Another was the vicar’s house, which Hugo avoided diligently in case his curious cock led him into trouble: namely into Mr. Pringle’s daughter.
But his cock couldn’t be blamed for needing to steer clear of the little pub. No, it was the islanders themselves who kept him at bay. Not out of cruelty, but because they liked him toomuch. Each time he showed his face in the tiny taproom somebody would insist on spelling him a pint.
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
