Chapter 32 #2
She met Hudson’s eyes over Cassie’s head.
He was leaning against the doorframe, with his arms crossed and his expression doing that complicated thing where it attempted to maintain ducal composure while simultaneously communicating an emotion so warm and so entirely unguarded that it made her chest ache.
“Now, you will immediately come here and…”
It was Mrs. Beale’s voice that interrupted the tender moment as she appeared in the doorway, one hand clamped around the upper arm of a young man whom Augusta recognized as the footman who usually served breakfast.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Beale said, her tone suggesting that the footman’s employment was a personal affront she had tolerated for rather longer than Christian charity dictated. “I believe we have located the source of your… difficulty.”
Hudson looked from one to the other.
“Explain,” he ordered the footman.
The young man looked as though he would prefer to be anywhere else, including several locations that had not yet been discovered by European cartographers.
“It was a lady, Your Grace.” The words emerged in a rush, tumbling over each other.
“She approached me in the market. Said she was a friend of the family. Wanted to know about the new arrivals, Miss Norton and Miss Olivia. Said it was curiosity, nothing more. She offered…” He swallowed.
“Money. Quite a lot of it. More than I make in a month.”
Hudson’s expression did not change.
“And you told her what, exactly?” he asked coldly.
“Everything.” The footman’s voice had shrunk to something barely above a whisper.
“Their names. That they were sisters. That Miss Norton was the governess and that Miss Olivia came from Scotland. That they were… that they were the daughters of…” He could not bring himself to say it.
His throat worked visibly, as though the words themselves were physically obstructing his airway.
“The man whose crimes were detailed in the London Whisperer,” Hudson supplied helpfully. The helpfulness was the most terrifying thing about the entire exchange.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And the lady’s name?”
“I don’t… She didn’t give it. She was blonde. Young. Well-spoken. Wore a violet pelisse the first time. Green the second.”
Hudson was silent for a long moment.
Augusta watched his face and felt something cold settle in her stomach. Not fear, but a renewed appreciation for the fact that the man she had agreed to marry was capable of a focus that bordered on predatory when sufficiently provoked.
“You’re dismissed,” Hudson said finally.
The footman’s expression flickered between hope and terror, unable to settle on either.
“You will collect three months’ wages from the steward, and you will leave London by nightfall.
You will not return. Not to this city, not to any property bearing my name, not to any establishment where my sister or my future wife might conceivably encounter you.
” Hudson leaned forward. “Do I make myself clear?”
The footman nodded frantically. “Yes, Your Grace. Perfectly. Thank you, Your Grace. I’m so sorry, Your Grace, I never meant—”
“Go,” Hudson said.
The footman went. The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt more final than a slam.
“Three months’ wages,” she observed. “That is quite generous.”
“I am feeling charitable,” Hudson said. His voice had lost its edge, settling back into the warmth she had grown accustomed to.
“Also, I would prefer he depart without attempting to extract further compensation through less savory channels. Bribed servants make poor allies but excellent blackmailers. I am attempting to avoid creating the latter.”
“That’s remarkably pragmatic of you.”
“I am a remarkably pragmatic man.” His fingers brushed the nape of her neck. “Would you care to accompany me on a social call this afternoon? I believe we have an apology to collect.”
The house in question occupied a fashionable stretch of Mayfair that Augusta had previously admired from a distance and had never expected to enter as anything other than a governess trailing a well-behaved charge.
The door was answered by a butler whose expression underwent a visible recalculation when he registered the Duke of Oakhart on his doorstep with two women in tow, neither of whom belonged to the established taxonomy of ducal companions.
The family assembled within mere minutes, clearly rather taken with the impromptu visit from a duke.
Lady Barbara’s expression, when it landed on Augusta, underwent a transformation so comprehensive that it would have been impressive if it weren’t so thoroughly transparent: recognition, followed by alarm, followed by the rapid reconstruction of innocence with the particular skill of someone who had practiced the expression in a mirror.
“Your Grace,” Lord Harcastle greeted, executing a bow that managed to combine deference with barely suppressed outrage.
“This is an unexpected honor. Though I must say, arriving without prior notice, with…” His gaze flicked to Augusta and Olivia, assessing, dismissing, recalibrating. “… companions, is somewhat irregular.”
“Irregularity is the theme of the day,” Hudson said.
“I believe your daughter has some information that concerns my household. Specifically, information regarding Miss Booth and her sister, which found its way into the London Whisperer through channels that we have recently had the pleasure of uncovering.”
Lady Barbara’s face drained of color with a speed that would have impressed a physician. “I have no idea what you’re suggesting, Your Grace. I would never—”
“The footman was quite specific,” Hudson said pleasantly. “He described you in detail that I frankly found excessive. Young men in service develop certain observational habits. It’s one of the more tedious aspects of employing them.”
Lady Harcastle found her voice. “This is outrageous. You cannot simply appear in our home and accuse our daughter of… of heaven knows what without a shred of evidence!”
“I have the evidence,” Hudson said. “In my pocket. Along with several other items of interest that I’ve acquired over the years.
Your husband’s rather creative accounting practices regarding the estate timber, for instance.
The arrangement he has with his man of business, whereby certain sums are recorded as improvements to tenant housing when in fact they’re being diverted to a property in Brighton that you believe is a hunting lodge.
” He smiled. It was not a warm expression.
“The ton would find it fascinating. The scandal sheets certainly would.”
Lord Harcastle had gone very still. Lady Harcastle had developed a sudden interest in the pattern on the carpet.
“Your daughter approached a servant in my household,” Hudson continued.
His voice had not risen. If anything, it had grown quieter.
“She extracted private information through bribery. She used that information to damage the reputations of two women under my protection, one of whom is my fiancée.” He let the word sink in.
“I would like an apology. Directed to the appropriate parties. Now.”
Lady Barbara looked at her parents. Her parents looked at each other. A silent negotiation took place, conducted entirely through facial expressions that progressed from defiance to calculation to surrender in the space of approximately five seconds.
“I apologize,” she said.
The words were wooden, rehearsed, carrying all the sincerity of a recitation performed under duress.
She did not look at Augusta. She did not look at Olivia.
She addressed a point approximately six inches to the left of Hudson’s shoulder, as though the apology were a formal requirement she was discharging rather than an acknowledgment of harm.
“It was… ill-considered. I meant no lasting offense.”
“You meant precisely the offense you achieved,” Hudson countered.
“But I will accept the apology on behalf of my household, with the understanding that its sincerity is negotiable and its durability will be tested quite thoroughly in the coming days. We’ll see you at Lady Ashford’s ball on Thursday.
I understand it’s to be a significant event. Quite the gathering.”
Lady Harcastle managed a curtsy that suggested her knees were not entirely cooperating with the rest of her body. Lord Harcastle bowed. Lady Barbara stood very still, her hands clasped before her, her face a study in humiliation so thorough that Augusta almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.