While his back was turned, Hugo quickly moved the kettle off the stove, where it was once again belching steam.
When he returned to the table with the requested items the vicar was humming softly as he lifted the lid to examine the tea he had only just spooned into the pot. As absent-minded as he seemed, Hugo wondered why Martha left him alone in the house.
Not your affair, Hugo.
True. He would be gone from this island—this life—in a week. Hugo set out the chipped, mismatched plates and mugs before prying open the dented old tin. The aroma that hit him made his mouth water.
Hugo looked up and met the vicar’s expectant stare. “Shortbread.”
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
