“And you believe that you and I could have a quiet discussion in an alcove?”
Her eyes suddenly gleamed. “I believe, sir, that we already have.”
Mark coughed a laugh, grimacing as yet a new ache arced through his chest. “Humor is not currently good for my health.”
“Then we will focus on the truth instead. Meet me there Monday. At three. We will need tomorrow to recover, and the tearoom is not open on Sunday. Besides, I plan to have Edmund at St. George’s on Sunday, for service and a chat with the rector.” With that, she turned to the approaching young man and accepted his arm.
This time, Mark did snarl as the couple eased through the crowd. They paused briefly as another man approached Judith,motioning at her dance card. She shook her head, her arm to her side, and the man moved away.
Mark’s scowl deepened, but this time he was puzzled. The gentleman she had refused compared admirably to her other dance partners of the evening. Handsome, well-bred and well-known, and—as usual—young. So why would she...
Married. This one was married. Newly so.
Mark stood a little straighter. Most of thetonsuspected that Judith took lovers—not exactly scandalous, as she was a widow in her prime. So having a man, any man, request a dance should not be unusual. Mark’s gaze moved from Judith to her previous partner. Then another. And another. All of them, to a man, had two things in common. Their youth... and none were courting or married. Not one had made an attachment this season.
A smile worked its way across Mark’s face. His ebullient “wanton harlot” had a distinctive moral streak to her character. Unmarried men. St. George’s. “So, dear Judith,” he muttered, “what will your reaction be when hearing exactly how far off the mark Edmund has strayed?”
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 25 July 1814
Storey’s Gate, Whitehall
Quarter past three in the afternoon
Judith paced beforethe stolid and plain block building of Storey’s Gate, praying that Rydell would show soon and that her temper would have calmed enough by the time he arrived that she did not box his ears as if he were an errant child.
Because she dearly wanted to. And not merely because he had kept her waiting, although that annoyed her to the bone. His delay had left her to endure the obnoxious chattering of dozens of birds, all caged and in the trees lining the avenue leading from the gate. Most of thetonconsidered the birds to be a visual and auditory delight. Judith thought it cruel to keep such lovely creatures caged, and she regretted choosing the meeting spot from the moment she stepped from the Sculthorpe carriage and dismissed the driver. She had only been thinking of the tearoom, where they could have a bit of seclusion without actually being in private with each other. A quiet place but one with lovely people around. People she actually trusted.
Because she did not trust herself to be alone with Mark Rydell behind a closed door. The very concept sent her mind toward thoughts of silk stockings and bare thighs, firm hands and promises of far more pleasurable activities—all when sheshould be focused on rectifying her family’s plunge toward financial ruin.
Another reason to box his ears. During yesterday’s chat with the rector, Edmund had gone into more detail about Rydell’s involvement, laying blame directly on him for some of the worst investments. Edmund had spoken of this before in more general terms, but yesterday he had provided more details—details that made sense—and included a scheme involving a gaming hell, fixed fights, and a web of outrageous bets. The deeper and more convoluted this became, the more Judith understood Edmund’s desperation, the unrelenting panic of a young man in over his head with older men primed to take advantage of his youth, his money, and his status.
She did not need to be thinking about Rydell’s kisses. Or the firm stroke of his hand on her thigh.
A clattering of wheels on stone interrupted her musing, and she turned to see the Embleton ducal carriage approach, the family crest a glimmer of gold on the door. It stopped next to her and a footman descended to open the door and lower the steps. But Rydell did not emerge. He remained still, his shadowed form backlit by the windows on the other side of the vehicle as he spoke. “Is there any reason we cannot ride to this tearoom of yours?”
She crossed her arms, her reticule bouncing against her stomach. “Other than I would prefer not to be alone with you in a carriage?”
His head bowed and he chuckled. “I assure you the entiretonknows that I am incapable of anything untoward at the moment.”
They stared at each other a moment, then Judith sighed and gave the direction to the driver. The footman helped her inside, folded the steps, and closed the door. Once she had settled onthe seat opposite him, Rydell rapped with his cane on the roof, and the carriage moved forward.
“Your injuries are the only reason I have not heaped bodily harm upon you.”
He fought a smile, his hands twisting the cane against one palm. “I surmised as such. You have had a rather nasty shock.”
“For which you are partly responsible.”
He dipped his head. “I will admit to playing a part, although probably not as large a one as your stepson may have implied.”
“Do you or do you not have part ownership of a gambling hell called At Wheel’s End? A rather nonsensical name, I might add.”
He stilled. “Recently acquired, yes. And it refers to the Wheel of Fortune.Rota Fortunae.”
“Apropos. How recent?”
“A bit over three weeks ago. Just before”—he gestured toward his torso—“this. A few days before Miss Ashley’s murder.”
