*
Tuesday, 2 August 1814
Lord Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Half-past ten in the morning
Mark closed thedoor of his study to reduce the noise from the workmen on the upper floors of the house, then poured another cup of coffee from a setting on a table near the door. While most of the work on the house had been completed, he had discovered upon moving in and rearranging the furniture that a great deal more needed attention. Irritating but necessary, given his plans for the third and fourth floors of the house.
He settled at his desk and began to sort the correspondence before him on the blotter. Many of the correspondents had already found him at this new address, but some of the older mail had been addressed to Stella, arriving after her death from people either unaware of her demise or missives caught in slower mail routes. Jeremy Smith had searched the house in the days following her murder, taking all of her correspondence, so these had appeared later and been left for Mark, who had ignored them during his recovery. Even now, he set those aside while looking to those addressed to him directly, including one from Judith, which he opened first.
The meeting with your mother went well. We have reached a pact, such as those common amongst allies on a battlefield, since we have a mutual aim in mind. We have set a plan in motion, which I will provide more details about later. Meanwhile, do not be startled by anything you hear from your servants. News will break in a few days that will surprise many and rumors will be flying through thetonin front of it.
Part of our plan involves me being seen surreptitiously entering your home alone from its back garden tomorrow evening. Would you be willing for that to happen? If so, please send me the safest route you think a certain fair widow of renown would take.
It is also vital that we all attend the Blackwell ball on Fri., 19 Aug. Please plan to escort your mother.
You may also hear from her soon. Part of her involvement will entail setting an appointment with Mr. Jeremy Smith at Embleton House in a few days. If possible, you might consider attending.
I will also need a dear favor from you and Sir Rory prior to the ball. We will discuss this later.
Yours gratefully,
Judith
Mark reread the letter, both amused and intrigued, a smile spreading over his face. She obviously knew about the wager listed in White’s book, but most of thetondid at this point. The mere thought that she might act on it, that she would come to him here in his own house set his imagination—and his loins—afire with longing. He shifted his rear, adjusting his trousers to accommodate the sudden fullness there.
As he settled back into his chair, Mark realized he had not had such an unexpected arousal in several months. The waif-like debutantes at the endless number of balls his mother had dragged him to over the past season most definitely did not engender such desire. He could not have had less interest in them, often feeling more protective toward them than flirtatious—as if he were their older brother. Or worse, a favorite uncle.
Dear God in heaven, he was getting old.
Even thoughts of Stella had not created such an erotic sense of anticipation, not in many months.
Stella.
Mark took a deep breath. It had been almost three weeks. He had seen no signs that he had contacted the pox from her, and he had examined himself daily, the fear of the disease driving his constant checking. Dr. Oakley had also examined him buttold Mark that a firm declaration that he was free of it could not be had for at least a full month without symptoms. However, Dr. Oakley could not confirm Stella had truly contacted the disease—she had no sores or obvious symptoms upon her death. Neither had Mark noticed anything or he would have ceased contact immediately. Dr. Oakley also told him contact did not always mean infection, an attempt to reassure Mark without going into much further detail. With his own knowledge of the disease, however, Mark realized the doctor was being more kind and hopeful than truthful.
You have to tell her.
Judith. The very thought terrified Mark. He knew Judith probably did not have an intimate evening in mind, but such knowledge did not keep his desire at bay—which escalated his reluctance to possibly end their time together on a sour note. He could, of course, welcome Judith into his bedchamber without consummating a sexual act. Mark had long ago learned to behave properly when in the company of women, and his time with Stella had underscored that he did not always end an evening between a woman’s legs, no matter how enticing she might be.
But he did love women and loved bedding them, adored how they looked as he brought them to the height of arousal. As he had told his mother, he was far from a monk in mind as well as in deed.
And he truly wanted Judith, in every way possible.
You still have to tell her.
Mark swallowed hard. This would drive him mad. He took a deep breath and pushed Judith out of his mind. Instead, he turned back to the correspondence. The second missive he opened was from Rory, minor details about the financial well-being of the club and the lateston ditabout some of their clientele. Unlike Atkinson, Rory—and now Mark—did notengage in anything as sordid as blackmail, but they did keep abreast of all the gossip, lest some gamblers got too far in debt to be worthy of ongoing credit. One paragraph in Rory’s note did catch his eye.
There is word that a concerted effort is being made to pull Sculthorpe back from the brink. The primary attempts seem to come from his mother, but the estate’s managers are also involved. Apparently some property has been sold along with a great number of the fine artworks from their country house. A substantial payment was made here in the last few days by one of them, and I have heard from some of the smaller establishments that they have been paid off entirely. That would leave him only owing Atkinson, who, as we both know, will not relinquish any prey without a battle.
Mark set the note aside, a slight worry nagging at his gut. He hoped Judith knew how dangerous Atkinson could be. If not, he would definitely tell her. Pulling ink, a quill, and two sheets of foolscap from his desk, Mark composed two messages. One to Judith, explaining how and when would be the best time to access the back garden of his house, and one to Rory, acknowledging the information. Then, almost as an afterthought, Mark asked his business partner to stop by White’s and make a wager in the betting book.
Setting aside his writing supplies, he finally picked up the letters addressed to Stella. Once again, Mark searched his soul for a modicum of grief for the woman who had been his bedmate for more than four years, the mother of his daughter. But her betrayal had lit afire any affection he had for her. In its place lay a smoldering emptiness, like a house gutted by a fierce conflagration. As almost every remnant of her presence hadbeen removed from this house, so had whatever tenderness he had held for her.
Olivia.
Mark sighed. He had sent condolences to Rose, along with some money, but he had not dared show his face at the house. Not yet. Rose had returned a note of thanks, along with information about Olivia and her latest garden adventures, as well as information about her own health, which had declined again. Afterward, a new resolve had set in about what to do next, thus the newest changes to the house.
