As the humiliation continued, her thoughts cut to Olivia.
Her half-sister, sent north by their father after her mother’s death, was living somewhere near the Scottish border with a relative Augusta had never met. Olivia was twenty, four years younger than Augusta.
If Augusta were here, on a platform in a gaming hell, being sold like furniture, then what had become of Olivia? Had she been disposed of in a similar fashion? Sold to the highest bidder, valued only for the blood in her veins and the potential of her womb?
The thought tightened Augusta’s throat and made her eyes burn with unshed tears.
“Three thousand pounds!”
The bid cut through her thoughts.
The room quieted. Augusta’s eyes snapped to the source: a tall man standing near the back wall, half-hidden in shadow.
Leighton’s face split into a grin. “Three thousand from the gentleman at the rear. Do I hear four?”
No one spoke. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
“Three thousand, then,” Leighton said after a moment. “Going once… going twice…”
Augusta winced.
“Sold!” Leighton called out.
Augusta felt her stomach drop.
It was over.
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.
