Chapter Fifteen
Lord Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Quarter to eleven in the evening
Judith stared at the rear facade of the redbrick townhouse, noting that lights still shone through only two windows—one on the third floor and one from a low, ground-floor room, probably the kitchen or housekeeper’s sitting room.
In her mind, Judith envisioned the woman, harried but catching her breath as she concluded the day’s accounts and began plans for the morning.
Pulling the hood of her black woolen cloak a bit tighter over her hair, Judith waited in the shadows of the hedge surrounding the back garden and kitchen yard, listening for the slightest sound.
Judith knew exactly the extent of the risk this was. This is madness.
But it had to be done. And Judith truly wanted to. Craved it, even.
Despite what the ton thought they knew about her, despite the gossipy whispers that circulated whenever she was in a ballroom or the park, nothing could have been proven without a doubt.
She and her lovers had been discreet in that way.
Any hint that a young man might be injudicious, and he would never find his way to her bed.
This, however, would be openly declaring her liaison with Lord Mark Rydell. There would be no turning back if this went awry. And Judith could not entirely claim this was about her family, about securing their future. Not if she were honest with herself.
Because she wanted him. Her desire for him had deepened the more she had looked into Edmund’s business dealings and gambling debts.
Rydell had been a thread through it all, and from her distant perspective, she could see that he had done what he could to safeguard her son—not ruin him, as had been claimed—but Edmund had been too foolish for anyone’s aid to make much of a difference.
Whatever his reasons, Rydell had tried. That she could achieve her aim of being with him while at the same time helping Edmund added a scintillating thrill to this evening’s adventure.
Judith shuddered a bit inside the cloak, and not only because of the night’s chilled air.
She had never engaged in this type of skulking about, and she wondered if this is how blackguards and robbers felt—or maybe illicit lovers destined for a tryst. Shivery, chilled, and anxious, jerking at the tiniest noise.
She found it all rather exhilarating.
The sounds of the night varied distinctly from the ones of the daytime—the distant rattles of hansom cabs, the horses clopping lethargically this time of night.
The yowl of a cat. The clunks and clanks of last-minute chores before bed echoing along the mews and alleyways.
But all the clamor seemed far away, muffled by a fog that had begun swirling through the streets, moist and gray, carrying with it the smells of the gutters and the river—smoke, horses, tar, and unwashed flesh.
How different from the streets of Mayfair after a ball, with the rush of carriages and the chatter of happy, if somewhat inebriated, voices.
This was the London nighttime everyone warned children and young ladies about—everyone from the press to the politicians to the fretful mamas trying to keep their children safe at home.
Judith knew she should be afraid. Instead, she found it alluring, almost addictive.
The light in the ground floor window went out. It was time.
Glancing around again, Judith gathered the hem of the cloak and picked her way along a strip of gravel beside a lower hedge that separated the landscaped flora of the garden from the kitchen yard—her destination.
As she closed on the house, the gravel gave way to a muddied area around the steps leading down to the ground floor rooms. In the dimmest of light from the moon overhead, she closed her hand around the door’s latch and eased it open.
On the other side, Lord Mark Rydell waited, holding a single candle.
In only his shirt and trousers, his hair unkempt, he loomed like a sinister presence—except for the gleam in his eyes as he watched her, an expression of pure mischievousness.
He put a finger to his lips and motioned her inside.
He shut the door behind her, then glanced over his shoulder.
When he spoke, his words were slightly louder than she expected, making her jump.
“Did anyone see you?” He pointed down the hall toward the kitchen and mouthed, Cook is still awake.
Understanding—she needed to appear secretive but not so much that the servants would not notice—Judith answered in the same volume. “Your neighbor, I think. I saw someone peering out the window. Also two cats, but I doubt they will tell anyone.”
“Cats never give away their secrets.”
Judith put her fingers to her lips, stifling a giggle. This all felt so deliciously naughty, so different from the discreet visits to her own bedroom, that she could not contain a touch of glee.
Mark pointed upward, taking her elbow. “Come with me.”
In silence, they climbed to the third floor of the house, the light of the candle casting stark, dancing shadows on the bare walls of the servants’ staircase.
Judith tiptoed to keep her boot heels from clicking on the treads, relieved when they entered the corridor with its thick carpet and silk-papered walls.
Lord Mark opened a door near the rear of the house and ushered her inside.
His bedchamber. Judith stopped, straightened, and stared.
She had never been in a bachelor’s rooms before.
Even her husband’s had been tempered by the tastes and influence of his first wife.
This room, however, looked like the heart of pure masculinity.
The bed, wardrobe, and shaving stand had been polished to a fine sheen, the deep grain of the rosewood striking in the way the three pieces matched in design and construction.
The rich colors of the curtains and bedcovers held deep reds and browns with an occasional touch of gold.
Near the fire grate a single wingback chair with an ottoman waited next to an accent table stacked with books, while one tome lay open on the ottoman, a small, intricately carved wooden block holding the pages down.
A second door near the fireplace remained closed, which Judith assumed led to a dressing room.
The golden glow of several lamps flickered and gamboled around the room as the ormolu clock on the mantel gave a gentle chime at the eleventh hour.
Lord Mark stepped close to Judith’s back, his presence strong and warm as he touched her shoulders, his low voice even softer than the chime. “Let me take your cloak.”
She nodded and released the clasp, and he slipped it away from her, disappearing briefly behind that second door as she continued to look around.
The heavy bedcovers had been peeled back, and thick, luxurious pillows had been piled up against the arched headboard, which had a center post topped by an acorn-style finial.
Judith smiled, wondering exactly how far he was willing to take their charade.
She gave another shiver as she realized exactly how far she was willing to go.
He returned, holding his arm out toward the wingback.
“Please. Sit.” As she did, he scooped up the book and block from the ottoman and placed them next to the clock, then he straddled the ottoman facing her.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, which caused the V-neck of his shirt to drop away from his chest, revealing the soft prominence of his collar bone and a few tufts of dark curls.
“Now. Explain your plan to me. And tell me what this favor is that you need from Rory and me.”
Judith swallowed hard, then glanced at the fire, chewing her lower lip. “They may not work, neither the plan nor the favor. Vincent Atkinson is not a foolish man.”
“But he is an arrogant one, is he not? And that is what you are relying on?”
Judith focused on Lord Mark again, studying his face, which seemed alight with curiosity—eyes wide, eyebrows arched.
She nodded. “Mr. Atkinson is holding something over Edmund, beyond the vase. And unlike the theft of the vase, this . . . issue . . . has truly happened. Are you familiar with an establishment, a private salon of sorts, in the Strand, a . . .um”—she swallowed hard—“a molly house run by an organization called the White Stallion.”
All curiosity drained from Mark’s face along with the color as he straightened on the ottoman, his voice hoarse. “What do you know of this place?”
She took a deep breath. “Edmund has been frequenting it—”
“Bloody hell—”
Judith put up her hand. “He says he only watches.”
“Of course he does. Please tell me you have not been there yourself.”
“No, of course not. Even if I wanted to, I would not dare.”
“Do not. The owners are dangerous. Edmund is more of a fool than I believed.”
“He promises he will stop.”
“Of course he does. Judith—”
“He insists there is no proof. That Atkinson has only heard rumors. If someone approached the . . . establishment . . . with the proper incentive . . .” As her words trailed off, Mark stared into the fire.
“You think Rory or I could provide the incentive.”
“Or provide it to me. I could—”
“No!” He looked at her. “I will see what we can do. But do not ever go near that place. Or that organization. They will kill without—”
“How would Atkinson know? If he does not go there himself?”
“Atkinson has informants all over the city, just as I do. He probably has someone inside who provides him with the names of every member of Society who frequents the place.”
“So dangerous for anyone.”
“That particular activity is treacherous on every possible level. How do you think Shropshire acquired the pox?”
Judith choked. “I thought he liked women!”
Mark smirked. “Shropshire likes sex. Any port in a storm.”
“I may be ill.”
He leaned forward again. “I highly doubt that. You are one of the strongest women I know.”
“I am not sure that is a good thing.”