He smiled at the thought. Being married wasn’t going to be bad, at all.
You think that now; imagine how wise you’ll feel when she figures out how you make your money.
She won’t; I’ll make sure of it.
Hugo would have cause to remember those words before too long.
Chapter 25
Hugo had to admit that the journey south with his two companions was both amusing and eye-opening. Although he’d not done a great deal of traveling himself, he had seen more of the country than Martha and Cailean combined.
Events and sights that he normally wouldn’t have noticed—an overturned mail coach on the side of the road; a cow pasture filled with hundreds of long-legged white birds; and a village fair, complete with a traveling theatrical troop—all captivated his companions.
Although he’d hired a post chaise—an expenditure that had bothered his frugal wife—the trip had still been long and grueling.
Even his enthusiastic traveling companions were road-weary and exhausted when their carriage finally rolled into London five days later.
Hugo had enjoyed the journey, especially Martha and Cailean’s innocent enjoyment, but his worries about London and what he’d find at Solange’s had never been far from his mind.
But now that he was in London, and closer to discovering what happened with each mile, he couldn’t help wishing that he was still back on Stroma.
Maybe they should just keep going. They could go to Dover, hop a packet, and explore the Continent for a few years. Now that the war was over, plenty of English people were traveling.
Hugo perked up at the thought. Why not? If they went someplace fresh and new, then Martha would never need to know about his past or what he did for a living. He wasn’t wealthy, but he’d squirreled away enough in the bank to last a few years.
If Laura hadn’t managed to somehow steal it.
Hugo gritted his teeth and thrust away the thought. Instead, he returned to the dream-tour of the Continent he’d just been building in his mind’s eye.
One day the money will run out and then you will need to earn more.
His fairy tale image began to flicker and get ragged around the edges.
And you only know one way to make money.
The fantasy shimmered, and then dissipated like a puff of smoke.
There was no escape for a man like him—no running away from who he was. The unavoidable truth was that he could either own a whorehouse or he could work in one.
He needed to stay and fight for what was his. If he could regain control of Solange’s then he wouldn’t have to earn money on his back.
You can just earn it off other people’s backs.
That was true, and Hugo refused to feel bad about it.
Instead of dwelling on Solange’s, he forced himself to enjoy the last bit of their trip, watching Martha’s expressive face as they traversed the city, the streets becoming cleaner, the houses bigger, and the people more affluent with every street they passed.
As they turned off David Street onto Berkeley Square, Martha’s eyes threatened to roll out of her head. “My goodness,” she breathed, cutting Hugo a quick glance. “Surely we aren’t going to be staying—”
The carriage rolled to a gentle stop, cutting off her words.
She gawked out the window. “Who are these friends of yours, Hugo?”
Hugo just smiled.
The front door to Lady Selwood’s monstrous house opened and Joss himself came trotting down the front steps.
Hugo hopped out of the carriage without bothering to lower the steps. “Jocelyn my dear boy!” He grabbed Joss’s arm, which was the diameter of a full-grown tree, and pulled him away from the post chaise. “Not a word about my business or Solange’s,” he said through gritted teeth.
Joss, a man who was phlegmatic to the point of resembling a wooden carving rather than a human being, merely cocked one eyebrow and moved toward the carriage. He flipped down the steps while nodding to the postilion who’d dismounted to help unload the baggage. “My servants will take those,” he said, sounding for all the world like a lord of the manor rather than a prizefighter-turned-whore-turned-groom.
Two liveried footmen scurried toward the carriage and began removing their few pieces of luggage.
A charming smile transformed Joss’s harsh, almost brutal, features and he offered Martha a hand. “Hello, you must be Mrs. Buckingham.”
Martha’s cheeks were a fetching shade of pink as Joss handed her from the carriage. She was so blooming and pretty in her sky-blue traveling costume that Hugo could scarcely look at her without wanting to tear off her clothes and mark her as his.
The possessive impulse—one he’d experienced frequently over the past week—rocked him to his core, but he no longer tried to fight it.
“And you must be Mr. Gormley,” Martha said, smiling in a way that exposed that sweet little dimple in her cheek. “Hugo has told me all about you.”
Joss glanced at Hugo and chuckled. “Has he?”
“Only the good things, Joss. It took less than two minutes,” Hugo couldn’t resist adding.
“Hugo,” Martha chided.
“This is Cailean Fergusson,” Hugo said as the enormous young man climbed from the carriage, stretching and yawning.
Joss’s eyes widened and Hugo smirked. He doubted that the huge man had to look up at another person very often.
“Welcome, Mr. Fergusson,” Joss said, the title making Cailean blush just as wildly as Martha. Joss held out his arm to Martha. “May I have the honor?”
“Of course.”
Hugo and Cailean followed them up the marble steps. A servant dressed in the dark, sedate garb of a butler stood on the landing, his expression reserved but welcoming.
“This is Butterbank,” Joss said as they entered a foyer that could have held Martha’s little cottage twice over. “I thought you might like to freshen first. We’ve brought dinner forward a bit as I’m sure you’ll all be starving.”
“Dinner before eight
