Cassie nodded so fast that a curl came loose from its pin. “I understand. Thank you, Hudson. You won’t regret it. I’ll be the best ball helper in the history of ball helpers. I’ll—” She broke off, as if a thought had just occurred to her. “There’s one more thing. Miss Norton and I should attend. The ball, I mean. Since we’ll be helping to plan it, we should see how it turns out. Don’t you think?”
Hudson lifted an eyebrow, unable to keep his surprise from showing.
“It’s highly irregular for a child your age to attend a formal ball,” Augusta said quietly. “Young ladies typically make their debut at sixteen or seventeen.”
“But it’s our house,” Cassie pointed out. “Our ball. You make the rules.” She turned to Hudson, fixing him with her typical pleading puppy eyes. “Please? I’ll stay with Miss Norton the entire time. I won’t speak to anyone without permission. I’ll go to bed the instant you say it’s time!”
“It would allow Cassie to see the results of her efforts,” Augusta said softly. “And I would, of course, ensure that she retires at a reasonable hour.”
“Very well,” Hudson relented. “You may both attend. Though I reserve the right to change my mind if your assistance proves more disruptive than helpful.”
Cassie launched herself at him, nearly upsetting a vase in her enthusiasm. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck with enough force to make him grunt. “I’ll be so helpful you won’t even know I’m there. Except you will, because I’ll be helping, but you know what I mean. I’ll?—”
“Cassie.” Hudson’s voice held a note of long-suffering patience. “Be gentle.”
She released him immediately, stepping back with her best attempt at dignity. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry in the least. “I’ll go tell Mrs. Beale right away. She’ll want to add me to the planning committee.”
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.
