“My lady?”
“Do they know?” Judith’s voice grated with the demand. “Do the servants know?”
Epworth chewed her lower lip. “My lady . . .”
“How long?”
Her maid glanced down at the floor, then met her eyes slowly. “Six months ago, her ladyship—”
“Margaret.”
With a nod, Epworth went on. “She gave instructions not to bring on any more servants nor to replace the ones who had left.And she told the housekeeper and butler to pick five each that the household could manage without. At the country house as well. We have also heard from one of the footmen in the country that some art has gone missing.” Epworth took a deep breath. “We were warned—threatened—not to tell anyone. Especially you.”
Judith squeezed her eyes shut. “I will kill them.”
“My lady?”
Waving away her concern, Judith looked at Epworth again. “Two years ago, that boy inherited an estate that was self-sustaining, with a coffer stuffed for the next generation. Not only for Edmund and Daniel, but for my three boys as well.”
A sharp thought struck her, and ice settled on her shoulders. “Is this... is this why Daniel left? Did Edmund drive his brother away?”
Epworth looked to the floor but said nothing.
“You should have told me.” Epworth remained silent, and the chill settled into Judith’s bones, slowly spreading a dark numbness. “My family is disintegrating around me.” Her chest tightened to the point of pain, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have done this. I turned my back and they have floundered.”
Then, after a moment, Judith let out a long breath and dropped down on her dressing stool, abruptly weary. “Now I know why he wants me out of the house. I have become a burden. A burden who knows far too much.” She turned to face the mirror. “Help me dress for supper. I know it’s early, but if I plan to confront Edmund, I need to look my best.” She paused. “Preferably something that will not stain too badly if blood is spilled.”
*
Friday, 22 July 1814
Stella Ashley’s former residence, Bloomsbury
Half-past ten in the morning
Standing in thenarrow foyer of the Bloomsbury house, Mark leaned heavily on his cane as Stella’s maid, Clara, trembled, the hem of her plain gray skirt quivering as she repeatedly clinched the fabric in her fists. Nothing he had said so far had eased her worry, no matter how much he had reassured her that she would not have to leave his employ. His patience wore thin as his morning dose of willow bark tea dissipated, and he reminded himself that this woman, barely more than a girl, did not deserve any of his ire.
“Clara, let me ask you plainly. Do you wish to leave this house? I know this cannot be easy for you.”
She shook her head but could not meet his eyes. “No, my lord. I don’t wish to leave. It’s only that—I mean, the other maids on the street say”—she dropped yet another quick curtsy—“I mean no offense, my lord, but they all know what Miss Ashley is—was—and if it is to be only you living here, then they might think that I—” She dropped her skirt and clutched her hands in front of her. “I mean,Iknow that you would not, but—”
Ah. Understanding finally reached Mark’s still somewhat addled brain. “You are concerned about your respectability.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and gave a barely perceptible nod. “Even though the mistress was—what she was—no one thinks that I would be—but if—if you—” She could not finish the sentence, and the blush that had been building in her cheeks reached a surprising shade of crimson. Clara could not be more than seventeen and had worked for Stella at least four years. She had come to the house during Stella’s lying-in. Her mother, a midwife, had helped with Olivia’s birth.
Mark shifted his weight on his cane. “You can reassure your friends that there will be more than two of us in the house. My valet, Mr. Howe, will be here, and I intend to hire a butler, a groom, a cook, and another maid to help you with the work. Since Miss Ashley only used a small portion of the house, we will be doing some work on the other areas. I realize it has not been long since her death, but there is no need for you or the house to languish abandoned.”
He again looked around at the foyer, at the cracked and peeling paper, the neglect that had begun to reveal itself, after only four years. He had not truly seen the house in the sunlight since he purchased it, and his tour of it today had left him aghast, as some rooms held only piles of trash and abandoned furniture. Stella had allowed a once-fine Town home to edge toward rot.
But making it his own residence had been Matthew’s idea, presented yesterday when Mark turned surly following an afternoon visit from Phyllida. Why look for other lodgings when he owned a perfectly good house in Bloomsbury? Yes, moving in so quickly may seem a bit callous but delaying did not make much sense either. Although Mark still had difficulty breathing and moving easily, he had regained a great deal of his strength in the last two days—once he could eat solid food—and the time had come long ago for him to leave Embleton House.
“A team will arrive this afternoon to remove Miss Ashley’s belongings—” He stopped, tilting his head to one side, peering at the girl. “Is there anything of hers you might want to keep for your own?”
Her amber-colored eyes shot wide. “I could not—I mean, where would I—”
Mark held up his hand. “Listen to me. Her possessions will be packed and delivered to her mother, who most certainly cannot use Miss Ashley’s frocks or small clothes.”
Clara’s blush deepened, which Mark had not thought possible. But surely the girl understood. Rose Ashley dressed so primly folks frequently mistook her for a nun. “She will probably pass them along to some charity or other. I have gathered the jewelry I gave Stella, which will pay for the new staff and some of the renovations.”
