“What a shame.”
“Indeed. But even if the actress did not know about the money, it seems odd she would take such a chance with his reputation.”
Epworth paused, her expression thoughtful. “When you’ve been desperate, my lady, and starving, that fear never really goes away. You would do anything not to go through it again.”
Judith gazed over the absolute riches that littered her dressing table. Riches she took for granted every day. Silver-handled brushes. Combs with mother-of-pearl teeth and bejeweled edges. Gold inlay boxes holding ruby, emerald, and diamond earrings and bangles. She could live for several years by selling just the things that lay in front of her.
Shropshire was a fool. And, desperation aside, so was Stella Ashley. “So what”—she swallowed—“what did Lord Mark do after he...”
Epworth gave a light shrug. “No one is sure. But one of the Embleton hall boys was out with their housekeeper at market this morning. He said the gentleman came home around dawn, stumbling in the back way, all bloody, bruised, and soaked to the skin by the late rains. Cast up his accounts in the kitchen yard, looking like he’d been keelhauled.”
Or gone several rounds in the boxing ring.
Judith peered at Epworth in the mirror. “As my Lord Sculthorpe used to look sometimes?”
Epworth shrugged again, her eyes focused on Judith’s hair. “Perhaps.”
Judith closed her eyes. She had seen it, knew what it looked like when a man turned to that sport out of anger or pain. Edmund had done it when his nightmares grew too powerful or his frustration too great. Some of her lovers even participated in rough sport, thrilled at how bareknuckle fights exhausted and cleansed them.
She shuddered. She would never understand.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
Judith opened her eyes and forced a smile, sitting a little straighter, pushing the affairs of men to the back of her mind. “I will be, once I see my beautiful boys.” She smiled at Epworth. “Let us get the day started, shall we?”
Chapter Six
Monday, 18 July 1814
Embleton House
Half-past two in the afternoon
“You look likehell’s own hound. What in God’s name happened to you?”
Mark raised his newspaper to conceal a wince, turned a page, and stretched his feet out toward the low fire in Matthew’s study. He ached with every movement—remarkable, given how numb his spirit felt.
His brother was not having it. Matthew closed the study door and turned the key, then stood in front of Mark’s wingback. “Put down that blasted paper and talk to me. The servants are all chattering about your return this morning, looking like the cat’s latest hairball. Many of them were already awake when you cast up your accounts in the kitchen yard, then broke two sconces trying to maneuver the back stairs. Your young valet is tight-lipped as always—”
Mark kept the paper up. “Nice to hear Howe is earning his money.”
“But the rest all know the hall boys dragged a tub and buckets of hot water up to your room for a bath before breakfast. Which was also brought to your room. As was lunch. Neither of which you ate.”
“Food remains particularly unappealing at the moment.”
“No doubt, as it would have to compete with the brandy still in your gut. I can smell it from here, even after your bath.”
“There were a few applications of said liquor after said bath.”
“No doubt. Mother is fit to be tied and demanding answers, and it took a great deal of persuading to keep her out of here—”
“God, no.”
“So tell me what the bloody hell happened before I have to quiz every servant. Because I know they will be full of tales far more gruesome than the truth.”
“I would not promise that.”
“Fine. So no Banbury tale about an honest boxing match. You’ve been in a row to end all rows.”
