The vicar grinned when Hugo’s stomach grumbled. “Go ahead, have a piece now, before your tea.”
Hugo hesitated for a heartbeat. “Well, if you insist.”
They both chuckled as if they were indulging in something guilty, and then sat and munched the sweet, buttery slabs in silence.
Hugo was almost finished with his piece and gazed longingly at the container; he could eat the whole damned tin himself. He had a fondness for sweets. But no, he couldn’t ask for another—they were for an old man who had few enough pleasures in life.
He popped the last bit in his mouth, determined to savor it.
“Do you find my daughter attractive?”
Hugo tried to catch the soggy piece of cookie that flew out of his mouth, but it was too late. He was grateful that it hit the wall behind the vicar rather than his host’s face.
“Damn!” Hugo said, and then, “Oh, sorry.” His face and neck burned, and it took him a moment to identify the foreign feeling: it was embarrassment. When was the last time that anything had embarrassed him?
The vicar chuckled. “I shouldn’t have blurted that out—it was my fault.”
Hugo happened to agree.
The vicar poured their tea while Hugo braced himself for whatever was coming next. His appetite—even for delicious shortbread—was now gone.
“I am dying, Hugo.”
Hugo’s head whipped up and, again, the old man chuckled. “Oh, not right now.”
He huffed out a breath. “I’m pleased to hear it, sir.”
“I’m doing a wretched job of making my point.”
Again, Hugo silently agreed.
“I don’t wish my daughter to know, but I saw a physician when I was last on the mainland. He told me my heart was weak and could give out at any time. Indeed, he seemed surprised it has lasted this long. He said that anything that elevated my pulse might be the end of me.” His lips twisted into a scowl and he glared at Hugo. “I ask you, why would a person want to live if they had to avoid everything that makes their heart race?”
Hugo didn’t see much point in that kind of life either. “Er—”
“I’ve had chest pains,” the vicar confessed, sparing Hugo from having to speak. “Each one is more difficult to recover from than the last and it is becoming impossible to hide them from Martha. I doubt I will survive this winter.”
Hugo’s nose and eyes prickled, and he had to swallow. Several times. Dammit! What the hell was wrong with him? The salt air must be rotting his brain.
He set down his mug with a thump, sending tea sloshing over the sides. “It’s a brutal environment in the winter, I’m told,” he said, hoping the vicar didn’t notice his hoarse voice.
“Yes, it is. It took my wife our first winter here. Martha was not yet two. It is not an easy life.”
Hugo thought that was the understatement of the decade. Even this early in the fall the conditions were inhospitable.
“Can’t you go south, sir?”
“I have nowhere to go.”
“What about the watering holes that are supposed to be good for one’s health—Bath? Harrogate?”
“I do not have the means to go to those places.”
“Surely the Church should take care of such things after a lifetime of service?”
The vicar waved a dismissive hand, visibly bored with the topic of his health. “I know you received a letter franked by the Marquess of Darlington.”
Hugo blinked.
The vicar laughed. “You cannot keep exciting news like that secret on a small island. You mentioned you will be leaving soon.
“Er, yes, that is correct, sir.”
“You must have worked hard to save enough money already.”
“My friend, Lady Magnus, sent me a bank draft. She is Darlington’s daughter-in-law.”
“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.” He nodded. “And how much is that for?”
The question startled a laugh out of him.
The vicar smiled and raised a hand. “Bear with me, Hugo, I do have a point I wish to make aside from prying into your business.”
“Two hundred pounds.” He didn’t mention the smaller draft.
“Two hundred pounds,” Mr. Pringle repeated, his tone one of awe.
Hugo squirmed. He knew that amount sounded like a fortune to a man like Jonathan Pringle—indeed to anyone on this island—but he dealt in such sums often. As a whore, he had commanded the highest of prices. And since he’d purchased half the brothel, he’d earned even more.
“Do you know what that tells me, Hugo—receiving a draft that size?”
“No, sir.”
“That you are a man who powerful people will send a large sum to upon nothing more than a request.”
Hugo wondered what he’d say if he knew that the signature on the draft was that of an ex-madam. “It is a loan, and I shall have to pay it back, Mr. Pringle.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But you can pay it back, can’t you?”
“Er, yes, sir.” Christ, he bloody hoped he could.
“And not only because you are a man of means, but because you feel morally obliged to repay your debts?”
“Of course.” How the hell had the conversation strayed in such a bizarre direction?
“I know you have amassed your wealth in questionable ways, Hugo.”
Hugo’s jaw dropped and Mr. Pringle chuckled. “Actually, I didn’t know that—not until I saw your reaction; I was just speculating. Your expression tells me I guessed correctly.”
It was Hugo’s turn to laugh. “You’re as wily as a fox.”
“I am not completely without guile,” the vicar admitted, his smile slowly fading. “I won’t ask what you did to earn your money. It is not your past that concerns me, but your future.”
Hugo thought about testing the vicar’s belief in his own words and disclosing that he made his money from buggery, sucking cock, and bedding other men’s wives. He could just imagine the effect such words would have on the old man’s fragile heart.
No, it would not be Hugo Buckingham who would be responsible for that.
Instead, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but why should anything about my life concern you?”
“I think you can guess the answer to that, Hugo.”
The only reason Hugo could think of was so outlandish that he refused to speak the words out loud and give them life. “I cannot.”
Amusement glinted in the vicar’s pale blue eyes. “We shall come back to that in a moment. What I want to know is if you will resume earning your living by illegal means? Or will you continue as you have these past weeks on Stroma—a hardworking, trustworthy man?”
“It’s not that simple, Mr. Pringle.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“I have a lot to protect and that means I may have to do things I do not like to protect it.”
“I see.”
Hugo looked away from his suddenly piercing gaze. “If I told you otherwise, I would be lying, sir. You cannot imagine the things I’ve done to earn my money.”
“You are doubtless correct in that—I am not a worldly man. However, I sensed something happened in your heart the day McCoy did not take you back with the others—some fundamental change—or was I wrong?
It was true that Hugo felt different now, but that was likely because he was working night and day and too exhausted to think of anything else but his next meal. Life on this remote rock was as different from life in London as it would be on the moon.
“I don’t know if I’ve changed, Mr. Pringle. But what I do know is that even if I walk the righteous path for the rest of my days I am not, at my core, a good man. I am ruled by selfish impulses—greedy and acquisitive impulses and I can’t change my stripes. I like—no, scratch that—I love creature comforts and material possessions. I crave luxurious surroundings, fine clothing, excellent food, and all the other hedonistic pleasures money can buy. I’ve been poor once and I never want to be poor again.”
“But that is not all y
ou are, Hugo—a collection of wants and desires. You are a good man—I have evidence of it.”
Good God! Would the man not have done already and simply tell him what he wanted
“What do you mean?” he asked wearily when he’d taken hold of his temper.
“You have been gentle and kind to Cailean Fergusson, a boy who can give you none of the things you listed above.”
“He saved my life, sir.”
“Then why don’t you simply send money back to him when you reach London—just as you offered to do for me that night—rather than befriend him?”
Hugo sputtered. “I said I was selfish, not a monster. I like him and I’ve only been kind to him—it costs me nothing. You are making something out of nothing. You know me as I am here Mr. Pringle, in a place where my options have been limited to working or stealing. Have you forgotten that my first choice was to steal?” Hugo’s face burned and he threw up his hands, slumping in his chair. He hated articulating his shortcomings. “Can we please move to the heart of the matter, Mr. Pringle? Why did you ask me whether I found your daughter attractive?” Although Hugo had more than a sneaking suspicion.
“I am a father who wants the best for his child—his only child.”
Well, that was easy enough. “The best for your daughter is—as much as it pains me to say—Robert Clark. The man is an insufferable prig, but he is steady, dependable, and has already made it his business to protect Martha.” The words were like acid on his tongue, but they needed to be said. “Your daughter would know what she was getting with such a man. He would take care of her and never give her cause for worry.”
“Oh, I agree; Robert Clark is the more decent, morally upstanding man.”
His words were unexpectedly painful.
“But I’m not sure what Martha needs is the more decent, morally upstanding man. My daughter is spirited and delights in being challenged. I think she will gradually lose her light with Mr. Clark. Not because of any cruelty on his part, but simply because he is a prosaic, unimaginative man who will not appreciate Martha’s intelligence and passion for life.”
Hugo wanted to argue that Martha was rather prosaic herself, but then he remembered the way her eyes had burned when she’d believed he and Albert were about to be hauled off in leg-irons. And how she’d lied to Clark to rescue young Lorn. And how she’d had to bite back a smile every time her gorgeous lips mouthed the foolish word Higgenbotham.
Hugo stifled an irritated groan. What did any of that matter? So what if she was spirited and passionate? What was that to him?
He met the old man’s pale gaze. “If you think Clark will dim her, er, light, she doesn’t need to marry him. I’m sure there must be other hardworking, fine young men here. Or perhaps on the mainland.”
“It’s not only that, Hugo, it’s also that life on this island is so very, very hard.” He leaned across the table and grasped Hugo’s hand and Hugo gasped at his ice-cold fingers.
“Life on Stroma killed my wife, Hugo. I do not want the same for Martha. I want to know my Martha’s future is secure—that she is with a man who will take care of her, but also challenge her. I have seen the way you look at her.”
Astonishingly, Hugo’s face heated.
The old man smiled. “Not only those looks, Hugo, but the ones you give her when you think nobody is looking.”
“Oh, and what looks are those?” Hugo wanted to sneer but the question came out like a plea—did he look at her in some way he didn’t realize? Was it possible there was more to his attraction to her than simply wanting to fuck her?
“She fascinates you.”
Hugo opened his mouth to deny the vicar’s words, but he realized they were true. He was fascinated by her goodness and her spirit. He’d never met anyone so giving, whose passion seemed to be making others feel safe and loved and cared for.
“And I have seen the looks she gives you.”
Hugo bit his tongue to keep from making a pitiful arse of himself and begging the old man to tell him more. The last thing old Pringle needed was encouragement in whatever mad scheme he was hatching.
But the vicar was relentless. “These past two weeks you have stayed away from her on purpose, haven’t you? You have done so because you did not want to toy with her affections.”
Hugo shrugged, even though he knew it was childish and rude.
“I know you have. But staying away is hurting my daughter. Each day Martha’s bright eyes have become a bit duller. My heart aches for her; you will know how it is when you have a child of your own. You want to see them happy and will move heaven and earth to make that happen. And it seems to me that you, Hugo, are what she wants to be happy.”
Hugo’s head spun as if he’d just guzzled a pint of gin. This man could not be saying what Hugo was hearing. He wanted to tell him to stop—to shut up, to quit dangling some fantasy in front of him. Hugo opened his mouth to tell him that he’d send money to express his gratitude, and that was his final offer.
But the cold, boney fingers tightened around his hand with surprising strength and Mr. Pringle leaned closer. “I saw the way Martha looked when she thought McCoy might take you away; it would have broken her heart. The same thing will happen when you leave a week from now: it will break her heart. I don’t want to think of how painful it will be to look at my beautiful, kind daughter once her heart is broken.” His jaw tightened. “I will do everything in my power to see that doesn’t happen.”
When Hugo merely stared, he cocked his head, his expression softening. “You both care for each other already and I believe it could grow into something more if given a chance.”
Christ! Did the man really think that being with him was favorable to being a fisherman’s wife? He should have had more than his heart examined by that physician.
Hugo bit his tongue; he could not say any of that.
Instead. he said, “Do you not have any family she could go to?”
“No. There is no family on either side. Her mother was an orphan and I—well, my siblings were older and have all passed on. I am all she has.”
Hugo ground his teeth, his thoughts flitting around in his head like moths trapped in a lantern. “What makes you think she’d accept me if I offered for her?”
Where the hell had those words come from? What in the name of all that was holy would I do with a wife? I’ve never even had a lover for more than a week!
Hugo wanted to howl. Why had he asked the man such a thing?
He could see by the vicar’s slight smile that he knew he’d set the hook deep. The sneaky old bastard.
“You won’t know the answer to that until you ask her, Hugo.”
Hugo gaped, his brain spinning like a toothless gear. But then the gear caught on something.
“Sir, you know she’d never leave Stroma without you, and I have to leave. If I don’t go back to London soon there may be nothing to go back to.”
They held each other’s gaze and Hugo had to admit the man would have made a fine card-player.
The vicar nodded. “You leave that to me, Hugo.”
Hugo groaned, not caring that he sounded like a spoiled child. “Please let me set you up in a cottage someplace with a generous allowance—anywhere you like. That way Martha doesn’t need to marry Clark, or me, or anyone else. It’s the least I can do to thank you for saving me. If not for you, sir, I’d be spending the next seven years in chains.”
“But I don’t want money.” Mr. Pringle’s snowy white eyebrows slammed down into a straight line. “You promised me a favor—or have you forgotten that, Mr. Buckingham?”
Hugo recoiled; the old man looked downright frightening. In fact, he looked like God. Or at least how Hugo imagined God would look.
“Yes, yes of course I did. That’s what I’m trying to—”
“Do you have feelings for Martha? Or have I misinterpreted what I’ve seen?”
Hugo stared into the other man’s clear eyes. If he said no he was certain the vicar would release him from his ob
ligation.
He opened his mouth to say exactly that, but his lips refused to form the word. Instead, he said, “I do like her, Mr. Pringle—but—” It was as if somebody else had taken possession of his mouth. What in the name of God was wrong with him? Why did he say that? Why would—
“Go on, son,” the vicar urged.
Hugo stared at Mr. Pringle, searching for the right words—or any words, really. He more than liked Martha, but he didn’t think lust was what the vicar had in mind. And lust was pretty much all Hugo had to offer a wife.
Wife?
He choked back a hysterical laugh. He must be out of his bloody mind to even be discussing this.
“I will make you a bargain,” Mr. Pringle said.
“Another bargain?” Hugo squawked.
The vicar ignored him. “You were planning to leave next week?”
“Next Tuesday, or Wednesday at the latest.”
“Stay two weeks—just fourteen days. Stay and pay court to her—every day—as you would any young woman. If, by the end of two weeks, you still do not wish to marry her—or her you—I’ll consider your debt to me paid in full.”
Hugo knew Martha found him attractive—or at least she wanted him in ways she didn’t understand, physical ways. But she was pragmatic; just look at how long her courtship with Clark had been going on. She would never agree to anything in fourteen days. Especially not with Hugo.
He could stay the two weeks and discharge his debt and leave Stroma a free man. In every sense of the word.
“That’s all you want from me?” he asked.
“All you have to do is demonstrate a good faith effort when it comes to courting my daughter.” His blue eyes turned hard. “I would say two weeks of spending time with a pretty girl is a fair exchange for seven years in New South Wales.”
The old man certainly knew how to turn the screws. Hugo had made a promise, and he would live up to it.
“Very well, Mr. Pringle, I will stay for two weeks and do my best to, er, court Martha.”
Mr. Pringle’s smug smile told Hugo that he’d never had any doubt on the matter. Then the old man’s smile dimmed slightly. “Er, I would ask you not to tell her about this.”
“I’m not stupid, Mr. Pringle. It would be worth both our lives if she learned you were bribing a man to court her.”
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 12