Chapter 29 #2
A young man with ink-stained cuffs and the perpetually startled expression of someone who had recently graduated from university into the sobering reality of gainful employment intercepted Hudson at the top of the stairs.
“Sir, I’m afraid—”
“The Duke of Oakhart,” Hudson said, not breaking stride. “Here to see whoever is foolish enough to put their name on today’s edition.”
The young man’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. The name had the effect Hudson had come to rely upon in situations where courtesy had been preemptively abandoned.
“Mr. Peters is in his office,” the young man said, gesturing vaguely toward a door at the end of a corridor lined with desks where other ink-stained individuals had paused mid-task to observe the spectacle of a duke in full morning dress appearing in their midst.
Hudson did not knock.
The man behind the desk looked up with the practiced wariness of someone who received unexpected visitors with sufficient frequency.
“Your Grace,” he said, rising with the smoothness of a man who could pivot from obstruction to obsequiousness in the space of a heartbeat.
“This is an unexpected honor. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a ducal visit since…
well, ever. Would you care for a chair? A drink, perhaps?
The whiskey is Scottish, which I’m told is the superior variety.
Though between gentlemen, I couldn’t tell you the difference between Scottish and Somerset if my life depended on it. ”
“Sit down,” Hudson said.
Peters sat.
Hudson placed the copy of the London Whisperer on the desk between them with the deliberate care of a man laying a weapon on a table. The headline glared up at both of them, its yellow masthead suddenly obscene in the gray light of the office.
“I want a name,” he said.
Peters’ face arranged itself into an expression of professional regret. “Your Grace, I understand your concern, naturally—”
“You understand nothing,” Hudson interrupted.
His voice was low and controlled, which made it considerably more dangerous than shouting would have.
“What you printed this morning goes beyond concern. It goes beyond libel. It is a deliberate attempt to destroy the reputations of two women who have done nothing except exist as the daughters of a man they had no hand in choosing.” He leaned forward, planting both hands on the desk.
The wood creaked. “I want the name of the person who gave you this information. Now.”
Peters licked his lips. The office had fallen into a silence so complete that Hudson could hear the man’s breathing, shallow and rapid.
“Your Grace,” Peters said, “surely you appreciate that a publication of our standing has certain professional obligations. Sources must be protected. The public’s right to know—”
“The public has no right to know a damned thing about my household,” Hudson bit out. “And if you cite freedom of the press to me one more time, I will demonstrate, personally and at length, the freedom my fist enjoys when introduced to your jaw. A name, Peters. I won’t ask again.”
Something in his tone produced the desired effect, and Peters’ composure cracked.
“It came in a note,” he admitted. “Anonymous. Dropped through the letter slot three days ago. No signature. No identifying marks beyond the handwriting, which was…” He paused, reaching for a drawer and pulling out a sheet of paper that he placed on the desk with the reluctance of a man surrendering his last bargaining chip. “You can see for yourself.”
Hudson picked up the note.
The Duke of Oakhart is harboring the daughters of the Viscount Whitfield, a convicted murderer, in his house.
The eldest, Augusta Booth, serves as governess to his sister.
The youngest, Olivia Booth, arrived recently from Scotland.
Both women are the offspring of a man who killed three wives for failing to produce a male heir.
The ton should know what kind of women the Duke brings into polite society.
There was no signature. No seal. Nothing but those words, arranged on cheap paper with the malice of someone who had taken time and care to ensure the maximum possible damage.
Hudson folded the paper. His hands remained perfectly steady. The rest of him was a furnace, banked now, the initial white-hot rage cooling into something harder and considerably more directed.
“If anything resembling this note appears in your publication again,” he said, “or in any other sheet in London, I will not return for a conversation. I will return with solicitors, with connections you cannot begin to comprehend. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace.”
Hudson left without another word.
Outside, Fleet Street carried on with the particular obliviousness of a thoroughfare that had witnessed centuries of human drama and had long since ceased to be impressed by any of it.
Hudson stood on the pavement and allowed himself one moment to feel the full weight of what the note meant.
Someone knew. Someone with access to his household, to the details of Augusta’s position, to the fact of Olivia’s arrival.
Someone who had been close enough to observe, to listen, to piece together the architecture of a life that he had begun, against his better judgment, to believe might be worth protecting.