He’d told himself that he wanted to make sure Martha was gone. But what he’d really hoped was that she’d defied him and he’d find her curled up in her favorite window seat reading. Cailean would be making a racket in the kitchen with some new cat, and his little dog Fergus—a wiry-haired terrier cur who would give his life for the lad—would be patrolling the back garden and keeping it safe from squirrels.
But he’d known even before Butterbank opened his mouth that Martha and Cailean were gone.
“You just missed them, sir. They left a short while ago.”
“Good,” he’d said, the last of his hope dying inside him. “I’ll have somebody come by next week to pack up the rest of our things.”
So, that had been that. Hugo had given an order and Martha had obeyed him. He told himself that he was relieved—and he was—but he also felt as if somebody had reached into his chest, crushed his heart, and ripped out his lungs.
It had been a struggle to breathe as he’d walked down the steps of Lady Selwood’s house.
And breathing hadn’t gotten any easier in the days since.
As he pondered the night ahead and prepared to sacrifice himself for a business that he no longer wanted, Hugo wondered if breathing was really worth the effort anymore.
◆◆◆
Just to complicate matters, Solange’s was busier than ever that night. Hugo could hardly walk five steps before some punter accosted him.
It was not quite midnight and Hugo was bloody exhausted. The duke rarely made it to Solange’s until after one, which meant Hugo still had an hour to wait.
He surveyed the crowded card tables without really seeing them until raised voices pulled his attention to the back of the room—to the table that always seemed to attract every young, spoiled, and drunk aristocrat in London.
Tonight was no different.
Hugo ground his teeth as he watched the five men harassing the dealer, an older woman named Irene.
Irene had been dealing cards longer than most of the young bucks had been breeched and she didn’t look flustered so much as irritated. As Hugo watched, one of the younger men reached over and swatted her on the arse.
Hugo spat out an especially vulgar word and stalked toward the table. He stopped between Irene and her harasser. “Good evening gentlemen,” he said, needing to raise his voice to be heard above the raucous shouting and laughing. “It’s time for Irene to take her supper break. I shall step in for her.”
The arse-slapper was Lord Elwood Yates, the youngest son of the Duke of Montrose. God save him from younger sons.
Lord Elwood blinked owlishly up at him, weaving in his chair. “Oh, I say … Buckingham. I was—hic—I was on a run.”
Hugo gave the empty baize in front of the younger man a pointed look and the rest of the players erupted with jeers and laughs.
Hugo bared his teeth at the feckless aristocrat. “Well, let’s see if we can’t get you running in another direction, shall we?”
It took him less than half an hour to disperse the men in various directions—most toward expensive rooms and even costlier whores. Lord Elwood—who’d lost consciousness about ten minutes into the play—Hugo poured into a hackney and sent home.
He’d just finished sorting out that mess when Daniel came toward him, his expression tense. “Excuse me, sir, but you’re wanted in the Diamond Suite.”
So, the time of reckoning had arrived. Hugo felt a mad urge to laugh, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Oh,” Daniel added, “and I just thought you’d want to know that Mr. Davies just arrived.”
Hugo did laugh at that, but the sound had no amusement in it. “Was he by himself?”
“Er, no, he had Jac and Gary with him.”
As Daniel stared at him, Hugo couldn’t help noticing that the younger man looked almost as sick as he felt. “Are you unwell?” he asked as he strode from the card room and headed toward the grand staircase that led to the suites.
“Er, no,” Daniel said, trotting along beside him. “I’m fine, sir.”
Hugo started up the stairs and then stopped when he realized that Daniel was still with him. “Was there anything else you needed?”
“Uh, no, sir.”
“Well, then you’d best get back to the door. It is going to be one of those nights.” And then some.
Daniel hesitated, but then nodded. “Yes, of course sir.”
Hugo watched the younger man leave and then turned and resumed his journey. It was only one flight of stairs, but it felt like a thousand.
On the second-floor landing Hugo turned right and headed toward the Diamond Suite. It was the most opulent set of rooms in the men’s side of the house.
Like its name, the Diamond Suite glittered with crystal chandeliers, cut mirrors, and gilt furniture, aping the grandeur of Versailles.
Unbeknownst to many patrons, every room at Solange’s had a small, secret room attached—usually referred to as a panel crib in the brothel trade. In the rougher, less savory whorehouses a male employee often hid in a panel crib, waiting for an opportune moment to pop out and rob a punter. At Solange’s, the panel cribs had comfortable benches or chairs and were used by clients who paid to watch others.
Tonight, Hugo knew it would be Bev who was watching and that he’d wait to pop out until Hugo was balls-deep in his royal highness. Oh what a night of drama old Bev had planned!
Outside the Diamond Suite were the usual four guards. Hugo wondered if it was his imagination, or if Gibson gave him a harder-than-usual look.
He smiled. “Mr. Gibson.”
Gibson ignored his greeting. “You can go in now,” he said, nodding to one of the others to open the door.
Just like the time before, the duke was buttoning his breeches and Maisie was getting up off her knees when Hugo entered. Hugo dropped a low bow and forced a confident smirk he wasn’t feeling. He jerked a dismissive nod at Maisie.
“I hope Maisie was to your liking, your royal highness,” he said, the words for the whore’s ears.
“Yes indeed, lovely, quite lovely.” The duke’s bulbous blue eyes looked uncharacteristically sharp tonight, even though his voice was as lazy and languid as ever. He gestured for Hugo to come closer, and Hugo didn’t stop until he stood between the duke and the panel crib peephole.
Bev could probably still hear what he said, but Hugo was blocking both his and the duke’s faces. Hopefully it would take a few seconds for Bev to figure out that things weren’t going as planned.
Not that Hugo had known what he was going to do or say until the words began to pour out of him. “This is a trap, your royal highness,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Eh?” The duke cupped his hand to his ear. “What’s that?”
Hugo wanted to scream. Instead, he said in a marginally louder voice. “I said it’s a trap. There’s a man hiding behind a second of wall—right behind me—and he is going to—”
“Stop where you are!” The muffled yell came from the direction of the panel crib.
Both Hugo and the duke jerked at the sound of smashing glass, which was followed by a thud that seemed to shake the very building.
“You are under arrest by the order of His Majesty, King George III, for—” A deafening bang cut off the rest of the sentence.
Part of the wall exploded, showering the room with splinters of wood, just as the door to the suite flew open and Gibson and his three henchmen rushed in, using their bodies to form a wall between the panel crib and the duke. “Your royal highness—are you—”
“I’m fine,” the duke said. “Go help the others.” He didn’t take his eyes from Hugo’s face.
A strangled cry, some vulgar shouting, and another loud crash came from the other side of the wall.
“It sounds like they might need it,” the duke added drily.
Gibson jerked out a nod and his three men ran out into the hall. Gibson stationed himself just outside the door, leaving it open.
“My
visits to Solange’s have always pleased me,” the duke said, loudly enough to be heard by anyone still listening. “As has your loyalty and respect for my privacy.” He paused, and then added in a far softer voice. “I knew you would not disappoint me, Hugo.”
That was a hell of a lot more than Hugo had known.
“I shall miss your services greatly.”
Hugo had always thought the duke was rather vapid. But right then, intelligence and resolution shone in his gaze.
Before Hugo could come up with a response another man in non-descript clothing arrived at the door and Gibson let him through.
“Well?” the duke demanded.
“All went as planned, sir.”
“The weapons?” the duke asked.
“Our agents seized the guns and captured seven men—two employed by Davies and five with the radicals. One man died while trying to escape and another got away, but we have reason to believe that he was badly injured and hope to apprehend him before the night is over.”
Hugo blinked. Guns? Radicals? What?
“What were their names?” the duke asked, straightening the cuffs on his coat.
“They refused to tell us.” The messenger’s smile was grim. “But we’ll find—”
“Hugo, you bloody bastard!” Bev and his four captors stopped in the open doorway. The crime lord’s lip was bleeding and one of his eyes was swelling.
Hugo forced an insouciant grin he was far from feeling and sauntered toward him. “Going somewhere, Bev?”
Bev thrashed like a wild beast, all but foaming at the mouth. “You bastard! You think you’ll get away with this?”
“Now, now, Bev.” Hugo thoughtfully stroked his chin. “What was it you said about not allowing one’s emotions to get the better of one?”
Bev snarled and launched himself at Hugo. His burst of energy startled his captors, and he broke free and grabbed Hugo’s coat lapels, slamming him up against the wall as if he could put him through it. “You’ll be bloody sorry!” Spittle flew from his mouth. “You’ll not get away with double crossing me. I’ve got a long reach and I’ll—”
Hugo smashed his head into the bridge of Bev’s nose and heard a sickening crunch as Bev crumpled, blood spurting from his nose.
Two huge men grabbed him beneath the arms and yanked him to his feet and then hauled him like a sack of potatoes, the iron heels of his hobnail boots scratching grooves in the glossy wood floor.
“Enjoy your trip, Bev,” Hugo called after him, adjusting his crushed cravat and coat with hands that shook.
He turned to the duke. “Can somebody tell me what the hell is going on?” he demanded, not giving a damn that the man across from him might one day be his sovereign.
“Come here, Hugo.”
Hugo stopped in the same place he’d stood only a few moments earlier.
“You and your wife have not only rendered immeasurable aid to your country, but I am personally in your debt.”
“My wife?”
The duke didn’t appear to hear him. “If you ever need anything, you may take this to my house in Kew.” He extracted a folded and sealed piece of parchment from his breast pocket.
Hugo took the document and stared blankly at it, his brain beginning to understand—if not comprehend—that Martha was somehow behind this.
“Thank you, your royal highness.” He swallowed, hesitated, and then looked the duke squarely in the face. “Er, I’m afraid that I, personally, can’t provide your royal highness with the usual, er, services tonight. However, we do have a new—”
“I would rather go without.”
Hugo felt oddly flattered by the other man’s words.
The duke’s lips flexed into a faint smile. “By the by, congratulations on your marriage.” He cocked his head. “I must admit I was surprised.”
“No more than I was, sir.”
“Your wife is an admirable young woman who appears to love you a great deal.” His expression turned almost wistful. “You are a fortunate man.”
“Yes,” Hugo said. “I am the most fortunate of men.” Or at least he had been, before he destroyed it all.
The duke laid a hand on Hugo’s shoulder. “My advice to you is to treat her like a queen.”
Hugo bowed again and then watched as the duke limped toward the door. He waited until the other man was gone before collapsing into the chair he’d just vacated.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his entire body shaking as the tension he’d been suppressing all day—hell, all week—surged through him.
He glanced at the huge bed just across the room and briefly considered crawling beneath the covers and sleeping for a week.
But no, he needed to find his wife and get to the bottom of this.
And he needed to tell her something; something that was long overdue.
Chapter 36
Hugo saw the faint glow in the sidelight next to the front door and leapt out of the hackney cab before it even rolled to a stop. He flung the fare at the driver, ignoring the man’s outraged squawk when coins struck the side of the old coach instead of his outstretched hand.
Hugo had come from the house on Berkeley Square with his heart in his throat. If Martha wasn’t here, he had no idea where he’d find her.
He ran up the steps, slipping on the smooth stone and almost pitching himself through the glass beside the door. He pounded on the heavy wood, grabbed the handle, and shoved.
Miraculously, the door swung open and he stumbled into the small but elegant foyer, which held two people and one very excited dog leaping straight up into the air like a bouncing ball, over and over and over.
But Hugo only had eyes for one thing. He reached for Martha, but she beat him to it.
“Hugo!” she yelled as she slammed into his chest hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
Hugo squeezed her tighter than the metal rings around a barrel, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling the sweet scent of his wife. “Oh God, darling—I’m so sorry for those terrible things I said. I didn’t mean—”
“I know—I know, Hugo,” she murmured, kissing and squeezing and petting him.
He held her at arm’s length so he could look at her precious face. “You know? But how?”
Tears streamed from her magnificent blue eyes but she was smiling. “You were only trying to protect me. You wanted me to go so that Bev didn’t—”
Fergus gave an earsplitting howl and bolted toward the corridor that led to the kitchen.
“Fergus!” Cailean shouted, sprinting after the little dog.
“What the devil is that all about?” Hugo asked Martha.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you just get here?” he asked Martha.
“Only a minute before you.”
“Where did you come from?”
“We were staying in a house that Mr. Gibson arranged for the three of us. He said it wasn’t safe to come back here until they’d arrested Bev Davies.”
Hugo frowned. “Where is Albert?”
“He got here before us. We needed to go and get Fergus from Lady Selwood’s—the stablemaster was keeping him for us. Maybe that is what Fergus heard in the kitchen, Albert?”
Bev’s words from Solange’s slammed into him: I’ve got a long reach, you’ll be sorry.
“Christ!” Hugo yanked open the front door. The hackney was still at the curb, the driver crouched in the street looking for the coins he’d thrown. Hugo shoved Martha toward the carriage. “Go wait in the cab, Martha. Tell the driver to leave if I’m not back in five minutes.”
“But Hugo—”
“I’m going to see what Fergus ran after.”
“It is probably just Albert.”
Hugo thought about Fergus’s spinetingling howl. “I want to make sure,” he said, giving her a gentle push. “Just go.”
He slammed the door before she could argue, grabbed the candlestick off the console table, and followed the sound of Fergus’s barking. Some of the wall sconces were l
it in the long hallway, which explained why Cailean hadn’t fallen on his arse.
He turned a corner and could see the kitchen dead ahead. The door was open and Fergus jumping up and down, his frenzied yapping interspersed with snarls. Hugo skidded to a halt just inside the door. He stared at what Cailean was staring at: Albert trussed up like a gamebird in the corner of the kitchen.
But Albert wasn’t looking at Cailean or Hugo.
Albert’s bulging eyes were staring at something right behind—
Hugo whirled just as cudgel came down. Pain exploded in his shoulder as the heavy club clipped his shoulder instead of cracking his skull. Hugo stumbled back, ran into a chair, and went sprawling onto his arse.
Cowan—or at least he thought it was Cowan Morgan, although his hair was matted with blood and his face so swollen on one side that he didn’t even look human—limped toward him and raised the huge club again.
“Nooooo!” Cailean leapt between Cowan and Hugo faster than a lad his size should have been able to move. But Cowan, for all his injuries, was quick enough to pivot and he swung the raised club at Cailean instead of Hugo.
The club struck Cailean in the upper arm and the lad screamed as the blow knocked him back several feet and he careened into the pot rack before sliding to the floor.
Dozens of pots clattered on the hard floor of the kitchen, the din deafening.
Cowan turned and started back toward Hugo, just as a black and white streak shot across the room and struck him in the crotch. The big man’s scream was even louder than the pots.
“Get it off! Get it off!” he shrieked as he staggered backward, striking at Fergus with the club, but hitting his own knee rather than the small, squirming dog. He howled in pain and flung the club away, slapping at Fergus with his huge hands.
But Fergus’s jaws had locked tight. His wiry body hung a foot off the floor and thrashed back and forth as he savaged Cowan’s jewels.
Cowan rammed his pelvis into the counter, squashing Fergus against a cupboard door while he fumbled with the knife block.
Hugo and the Maiden: A Steamy Virgin and Rake Regency Romance (The Seducers Book 3) Page 31