“I will get to that shortly.” Mark nodded at Edmund. “Begin with how you became involved with Vincent Atkinson and the resulting blackmail.”
Smith almost leapt from his chair. “Blackmail?”
Phyllida sniffed, and the entire room fell silent.
Then Edmund took a deep breath and began to speak.
As he did, Mark watched Judith, not bothering to disguise that his sole attention remained on her as her son wove the tale of his debts, the disappearances of Devonshire’s vase,the attempts to work out a resolution with Atkinson—only to be blackmailed—and the discovery by Judith of Atkinson’s scheming against two other noblemen.
Judith listened intently, her focus seemingly on Edmund. But as Mark studied her, he realized that one hand rested on her right thigh, palm down, her index finger tracing a line back and forth. That’s when he noticed that in the slope between her index finger and thumb, a distinct bulge protruded beneath the fabric.
His breath caught.She is wearing it!She had his ascot tied around her thigh. The thought spiked through him, and Mark almost lost the thread of Edmund’s tale, blinking as the earl paused, took another deep inhale, and finished by explaining that theon ditamong the servants was that Devonshire’s vase remained in Atkinson’s possession, hidden away in a secret cubbyhole in his dressing room.
Smith seemed to take it all in. “But you have no evidence.”
This time Judith spoke, her hands clutched together in her lap. “Which is why we need you. Our plan is to goad Mr. Atkinson into revealing himself.” She spelled out the plan in the same way she had for Mark. “I have coached the three women, who fully understand what they need to do. They know the risks, and none of them are indeed as flighty and brainless as they appear to be”—she glanced at Edmund—“in the presence of men. They all three run substantial households, and I can assure you that is not an easy or brainless undertaking.” She sat a little straighter. “It is merely how most women have been taught to behave around men. An unfortunate social construct, but it is what is expected of us. And it will be what Mr. Atkinson expects of them. He will not believe them to be capable of a scheme of any sort.”
Smith nodded. “And you expect him to take this gossipy bait.”
“I do.” Judith moved her right hand back to her thigh, and Mark felt his cheeks heat. “According to his servants, he is not fond of nor particularly respectful of women. Or, apparently, his servants, whom he treats as furniture without brains... or tongues.”
Smith muttered, “Sounds like much of the British aristocracy.”
Phyllida arched her neck. “I can assure you, sir, that he is not one of us, no matter what he wishes or desires.”
Smith coughed. “Of course not, Your Grace. I meant no offense.”
Matthew leaned forward. “Are you willing to work with us on this?”
The runner sat a little straighter. “Given the demands we have been given to locate that vase, I am willing to take any chance I can.” He looked at Mark. “But I do not understand how all this connects to Miss Ashley.”
Mark pulled the note from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Smith. “Miss Ashley received this anonymous threat after her death. Do you remember mentioning to us the nickname of one of her other... paramours? The border raider?”
Smith nodded, his face darkening as he read the note and counted the bills. “With the notation of one hundred beside it.”
Matthew gave a low growl of recognition.
Mark gave his brother a nod. “Border raiders are most notorious for—”
“Blackmail,” Smith muttered. He folded the note up and tucked it into a pocket. “Do we have any evidence that Atkinson had visited Miss Ashley?”
“No physical proof, although Miss Ashley’s maid, who now works for me, has confirmed it. She described him as, and I quote, ‘the nastiest sort of randy bloke.’”
Smith stood. “Would she say that before a magistrate?”
“I suspect so. She can be quite the persistent young woman.”
“Then let us get on with bringing this man to heel.”
Chapter Nineteen
Friday, 12 August 1814
Sculthorpe Manor
Four in the afternoon
Judith took adeep, steadying breath against the pain in her lower back, annoyed and grumpy at the changes that had happened over the past twelve hours. Last night at midnight, her world had appeared one of sweet moonlight and lovely anticipation of the day to come. Then it had all been upended in the hours before dawn, leaving her gritting her teeth and staying upright by a sheer force of will. She rolled her shoulders against the tension in her muscles, then looked over the two notes spread on the worn wooden surface of her escritoire for a third time. They had arrived a few hours ago, in the midst of Epworth’s care for her, and Judith had only now looked at them, fighting the unexpected fit of nerves they had brought on. The tips of her fingers quivered as she ran them down the lines again, which aggravated her to her very core.
