“She is punctual.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Ask Mother.”
“Ask Mother what, pray tell?” The question accompanied a rustle of bombazine and silk as Phyllida entered the room.
Mark and Matthew turned as their mother settled on one of the settees in the room, fluffing her purple-and-lavender skirts around her.
“About Lady Sculthorpe’s punctuality.”
Phyllida clasped her hands in her lap. “It is well known. When I visited her, I arrived only a moment after the appointed time, but she was ready and waiting for me. A perfectly reasonable characteristic to expect of someone of her station.”
Matthew sat in a wingback. “So she is no longer a hussy?”
Phyllida sniffed. “I suspect that is more a question for your brother.”
Mark turned back to the window. “I am sure I have no idea what you mean.”
“Not according to what I hear from my maid.”
Matthew snorted as Mark smothered a laugh. Fueling the gossip trains of thetondid run the risk of wielding a two-edged sword. The news of his late-night meeting with Judith verified the completion of the wager, but it also meant the accounts of it—some more true than others—made their way around the kitchens and drawing rooms of Mayfair. “You should not believe everything you hear, Mother.”
“If only some of it is true, you are treading on the edge of scandal, even if she is a widow. And this wild scheme of hers could push us all over that edge.”
“Not if it works,” muttered Matthew.
“Ifit works.”
A carriage pulled up in front of the house, and Mark’s chest tightened. “They have arrived.” He turned toward the door, buta short bark of his name called him to a halt. He looked around at his mother, whose face held a storm, and Matthew, whose eyebrows had arched into his hair.
Phyllida’s voice grated. “You will wait here. Stephens will announce her. Them.”
Mark swallowed, then nodded as he went to stand next to Matthew’s chair.
His brother looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What has gotten into you?”
Mark crossed his arms. “Nothing.”
But something had, and Mark knew it to his core. From the moment he had shown Judith the room he had prepared for Olivia and had seen her reaction to it—curiosity and acceptance, as well as her desire to meet the girl—something had shifted in him. And when the buckshot-filled blanket had arrived at his home two days ago, that something had cracked, and he doubted he would ever be able to seal those cracks completely. Cracks that had revealed an unexpected need, almost a craving, that Mark could not quite put a name to.
Stephens appeared in the doorway, blandly announcing “Lord Edmund Lovelace, the Earl Sculthorpe, and Judith Lovelace, Lady Sculthorpe.”
Matthew stood as they entered, exchanging nods with the butler, who retreated. He greeted Judith and Edmund, then presented his mother to the earl, to whom she had never been formally introduced. “Mr. Smith is also here and will join us momentarily.”
Mark watched closely as Judith, who barely glanced at him, settled next to his mother as the earl sat in the other wingback. Mark and Matthew remained standing until Stephens announced the Bow Street Runner, who eased down on an armchair, his eyes wide as he looked from one to the other as introductions were made, before focusing on Matthew.
“Your Grace, I have to admit surprise at the invitation, even more at this gathering.”
Matthew gestured toward Edmund and Judith. “Mr. Smith, this meeting is at the behest of Lord Sculthorpe and his mother. They have a series of events to relate to you, which I believe concerns work you are already doing on behalf of the Duke of Devonshire.”
Smith physically jerked, turning his attention to the earl. “How do you know—”
Phyllida interrupted. “Mr. Smith, we kindly ask you to listen first, questions to come later.”
The runner stopped, mouth open, and Mark tightened his lips to keep from laughing and cleared his throat, stepping from behind Matthew’s chair. “We do realize that you are the one who normally asks the questions, but this is an unusual circumstance. You are here, Mr. Smith, because the revelations in the story include the possibility of physical danger to the earl, thus the need for a slight bit of misdirection and skullduggery. The tale sounds somewhat ludicrous, but as a party who is involved on a tangential level, I assure you there is truth in the words.” He paused. “And it may be connected with Miss Ashley’s death.”
They all stared at him. Matthew scowled as Smith shifted in his chair. “How so?” his brother asked.
