“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?”
