One in the afternoon
Mark glanced aroundhis bedchamber—hisformerbedchamber—more as a final farewell than to see if he had forgottenanything. “Shipshape and Bristol fashion” had been Howe’s pronouncement earlier that morning, as the last of the trunks and crates had been hauled down the backstairs and loaded onto the wagon waiting in the rear courtyard. The phrase amused Mark, as the young and rotund Howe had never been near a naval ship in any of his few years on the planet. But his meticulous valet had been correct. Even the mattress on the bed where Mark had slept since childhood had been curled away from the edges, awaiting a good thrumming as the staff prepared to turn this room into a space for guests.
The Bloomsbury house too had been declared ready for its new occupant the day before—most of the repairs complete and staff in place. Howe would double as butler for the time being, and the new cook and housemaid were working well with Clara. Mark had waited until after Matthew’s marriage to Sarah—which had taken place the previous Saturday—to announce the move to his mother, although it had never been exactly a secret to her or anyone else in the household.
The wedding preparations had provided some cover and explanations for all the activity of packing, but the now-dowagerduchess, Phyllida, Lady Embleton, had never been blind or deaf to her children. She had become even more aware since, after his unfortunate encounter in the Rookeries, attempts to conceal his ongoing nightmares had been abandoned. And Mark had become increasingly exasperated at how the entire household stared at him come the dawn.
Mark tapped his cane on the floor. He no longer relied on it—he had certainly been well enough to stand beside Matthew as best man in his polished and pressed military regalia—but found he’d grown accustomed to having it handy. He took a deep breath, then turned, closed the door, and headed down the front stairs to one final luncheon with his family.
Yet he stopped in the doorframe, his gaze taking in the almost vacant space. The dining room table held only two place settings. His brother’s place at the head of the table, as well as his new bride’s at the opposite end, remained unoccupied—as did most of the others. His mother sat in a chair to the right of the duke’s; an empty one awaited across from her.
“Where is everyone?”
Phyllida focused on a letter in her left hand as she sipped from a glass of white wine in her right. “The boys are off to... something to do with horses. Matthew and Sarah are meeting two of our stewards for luncheon in town.” She glanced up at him. “To be truthful, I am grateful. You and I have a lot to discuss, and I’d rather the rest of the family not hear.”
A deep feeling of misgiving tightened Mark’s gut. Perhaps he should have skipped this meal as well. He pulled out the chair and sat, leaning his cane against the chair next to his as a footman appeared at his side, pouring wine. “As long as it does not have anything to do with a ball or another wedding.”
Phyllida laid the note aside and nodded to Stephens, who stood patiently next to the buffet. The man disappeared through a servant’s door at the back of the room. “No, it does not. Although you will attend the Blackwell ball.”
Mark held back a sigh of frustration. Instead he sipped his wine, then muttered, “I am much too old.”
“Your age is irrelevant.”
“And when is this unctuous ball?”
“The nineteenth. A Friday. And you will not insult Lord and Lady Blackwell by refusing to attend. You will gather me here before the event and we will go in the ducal carriage.” She put a finger on the note and moved on from what she obviously considered a settled issue. “Judith Lovelace, Lady Sculthorpe, has invited me to visit her this afternoon.”
Stephens emerged from the servants’ door with a tray holding two bowls of soup. He placed one in front of Phyllida, then Mark. A fish and potato concoction that smelled heavenly. He hoped his new cook had the talent of the Embleton one. “Why?”
“She does not say. She asks that I come at four.”
“Are you going?”
“I am. I admit I am rather curious.”
“Are you not afraid to be seen in the company of a—what did you call her—ah, yes, a ‘damnable hussy’?”
Phyllida sniffed, then tasted her soup. “She is still a member of theton.” She paused for wine. “And I have been hearing some most intriguing rumors about her.”
“Oh?”
Phyllida set down her glass, scowling at him. “Do not play coy with me. I happened to know a letter for you arrived at the same time as this one, and that you have been down with the servants, asking all kinds of questions while you pretended to be moving.”
“I am, in truth, moving, Mother.”
She gave a dismissive wave. “But you were not, however, discussing your relocation with the servants.”
“I attempted to hire most of them away from this house. They would have been tempted but for fear of repercussions from you.”
“Nonsense. They adore Matthew, despite his surly nature, and most have already developed a fondness of Sarah. What nefarious request did Lady Sculthorpe have of you?”
“She wanted to know the name of the Bow Street Runner who has been looking into Stella’s murder.”
Phyllida Rydell froze, wine glass halfway to her lips. After a moment, she set it down. “Intriguing. The rumors I have encountered say that she has been spending a good deal of money—money I do not believe her family has at thistime—gathering reprehensible information about various male members of theton. Apparently in some misguided attempt to salvage her stepson’s reputation.” She lowered her chin and peered at Mark. “You are not involved in these efforts, are you?”
Mark scooped up the last spoonful of his soup and focused on keeping his expression stoic. “We both know the activities of theton’sgentlemen are usually above Bow Street’s purview. I cannot image how the two would cross paths.”
“Hm.” His mother motioned for Stephens to remove the bowls, remaining silent as the soup disappeared and an entrée of lamb and potatoes appeared, the fragrance speaking of pungent summer herbs. The white wine goblets vanished, replaced with broader glasses, which Stephens filled with a deep-red Bordeaux. “I also hear the name of Mr. Vincent Atkinson being bandied about.”
