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 together, 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
