Chance’s mother had suffered a stroke before Hudson had left for Buckinghamshire. The kindly Mrs. Chance had often supplied bread, buns, and other confections to the detectives. When she had been stricken, everyone had taken note.
“I am pleased to hear she is improving. Please send Mrs. Chance my felicitations.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir. She will be honored to accept your salutations, you being a duke and all.”
“Felicitations, Chance,” he said gently.
“Yes.” Those cheeks—hairless as a babe’s—went even redder. “Precisely that, sir. Chief Inspector. My lord.”
Well, thank Christ he was not the only one who could hardly be bothered to fuss over titles.
“You may call me Wycombe, Chance.” Privately, he wondered if the lad had ever shaved a whisker. Had Hudson ever been so young, so innocent? He hardly thought so. If he had been, he did not recall.
“Wycombe, sir.” Chance nodded.
It became apparent to Hudson that he both needed to extricate himself from this interview politely and to beg the younger man’s assistance in a very pressing matter. He was a man who had once held great authority within these ranks and who had now, by mere fate, been reduced to none. He had not returned to the offices in the time since he had resigned and accepted his role as the next duke. Now, he knew why.
He felt like a trespasser in a place that had once been home.
“I wonder if you would grant me a favor, Chance.” The words left him, not without an accompanying tinge of bitterness.
Yes, part of him still missed and mourned his old life. Before he had been duke, he may have lived a simple life, but he had been happy. He’d had a purpose. Now, he had…
A wife.
Entailed estates to repair.
Debts to repay.
Eager to be of assistance, young Chance was nodding. “Of course, my lord Wycombe Chief Inspector sir.”
Oh, hell.The poor chap had just used all the manners of address at once, hadn’t he? Best to steer the subject.
“I understand Reginald Croydon has recently escaped from Dunsworth prison.”
Chance’s nod became more vigorous. “You are sadly correct, sir.Ahem.I am not sad that you are correct. Rather, I am sad to report the bastard was able to escape.”
“Has Scotland Yard been investigating in an effort to recapture him?” he asked, turning his attention to the more important matter at hand, attempting to keep his patience with the awkward young fellow.
“Oh, yes, sir. My lord. Wycombe.” Chance swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing comically. “Chief Inspector O’Rourke is tasked with the case.”
Chief Inspector O’Rourke. Hmm. An interesting choice. In Hudson’s estimation, the man had yet to prove himself. He was quiet and icy and rather aloof. He had solved his share of small cases, but he had yet to play a significant role in solving more dangerous crimes.
“Will you take me to him, Chance?” he asked, deciding that he would need to approach the man himself to ascertain what he knew.
He was aware his request was unusual. He had no right to question a Scotland Yard detective concerning any case, because he was no longer a part of Scotland Yard. He had left that part of him behind.
Most reluctantly.
“Of course,” Chance said agreeably, looking pleased to assist him with anything. “Come with me.”
Ah, the naivete of the unjaded. Hudson followed the younger man through the labyrinth of offices to Chief Inspector O’Rourke. The man was just as he recalled. Grim, short, and stout. He wore a mustache with waxed ends pointed as if they were sharpened blades themselves, his receding hair slicked back with hair grease from his high forehead.
“Stone,” O’Rourke said.
His surname, nothing more. It was hardly a pleasant greeting, and there was none of the genuine pleasure Chance had exhibited upon spying Hudson at the civilian entrance. Although he and O’Rourke had not precisely been on friendly terms, neither had they been on unfriendly terms, so the frosty reception was…
Interesting.
