Ah, yes. There it was. The eighth Duke of Wycombe had been betrothed to Lady Elysande Collingwood, whose fat dowry would have been the savior of the entire affair. But the poor fool had broken his neck before doing so. Of course, Hudson had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question. It was entirely possible that breaking one’s neck was a preferable alternative to marrying her.
“Undoubtedly, the former duke was anticipating the coin his marriage would bring,” he said.
Saunders cleared his throat. “I did not question the former duke concerning his decision. However, Brinton Manor is not profitable and has not been in years.”
And none of the most recent dukes had done a damn thing about it. Not the eighth duke, and nor his father before him.
Now, it would appear Hudson was tasked with being the sacrificial lamb. Best to prepare himself.
“If you will excuse me, Saunders, I have an engagement.”
“Of course, Your Gr—ahem, Wycombe. Sir.”
Hudson sighed as he took his leave. He was accustomed to intimidating others. Doing so was his job. Strike that. Ithadbeen his job. Christ, he had loved every moment of being a part of Scotland Yard.
In the hall beyond the study, he was greeted by a harried-looking housekeeper who informed him that his guest was early. Lady Elysande was accompanied by her mother, the Countess of Leydon, and her sister Lady Isolde. They were awaiting him in the golden salon which connected to the gardens.
Despite its lofty name, the golden salon was hardly palatial. And the Brinton Manor gardens were thoroughly overgrown and in desperate need of a head gardener, who had apparently been sacked on account of his expense some time ago. But none of that was what troubled Hudson the most.
He hadn’t the slightest inkling what he was meant to do with guests. His grandfather’s lineage may have been aristocratic and born in the purple, but Hudson had cut his teeth in the ugly heart of London, and he had spent his time as an investigator in the seamiest parts of the East End, rising through the ranks.
“What shall I do with them, Mrs. Grey?” he asked the housekeeper.
“What shall you do with what, Your Grace?” she asked, looking as perplexed as she sounded.
Not anotherYour Grace.
He allowed himself the luxury of grinding his molars for a moment before responding. “Theguests, Mrs. Grey. I confess I am not accustomed to hosting a countess and her daughters.”
Hell, he was not accustomed to hostinganyone. He preferred solitude. His bachelor residence in London had not been large enough in size to host a damned mouse, even if he had wished it. Which he most certainly had not, and hardly because he fervently loathed rodents. Rather, quiet and peace and order soothed him. People did not.
“You will take tea with them of course, Your Grace,” said his housekeeper now.
“Of course,” he agreed solemnly.
And then what?
Perhaps his confusion showed in his countenance, for Mrs. Grey added, “And then perhaps a turn about the gardens.”
“The gardens resemble nothing so much as an overgrown thicket,” he pointed out.
“There is yet a gravel path, Your Grace,” his housekeeper countered.
So he supposed there was. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Grey.”
He was meant to thank her, was he not? Curse it, he had no notion of how he was supposed to conduct himself. He was in Hades. It was certain.
He turned on his heel and began striding toward the golden salon.
“The salon is in the opposite direction, Your Grace,” Mrs. Grey called helpfully after him.
He stopped, taking a moment to look around.
“So it is.” He spun on his heel. “Thank you, madam.”
Even neglected and in severe disrepair, Brinton Manor was damned massive. He still had yet to grow accustomed to the location of its nearly two hundred chambers. Nettled, Hudson stalked to the golden salon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he simply bolted over the threshold unannounced and stood there, watching the countess and her two daughters engaged in low, heated conversation. The countess was a handsome brunette dressed in lavender silk while one of her daughters possessed dark hair and the other light.
He swore he detected something that sounded remarkably likehe cannot be as bad as rumor suggestsbefore he cleared his throat, bringing attention to his presence in his own fashion.
