“You are no longer a part of Scotland Yard,” she pointed out. “I fail to see why your presence is required.”
Oh, what was she doing? Attempting to dissuade him from his course? She ought to be relieved he was going, should she not?
“Because this is a prisoner I was responsible for jailing, and I may have information concerning the case that will aid in attempts to recapture him,” he explained, his voice softening. “Forgive me for the suddenness of my departure. The timing is regretful, but I am afraid my presence is necessary. This man is…”
“Dangerous,” she finished for him when his words trailed away. “That is what you intended to say, was it not?”
A shiver traveled down her spine at the thought of Hudson putting himself in a position where he could be wounded once more. Or worse. She may not have wanted a husband, but he was hers now, and she cared for him.
His jaw tensed. “For the sake of my conscience, I need to do everything in my power to offer them aid in this man’s capture.”
Hudson’s decision had already been made. She could see it in the harsh set of his countenance, the sternness in his voice. But as stringently as she told herself his departure was likely for the best, she could not seem to convince her heart.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked, instead of attempting to sway him from his course.
“A few days, perhaps. Not long.” He stepped nearer to her, his head lowering, and he brushed a kiss on her cheek. “I will send word.”
Some foolish part of Elysande longed to turn her head and feel those lips on hers once more. But she did not. Instead, she took a step in retreat to save herself from further embarrassment and nodded as if she understood.
Chapter 6
As was his customary habit, Hudson rose at dawn. This morning, however, he was no longer in the countryside, sharing a leaky roof with his wife.
Wife.
The foreign word, along with thoughts of Elysande herself, gave him pause. As if she were here with him, he could almost detect the sweetly floral fragrance of lily of the valley. His lips tingled with remembrance of the taste and feeling of her. Yesterday morning had been damned unexpected. And he wanted more.
But more was dangerous, and it was all a moot point when he was far from her side. Instead, he was in his old, familiar cramped quarters. How easy it was to fall into the same patterns and paths. Rather like a train on a track, relentlessly powering on to its destination.
With grim determination, he dressed and shaved, scarcely paying any notice to his own reflection in the cracked mirror atop his battered dresser. The town house he had inherited along with the title, part of the badly indebted entail, had been stripped of most objects of value by the previous duke, including much of the bloody furniture. And so, in a decision that was decidedly unlike a Duke of Wycombe, upon his arrival last night, he had established himself in his bachelor’s quarters once more.
He had charged the efficient Greene with overseeing the preparation of the town house and returned to life as he had once known it. The familiarity of the small, unassuming space brought with it some small measure of comfort. However, he could not pretend he was once more Chief Inspector Stone, without the weight of a dukedom on his shoulders, and a new wife as well. Nor could he forget the reason he had left Buckinghamshire in such haste.
How surreal it felt to be returned, without the woman he had so newly married. He could almost persuade himself that his sojourn in Buckinghamshire, inheriting the title, his nuptials at the Talleyrand Park chapel, the wedding breakfast and that glorious moment by the lake with his wife had all been nothing more than a dream. Only the visceral reaction of his body to thoughts of Elysande reminded him it had all been real.
Guilt lanced him. What manner of man abandoned his bride with such unprecedented haste after the wedding? He ought to have taken more time, better explained to her the necessity for this return. It had never been his intention to leave her. He had been determined to linger in the countryside and do his duty. To sit with Saunders and oversee all the repairs and changes necessary at Brinton Manor.
But then Northwich’s frantic note had arrived, and he had been stricken. Not just because the Croydon case had been his last. But because it had been one of the ugliest. Because the Duke of Northwich was a friend, and because no one would be safe from Croydon until the evil bastard was once more rotting in prison where he belonged.
Still, he was honoring her request, he reminded himself. She had asked him for three months, and he would give them to her. Perhaps he would simply remain in London for the entirety of the allotted time. Being in London while she stayed in the country certainly aided his restraint. Lord knew when she had been within touching distance, he had possessed none.
On a sigh at the rather extraordinary predicament in which he found himself mired, he left his rooms and walked as he had done so many times before, to Scotland Yard. The city bustled around him as it always had, scents and sounds and sights as familiar as his rooms. And yet, the London he had returned to was changed; the very air felt as if it were charged with a strange new sense of danger. He had descended to the platform yesterday knowing Reginald Croydon was somewhere, evading the justice and punishment he so richly deserved. Someone had helped him to escape from Dunsworth prison.
And damn it all, Hudson was going to find whoever it was and make him pay.
Croydon had been the ruthless orchestrator of a vast criminal web. For a price, he had been willing to commit any deed. From forgery to murder, stealing to child prostitution, no crime had been beneath him. After deciding one of his partners was too greedy, he had murdered the man. When he had been threatened with discovery, he had murdered another fellow conspirator. He did not deserve to be free. Until he was caught and imprisoned once more, anyone who had been involved in his case was potentially in peril, to say nothing of the other innocents with whom he might come into contact.
For a hardened criminal with nothing left to lose, an unsuspecting victim would be a lamb led to slaughter. Which meant that time was of the greatest importance. There was not a second, a minute, an hour, or a day to spare. Reginald Croydon could not be caught soon enough.
The streets were blanketed in fog, an early autumn chill already cutting through the air like a knife. He found himself in the novel position of entering the Scotland Yard offices through the civilian entrance. Not much had altered since his tenure here. Mayhem, still. The various buildings remained a dull hodgepodge laden with men and supplies. Books and case files strewn about, saddles and horse blankets stuffed into garrets.
Fortunately, a familiar face spied him.
Still fairly new to Scotland Yard, Sergeant Oliver Chance was young and green and always ready to offer a gap-toothed smile. “Chief Inspector Stone!” he called, then stammered as he attempted to correct himself. “Er, sir. I suppose you are a duke now.”
“Sergeant Chance.” Bemused by the younger man’s eagerness to greet him, Hudson nodded and tipped his hat. “How is your mother?”
Chance’s cheeks went ruddier than usual. He was one of those pale-cheeked fellows who seemed in a perpetual flush. “She is much improved, Chief Inspector, thank you. I’m honored you recalled.”
