Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“I just thought Lord Anthony would invite him. Not involve him. Did you know he had informed the prince of the reasons behind the invitation?”
Mark shook his head. “Not until we arrived and a cadre of footmen commandeered us, escorting us into rooms on this hall. A few moments ago, one came to claim Matthew and Sarah, releasing me to go into the ball.”
“But you waited here?”
“I saw them escort you in. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Meeting with the prince can be . . . unexpected. Even those close to him never know how he will react. He can be entirely civil or a complete beast.”
Judith studied him, chewing her lower lip.
Worry gripped every muscle as she envisioned the evening going wrong in the worst ways.
“He was civil but annoyed about being involved. He knew about the scheme to lure Atkinson in, just not who he was. Now someone is sure to warn Atkinson about the plot. The supper will never go as planned.”
Mark glanced at the door. “Not if they think it will upset the prince to have this go awry. Risking his wrath was never a good idea, even before he became regent. To do so now is to court ruin. Or worse.”
“Where is your mother?”
“For some reason, she decided her presence would not be warranted this evening.” A growing rustling behind the door warned of people on the move, and Mark offered her his arm. “Shall we dance?”
With a brief hesitation and a glance at the door—the noise grew ever louder—Judith took his arm.
*
Mark tried to keep his gaze forward, but Judith continued to worry her lower lip until it reddened and began to swell.
Her habit whenever worry consumed her—or fear—and he realized how much she relied on this evening to go as she had planned.
For Atkinson to be found out and Edmund to be freed of the man’s machinations.
But other resolutions could be worked out.
Other options almost always existed for any difficulty.
“Judith, if this evening does not go as you intend—”
Her words almost hissed as her grip on his arm strengthened. “Do not say that! Do not even think it! It has to.”
“Other options—”
“Margaret is with child. There is no time for alternatives.”
Mark let this statement ferment in his mind as he escorted Judith through clusters of people in the ballroom. “I am not . . . why would that—”
“If he can prove Edmund prefers men . . .”
Ah. A new possibility for blackmail would linger on the horizon. “Understood.” He guided her toward a spot near the orchestra and against the wall. As they stopped and turned to face the room, Judith peered up at him, her face abnormally pale.
“I thought we were going to dance.”
“Just watch,” he whispered.
At the entrance to the ballroom, a footman appeared, rushing toward the orchestra.
Although a dance had been in progress, the footman whispered into the conductor’s ear, and the man brought the music to an abrupt halt, then signaled for the musicians to stand.
This action turned irate looks from the dancers to those of astonishment as everyone turned toward the door as the herald announced the arrival of the prince regent.
The boisterous room fell silent as the prince entered, his round figure and waddling stroll reminding Mark far more of an overweight peacock than a monarch.
The man whom painters often portrayed as statuesque and handsome in truth stood almost as wide as he was tall, without the height of his father or the posture of his mother.
His thick hair billowed around his head in brown and gray waves, and his double chins sat atop a tight cravat like so much whipped cream on a pudding.
He moved slowly through the room, nodding to this or that noble, as the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea at Moses’s beckoning.
A movement near one of the beverage tables caught Mark’s eye, and he realized Atkinson slowly wormed his way toward the prince regent, a hungry light in his eyes.
Mark watched as the two paths crossed, Lord Anthony stepping forward to make the introductions.
Atkinson bowed before the prince regent, and the few pleasantries exchanged left Atkinson looking smug and satisfied.
Until His Royal Highness stopped a few feet away to greet the Earl and Countess of Sculthorpe. At Mark’s side, Judith began a series of low whispers, her hand on his arm quivering. “No . . . no . . . no . . . do not do this. Please do not do this . . . no . . .”
To no avail. The prince hailed her son with a hearty call of “Sculthorpe!” and held his hand out to Margaret, kissing the back of hers with a warm—and somewhat lecherous—smile.
Edmund and his wife stood frozen, eyes wide as the prince they had never met brushed Margaret’s shoulder, his fingers lingering on the bare skin over her collar bone as his eyes examined Edmund, head to toe.
Even from where Mark and Judith stood, they heard the prince regent’s pronouncement.
“Your father was always one of my favorites, as are you and your lovely wife. Woe befall anyone who brings ill to your door!”
“Bloody hell!” Judith’s hand tightened on Mark’s arm to the point of pain.
He looked down at her, then followed her focus, which was not—like everyone else in the room—on the prince regent.
Instead it fell on Atkinson, who looked as if he had been punched, his face as red as a rose, brows so furrowed his eyes almost disappeared beneath.
With a rough shove, he pushed his way through the trailing mass of aristocrats, almost barreling over two footmen as he strode out the door.
Judith made an odd gasping sound, and her weight fell against Mark. He looked down just as her knees gave way. Pulling her backwards, Mark scooped her up, pushing out pass the orchestra and through the terrace doors behind them.