Hudson’s grip on Follett’s shoulder tightened just enough to be felt. “You will leave,” he said, his voice level. “You will not return. And you will send a bank draft for the amount your opponents have lost to this address by tomorrow afternoon.” He produced a card from his waistcoat pocket and slid it into Follett’s hand. “Should I not receive it, I shall be forced to mention this incident to Lord Farrington. I believe he is your uncle?”
Follett’s face drained of what little color remained. “There’s no need?—”
“I believe there is.” Hudson released him with a gesture that was almost gentle. “Slater will show you out.”
Slater materialized at his elbow, his impassive face giving nothing away. “If you’ll come with me, My Lord.”
Follett rose, his chair scraping across the floor. “This is outrageous,” he began, but his voice lacked conviction.
He cast one desperate glance around the room. The other players were already collecting their winnings, pointedly looking away.
Then, he straightened his cravat with a gesture that was more pride than composure. “I’ll not soon forget this insult.”
“No,” Hudson agreed. “I don’t imagine you will.” He watched as Slater escorted Follett toward the door, then turned back to the table. “My apologies for the interruption, gentlemen. Please accept a bottle of my best brandy with the house’s compliments.”
He had nearly reached the doors when Slater appeared again, moving with the uncanny quiet that made him so valuable.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice low enough that Hudson had to lean closer to hear. “A message has just come for you. From Joseph, up north.”
Slater handed him a letter, which Hudson took and unfolded eagerly. He scanned its contents, each word driving a cold spike deeper into his chest.
Found the girl. Lochside village, three miles north of Kinloch. Staying with an aunt of her mother’s. She’s well. Says she won’t come to London. Says she wants her sister to join her here. Nothing left for them in London. She’s scared.
I’ve left a man to watch the house. Awaiting your instructions.
Hudson read it twice, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something more palatable.
Found. Won’t come. Nothing left.
His hand dropped to the desk, the paper crumpling between his fingers.
He had promised Augusta to find her sister, to bring them together, to give her back the one person she had lost. He had made that promise the night they were in his office at the Nightingale.
Now he had found Olivia. And she wanted her sister with her. Away from him, away from Cassie.
He couldn’t let Augusta go. Not now. Not when Cassie had finally found someone she trusted, someone who saw her not asan obligation or a convenience, but as a person in her own right, with thoughts and dreams and a mind sharp enough to cut glass.
He couldn’t do it.
But he couldn’t keep the truth from her either.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. His reflection stared back at him: dark-eyed, tense, the face of a man caught between two impossible choices.
He would wait. Just until the ball. One week—ten days, at most—and then he would tell Augusta everything. She would understand. She would have to understand.
And if she didn’t, if she took Olivia’s side and left…
The thought made his chest ache.
He turned away from the window and strode back to his desk, reaching for the brandy decanter with fingers that weren’t quite steady. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat but did nothing to dull the edge of the guilt already settling beneath his ribs.
He would wait. He would tell her after the ball. And in the meantime, he would send Joseph whatever resources he needed to keep Olivia safe.
Morning came too soon for a man who had not slept a wink.
Hudson stood on the front steps of Oakhart House, watching as the carriage was brought around.
Behind him, Cassie bounced on her toes with barely contained excitement, while Pippin circled her ankles with an enthusiasm that threatened to topple them both.
