Monday, 1 August 1814
Sculthorpe Manor, London
Half-past ten in the morning
Do I havethe right to ruin a man’s family—or many families—just because he tried to ruin mine?
The question had haunted Judith since her meeting with Lord Mark Rydell. Now she stared at the stack of missives on her escritoire, dozens of letters, sealed and waiting for her scheme to take flight.
Yet she had not sent them. And something deep inside told her not to. For the hundredth time, she fingered the list from Mark. Atkinson’s clientele. Each and every one of the men was nefarious, and she had spent the past few days gathering proof of their outrageous peccadillos, proof that would keep their wives on edge and theton’sgossips busy as bees. Proof that had been carefully locked away in her escritoire, in a drawer that now felt like Pandora’s box.
Did she dare open it?
At first, blackmail for blackmail had seemed the easiest way to ruin Atkinson, to resolve his hold on Edmund. Convince his clientele to abandon the club. Bankrupt the man. It had taken so little—a few quid and a sweet smile, in most cases—to persuade servants, merchants, and paramours to give up details that could shatter reputations and spread scandal.
How fragile we all are . . .
She had known corruption and more than a little depravity ran rampant through the Beau Monde, but she had not realized the widespread nature or depth of it. And Edmund was hardly the only one Atkinson held at ransom. He had convinced at least two others that he would ruin them with tales of the stolen vase should they not pay him. Between them, they were paying Atkinson a king’s fortune.
Four days. That’s all it had taken to gather her own material for blackmail. But now Judith’s very soul twisted with the idea.
There has to be another way.
Her mind settled, Judith stood, scooped up the letters, and dropped them onto the fireplace grate, where they landed with a whisperywhompbefore crisping as the flames licked at them, curling the edges and tingeing them brown. She watched them burn, an odd peace easing over her.
Judith pivoted and headed downstairs, finding Edmund in his study, his focus on one of the estate ledgers. He looked up, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrow. “What do you want now, Mother?”
She dropped into an armchair in front of his desk. “Tell me about Vincent Atkinson.”
His jaw went slack.
Judith sighed. “Have you not yet realized there is little that goes on among thetonthat I do not eventually get word about? I was countess for almost twenty years. Everyone knows me. Most trust me. And anyone with a tale they can’t keep to themselves seeks me out. You were only able to keep your errant ways a secret for so long because I was not paying attention. Stop being so surprised by this. And, for god’s sake, stop trying to hide anything from me. Now. Did you steal that vase?”
Edmund stared at her, eyes wide.
“Yes or no. It is not a complicated question.”
He swallowed hard. “No. I wasn’t even at Devonshire’s ball when it went missing.”
“So why does Atkinson believe he can substitute your debts with extortion?”
Looking down at the ledger, Edmund fingered the quill. “I have no proof I was somewhere else.”
“Where were you?”
He remained silent, his eyes on the numbers in front of him.
“A brothel.”
A nod.
“Watching women.”
Edmund hesitated, continuing to stare at the page. “Yes and no.”
Judith blinked as the implication sank in. Mark Rydell had said, “watching,” but had not been specific. “Watching but not women.”
A single, brief nod as color left his cheeks.
