Which meant that Hugo had to reciprocate.
It wasn’t that he was clutch-fisted—oh, very well, so he was a bit tight with his money—but this wasn’t a bloody holiday. Hugo needed money to get the hell off this rock. Buying pints for strangers—no matter how nice—was hardly going to get him to his goal any faster. And so, he’d only gone to town a handful of times, even though he was itching to see if the mail boat had brought a letter for him.
He’d just finished his twelfth day of work at the quarry when Mr. Stogden came strolling up to his lean-to.
“I’ve got something for you, Mr. Buckingham.”
Hugo looked up from his washing—which he did every day—and wiped his hands on the cloth he’d thrown over his shoulder. The older man was holding an expensive-looking cream envelope.
Hugo smiled: Melissa.
“I can see from your expression this is good news,” Mr. Stogden said.
“I hope it is good news, sir.” The envelope had been franked by Melissa’s father-in-law, the Marquess of Darlington. Well, that was interesting.
“That’s the first of those I’ve seen.”
Hugo assumed he meant an aristocrat’s frank.
“Lord Darlington—he’s a marquess when he’s out and about, isn’t he?” Stogden asked.
“Yes. But this letter is from his daughter-in-law who is an acquaintance of mine.”
The old man’s craggy face was hard to read. “Hmmph. Well, if you’re going to be off will you give me notice? I’ve not got another man to take your place—at least not one as hardworking as yourself.”
Hugo’s face warmed at the rare compliment from the reserved man.
“Of course, sir. Would a week serve?”
“Sounds fair enough. Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy your letter.”
“Thank you for bringing it,” Hugo called after him, only now recalling his manners.
The old man just waved a hand and kept walking.
Hugo felt an odd combination of relief, hope, and regret as he looked at the letter. He was relieved to know he wasn’t utterly cut off from the outside world, he hoped Mel had some money for him, and he actually felt the tiniest speck of regret that he would soon be leaving.
That last thought gave him pause; since when did he like to engage in grueling physical labor from dawn to dusk, sleep in an animal enclosure, dress in castoffs, and cook his own meager meals?
Cutting flagstone might be physically exhausting, but at least there weren’t lazy employees, complaining clients; and he could leave his work behind at the end of a day.
Running one’s own business, Hugo had quickly learned, was not all beer and skittles.
That didn’t mean he had any intention of remaining on Stroma. Even the people born and bred on the island wanted to get the hell off it. Still, the simplicity of island life had its appeal.
Martha Pringle’s pretty face flitted through his mind, but he quickly banished her. He hated admitting—even to himself—just how hard it had been to avoid her. The sooner he got off Stroma the better it would be for that innocent young woman.
If he were leaving soon then he’d need to go by the Pringle cottage and speak to the vicar about the favor he still owed him. But right now, he needed to set aside his letter and finish his washing—he wasn’t gone yet and he’d rather not work in dirty clothing tomorrow.
After he’d hung out the last garment to dry, he picked up his letter and sat in the shadow of the old stone trough. Hugo slid his finger beneath the thick blob of sealing wax, unfolded the letter, and smirked; there were four sheets with overlarge writing. Melissa must have enjoyed making the marquess pay for such an expensive letter.
Hugo’s letter, by contrast, had been written and then cross-written, the words so small Melissa would have needed a magnifying glass to read it. He’d purchased only one sheet of paper, a tiny jar of ink, and a ragged quill from Joe Cameron’s store.
Tucked between the third and fourth pages were two bank drafts: one for and one for £200.
Hugo smiled; Mel had come through for him, as he’d known she would.
The £20 was small enough that Joe Cameron should be able to give him half in goods and half in cash. The £200 was an outrageous sum and he’d need to take it to a bank on his way to London..
He’d not wanted to borrow so much, but he had no idea what mess awaited him in London, or how long it would take to regain control of Solange’s.
He spread out the letter.
Dearest Hugo:
I received your letter the very morning we were setting out to spend a month with Magnus’s family at their seat. Yes, they now invite me to their home. I never believed it would happen, but after giving birth to one perfectly delightful grandson—and another child on the way—my in-laws have become almost amenable to the whore their son married.
Hugo snorted; nothing felt quite as good a bringing a peer to their knees, something he knew from personal experience.
What a dramatic life you have: kidnapped, transported, and then shipwrecked! You might even surpass Joss when it comes to high drama, although perhaps not scandal.
Hugo sniffed at the mention of his old nemesis from Solange’s, a whore named Joss Gormley. Hugo had long suspected that Melissa had allowed Gormley into her bed—albeit long before Hugo knew her—and he’d never quite gotten over the spark of envy he felt for the man.
You should sell your story to the papers, Hugo, although nobody would ever credit it as being true.
“Very droll, Melissa.”
I received a letter from Daisy only a week before yours and it was absolutely full of gossip about Solange’s.
Daisy was a mutual acquaintance who’d worked at Solange’s when it was still called The White House. Daisy now ran an inn in France with her husband, but kept in touch with several women who still worked at Solange’s.
Daisy mentioned how everyone at Solange’s was stunned when Laura told them that you’d decided to take an extended holiday and see the great sights of Europe.
“That fucking bitch,” he hissed at the paper, squeezing it as tightly as he’d like to squeeze Laura Maitland’s neck.
Hugo heard a scuffing sound and looked up; Cailean hovered uncertainly a few steps away. Hugo had been so caught up in his letter he hadn’t hear the boy’s approach. As always, he had Lily draped around his neck.
Hugo still hadn’t gotten accustomed to the oversized rat, but he no longer shrieked like a little girl when he saw her.
He grinned at the sweet giant. “Well, look who’s come to see me.” He waved him over. “Come here, little brother.”
Cailean smiled and shuffled over to him, stopping close enough to Hugo that they could bump shoulders, the boy’s preferred manner of showing affection. The gesture brought Hugo’s face perilously close to the otter’s ass, but he supposed that was better than its sharp-toothed face.
Hugo knew Cailean could speak, but other than that first night, he’d not heard him utter a word. The boy kept him company around the firepit most nights and also showed him some of the island’s secret coves and how to access the tiny, secluded beaches.
Hugo had wanted to see the system of caves the islanders called the Gloup, but Cailean broke into the shivers when he suggested it, so it was something he’d still not explored.
“Are you done working?” Hugo asked.
Cailean did odd jobs like delivering peat, loading boats to go to the mainland, or anything that required a strong back.
The boy nodded.
“Well, that’s something to celebrate, isn’t it? Go look in the lean-to. There’s a paper sack you might find of interest.” Hugo had begun keeping a few sweets for the boy after he realized Cailean didn’t receive pay for his work. Instead, the money went to his aunt, who kept him.
That hardly seemed fair, especially since it would have taken only a few pennies to make Cailean happy. Hugo didn’t agree with the general consensus that Cailean was touched in the head. The more time they spent to
gether, the more Hugo believed that the reverse was true.
At first, he’d thought the younger man was twenty-five—based on his size and build—but had been stunned to discover he was just sixteen.
Cailean was quick to pick up new skills—Hugo had set him up with some rope to braid and he was doing a fine job, even with his massive fingers. Cailean also had a nearly perfect memory and could count cards better than anyone Hugo had ever met. Who knew what else the boy would be capable of with a bit of schooling?
Cailean returned from the lean-to with the bag in his hand, too polite to open it, and offered it to Hugo.
“It’s for you, little brother,” Hugo said. “I’m sorry there isn’t much, but when I’m done reading my letter we can go to the Vicar and raid Mr. Cameron’s sweetie cabinet. Sound good?”
Cailean smiled.
“Good, go relax in my luxurious palace and I’ll not be two ticks,” Hugo said, waiting until Cailean disappeared back into lean-to. Hugo was likely to swear a bit more before the letter was over and displays of temper terrified the gentle boy.
He turned back to the crumpled sheets of paper.
Daisy also said Laura has made some rather unpleasant changes. One of which was taking on Bevan Davies as a partner.
“You duplicitous fucking whore!” Hugo shook with fury. “Bloody Bevan Davies.” Of all the slimy bastards in London, why did it have to be Bev?
The man had been a force to be reckoned with in St. Giles when Hugo had been a lad and had only become more powerful over the past fifteen years. He was greedy, brutal, and vicious. And now, it appeared, he co-owned Hugo’s business—or all of it, if he knew Bev.
He wanted to bloody weep.
I don’t know what you plan to do, Hugo, but you know where I stand on the matter of Solange’s. If you have any say in the matter, I recommend that you close it and invest your money elsewhere.
“That’s bloody well enough for you, isn’t it Mel?” he irrationally demanded of the paper.
Frustration and fury threatened to blow the top off his head. Just because Melissa had married an extremely wealthy man and could afford her fancy morals didn’t mean Hugo could.
He’d worked like a dog since becoming co-owner of the brothel. Unlike Laura, he’d not quit taking clients. In fact, he taken more than ever before.
While he’d managed to put some money in the bank these past three years, he’d poured most of his earnings back into Solange’s. He simply did not have enough money saved to quit working. He had enough to live modestly for a few years—if he were frugal—but he didn’t want to live modestly; he’d spent most of his life on his knees so he could live well.
Even though I know you will deny it, engaging in the flesh trade is a soul-destroying business.
“Ha! You say that now, but that was your life for years, Mel.” How like people to judge others once their own situation was all nice and secure.
Just because Mel was suddenly suffering pangs of conscience didn’t mean Hugo was. He had no conscience—he never had.
“Blasted moralizers,” he muttered.
I know you, Hugo—you have the façade of a cold, heartless, selfish man and often you can be that man. But I’ve also seen you give money to street urchins and feed a starving kitten.
“Christ,” he muttered. “Will I never live down that damned kitten incident? Who the hell wouldn’t feed a kitten if it showed up on their doorstep, Mel?”
The letter didn’t answer him.
Hugo had only meant to give the mangy little beast a bit of milk before shooing it away, but of course some whore—every single one of whom had big mouths—had caught him feeding the thing and engaged a bloody town crier to spread the news.
Then the blasted women had taken the cat as some sort of mascot. The cat—Hugo, they’d had the nerve to call it—still lived in the kitchen, so fat and lazy he was more likely to be caught by a mouse than the other way round.
Hugo called him Tiger—but only when nobody else was around. He could tell by the way Tiger perked up around him that the cat remembered it was Hugo who’d first fed him.
Or maybe he perked up because Hugo was the only one who knew how much Tiger liked having his fat chin scratched.
Hugo rolled his eyes at his stupid thoughts and turned back to the letter.
I know you must find the prospect of a new way of life intimidating. But you are not without friends, Hugo. Joss and his wife are talking about sponsoring another orphanage and Magnus and I are also in dire need of kind, trustworthy people to help out with our new school for older children.
Hugo snorted rudely. “I’ll do that right after I fart guineas, Mel.” Jesus. Hugo running an orphanage. What would the woman come up with, next?
You are welcome at Stanwyke Park—by me, at least—if you should wish to visit on your way south.
I ask that you send me a letter to let me know you have received the bank drafts, and also to let me know your plans.
Take care, my friend,
Mel
Hugo chuckled at the thought of stopping by a marquess’s grand estate. He wouldn’t, of course, but he was relieved to see that Melissa hadn’t become so proper that she didn’t enjoy spreading a little bit of mischief.
Hugo stared at the bank drafts. So, he could leave after he’d given Mr. Stogden his notice. All he needed to do was visit the vicar and settle up with him.
He ignored the thumping in his chest—and lower—at the thought of seeing Martha.
No, you are going to see the vicar—not his daughter.
“Fine,” he groused. “I’m not going there to see her.”
He smirked as he folded up the letter. Just because he wasn’t going there to see her, didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy himself if she happened to be there.
Did it?
Chapter 14
“Martha is at the lady’s sewing group this evening,” Mr. Pringle informed him. “I’m afraid she won’t be home until quite late.”
Hugo was stunned by the wave of disappointment that swamped him. Just when had he started missing the sharp-tongued, bossy woman so much?
This was not good. Not good at all. How could he be such a fool?
He shoved away his concerns; he could ponder his unwanted attraction to the virginal miss later. On his six-hundred-mile journey south.
“Er, I was just popping by to let you know that I’ll be leaving next week.” Without the hope of a good verbal jousting with Martha on the horizon or the possibility of making her blush, Hugo just wanted to finish his business with Mr. Pringle quickly.
But the vicar had other plans. “I was just about to put the kettle on.” He stepped back and gestured for Hugo to enter.
Hugo had never been in the house before and hadn’t expected it to be so small and … sparse. It was almost monastic, not that Hugo had any personal knowledge of monks.
“Leaving us so soon, are you?”
“Yes, sir. But I wanted to repay my debt to you before I go.”
“Ah, well, it’s nice of you to call.”
His vague answer made Hugo wonder if the man had forgotten all about the favor he’d exacted.
Hugo was debating with his conscience whether or not he would remind the vicar when the old man said, “You must mean the favor you promised me.”
So much for the vicar’s rotten memory.
“Yes, sir.”
“I was, in fact, thinking of calling on you.” Mr. Pringle paused, his blue eyes going hazy and his forehead creasing. “Although I must admit I don’t know where I would find you these days, as you’re not staying in the meeting house.” He blinked owlishly up at Hugo, turned, and then tottered toward a tiny kitchen.
“I’m staying out at Mr. Stogden’s.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right, that’s right. Now I recall. Abel told me that when I stopped in to check on how you were managing.”
Hugo frowned. Check on him? Just what the hell did that mean?
He shrugged the thought off, mo
re concerned about the old man’s faulty memory. How had he forgotten where Hugo was living and working?
Oh well, it was none of his concern.
“Now where did Martha put the kettle?” the vicar mused.
The kitchen held the smallest cookstove he’d ever seen. There was a kettle on top and steam was blasting from the spout. “Er, I think—”
“Oh, there it is.” Mr. Pringle stared at the stove as if he’d never seen it before. “Why, it looks like I already boiled the water. Excellent, excellent,” he murmured to himself. He grabbed a medium-sized Brown Betty from the counter and spooned black gold into the pot—enough for two, Hugo could see.
Hugo held his breath as Mr. Pringle picked up the boiling kettle and poured. Some of the boiling water went into the teapot and more onto the counter and floor, barely missing his slippered feet.
“Er, can I help you with anything, sir?”
“Ah, yes—Martha made some biscuits the other day.” The vicar set the kettle back down on the stove with a loud clang and turned, an impish look on his face. “She thinks I am too doddering to know that she spends money on sugar for my sweets rather than a new ribbon or trinket for herself. But I notice.” He tapped his forehead in demonstration of his mental acuity. “The tin is in that cupboard, bring it to the table.” He carried the Brown Betty to the small table, the little teapot looking as if weighed a stone in his fragile old hands. “Grab two plates and mugs while you’re about it.”
While his back was turned, Hugo quickly moved the kettle off the stove, where it was once again belching steam.
When he returned to the table with the requested items the vicar was humming softly as he lifted the lid to examine the tea he had only just spooned into the pot. As absent-minded as he seemed, Hugo wondered why Martha left him alone in the house.
Not your affair, Hugo.
True. He would be gone from this island—this life—in a week. Hugo set out the chipped, mismatched plates and mugs before prying open the dented old tin. The aroma that hit him made his mouth water.
Hugo looked up and met the vicar’s expectant stare. “Shortbread.”
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 11