Elysande had all but forgotten about that unfortunate incident. How mortifying to realize Royston had not. “I was a girl,” she defended herself.
“Yes,” her brother said agreeably. “One with foolish whims she allowed to lead her astray. I warned you your design was faulty, did I not? And you, too proud to admit your folly, told me you would show how harmless your trap truly was. It was not harmless to your pinky, was it?”
She winced, recalling the pain of the trap closing on her, the snap of her bone. To this day, she suffered an occasional ache in that joint whenever the weather was poor, and the digit remained tauntingly crooked. However, she often forgot about the reason for her broken finger, remembering merely that it had been fractured instead.
“The coil of the spring was a bit too strong,” she allowed. “But I did perfect the trap eventually.”
“Of course you did,” Papa interrupted. “You are only satisfied when you have perfected a design. You have always been stubborn and determined.”
“Nothing has changed,” she informed him.
“And I remain firm on the matter,” Hudson broke into the conversation, his deep baritone sending warmth to unfurl within her. “The choice of whether or not Ellie accompanies us is hers. She knows her mind and her abilities.”
Beneath the table, his right hand found her left, his fingers tangling with hers, his thumb giving her pinky an idle stroke as if to saythis is the one. And he was right. It was. Just like that, one of her secrets was his. She wondered what others she would give over the course of their union. Strangely, the thought only filled her with hope. Sharing even her failures with this man would be a privilege.
He gave her hand a light, reassuring squeeze. A show of solidarity she appreciated every bit as much as his words.
“I am accompanying you,” she said firmly, grateful for Hudson anew.
Somehow, he had settled upon the crux of the conflict she inevitably had with her family. She loved Papa fiercely, and she was happy she had come of age beneath his encouragement and praise. When other girls had been making their presentation at court, she had been mired in books and learning, fingers roughened with calluses from tools, oil and dirt beneath her fingernails which her mother had despaired at. Her debut to society had been delayed, and as a result, so too had her marital prospects. It had never mattered until ithad.
One day, Izzy had announced her intentions to marry Mr. Penhurst, the third son of Papa’s oldest and greatest friend, Viscount Leeland. And on that day, all the generous leniency Papa had espoused toward Elysande’s future had begun to systematically deteriorate. Like stones being removed from the foundation of an old castle wall, one by one, her freedoms had been taken. Her life had altered. Eventually, what remained crumbled. Her father had decided she needed to fit society’s mold for the benefit of the rest of her siblings.
And she loved Izzy and all the rest enough to accept.
However, she had never accepted the reason—that despite all Papa’s refusal to adhere to societal dictates, when it came down to his daughters, he was willing to make a sacrifice. Even if it had meant Elysande’s own happiness. She, Izzy, and the twins would forever be treated differently, held to a different set of standards, simply because they had been born his daughters rather than his sons.
Papa’s fingers were drumming on the table now, pulling Elysande from her thoughts. It was an old habit of his, one he engaged in whenever he was in the midst of designing his next invention. It invariably drove Mama to distraction.
“It is not fit for you to be there,” her brother grumbled in her direction. “I am only trying to protect you, Ellie.”
“I do not require your protection,” she countered. “I am stronger than you suppose.”
Hudson’s fingers tightened on hers once more. “My wife is stronger than anyone I know, and wiser, too. I suggest we bow to her decision and proceed with the day.”
If a person’s body were capable of glowing in the fashion of an electric light, Elysande was certain hers would be just now. Glowing and humming and far too bright. How good it felt to be the recipient of Hudson’s praise. How wonderful to sit at his side and feel appreciated in a way that had always been missing. Only, she had never noticed the glaring lapse until he had made his unexpected way into her life.
But now that he had arrived, she intended to do everything in her power to keep him there.
* * *
The tripto Hudson’s former rooms had gone better than he had expected. Almost too perfectly, in fact. Leydon and Royston, after being persuaded that Elysande should, in fact, accompany them if she wished, had not posed further opposition to the notion. He had been relieved, for keeping her near was more comforting than the fragile hope that her father’s method of comparing his handprint to the bloody print on the headboard of the bed in his old bedchamber would lead to his exoneration.
Still, despite the progression of the day, the burning coal of worry had yet to be doused. His experience as a detective had shown him that his instincts were scarcely ever misguided, and if the knot in his gut was any indication, the early promise of the morning would soon lead to complete and utter hell.
That was the way of it in an investigation. For every promising clue, there was an equally damning counter. Leydon’s preliminary examination of Hudson’s print along with the print left by Maude’s killer had suggested there were dissimilarities between them too obvious to deny. Which meant, of course, that the second call they needed to pay would proceed as poorly as a ship with a leaking hull in the midst of a maelstrom.
His suspicion was confirmed when they arrived at Barlowe’s home to find a rather unexpected assemblage in the drawing room. He should have known better than to seek Barlowe without warning, he acknowledged as he stood flanked by his wife, brother-in-law, and father-in-law at the threshold of the elegantly appointed chamber.
He also should have encouraged a call to the Marquess of Greymoor instead, who could also attest to Hudson’s presence at the Black Souls. Or perhaps even the owner of the club himself. But when the door to Barlowe’s Mayfair residence had opened and they had been greeted by a butler who appeared as if he may be in his cups, Hudson had decided to remain and attempt to pay a call.
Next time, he would not be so foolish.
“This is your bloody witness?” Royston hissed beneath his breath as the four of them stood there in shocked horror, witnessing the unfolding homage to indulgence.
He could not blame Elysande’s brother for the disgust in his voice, even if the viscount was apparently something of a ne’er-do-well himself, should Ellie’s comments prove any indication. No, indeed. He was as flummoxed as any of them.
There was every indication the room’s inhabitants had been drinking since the evening before and had yet to find their beds. It was nearly noon, and their revelries showed no signs of impending cessation. In true Barlowe fashion, women were everywhere. Ladies in their evening gowns, sleeves slipping down their shoulders, coiffures undone. Wine bottles in hand, feet bereft of slippers. Christ, a bare breast to his left, just by the mullioned window. He looked away. But there, near the settee, was the flash of feminine limbs. They were bereft of stockings and drawers, accompanied by a glimpse of that unfortunately sotted lady’s quim.
