“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, more 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