And Lord Mark Rydell had been named among the most prominent of the villains, along with one of Rydell’s best friends, Sir Rory Campbell. At least according to her stepson. But as Judith danced, doubts swirled around her more freely than her skirts. She watched the Rydells even as Phyllida watched everyone else, her ubiquitous fan getting a thorough workout. Lord Mark sat next to her, looking abjectly miserable.
Good.
Any affection, any desire she may have had for the man had shattered under her stepson’s explanations. Reportedly one of the worst of the corrupting influences, Lord Mark Rydell had lured Edmund into gambling establishments, introducing him to predatory gamblers and erstwhile business associates. It made sense as Edmund explained it. The man did have a notorious reputation, frequented infamous hells, and seemed to have a source of income no one could explain. It had been Rydell, Edmund proclaimed, who had encouraged him to invest in the Triangular Trade shipping companies, a chance to pay back money Edmund owed Rydell from gambling. That onedecision had been the nail in their financial coffin, a substantial and risky investment now at the bottom of the Atlantic. Everything had cascaded from there.
According to Edmund, Rydell held all the cards, all the debts, all the vowels.
Although right now, Rydell appeared as if he held nothing but his mother’s arm. The man sat gingerly beside the duchess, his face as pale as bleached muslin. He held his body at an odd angle, stiff and still. He had not danced, had barely even risen to greet approaching nobles, since they had entered the room. Any beverage had been delivered on a footman’s tray, and when Rydell did stand, he leaned heavily on a solid, black cane.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him?
The man looked to be a shell. Not the bold and energetic dancer she remembered or expected. Nor the enthusiastic and commanding flirt who had stolen one of her favorite silk stockings.
That memory heated her face even more than the dancing. Had that been part of their ruination as well? Part of his schemes to destroy Edmund?
Why would Rydell want to destroy my son? My family?
It made no sense. None. And her mind, her determination, turned cautious.
The music ended, and when her partner turned her toward the edge of the crowd, she pulled away—gently but firmly—and gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, my lord, but I need to take a rest for the next set.”
Judith acknowledged his startled expression with a pat on the arm, then turned toward a beverage table near the far wall of the ballroom. She scooped up a small cup of lemonade and sought out an elaborately decorated ficus tree as a refuge. She wedged her body and the skirts of her rose-colored gown between the tree’s pot and the wall, peering out through thebranches at the rest of the ball’s guests, careful not to entangle the feathers and ribbons in her hair in the leaves.
The Reddington ball had always been a highlight of the season. Their hosts, Lord and Lady Brawley, Earl and Countess Reddington, spared no expense. Even the lemonade revealed the money behind the event—overly sweet and thick with lemon pulp—which made it, to Judith’s taste, as foul as the normally weak and watery brew served at most balls. Congenial to all comers, Lord and Lady Brawley welcomed their guests into a room filled with Egyptian-themed decorations and champagne served early and often. Even her tree’s pot carried the theme, hieroglyphics circling it like marching soldiers.
The room shone as bright as a summer afternoon, lit by dozens of candelabra and six 120-candle chandeliers. Guests, expecting the best in fare and décor, wore their finest garb. Gowns glittered and swayed with frills, metallic embroidery, and gauze. Men wore kits of bright colors and intricately designed waistcoats, their eyes fashionably ringed with lines of kohl and cheeks dotted with rouge. Even cravats varied from white into reds, golds, and indigos, all of them tied with the latest in unique knots and secured with jeweled pins. The wealth of thetonshone—even the dragons and spinsters in their rows of out-of-the-way chairs seemed to shimmer with gems and pearls. All of Society had gathered to see and be seen.
Judith, too, had arrived in a similar effort. Her modiste had spent a week refurbishing one of Judith’s favorite and most alluring gowns—rose silk with a gold gauze overlay on the skirt and slits in the sleeves and bodice that allowed glimmers of gold silk to peek through. The original hem had been trimmed back and replaced with a weighted and ruched gold border. Gold silk embroidery on her décolletage drew every man’s eyes down, and Judith kept her posture straight, shoulders back. Her gown—and her dancing, as vigorous as it had been—were means toan end: to locate and draw the attention of the two men whom Edmund had claimed as his friends—and nemeses: Rydell and Sir Rory Campbell, the latter a nephew and presumptive heir of a currently childless duke.
When her rage had first flared earlier in the week, she had craved confrontation and restitution. But as she reviewed her conversations with her stepson over the past few days, her desire had evolved into something else: a need for verification.
Edmund had lied to her for months. What assurance did she have he did not continue to do so?
Judith took another sip, wincing as she glanced down at the yellow swill in her cup. She pressed her lips against the syrupiness and forced a swallow.
“The ratafia is infinitely sweeter, Lady Sculthorpe, but equally as disgusting.”
Judith coughed a laugh, then peered through the branches of the ficus tree to see Lord Anthony Blackwell, one of the more distinguished men of theton, watching her with curiosity. Tall and lean with hair the color of platinum, Lord Blackwell and his wife also hosted one of the premier balls of the season and frequently attended the assemblies at Almack’s, although they both circulated through thetonfor reasons more political than social. They knew everyone—and apparently everything.
Judith dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Rather so, my lord. I had hope for the lemonade, but it has proved a disappointment.”
“Much like seeing you lurking behind the decorations.”
Judith grinned. “I needed a respite from dancing. I did not expect so many gentlemen to desire a turn with an ancient widow.”
“Which would not be you, my dear lady. You may be a widow but are far from ancient. And anyone with eyes can see that while you are a lively dancer, you remain most intrigued bythe one man who is not doing so this evening. Also that your energetic display on the floor has an ulterior motive.”
Judith stilled and glanced down at her cup. “I am unsure—”
“He is injured. Seriously so.”
She stared at the man. “I beg your pardon.”
A slight smile creased Lord Blackwell’s gently lined face. “Rydell. That is why he is not dancing. And why he looks like the apocalyptic horse of death. Most of thetonis surprised he is even here. Some altercation in the Rookeries left him with a few broken ribs and bruised innards. While he is much better now, theon dithas been circulating for a couple of days that this is why Bow Street dismissed him in the death of Miss Ashley. He would not at that time have been physically capable of rendering injury to her.” He gave a quick smirk. “Of course, as is the nature oftonprattle, many are unwilling to pass on such a delectable idea. Yet.”
Judith studied him through the leaves. “Why are you telling me this?”
Lord Blackwell shifted his gaze to the dancers, who were concluding a country dance. “Your late husband and I were good friends.”
