But they are men. I believe you and I have other resources at our disposal.”
Lady Embleton sat completely still, her gaze wavering from Judith’s face only when the tea arrived. Both women remained silent as the butler prepared and served it. Lady Embleton sipped, still watching Judith, as the butler left the room, pulling the door closed.
“You have a plan.” It was not a question.
Judith nodded. “I do.”
“It involves my son.”
“It does. Lord Mark’s new venture puts him in direct competition with Mr. Atkinson, and I believe this can be useful.”
The duchess’s eyes narrowed. “Competition. How so?”
“Lord Mark is part owner of a gambling establishment called At Wheel’s End.”
Lips pursed. The cup and saucer clinked. One hand fisted, opened, fisted. “Why would my son purchase such a business? An aristocrat does not hold employment.”
“He claims the purchase was to help a friend become more respectable. And I suspect he intends for his role to be more in ownership and management, not actual day-to-day operations. In addition, while I could not say for sure, I suspect he no longer wishes to be a soldier nor develop a calling to the church. He seems to have a rather independent nature.”
A long sigh. “And has since he emerged from the womb. No matter what his father or I did to combat it.”
“He suggests obstinance is a family trait.”
Her mouth twisted, but the eyes gleamed. Like her son. “He seems to have mastered that as well.” She took another sip. “Tell me your plan and how I can help.”
Judith smiled and leaned forward, taking up the challenge.
For the next half hour, she described Lord Mark and Sir Rory’s involvement in At Wheel’s End, as well as Vincent Atkinson’s machinations against Edmund and the other men in his grasp.
She also laid out her investigations into the debts and peccadillos of the ton’s men, her original plan to use blackmail to bring all this to heel, and her decision not to pursue that course.
Lady Embleton shook her head. “Men and their games. Their love of risk will one day bring us all to our knees. You burned the letters?”
Judith nodded. “I did.”
“But not the evidence?”
“No.”
Lady Embleton sniffed. “Good. One never knows when such information might prove useful.”
Judith’s eyebrows arched, but Lady Embleton merely shrugged. “For instance, should we receive word that a man is maltreating his wife, children, or servants.”
“Ah. True.”
Lady Embleton shifted her reticule. “What do you wish of me?”
As Judith explained her plan to the duchess, Lady Embleton’s hard expression softened even as her eyes narrowed with apparent curiosity.
A dozen questions later, and Mark’s mother gave her a single nod.
“I believe this will achieve the success you seek. I, for one, would prefer my son’s name to be less involved with the whole matter, but I have resolved that he will, in some form or fashion, always be a source of concern and indigestion.
And the name of the gentleman you need to speak with is Mr. Jeremy Smith.
We are agreed that I should set the meeting? ”
“I believe so. Mr. Smith is already seeking and providing information about Miss Ashley’s death to your sons, whereas this house has had no dealings with Bow Street at all.
It will be less suspicious than if he arrived here.
My information is that Mr. Atkinson is a cautious man with informants all over the city.
And that he is certainly dangerous to cross. ”
Another sniff. “Arrogant pup. He will be on the watch for men. Not gentle and demure ladies of the ton.”
“He seems rather dismissive of women.” Judith gave a low laugh. “They really have no idea, do they?”
“None. Fools.” She stood, and Judith rang for their butler. The door opened promptly, and the man waited with Lady Embleton’s cloak. “I will arrange it and send word. I will also speak with our housekeeper and butler about the appropriate rumors.”
“Thank you. I will do the same.”
As Lady Embleton left, Judith returned to the fire, suddenly aware that the room had grown chillier and her toes were suddenly cold. She held to the mantle as she edged her left slipper toward the grate.
Her left foot. The one he had massaged. Caressed, his fingertips slipping gently up her thigh. Judith closed her eyes, feeling his kiss, the whisper in her ear . . .
I wish to own a part of you.
“You wish to see us, Lady Sculthorpe.”
Judith’s foot snapped to the floor and she pivoted, blinking.
The butler stood in the doorframe, the housekeeper peering around his shoulder.
Judith swallowed and motioned them in. “Yes. Please close the door. I need to inform you of a few rumors about the house. Rumors I wish you to spread among the other servants.”
They looked at each, eyes wide, then entered.
*
Tuesday, 2 August 1814
Lord Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Half-past ten in the morning
Mark closed the door of his study to reduce the noise from the workmen on the upper floors of the house, then poured another cup of coffee from a setting on a table near the door.
While most of the work on the house had been completed, he had discovered upon moving in and rearranging the furniture that a great deal more needed attention.
Irritating but necessary, given his plans for the third and fourth floors of the house.
He settled at his desk and began to sort the correspondence before him on the blotter.
Many of the correspondents had already found him at this new address, but some of the older mail had been addressed to Stella, arriving after her death from people either unaware of her demise or missives caught in slower mail routes.
Jeremy Smith had searched the house in the days following her murder, taking all of her correspondence, so these had appeared later and been left for Mark, who had ignored them during his recovery.
Even now, he set those aside while looking to those addressed to him directly, including one from Judith, which he opened first.
The meeting with your mother went well. We have reached a pact, such as those common amongst allies on a battlefield, since we have a mutual aim in mind.
We have set a plan in motion, which I will provide more details about later.
Meanwhile, do not be startled by anything you hear from your servants.
News will break in a few days that will surprise many and rumors will be flying through the ton in front of it.
Part of our plan involves me being seen surreptitiously entering your home alone from its back garden tomorrow evening. Would you be willing for that to happen? If so, please send me the safest route you think a certain fair widow of renown would take.
It is also vital that we all attend the Blackwell ball on Fri., 19 Aug. Please plan to escort your mother.