“Uh, my lord? May I pose a question?”
Mark paused two steps up. “What is it?”
“Lady Sculthorpe’s maid.”
“What about her?”
“You did call her ‘MissEpworth,’ did you not?”
Mark kept his face still. “I did. Why?”
“I-I-er—I merely wanted to make certain.”
Mark grinned. “You finish down here then get to bed. I’ll undress myself, and you can tidy up in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. That will work out nicely.” Howe gave a slight bow, then turned toward the kitchen.
Mark decided to check on Olivia before retiring, and he opened the door to the nursery slowly, taking only one step inside. Mark had offered Rose her choice of a separate room or to have a bed brought into the nursery. She had chosen the room, which most likely allowed her to rest more soundly, even though it was adjacent to the nursery, and if Olivia roused during the night, her grandmother would hear her.
Mark watched his sleeping child. Her face appeared more peaceful and sweet in her slumber, her breathing even and her muscles relaxed. One arm draped loosely over Lizzie. Moonlight streamed in through the high windows, casting long strips of silver light across the room. The toys, silent now, waited patiently for the next engagement.
During their time in the parlor, Judith had continually glanced at the door or the ceiling, as if she had been listening for the children, as if she were ready to bolt the room to get to them. She had seemed distracted, almost withdrawn from the conversation, answering questions briefly. Had something occurred during dinner to put her off their scheme? A scheme she had devised?
Or had something happened to put her off him?
Mark eased the door closed but lingered in the hallway a few moments, his mind going over the evening once again. Nothing extraordinary stood out. Rolling his shoulders against exhaustion, he headed down the stairs to his own bedchamber. Whatever had distracted her would come out eventually, he knew that for certain. In the meantime, they all had to prepare for one of the most important events of all their lives: the Blackwell ball.
*
Judith stared atthe canopy over her bed, her thoughts whirling. Sleep would be hard to achieve this night, despite her exhaustion. The evening had not been unpleasant, but a great deal of information and number of details had crossed over her tonight, and Judith had trouble lining them up and making sense out of everything she had heard and witnessed.
And Rose Ashley’s appearance still nagged at her. Even though Mark had warned them that Rose was reserved and fragile, Judith had been surprised by the look of her as well as her reticence. Rose had said nothing, nor had her expression changed much, nothing that would indicate whether she were hale and hardy or needed a doctor. She had hung back from everyone, watching Olivia but little else, wincing any time voices were a little loud.
Which, given the nature of the Rydell family, was most of the time. Judith had honestly never met any family like them, with the relentless bantering and insults tossed at each other as if they were Christmas trinkets. Sarah, new to the family, spoke rarely, watching Matthew with pure adoration in her eyes. What had seemed casual sparring at first had grown increasinglysnappish, as if some underlying anger lurked, waiting for an opening.
Judith’s emotions had further warred within her as she thought about how Mark had responded to the children. She had honestly expected to spend much of the evening with Olivia, getting to know the young girl. Instead, Olivia and William had whisked themselves off to the nursery while the adults strolled into dinner. Neither had been seen again until Mark had brought her sleeping son downstairs. The children had spent the evening only in the company of the frail Rose, with her gaunt face and purple circles around her eyes. The woman could not be much older than Phyllida, yet she looked like—
Edmund.
Judith sat up in bed.
Rose looked like Edmund. Like Edmund in the last stages of his disease, when the once hale earl had withered, weakened, and finally retreated to his bedchamber, unable to even tend to the most personal of needs.
Rose Ashley was dying.
Did Mark know? Is that why he was so determined to move them into his house so soon after taking it over. Is that why he was acknowledging Olivia now, after three years of remaining at a distance?
If that were the case, what other secrets might be skulking behind those blue eyes and sharp wit? Is that why his bantering became crisper, more defensive as his mother had probed and prodded, not just about the Blackwell ball but his plans for the future?
Judith crossed her arms. “I do not know him. Sweet God in heaven, I do not know the man at all.” Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes, but she brushed them away. “No. I will not do this.”
This was a distraction. Only one thing mattered: saving her family. Making sure Atkinson paid for his arrogance, his manipulations. Rectifying all that had happened to Edmund and Margaret and ensuring their future and that of her three boys.
Nothing else should occupy her mind at this time. Including Mark Rydell.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday, 19 August 1814
