Cassie’s eyes flicked from her breakfast to Augusta, then back. “Miss Norton, why is Hudson so mad about a gossip rag?” She leaned forward curiously. “I mean, I know it’s not nice to gossip, but we’ve been mentioned in the papers loads of times, and he’s never been so mad.”
Augusta hesitated. Now was the moment of truth. The moment where she had to admit far more than she truly wanted to.
“It is… difficult, Cassie.”
Cassie faced her with an expression that could almost be described as stern. “I’meleven,” she said haughtily. “I can understand difficult things.”
Augusta gave her a small smile. “It’s… about my father.”
“Did he do something bad?”
“He did something… horrible. And other people were hurt… very badly.”
Cassie looked at her sympathetically. “Was he a mean man?”
“Yes, he was. He was mean, cruel, and truly awful. And what he did…” Augusta hesitated. “It is not something anyone can take back. Not something I could escape. Just by being his daughter…”
“People think you are bad too?” Cassie supplied helpfully.
Augusta nodded. “Something to that effect.”
“But you’re not,” Cassie said, as though that settled the entire matter.
“I hope I am not.” Augusta let out a small laugh. “But people… they don’t tend to forgive the sins of our fathers easily. And I fear that this might reflect on you.”
“Hudson won’t let it,” Cassie said, rising from her chair and moving to embrace her tightly. “He’s going to fix all of this. I know he is!”
Augusta couldn’t help but smile, a glimmer of hope taking flight within her.
“Perhaps,” she whispered. “Perhaps he might.”
Yet the heavy shadow of reality still loomed over her.
She squeezed the little girl in her arms, clinging to the warmth of the moment.
The offices of theLondon Whispereroccupied the second floor of a building on Fleet Street that had apparently been designed with the specific intention of discouraging visitors of any social distinction whatsoever.
A young man with ink-stained cuffs and the perpetually startled expression of someone who had recently graduated from university into the sobering reality of gainful employment intercepted Hudson at the top of the stairs.
“Sir, I’m afraid?—”
“The Duke of Oakhart,” Hudson said, not breaking stride. “Here to see whoever is foolish enough to put their name on today’s edition.”
The young man’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. The name had the effect Hudson had come to rely upon in situations where courtesy had been preemptively abandoned.
“Mr. Peters is in his office,” the young man said, gesturing vaguely toward a door at the end of a corridor lined with desks where other ink-stained individuals had paused mid-task to observe the spectacle of a duke in full morning dress appearing in their midst.
Hudson did not knock.
The man behind the desk looked up with the practiced wariness of someone who received unexpected visitors with sufficient frequency.
“Your Grace,” he said, rising with the smoothness of a man who could pivot from obstruction to obsequiousness in the space of a heartbeat. “This is an unexpected honor. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a ducal visit since… well, ever. Would you care for a chair? A drink, perhaps? The whiskey is Scottish, which I’m told is the superior variety. Though between gentlemen, I couldn’t tell you the difference between Scottish and Somerset if my life depended on it.”
“Sit down,” Hudson said.
Peters sat.
Hudson placed the copy of theLondon Whispereron the desk between them with the deliberate care of a man laying a weapon on a table. The headline glared up at both of them, its yellow masthead suddenly obscene in the gray light of the office.
