Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“What’s happening?” Hudson asked, frowning at the footman before him.
The silence of Oakhart House was broken when the sharp edge of a child’s voice cut through the quiet, followed by the prim, outraged tone of Miss Fairchild.
The young footman’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Lady Cassandra, Your Grace. Again,” he said carefully, but his eyes held a flicker of sympathy.
Hudson sighed. “Take these,” he said, handing over his cloak. “And have someone take Pippin back to the stables.”
“Pippin’s already in the house, Your Grace. That’s the problem.”
Hudson didn’t bother with a response. Instead, he followed the sound of rising voices down the corridor and into the main hall.
The scene that greeted him was, unfortunately, familiar: Cassie, her blonde curls escaping from her braids, standing with her arms crossed and her chin tilted at a defiant angle, and the housekeeper, her eyes wide as Hudson entered.
Miss Fairchild, her face flushed an unattractive shade of pink, stood opposite her.
And between them, lying in a heap on the marble floor, was a pile of gowns—or what remained of gowns—stained with what appeared to be…
“Is that—”
“Dog excrement, Your Grace,” the housekeeper supplied from her position near the wall.
In the center of the chaos sat Pippin, Cassie’s beloved Newfoundland, his one ear perked forward as if to better appreciate the commotion. At Hudson’s appearance, his tail began to thump enthusiastically against the floor.
“Explain this at once,” Hudson said, his voice cutting through the room.
Miss Fairchild rounded on him. “Your sister has instructed her dog to soil my clothing, Your Grace. As retaliation for last night’s punishment. I discovered the damage when I went to my room to retrieve my shawl.”
Hudson turned to Cassie. “Is this true?”
She shrugged, the picture of innocence despite the obvious evidence to the contrary. “Pippin doesn’t follow instructions very well. He prefers to follow his nose.”
“Cassandra,” Hudson gritted out in warning.
“I don’t see why you’re glaring at me,” Cassie said, her small hands curling into fists at her sides. “She hasn’t even listened to my side of the story.”
Miss Fairchild’s lips thinned. “There are no sides to this story, young lady. Only right and wrong.”
“That’s what you always say,” Cassie retorted. “But you’re never on my side. It’s not fair!”
“I am always on the side of proper behavior,” Miss Fairchild said, her voice rising. “Which you have shown yourself to be entirely incapable of!”
“That’s enough,” Hudson cut in, stepping between them. He turned to Cassie. “Apologize to Miss Fairchild. Now.”
“I won’t,” Cassie said, her blue eyes flashing with anger.
“Cassie, I’m not going to ask again.”
“Then don’t,” she said, her chin jutting forward. “Because I won’t do it! It’s not fair that—”
“That’s it.” Miss Fairchild’s voice cut across Cassie’s, hard as steel.
“I have had quite enough.” She drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t very impressive, as the top of her head barely reached Hudson’s shoulder.
Still, her bearing was that of a queen pronouncing judgment.
“Your Grace, I tender my resignation. Effective immediately.”
Hudson closed his eyes briefly. “Miss Fairchild—”
“No, I have made up my mind. This is simply the last in a long line of provocations!” She began to count them off on her fingers.
“There was the incident with the sausages.” She gestured at Pippin, who wagged his tail at the attention.
“The ink splattered across the library curtains. The time she dressed as a stable boy and snuck out to—to fraternize with the grooms.”
The word fraternize emerged with the distaste usually reserved for vermin.
“That was one time, and Peter needed a hug! His grandmama had just died!” Cassie protested.
“Miss Fairchild,” Hudson offered desperately, “I understand the frustration. You will be compensated for this, and your salary will be increased to reflect the increased difficulty of the situation.”
Miss Fairchild sniffed. “Your Grace, forgive my directness, but there is not enough money in the world to keep me here. I shall pack my things and be gone by morning.”
With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, her dignity intact despite the wrinkles in her gown.
In the silence that followed, Hudson turned to Cassie.
“You have reached new heights of unacceptable,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “You will be confined to your room for one week. And Pippin goes to the stables until your sentence is served.”
“That’s not fair!” Cassie exclaimed, her eyes wide with outrage. “You didn’t even let me explain! Pippin didn’t do it on purpose! He was trying to warn me that Miss Fairchild was coming! He always wags his tail when he’s trying to be helpful, but he gets so excited he—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hudson interrupted. “The result is the same. Miss Fairchild’s gowns are ruined, and she is leaving.”
“She was going to leave anyway,” Cassie muttered. “Everyone leaves.”
An unexpected jolt of empathy hit him.
He opened his mouth to respond, to tell her that he would never leave, that he was trying his best, but before he could form the words, Cassie whirled around and bolted for the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
The housekeeper moved to follow her, but Hudson shook his head. “Let her go.” His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.
The housekeeper hesitated, then nodded. “Shall I send a tray up to her room later, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” Hudson said. “And make sure the dog is fed as well, once you take him to the stables.”
He stood in the center of the hall, listening to the fading sound of Cassie’s footsteps on the upper landing.
What a mess.
The commotion from beneath the grand staircase pulled Hudson out of his thoughts.
He’d been standing in the center of the hall, staring at nothing for at least five minutes after Cassie’s retreat.
Now, he followed the sound of grunts and thuds to find two red-faced footmen in a losing battle with a very determined Newfoundland.
“His Grace said the dog goes to the stables,” the taller footman was saying through gritted teeth as he tugged at Pippin’s collar. “Not that we should play tug-of-war with him for an hour!”
“Well, he’s not making it easy, is he?” the second footman replied, heaving at Pippin’s hindquarters while the dog planted his front paws firmly on the carpet. “Come on, you. Let’s go.”
Pippin responded by dropping his center of gravity and digging in harder, his one ear perked forward and his tail wagging with what could only be described as malicious glee. He snarled, a sound that would have been threatening if not for the clear enjoyment in his eyes.
Hudson watched the struggle for a moment, torn between frustration and a reluctant admiration for the dog’s stubbornness. It was, he had to admit, not unlike Cassie’s, a trait that was as endearing as it was maddening.
“Having trouble?” he asked, unable to keep the dry note from his voice.
Both footmen straightened immediately, nearly dropping Pippin in their haste.
“Your Grace,” the taller one said, inclining his head. “We were just—”
“Yes, I can see what you were just doing.” Hudson bent down and snapped his fingers. “Pippin, come.”
To the clear astonishment of both footmen, the dog immediately trotted over to Hudson, his claws clicking on the marble floor.
“Take him,” Hudson said to the footmen. “And make sure he has his blanket and that ridiculous stuffed rabbit Cassie gave him for Christmas.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” they chorused, looking relieved to be given clear instructions.
Hudson straightened and headed for the door, his mind already turning to the next item on his impossibly long list of responsibilities.
Oakhart House had been in the Rivers family for generations, a monument to stability and tradition. And now it was his, along with the title, the lands, the investments, and Cassie.
All of it resting on his shoulders.
But now, he had to tend to his other responsibilities.
The carriage was waiting at the front steps, the horses stamping their hooves impatiently in the cool evening air. Hudson gave the driver his destination: not his club or his townhouse, but a less respectable address in a part of London that no duke had any business frequenting.
The Nightingale.
He made his way to the private office at the rear of the building, nodding to the guard stationed outside the door. The man stepped aside without a word, his eyes constantly scanning the room behind Hudson.
He pushed open the door, and two men rose from their seats as he entered.
The first—Thomas Slater—was short and stocky, with a head of thinning hair and a smile that could charm birds from trees.
He’d been with Hudson since the early days when the Nightingale was little more than a run-down tavern with a few card tables in the back.
Now he managed the day-to-day operations with the ease of long practice, his cockney at odds with the expensive cut of his clothes.
The second was tall and thin. Joseph Wellington, tonight’s plant, who had to outbid the other men who frequented this place in the hopes of winning a woman. It was rather strange for him to be there.
“We weren’t expecting you tonight, Your Grace,” Slater said, gesturing to the chair behind the desk. “The auction’s already done and paid for, except…”
Hudson leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Tell me about the auction.”
Slater and Joseph exchanged glances.
“Well, tonight’s lady…”
“Yes?” Hudson gestured for him to continue.
“She’s the daughter of the Viscount Whitfield,” Joseph supplied. “The one who—”
“I know who Whitfield is,” Hudson cut in. The name had been splashed across every newspaper in London for weeks after the man’s arrest. “I assume that is why she was brought to this auction?”
“Apparently her guardian, a vicar named Leighton, decided she was more a liability than an asset after her father’s arrest,” Slater said, his usual good humor absent.
“According to our sources, he was planning to drop her off at a brothel in Cheapside,” Joseph added. “But one of his parishioners suggested our establishment might be more… profitable.”
Hudson merely shook his head. He had not been shocked by the cruelty of man in a long while. “What do we know about her?”
“Miss Augusta Booth,” Joseph said. “She’s four-and-twenty. She’s stayed with the vicar and his wife in the countryside for many years. After her father’s recent arrest last month, the vicar was eager to get rid of her and anything that might connect them to the Whitfield scandal.”
Hudson nodded, processing the information. A gently bred lady, educated but sheltered, with no family to speak of, and a name that was now synonymous with disgrace.
“Bring her to my office,” he ordered. “I shall talk to her.”