Chapter Eighteen
Sculthorpe Manor
Ten in the morning
Judith struggled to remain still as her maid braided and twisted her hair into a tightly knit updo interwoven with a royal-blue silk ribbon and a half dozen matching feathered pins.
Epworth had started with a psyche knot at the back of Judith’s head and expanded the style with looping braids as well as the ribbon and pins.
It made her scalp itch from the tightness, but she bore it silently, wanting to look her best for today’s meeting with the Bow Street Runner.
But not for the runner. While important to their scheme—vital, even—Judith had no desire to impress him with her looks or style. Instead, her goal was to make a clear impression on the Duke of Embleton and his family . . . including his brother.
Mark.
Judith straightened her shoulders even as her thighs tightened.
“Almost finished, my lady. Only a few more minutes.”
Judith smiled into the mirror, not wanting to admit the true reason she had squirmed a bit. “It looks remarkable. Thank you. And the bonnet will not hurt the feathers.”
Epworth spoke around one of the said pins, currently held between her lips. “No, my lady. They point downward and will be below the brim.”
“Excellent.” Judith’s hand rested on her right leg, her fingers tracing the outline of the white silken ascot currently tied around her upper thigh.
Her mind lingered on the moment when Mark had tied it there.
After visiting the room he had prepared for his daughter, they had returned to his bedchamber to fully dress.
She had sat on the bench at the end of his bed to replace her stockings, and he had snagged the ascot from the covers, kneeling in front of her.
He had pushed her skirts up and wrapped it about her thigh, tying it as if it were around his own neck, kissing her, his fingers stroking lightly between her legs.
“Wear it whenever you go out. To remind you that you belong to me.”
And she had. Although she had not been out of the house much over the last five days.
Most of Friday, she had been ensconced with Edmund, reviewing their accounts to check the progress of their efforts.
Saturday, she had stayed in her room most of the day, as Edmund had received word from White’s that his wager had been declared resolved.
The payout that had accompanied the certification of the event had been lovely—several hundred pounds each to Edmund, Sir Rory, and Lord Anthony—but Judith had no desire to face either her son or his wife with the knowledge of how the wager had been declared and certified.
It was one thing to have him think his mother had lovers—another entirely to know with certainty and have it declared in a public forum.
But when the money had arrived from Lord Anthony Saturday evening—as well as a note from Sir Rory as to how his winnings would be applied to Edmund’s debt at At Wheel’s End, her son had sent for her, any embarrassment set aside by gratitude.
They noted the funds in the ledgers, and Edmund had delivered in person a good portion of their winnings to one of his creditors, closing off yet another debt.
Sunday had been set aside for church—Judith felt a touch blasphemous wearing the ascot under her clothes but did so anyway—but they had all skipped a promenade along Rotten Row. They had had their fill of being gawked at and whispered about for the moment.
Monday, Judith had met with the three wives involved in the scheme, including Margaret, and over tea and biscuits, they had discussed the topics to be raised with Atkinson.
All three were young and far too giggly for her comfort, but those qualities could easily work in their favor, as Atkinson would be less suspicious of three flighty girls than experienced dragons of the ton.
Although, since Thursday, Judith had felt less like a mature woman than she had since her marriage.
When not wearing it, she had slept with the ascot under her pillow, her hand resting on the fine fabric.
Judith had scolded herself at first, feeling rather childish, as if she were a young girl with her first infatuation.
But she also realized that what she and Mark had exchanged had been anything but childish.
The very power of it sometimes took her breath away.
Judith also had Epworth retrieve Edmund’s unique bed cover from the attic, cleaned and boxed, and delivered to the house in Bloomsbury.
The return note of thanks had been ebullient and heartfelt, with a touch of naughtiness, as if the witty man with the gleam in his eye she had met at the Huntingdale ball had finally recovered from his injuries.
Epworth placed the final feather, then stepped back and took a deep breath. “That’s it then.” She glanced toward the array of garments on Judith’s bed. “Let’s get you dressed.”
With a last touch on the ascot, Judith stood.
Epworth expertly garbed her in Judith’s finest summer day gown, a royal-blue linen with black embroidery around the puffs of the upper sleeves.
It had been her favorite from two seasons before, and Epworth had added a broad black band at the high waistline, which anchored a pale-blue gauze overlay of the skirt.
Epworth had added a ruched black smocking to the hem, a finishing touch to the gown’s refurbish.
Black kid gloves and boots completed the outfit, and Judith sat long enough for Epworth to gently settle a blue linen bonnet amongst the feathers.
“You look magnificent, my lady!”
“And I am grateful for your skills.” Judith glanced at the clock on her mantel. Almost time.
As if hearing her thoughts, their butler rapped lightly on the door, opening it to announce that the carriage awaited her at the front entrance. Judith took a final deep breath, touched her right thigh, and left the room.
*
Tuesday, 9 August 1814
Embleton House
Quarter to eleven in the morning
Mark stood at the receiving room window, staring out at the pavement in front of the house. He felt rather than heard Matthew’s presence behind him.
“Smith is downstairs. I told Stephens to have him wait in the servants’ hall until we send for him.”
Mark continued to watch the street, but his hand smoothed over the pocket holding the letter to Stella with its one hundred pounds. “Probably a wise idea.”
After a moment, Matthew cleared his throat. “It is hardly time for her yet.”
“She is punctual.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Ask Mother.”
“Ask Mother what, pray tell?” The question accompanied a rustle of bombazine and silk as Phyllida entered the room.
Mark and Matthew turned as their mother settled on one of the settees in the room, fluffing her purple-and-lavender skirts around her.
“About Lady Sculthorpe’s punctuality.”
Phyllida clasped her hands in her lap. “It is well known. When I visited her, I arrived only a moment after the appointed time, but she was ready and waiting for me. A perfectly reasonable characteristic to expect of someone of her station.”
Matthew sat in a wingback. “So she is no longer a hussy?”
Phyllida sniffed. “I suspect that is more a question for your brother.”
Mark turned back to the window. “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“Not according to what I hear from my maid.”
Matthew snorted as Mark smothered a laugh.
Fueling the gossip trains of the ton did run the risk of wielding a two-edged sword.
The news of his late-night meeting with Judith verified the completion of the wager, but it also meant the accounts of it—some more true than others—made their way around the kitchens and drawing rooms of Mayfair.
“You should not believe everything you hear, Mother.”
“If only some of it is true, you are treading on the edge of scandal, even if she is a widow. And this wild scheme of hers could push us all over that edge.”
“Not if it works,” muttered Matthew.
“If it works.”
A carriage pulled up in front of the house, and Mark’s chest tightened. “They have arrived.” He turned toward the door, but a short bark of his name called him to a halt. He looked around at his mother, whose face held a storm, and Matthew, whose eyebrows had arched into his hair.
Phyllida’s voice grated. “You will wait here. Stephens will announce her. Them.”
Mark swallowed, then nodded as he went to stand next to Matthew’s chair.
His brother looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What has gotten into you?”
Mark crossed his arms. “Nothing.”
But something had, and Mark knew it to his core.
From the moment he had shown Judith the room he had prepared for Olivia and had seen her reaction to it—curiosity and acceptance, as well as her desire to meet the girl—something had shifted in him.
And when the buckshot-filled blanket had arrived at his home two days ago, that something had cracked, and he doubted he would ever be able to seal those cracks completely.
Cracks that had revealed an unexpected need, almost a craving, that Mark could not quite put a name to.
Stephens appeared in the doorway, blandly announcing “Lord Edmund Lovelace, the Earl Sculthorpe, and Judith Lovelace, Lady Sculthorpe.”
Matthew stood as they entered, exchanging nods with the butler, who retreated. He greeted Judith and Edmund, then presented his mother to the earl, to whom she had never been formally introduced. “Mr. Smith is also here and will join us momentarily.”
Mark watched closely as Judith, who barely glanced at him, settled next to his mother as the earl sat in the other wingback.
Mark and Matthew remained standing until Stephens announced the Bow Street Runner, who eased down on an armchair, his eyes wide as he looked from one to the other as introductions were made, before focusing on Matthew.
“Your Grace, I have to admit surprise at the invitation, even more at this gathering.”