The music swelled, then faded as the dance came to an end. James bowed with theatrical flourish, earning another giggle from Cassie, who bobbed her own curtsy with remarkable grace for a child of eleven. They moved together toward the refreshments table, James’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder in a gesture that was both protective and companionable.
Augusta allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps she might slip away for just a moment. Long enough to visit the retiring room, to splash cool water on her wrists, to steal a few precious seconds of solitude in an evening that had thus far offered none.
She set her champagne glass on a passing tray and began making her way toward the door, keeping to the edges of the ballroom where the crowd was thinnest.
She had nearly reached the corridor when a voice stopped her. A woman’s voice, pitched low but carrying clearly in the momentary lull between sets.
“… absolutely shocking,” the voice was saying. “Three wives, all dead. And the daughters sent away, packed off to relatives. I ask you, what sort of man does that to his own children?”
Augusta froze, her hand extended toward the doorknob.
“A monster,” a masculine voice replied. “Though I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. Whitfield always was a cold one.”
Augusta’s hand dropped to her side. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart hammering against her ribs with enough force that she was certain the entire ballroom could hear it.
“I heard,” the man added, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that forced Augusta to lean closer to hear, “that the oldest daughter disappeared. Sent away to a relative in the north. The younger one, too. Packed off to different households, as though Whitfield couldn’t bear the sight of them.”
“The poor things,” the woman tutted. “To lose their mothers, then be separated from each other. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Though I suppose they’re better off now. Whitfield’s in Newgate, after all. Life sentence. And from what I hear, the estate’s been seized and sold to pay off his debts. The girls will have nothing to return to, even if they wanted to.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” the man said.
Though she could hear nothing more, on account of the blood rushing to her ears, Augusta remained where she was, one hand pressed against the wall to steady herself, the other curled into a fist at her side.
Her life, her family, had become nothing more than a topic discussed over champagne and canapés with the casual interest usually reserved for theatrical performances or particularly scandalous novels.
She needed air. Now. Before the walls closed in any further, before the weight of their knowing stares became too heavy to bear.
She pushed away from the wall and slipped through the door, not caring that her departure might be remarked upon, not stopping when a footman called after her to ask if she required assistance.
The corridor stretched before her, mercifully empty. She walked quickly, her slippers silent on the carpet, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that burned her lungs.
At the end of the corridor, the doors stood slightly ajar. Augusta made for them without hesitation, pushing through into the darkness beyond.
The night air cooled her burning cheeks and filled her lungs with the scent of roses and freshly turned earth. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and her heart ceased its frantic hammering against her ribs.
She reached the bench and sank onto it, her legs suddenly too weak to support her.
She was not certain how long she had been sitting there when a sound broke the silence.
She froze, her hand flying to her throat where her mother’s locket usually lay hidden beneath her bodice. She had left it in her room tonight, not wanting to risk losing it among so many strangers. Now she regretted the decision fiercely, her fingers closing on empty air where the familiar weight should have been.
“Miss Norton?”
Augusta breathed out a sigh of relief upon recognizing Hudson’s voice.
“Your Grace,” she said, grateful that her voice was steady. “I didn’t expect… That is, I thought you would be dancing.”
“I was,” he said. He had stopped a few paces away, a darker shadow among shadows, his face half-visible in the moonlight. “Until I noticed you’d left the ballroom. Rather abruptly.”
“I’m grateful for your concern, Your Grace,” she allowed, her voice carefully formal. “But I’m quite capable of managing my own affairs. You should return to the ball. Your guests will be wondering where you’ve gone off to. I should go back, too.” She started to rise. “Cassie will be?—”
“Cassie,” Hudson interrupted, his hand settling on her wrist, “is currently attempting to convince James that dogs should be allowed at formal dinners. I believe the debate will occupy them for at least another quarter-hour.”
His thumb moved, a single stroke against the pulse point at her wrist.
“Are you all right, Augusta?” he asked softly.
Augusta was acutely aware of the warmth of his palm, the slight roughness of his skin, the way his thumb moved in a small, unconscious circle against her wrist.
