Hudson preferred to maintain his wits about him when in enemy territory. In this instance, enemy territory was little different than an East End back alley. The end result was a figurative stabbing rather than a physical one. He had no doubt it would hurt every bit as much.
“Of course.” Leydon’s fingers drummed upon the polished surface of his desk. “Will you stay for dinner?”
Who possessed an appetite in circumstances such as these?
“I had not thought upon it, my lord,” he answered honestly.
Indeed, after poring over the marriage contract with Saunders, who had pled ignorance on such matters and urged him to hire a solicitor, Hudson had come immediately to Talleyrand Park himself. There were no funds for a bloody solicitor, and he reckoned his powers of observation would do sufficiently enough.
The travel had been uncomfortable, not just because Hudson was unaccustomed to riding, but because the horseflesh remaining in the stables at Brinton Manor was scarcely up to the task. The stout old mare he had chosen had spent a great deal of the trip stopping to browse clumps of grass and ignoring his desperate attempts to get her to plod on. As a result, he had arrived dusty, sweating, and irritated, two hours later than his original intention.
“Lady Leydon would be most displeased if she were denied the opportunity to host you,” the earl said politely.
It was a dubious claim.
A polite lie, probably. The quality did a lot of that, he had discovered since unexpectedly and reluctantly joining their ranks. Dissembling was their currency.
He was aware his call had been unannounced. Hudson had settled his mare in the stables himself. The butler had been aggrieved and had taken a discreet sniff that suggested perhaps Hudson smelled of dung. A clandestine perusal of his footwear as he awaited Lord Leydon in the immense entry hall of Talleyrand Park had suggested clean soles.
And thank Christ for that.
He had enough to worry about without horse shit on his bloody boots.
“I have come to discuss the marriage contract,” he reminded Lady Elysande’s father politely.
Dinner could go to the devil as far as he was concerned. The sooner this despicable business was over, the better.
Leydon plucked a pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted it. “There is time aplenty to discuss the contract, Wycombe. Perhaps even after dinner, over port and cigars.”
The earl shifted in his seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
The investigator Hudson had once been—the detective that still lived and breathed, simmering beneath the surface of his every interaction—made itself known. Hudson studied the lord opposite him. He was not dressed elegantly, but wearing country tweed. His hair was tousled, as if he had run a hand through it. And was that…a smudge of dirt on his cheek? This interview grew more puzzling by the moment. Perhaps in his nervousness to see the matter at hand settled, Hudson had overlooked some troubling facts.
“I would prefer to discuss the contract now, my lord,” he countered.
Indeed, he did not think he could relax until this damned betrothal was finalized.
Before the earl could respond, the door to his study flew open in an abrupt burst of sound that had Hudson jolting to attention and pivoting in his uncomfortable seat to find the source of the commotion.
A flurry of simple gray skirts and a diminutive, feminine figure crossed the threshold. “Papa! I believe I have finally come upon a solution for the binding screws for the…oh! Forgive me. I had not realized you had a visitor.”
The intruder stopped on the Axminster, pale hands fisting in her skirts.
Lady Elysande, he realized.
But not the lady who had joined him in the gardens. The difference between the poised, ethereal beauty he had first met and the flushed woman dressed in simple fare, her hair scraped into a plain chignon, was as disparate as the mountains and the sea.
Both were glorious. And yet neither was like the other.
Belatedly, he became aware of a rustling behind him—Lord Leydon rising to his feet. Hudson stood as well.
“Ellie dearest,” the earl said, his voice tinged with undeniable fondness.
Well, damn. If only Hudson’s own sire had ever spoken to him with a modicum of the same. He had been more likely to deliver a stinging cuff to the side of his head.
“Forgive me the intrusion.” She dipped into a curtsy.
“Nonsense.” Leydon’s tone was warm. “You know that you are always welcome, dear daughter. Knocking would not hurt one whit, however.”
