In silence, they climbed to the third floor of the house, the light of the candle casting stark, dancing shadows on the bare walls of the servants’ staircase. Judith tiptoed to keep her bootheels from clicking on the treads, relieved when they entered the corridor with its thick carpet and silk-papered walls. Lord Mark opened a door near the rear of the house and ushered her inside.
His bedchamber. Judith stopped, straightened, and stared. She had never been in a bachelor’s rooms before. Even her husband’s had been tempered by the tastes and influence of his first wife. This room, however, looked like the heart of pure masculinity. The bed, wardrobe, and shaving stand had been polished to a fine sheen, the deep grain of the rosewood striking in the way the three pieces matched in design and construction. The rich colors of the curtains and bedcovers held deep reds and browns with an occasional touch of gold. Near the fire grate a single wingback chair with an ottoman waited next to an accent table stacked with books, while one tome lay open on the ottoman, a small, intricately carved wooden block holding the pages down.
A second door near the fireplace remained closed, which Judith assumed led to a dressing room. The golden glow of several lamps flickered and gamboled around the room as the ormolu clock on the mantel gave a gentle chime at the eleventh hour. Lord Mark stepped close to Judith’s back, his presence strong and warm as he touched her shoulders, his low voice even softer than the chime. “Let me take your cloak.”
She nodded and released the clasp, and he slipped it away from her, disappearing briefly behind that second door as she continued to look around. The heavy bedcovers had been peeled back, and thick, luxurious pillows had been piled up against the arched headboard, which had a center post topped by an acorn-style finial. Judith smiled, wondering exactly how far he was willing to take their charade.
She gave another shiver as she realized exactly how farshewas willing to go.
He returned, holding his arm out toward the wingback. “Please. Sit.” As she did, he scooped up the book and block from the ottoman and placed them next to the clock, then he straddled the ottoman facing her. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs, which caused the V-neck of his shirt to drop away from his chest, revealing the soft prominence of his collar bone and a few tufts of dark curls. “Now. Explain your plan to me. And tell me what this favor is that you need from Rory and me.”
Judith swallowed hard, then glanced at the fire, chewing her lower lip. “They may not work, neither the plan nor the favor. Vincent Atkinson is not a foolish man.”
“But he is an arrogant one, is he not? And that is what you are relying on?”
Judith focused on Lord Mark again, studying his face, which seemed alight with curiosity—eyes wide, eyebrows arched. She nodded. “Mr. Atkinson is holding something over Edmund, beyond the vase. And unlike the theft of the vase, this... issue... has truly happened. Are you familiar with an establishment, a private salon of sorts, in the Strand, a...um”—she swallowed hard—“a molly house run by an organization called the White Stallion.”
All curiosity drained from Mark’s face along with the color as he straightened on the ottoman, his voice hoarse. “What do you know of this place?”
She took a deep breath. “Edmund has been frequenting it—”
“Bloody hell—”
Judith put up her hand. “He says he only watches.”
“Of course he does. Please tell me you have not been there yourself.”
“No, of course not. Even if I wanted to, I would not dare.”
“Do not. The owners are dangerous. Edmund is more of a fool than I believed.”
“He promises he will stop.”
“Of course he does. Judith—”
“He insists there is no proof. That Atkinson has only heard rumors. If someone approached the... establishment... with the proper incentive...” As her words trailed off, Mark stared into the fire.
“You think Rory or I could provide the incentive.”
“Or provide it to me. I could—”
“No!” He looked at her. “I will see what we can do. But do not ever go near that place. Or that organization. They will kill without—”
“How would Atkinson know? If he does not go there himself?”
“Atkinson has informants all over the city, just as I do. He probably has someone inside who provides him with the names of every member of Society who frequents the place.”
“So dangerous for anyone.”
“That particular activity is treacherous on every possible level. How do you think Shropshire acquired the pox?”
Judith choked. “I thought he liked women!”
Mark smirked. “Shropshire likes sex. Any port in a storm.”
“I may be ill.”
He leaned forward again. “I highly doubt that. You are one of the strongest women I know.”
