Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“… a
nd Mrs. Beale specifically said the Delftware from the breakfast service must be counted separately from the good china.”
As he made his way rather hurriedly to the front door, Hudson paused, leaned against the newel post, and allowed himself the rare pleasure of eavesdropping.
“She’s in her element,” Augusta spoke from behind him, and he turned to look at her. A soft smile had settled on her face. “Planning gives her a sense of control. And she’s remarkably good at it.”
He looked at her intently. “That’s your influence,” he said. “You’ve given her confidence.”
“I’ve merely encouraged what was already there.” Augusta shrugged. “All credit goes to her.”
“Perhaps,” Hudson said. “But the result is…” He paused, searching for the word. “Remarkable.”
He wanted, with a desperation that shocked him, to pull her against him, to feel the length of her body against his, to taste her lips and the soft skin of her throat and the curve of her shoulder where her dress fell away.
Instead, he forced himself to step back, to put distance between them. The air felt suddenly cold against his skin.
“I should go,” he mumbled.
She merely nodded, and he rushed outside, remembering all too clearly his hurry again.
One appointment turned into the next, and though he had meant to return home after the last one, an urgent message had called him to the Nightingale.
He nodded to Slater, who stood near the private stairs and merely nodded in the direction where trouble was brewing.
The faro bank was doing steady business, with five players sitting around the table.
Hudson paused, his attention caught by a movement too quick, too practiced to be casual: the flick of a wrist, the momentary distraction of a neighboring player, the slight adjustment of a card’s position before it was revealed.
He moved without hesitation, crossing the room in three strides to place his hand firmly on the offender’s shoulder.
“Lord Follett,” he said, his voice pitched to carry just far enough. “I believe you’ve mistaken this establishment for one where such behavior is tolerated.”
Follett froze, one hand still half-extended toward his cards. He was young, not yet thirty, with the florid complexion and slightly unfocused eyes of someone who had been drinking steadily since dinner.
“Your Grace,” he stammered, color rising rapidly in his cheeks. “I assure you, I’ve done nothing—”
“Your sleeve, My Lord,” Hudson cut him off. “The ace of diamonds you’ve been concealing there for the past quarter-hour.”
Follett’s mouth opened, then closed. The other players watched with expressions ranging from shocked to satisfied, while the dealer—a lean, dark man with fingers like a musician’s—kept his face carefully blank.
Hudson’s grip on Follett’s shoulder tightened just enough to be felt.
“You will leave,” he said, his voice level.
“You will not return. And you will send a bank draft for the amount your opponents have lost to this address by tomorrow afternoon.” He produced a card from his waistcoat pocket and slid it into Follett’s hand.
“Should I not receive it, I shall be forced to mention this incident to Lord Farrington. I believe he is your uncle?”
Follett’s face drained of what little color remained. “There’s no need—”
“I believe there is.” Hudson released him with a gesture that was almost gentle. “Slater will show you out.”
Slater materialized at his elbow, his impassive face giving nothing away. “If you’ll come with me, My Lord.”
Follett rose, his chair scraping across the floor. “This is outrageous,” he began, but his voice lacked conviction.
He cast one desperate glance around the room. The other players were already collecting their winnings, pointedly looking away.
Then, he straightened his cravat with a gesture that was more pride than composure. “I’ll not soon forget this insult.”
“No,” Hudson agreed. “I don’t imagine you will.” He watched as Slater escorted Follett toward the door, then turned back to the table. “My apologies for the interruption, gentlemen. Please accept a bottle of my best brandy with the house’s compliments.”
He had nearly reached the doors when Slater appeared again, moving with the uncanny quiet that made him so valuable.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice low enough that Hudson had to lean closer to hear. “A message has just come for you. From Joseph, up north.”
Slater handed him a letter, which Hudson took and unfolded eagerly. He scanned its contents, each word driving a cold spike deeper into his chest.
Found the girl. Lochside village, three miles north of Kinloch. Staying with an aunt of her mother’s. She’s well. Says she won’t come to London. Says she wants her sister to join her here. Nothing left for them in London. She’s scared.
I’ve left a man to watch the house. Awaiting your instructions.
Hudson read it twice, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more palatable.
Found. Won’t come. Nothing left.
His hand dropped to the desk, the paper crumpling between his fingers.
He had promised Augusta to find her sister, to bring them together, to give her back the one person she had lost. He had made that promise the night they were in his office at the Nightingale.
Now he had found Olivia. And she wanted her sister with her. Away from him, away from Cassie.
He couldn’t let Augusta go. Not now. Not when Cassie had finally found someone she trusted, someone who saw her not as an obligation or a convenience, but as a person in her own right, with thoughts and dreams and a mind sharp enough to cut glass.
He couldn’t do it.
But he couldn’t keep the truth from her either.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. His reflection stared back at him: dark-eyed, tense, the face of a man caught between two impossible choices.
He would wait. Just until the ball. One week—ten days, at most—and then he would tell Augusta everything. She would understand. She would have to understand.
And if she didn’t, if she took Olivia’s side and left…
The thought made his chest ache.
He turned away from the window and strode back to his desk, reaching for the brandy decanter with fingers that weren’t quite steady. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat but did nothing to dull the edge of the guilt already settling beneath his ribs.
He would wait. He would tell her after the ball. And in the meantime, he would send Joseph whatever resources he needed to keep Olivia safe.
Morning came too soon for a man who had not slept a wink.
Hudson stood on the front steps of Oakhart House, watching as the carriage was brought around.
Behind him, Cassie bounced on her toes with barely contained excitement, while Pippin circled her ankles with an enthusiasm that threatened to topple them both.
“Pippin, sit,” she commanded, pointing firmly at the pavement. “You can’t come. You’d eat all the ribbons.”
The dog barked once, then slumped onto his haunches with a sigh. His ears drooped, his eyes fixed on Cassie with an expression of such patent betrayal that Hudson had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
The carriage pulled up, the coachman nodding respectfully as he opened the door. Cassie clambered in with the grace of a girl who had been climbing into carriages since she could walk, followed more sedately by Augusta. Hudson took the rear-facing seat, settling down with the ease of long practice.
The drive to Bond Street was brief but pleasant, Cassie chattering happily about the various styles she had been studying in the fashion plates Augusta had brought from the library.
They reached Madame LeClair’s establishment within a few minutes. The bell above the door jingled as they entered, and a small, dark-haired woman emerged from the rear of the shop, her hands full of pins and measuring tape.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, inclining her head. “Lady Cassandra. And Miss…” She paused, her professional smile faltering slightly as she took in Augusta’s plainly cut dress.
“Miss Norton,” Hudson supplied. “Lady Cassandra’s governess.”
“Of course.” Madame LeClair recovered smoothly. “And how may I assist you today?”
“We’re here to buy ballgowns,” Cassie announced. “For the spring ball at Oakhart House. I’ve brought sketches.” She produced a folded sheet of paper from her reticule. “For me and Miss Norton.”
Hudson’s eyebrows rose. “Miss Norton?”
“Of course,” Cassie said, as though the question were absurd. “She can’t attend the ball in her day dress. It wouldn’t be proper.” She turned to Augusta. “Would it?”
Augusta’s cheeks colored slightly. “Cassie, I’m not—”
“You’ll need a dress,” Hudson cut in, the words coming out before he could stop them. “You’re attending as Cassie’s companion. It would be… inappropriate for you to appear in anything less than proper evening attire.”
He was aware of Madame LeClair’s sharp gaze darting between them, of the small furrow that had appeared between Augusta’s eyebrows, of Cassie’s suddenly speculative expression.
He cleared his throat. “I believe we should begin with Lady Cassandra’s fitting. Miss Norton can decide on her requirements while we’re occupied.”
Madame LeClair nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. If you’ll follow me?”
She led them to a small room at the rear of the shop, where a low dais stood before a tall mirror. Bolts of fabric lined the walls, silks and satins and muslins in every shade from palest cream to deepest burgundy.
“I’ve brought several styles that might suit,” she said, turning her attention to Cassie. “White, of course, for a young lady’s first ball, but perhaps with a colored sash? Or an embroidered hem?”
Cassie was already flipping through the pattern books, her expression intent.
“This one,” she said, pointing to an illustration of a dress with a high waist and gathered sleeves.
“In white, with a blue sash. And perhaps a little lace at the neck? Not too much,” she added quickly. “Just enough to be pretty.”
“An excellent choice.” Madame LeClair nodded. “And the fabric?”