Chapter Fourteen #2
You may also hear from her soon. Part of her involvement will entail setting an appointment with Mr. Jeremy Smith at Embleton House in a few days. If possible, you might consider attending.
I will also need a dear favor from you and Sir Rory prior to the ball. We will discuss this later.
Yours gratefully,
Judith
Mark reread the letter, both amused and intrigued, a smile spreading over his face.
She obviously knew about the wager listed in White’s book, but most of the ton did at this point.
The mere thought that she might act on it, that she would come to him here in his own house set his imagination—and his loins—afire with longing.
He shifted his rear, adjusting his trousers to accommodate the sudden fullness there.
As he settled back into his chair, Mark realized he had not had such an unexpected arousal in several months.
The waif-like debutantes at the endless number of balls his mother had dragged him to over the past season most definitely did not engender such desire.
He could not have had less interest in them, often feeling more protective toward them than flirtatious—as if he were their older brother. Or worse, a favorite uncle.
Dear God in heaven, he was getting old.
Even thoughts of Stella had not created such an erotic sense of anticipation, not in many months.
Stella.
Mark took a deep breath. It had been almost three weeks.
He had seen no signs that he had contacted the pox from her, and he had examined himself daily, the fear of the disease driving his constant checking.
Dr. Oakley had also examined him but told Mark that a firm declaration that he was free of it could not be had for at least a full month without symptoms. However, Dr. Oakley could not confirm Stella had truly contacted the disease—she had no sores or obvious symptoms upon her death.
Neither had Mark noticed anything or he would have ceased contact immediately.
Dr. Oakley also told him contact did not always mean infection, an attempt to reassure Mark without going into much further detail.
With his own knowledge of the disease, however, Mark realized the doctor was being more kind and hopeful than truthful.
You have to tell her.
Judith. The very thought terrified Mark.
He knew Judith probably did not have an intimate evening in mind, but such knowledge did not keep his desire at bay—which escalated his reluctance to possibly end their time together on a sour note.
He could, of course, welcome Judith into his bedchamber without consummating a sexual act.
Mark had long ago learned to behave properly when in the company of women, and his time with Stella had underscored that he did not always end an evening between a woman’s legs, no matter how enticing she might be.
But he did love women and loved bedding them, adored how they looked as he brought them to the height of arousal. As he had told his mother, he was far from a monk in mind as well as in deed.
And he truly wanted Judith, in every way possible.
You still have to tell her.
Mark swallowed hard. This would drive him mad.
He took a deep breath and pushed Judith out of his mind.
Instead, he turned back to the correspondence.
The second missive he opened was from Rory, minor details about the financial well-being of the club and the latest on dit about some of their clientele.
Unlike Atkinson, Rory—and now Mark—did not engage in anything as sordid as blackmail, but they did keep abreast of all the gossip, lest some gamblers got too far in debt to be worthy of ongoing credit.
One paragraph in Rory’s note did catch his eye.
There is word that a concerted effort is being made to pull Sculthorpe back from the brink.
The primary attempts seem to come from his mother, but the estate’s managers are also involved.
Apparently some property has been sold along with a great number of the fine artworks from their country house.
A substantial payment was made here in the last few days by one of them, and I have heard from some of the smaller establishments that they have been paid off entirely.
That would leave him only owing Atkinson, who, as we both know, will not relinquish any prey without a battle.
Mark set the note aside, a slight worry nagging at his gut.
He hoped Judith knew how dangerous Atkinson could be.
If not, he would definitely tell her. Pulling ink, a quill, and two sheets of foolscap from his desk, Mark composed two messages.
One to Judith, explaining how and when would be the best time to access the back garden of his house, and one to Rory, acknowledging the information.
Then, almost as an afterthought, Mark asked his business partner to stop by White’s and make a wager in the betting book.
Setting aside his writing supplies, he finally picked up the letters addressed to Stella.
Once again, Mark searched his soul for a modicum of grief for the woman who had been his bedmate for more than four years, the mother of his daughter.
But her betrayal had lit afire any affection he had for her.
In its place lay a smoldering emptiness, like a house gutted by a fierce conflagration.
As almost every remnant of her presence had been removed from this house, so had whatever tenderness he had held for her.
Olivia.
Mark sighed. He had sent condolences to Rose, along with some money, but he had not dared show his face at the house.
Not yet. Rose had returned a note of thanks, along with information about Olivia and her latest garden adventures, as well as information about her own health, which had declined again.
Afterward, a new resolve had set in about what to do next, thus the newest changes to the house.
No matter what his family thought, he wanted Rose and Olivia here. Here they could be cared for as they deserved.
Mark sat a little straighter and used his paper knife to open the first message to Stella.
An overdue bill from the milliner. Of course.
The next one was a bill from the butcher, also overdue, and with a rude note.
A particularly fragrant one—Mark picked up a whiff of tobacco smoke and cheap cologne—held a plea for marriage.
The florid words of the declarations of undying love reminded Mark of a drunken poet, and he noted the signature with amusement before setting it aside for the fireplace.
Two more bills and several more love notes awaited.
Apparently, the men attending the Haymarket were easily entranced.
Then came the missive that caused Mark to still, a slight chill slipping down his spine. It contained five twenty-pound notes and one line:
If this does not keep your tongue quiet, I will find a permanent solution.
No signature followed, and Mark checked the wax seal again—plain and flat.
But the amount of money stood out, making him remember something Smith had said.
He folded it up, included the bank notes, and set it aside as well.
Obviously, he would have something to speak with Smith about, in addition to whatever Judith plotted out.
Mark drained the rest of his coffee, his mind caught up in all that needed to be done in the meantime.
He pulled the necessary cash from a bottom drawer and sorted it out for Stella’s outstanding bills.
He wanted to pay these in person, in three cases to confirm they knew about her death, and to make sure that the butcher remained on good terms with the new household staff.
A task normally left to the cook, but Mark wanted to get a measure of the man for himself.
He folded the cash into each bill, tucked them into his coat along with the threat toward Stella, and stood, ringing for Howe and ordering a cloak and chapeau.
Time for a walk.