Chapter Twenty-Four
Residence of Lord and Lady Blackwell, Grosvenor Square
Quarter to eleven in the evening
Vincent Atkinson looked nothing like Judith had expected.
With what she had heard about his ambition and successful businesses, she had searched the crowd at the ball for a handsome young blade kitted out like Beau Brummel.
When Edmund finally pointed him out to her, she had stared, trying to take in that this man held her son’s marionette strings.
The Blackwell ball had launched with a rousing success, a glittering evening crowded with the ton’s most elite members.
People Judith had not seen in years were attendance, and the women’s finest gowns gleamed under the golden light of the room.
The Blackwells’ ball had always been supreme, and this one carried a theme of ancient Greece, complete with a chalk painting of the Acropolis on the dance floor.
Columns and statues dotted various areas of their ballroom, which was expansive enough to hold more than three hundred people.
Beverage tables lined the walls, and footmen wondered about with trays, collecting empty glasses and cups from every available flat surface.
Anchored at each end with tall doric columns, each beverage station held cups of lemonade, goblets of ratafia, and flutes of an inexpensive rosé wine.
Judith always chose the lemonade, pleased to know that—as with everything else at this ball—it was perfection.
The orchestra, almost forty pieces strong, sat in a semicircle before the glass doors leading to the terrace, their instruments filling the air with tunes meant to keep feet moving and marriage-minded mothers happier than usual.
Although Judith had danced a few times, she had mostly found a chair among a gathering of the dragons of the Beau Monde, observing, waiting for the arrival of the Embleton clan, and studying her nemesis, whose very presence annoyed her, even though she had arranged for it to happen.
Vincent Atkinson’s clothes, constructed of the finest materials and made with precision, declared his wealth.
But the style more reflected Italian trends with colors better left to barnyard roosters.
Obviously a man who told his tailors what to do instead of taking their advice.
And while he had brought his current paramour, a gaunt woman whose gown matched the gaudiness of his kit, he often abandoned her to hobnob with the male nobles in the room, inserting himself into clusters of conversation where he found a polite but wary welcome.
Judith soon realized the woman spoke no English and wandered aimlessly from one beverage table to the other, avoiding others and waving off invitations to dance.
This made her despise Atkinson even more than she already did.
And apparently, she was not alone. More than one aristocrat extracted himself from one of those conversations to head in a straight line to their host, Lord Anthony Blackwell.
While Lord Anthony remained calm, often his guests walked away less than pleased, some muttering under their breath.
So much for the stoic English demeanor.
Judith tried to remain aware of Atkinson’s presence without staring at him constantly, reminding herself that she had come to this ball for a number of reasons, including her affection for Lord and Lady Blackwell, to remind those around her that the Sculthorpe family had not yet stepped over the brink of bankruptcy, and to enjoy a number of enthusiastic trips around the floor.
Judith, wearing one of her finest gowns, had accepted only a few dance invitations throughout the evening.
The men flirted with her in mild and chatty ways, often hinting at the wager in White’s book without addressing it directly.
Amused that men adored gossip as much as women, she teased them with her own hints but not too many details.
One did ask her why she had not danced with Lord Mark Rydell that evening, and she pointed out that none of the Embleton clan had yet to make an appearance.
For which Judith was grateful. She remained irritated with him, which made her question her own heart, her growing affection for him.
Gratitude for all he had done, all the help he had offered warred with questions about his intentions and the obvious plethora of secrets he kept. Tonight he would be a distraction.
A distraction who had not arrived. She looked again around the room, and this time her search sent an odd tension through her gut. The Embletons were not the only ones now missing from the room. Several other high-ranking members of the elite had disappeared.
Including the host and his wife.
Judith rose slowly from her chair, studying each cluster of nobles who remained. Where had everyone gone?
“Lady Sculthorpe?”
Judith turned to face a young footman. “Yes?”
“Lord Anthony requests your presence.”
Ah. “Very well. Where is he?”
The footman gestured toward the room’s entrance. “This way, please.”
Puzzled, Judith nodded. “Lead on.”
She followed as he led her from the ballroom, down a long hallway past the retiring room for the ladies, and down a second, short hallway, pausing at a closed door long enough to knock and wait for the command inside to enter. He announced her and stood aside as she stepped inside.
And stopped, her eyes widening and her breath catching in her throat.
Judith stared, barely hearing the door close.
Before her stood Lord and Lady Blackwell, four dukes of the realm with their duchesses—including Matthew and Sarah Rydell—five earls, two counts, a viscount, and an assortment of lesser male and female nobles and attendants.
In the midst of this array of aristocrats sat a short, round man with a headful of riotous brown and gray curls and a waistcoat that threatened to pop every button within seconds.
His ruddy cheeks and bulbous nose spoke of a great deal of alcohol consumption, both tonight and in months passed.
His overstuffed chair sat atop sturdy legs the size of small trees that had been ornately and intricately carved with lions’ heads.
A throne fit for royal. A very short, very round royal.
George, His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.
Judith dropped into her deepest curtsy, hoping not to lose her balance. “Your Royal Highness.”
The prince motioned for her to come closer. “Lady Sculthorpe, I understand you are the reason I am in attendance tonight.”
She straightened and took a step forward. “Sir, I—”
“I do enjoy the entertainments of my dear friend, Lord Anthony, but he tells me this was your idea. That you are trying to entrap some odious criminal.”
Judith’s stomach clenched. “I—um—yes, sir. Lord Anthony is correct.”
“How do you think I can help? I do not even know this man.”
Judith took a deep breath, and her words tumbled out, spelling out Atkinson’s ambitions, his noted offenses, and his attempts of coercion against reputable members of Society.
She ended with, “We wanted to ensure his presence here tonight, and we—I—believed your attendance would make it impossible for him to resist or even be suspicious. He will most likely fawn all over you or those closest to you. Anyone who he thinks can help achieve his goals.”
The prince gave her a wry smile. “Most people do fawn over me, Lady Sculthorpe. An advantage as well as a disadvantage of being the prince.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Far too many people want to join the aristocracy, do they not? But they generally want the privileges without the responsibilities. And I understand you do this devious thing for the sake of your family?”
“I do, sir.” Judith glanced around. Edmund and Margaret were not in the room. “My son—he has strayed from those responsibilities and has paid dearly. But much of it is my fault. My responsibility. I failed to give him guidance after his father’s death or even to bring on someone who could do so.”
“You seek restitution.”
“I do, sir. And reconciliation between my son and his peers.”
The prince studied her a moment, then gestured for Lord Anthony to bend closer.
After a hushed conversation, Lord Anthony straightened, and the prince continued.
“In a few moments I will enter the ballroom with my attendants and make a circuit, greeting old friends. Lord Anthony will introduce me to your”—he waved a hand—“intended culprit. It will be a short visit. I cannot stay for the supper as I have another engagement. But I will make sure your aims are met.” He paused, his gaze raking over her again.
“Lady Sculthorpe, I do not appreciate being lured into other people’s dramas.
I assure you I create enough of my own. But I will not argue with a beautiful and clever woman determined to risk so much for her son, her family.
It is not a sentiment I share or have experience with, but it is one I can envy from afar. It is, my dear, a gift.”
Judith curtsied again. “Thank you, sir.”
He waved her back. “Let us get on with this charade. I am sure we all have much to attend to this evening.”
Judith straightened and backed away as fast as she dared, not wanting to trip on the hem of her gown. A footman opened the door behind her, allowing her to move into the hallway. It closed again, and Judith stared at it a few moments, gasping as she realized she had been holding her breath.
“Pudgy little devil, is he not?”
Judith whirled, her hand on her throat, her head swimming.
Mark’s eyebrows arched above his smirk. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“Did you”—Judith swallowed and pointed at the door—“did you know that was going to happen?”
His eyes narrowed in confusion. “You knew Prinny would be here. It was your suggestion.”
Her hand dropped. “But I did not expect to be dragged in for a private audience!”
“You did not think he would want to meet the woman behind this mad scheme?”