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.”
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.
As interesting as O’Rourke being assigned to the escape of Croydon.
Hudson did not bother to correct O’Rourke. Instead, he inclined his head toward Chance. “Thank you for bringing me to Chief Inspector O’Rourke. Please do remember to give Mrs. Chance my good wishes.”
Chance nodded. “Of course, sir, my lord duke. I will. Thank you.”
The lad bowed and then nearly collided with another sergeant passing through the busy offices. Grimly, Hudson turned his attention back to O’Rourke. “I understand you have been given the task of apprehending Reginald Croydon.”
O’Rourke stiffened. His reaction was slight, almost imperceptible, but Hudson noticed. The reaction was intriguing and puzzling.
“I have been, yes.”
“I wish to offer my assistance,” he said. “Given my involvement in his previous case, there may be some insight I am able to offer.”
“Assistance is not required,” O’Rourke dismissed coolly.
He had not known what reception he would receive upon his first return to Scotland Yard since his abrupt departure. There was no denying the disparity between Chance’s excited greeting and the grim disapproval of the man before him. But never mind that. He had no intention of being swayed from his course.
“Has Croydon been caught?” Hudson countered calmly.
Chief Inspector O’Rourke’s jaw clenched. “He has not yet been recaptured, no.”
“Then the assistance of one more set of hands ought to be welcome, surely.”
“You are no longer a part of Scotland Yard.”
“I offer my aid in an unofficial capacity.” Hudson forced a smile, for he wanted to push the man but not too far. He wanted to goad O’Rourke into agreeing, not into telling him to go to hell. “I wish to offer my time and information, gratis.”
“You are arrogant, sir.” O’Rourke’s voice dripped with ice. “Do you think Scotland Yard incapable of carrying on without you? I daresay we didn’t even notice you were gone.”
Devil take it, this was not going as he had hoped.
“I think nothing of the sort, Chief Inspector O’Rourke.” He clung to all the sangfroid he possessed to keep the irritation from his tone. “Having so recently been a Chief Inspector, I know the limitations binding you and your detectives. Not enough bodies on the ground, not enough pay to lure skilled men, and crimes running rampant. I am here to be a help rather than a hindrance, and most certainly not because I believe Scotland Yard incapable of apprehending Reginald Croydon. Quite the opposite, and I must beg your pardon if my offer led you to believe otherwise. Insult was never my intention.”
He had expected this particular objection, and he had a ready reply. “Fortunately, I do not require you to provide me with any information. All I need to know is which doors have been knocked upon in an effort to find Croydon. A starting point, if you will.”
“I must warn you that your efforts will likely be for naught,” the inspector said, seemingly beginning to relent. “All the information we have gleaned thus far suggests he has left the country.”
There was something about the inspector’s demeanor that made Hudson’s suspicions heighten. Perhaps it was the manner in which O’Rourke’s gaze darted away from his, or the slight twist to his left, the tapping of his right foot.
“Left the country,” Hudson repeated, thinking it highly unlikely that a criminal of Croydon’s notoriety would have so quickly and easily fled England’s shores. “That would have required a vast sum of money and many fellow conspirators in place at the time of his escape, would it not? As I understand, it was not even one week ago that the man disappeared. Do you have evidence to support this supposition?”
O’Rourke raised a brow, the sharp angles of his face and his sunken cheeks rendering him reminiscent of a corpse. “Indeed, sir. I have evidence to support my conclusion. Evidence which, regretfully, cannot be shared with you. You are a fancy lord now, are you not?”
A duke, but Hudson would be damned if he was going to admit it now.
“I recently inherited unexpectedly,” he acknowledged.
“Right you are, sir. You would be far better served to turn your attentions toward your own concerns rather than the worries of others.” O’Rourke flashed him a brief smile that was nonetheless every bit as grim as the rest of his countenance. “Let Scotland Yard do our work. You are no longer welcome here in our ranks.”
No longer welcome.
Here, in Scotland Yard, which had been the entirety of his life for so many years. The blow was every bit as strong as if it had been a physical one. Hudson’s jaw clenched. But then, what should he have expected? Likely, many of the men with whom he had walked the streets were embittered over his rise in station. Perhaps O’Rourke was just such a man.
He nodded. “As you wish, Chief Inspector O’Rourke. I will take my leave.”
“That is best, my lord.”
And just like that, Hudson had been dismissed. He turned on his heel, long, angry strides taking him from the cursed, futile conversation he had just shared with Chief Inspector O’Rourke. He could not like the undeniable tone of acceptance in the other man’s voice when he had spoken of Croydon’s flight from England. He had made it sound as if it were already an accepted loss, that Croydon had simply escaped and would remain forever free. That pursuing him was hopeless.
But Hudson was not prepared to believe the inspector’s story. In all his years as a detective, he had learned to trust his instinct, and that same instinct had never led him astray.
Something was amiss, and Hudson was not going to rest until he discovered what it was. Thanks to Elysande’s requirements, he had three months to make certain Croydon was captured and went back to prison where he belonged. It was going to be the longest bloody three months of his life.
“Dratted, wretched, stupid thing!”
Elysande cursed her electrical frying pan, which was currently neither suitable for cooking nor electrified. If she carried on in such fashion, she would never have a functioning model in enough time for it to be included in the London Society of Electricity’s exhibition. She remained convinced that her idea, if properly constructed, would prove quite revolutionary in its potential to alter cooking. No fire would be necessary, and if she could only get the blasted thing to heat properly and evenly, it would cook food in record time.
Her model frying pan currently sat on the desk some footmen had moved up from the library at her request. Papa had offered her a small dynamo to power it, enabling her to work from Brinton Manor, and she had gratefully accepted. However, she was still no closer to achieving success. The conductor wire she had used was faulty. She had acquired platinum wire for her next attempt, with the idea that it should generate heat quickly. But the composition of cement she ought to use to insulate the wires was still giving her trouble.
If she was going to have any measure of success, she would need to cease being distracted. To stop thinking of Hudson and wondering where he was or when he might return. She would most certainly not find herself staring out the window, thinking of the magical effect his sinful lips had wrought upon her traitorous flesh. Nor would she spend hours distractedly sketching changed design elements only to find her mind perpetually mired in thoughts of the way he had looked, naked and gleaming and emerging from the lake that day.
Do not think about his broad chest or his flat abdomen roped with muscle, she warned herself. Or his excellent shoulders and strong arms. To say nothing of his…
“For heaven’s sake,” she chastised aloud. “You are doing it again, Elysande. This simply shall not be accepted.”
Elysande had been far more intrigued by the way things worked than by the way people did. Her heart was impenetrable, and from the time she was a very young girl, she had been content to sneak into Papa’s workshop and surround herself with the components for building. With gears and tools and screws and wires. Science fascinated her. While her sisters had been reading poetry and fine literature, Elysande had been consumed with engineering treatises, reading about everything from electricity to geometry.
She did not swoon over a handsome face. She had never longed for kisses. When Izzy had spoken of Mr. Penhurst with lovesick sighs and recited his manly attributions with the dedication of a scholar, Elysande had laughed, thinking it odd indeed that her sister should find herself so enraptured by one mere mortal.
And yet, here she was herself, helplessly caught in the throes of foolish, silly infatuation with her replacement husband. The husband she had not wished to have! The husband who had made her melt and then gone to London. It was outrageous and wrong and embarrassing. Little wonder she had yet to make any significant progress on her prototype. She had turned into a hen-wit, and all because of…of…his tongue. Yes, that was the reason.
Biology.
You can trust me, Hudson had said.
And she had believed him. But now, it was more than apparent that of the two of them, it was herself she should not trust. Her mind was strong and sharp, but her body was weak and susceptible.
A knock sounded on her door, interrupting her ruminations. And a fine time for just such an intrusion, for next she would stoop so low as to begin sighing over the man who had fled her side.
You told him you wanted three months, a voice reminded her.
So she had.
All the while, her frying pan sat before her, unimproved.
“Come,” she called on a sigh, supposing it would be her lady’s maid.
Instead of Denning, however, her sister Izzy sailed over the threshold. “Ellie! Whatever are you doing hiding away up here?”
Izzy’s long, dark curls had been plaited in a Grecian braid. She wore a cheerful yellow silk and a happy smile.
“Dearest sister,” she greeted, rushing forward with open arms before stopping just short of an embrace when she recalled she was in her workshop apron, which was horribly dirty. Hastily, she untied the knot at her waist and drew the garment off. “I am working on my electrical frying pan. I have chosen to convert my sitting room into a workshop of sorts.”
Izzy gave her a hearty squeeze, her roses-and-orange-water scent familiar and reassuring, as her sister’s sudden arrival was. “Oh, Ellie. I have missed you skulking about Talleyrand Park streaked with dirt and oil.”
She chuckled, for there was no need to argue with her sister’s description; it had been apt. “I have missed Talleyrand Park and you as we
ll. As you can see, I am merely skulking about streaked in dirt and oil here at Brinton Manor instead.”
“Yes, I most certainly can see.” Izzy ended the embrace abruptly, stepping back to view Elysande with a searching gaze and a frown. “You are by yourself, still?”
By herself, indeed. Her family had not made any secret of their disapproval of Hudson’s return to London while she remained in Buckinghamshire. When she had traveled to Talleyrand Park to oversee the movement of her prototypes and supplies, she had been forced to admit the reason why she was alone.
“Of course I am by myself,” she said lightly, trying not to allow her sister’s opinion to sway her. “I requested three months to work on my electrical frying pan so that I can ready my design for the exhibition.”
That was a partial truth, for while she had asked for the time, she had not imagined he would leave her alone at his estate. And when he had informed her of his plans, he had also made it seem as if he would scarcely be gone long. However, one week had turned into a fortnight, and then more days had slipped by.
“I do not suppose I shall ever understand you completely, dear sister,” Izzy said. “You married a man you do not love and sent him happily to London while you remain here, tending to his dilapidated estate and your electrical kettle.”
“Frying pan,” she corrected quietly, though she supposed it hardly mattered at the moment.
Kettle or frying pan, it was not electrical, and she was no closer to seeing her dream come to fruition now than she had been a year ago. But the fault for that was not Hudson’s. In all, three weeks had passed since her husband’s abrupt departure. For days, she had thrown herself into the grueling task of making Brinton Manor into a comfortable home. The young but capable steward, Saunders, had aided her, as had the more than kind Mrs. Grey.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 9