“Very good, sir.”
Richard opened the door for him, but a sharp yipping sound made him pause. Hugo frowned as the racket grew louder. “What the devil is that?”
Richard’s lips twitched. “Er, I believe that would be Mister Cailean, sir. He just returned about half an hour ago.”
Hugo closed his eyes briefly. “Please. Tell me he didn’t bring home another dog.”
Richard laughed. “No sir. He brought back a cat this time.”
He groaned.
The commotion—now identifiable as the yowling of more than one cat—grew louder.
“No, Felix!”
Hugo jolted at the sound of Cailean’s voice. The boy spoke so rarely that Hugo forgot what he sounded like.
“Come back!” The sound of thudding of feet came from the hallway that led to the kitchen. A few seconds later Cailean shot from the corridor as if he’d been fired from a gun. In front of him, gaining ground, was a soaking wet, gray streak.
Man and cat disappeared down another hallway.
Hugo turned to Richard, who was clearly having a difficult time controlling his laughter.
“What was that?”
“Mr. Cailean was giving the new cat, er, Mouser, I believe he named him, a bath.”
“I didn’t think cats liked baths?”
“They don’t, sir. One of the other cats—Maggie or Mr. Whiskers—took a dislike to Mouser, so that was complicating the process.”
It was Hugo’s turn to laugh. “I’m going to leave before I get drawn into this.”
Once he was outside, he pulled on his gloves and commenced walking.
Hugo never took a hackney directly from the house; the last thing he wanted was a direct connection from where he lived to Solange’s. He always walked a few blocks before hailing a cab.
As he crossed the square, he berated himself. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had Hugo told Martha that his brother would visit? He must be going mad.
He groaned loud enough to startle a passing housemaid, who made a wide arc around him.
Now he would need to find somebody he trusted to act as his bloody brother. Who the hell would that be? Hugo walked in silence for several blocks, racking his brain.
He was no closer to coming up with a suitable candidate a quarter of an hour later, when he raised his cane to hail a hackney.
“Where to, gov?” the driver asked.
“Solange’s.”
The driver smirked. “Startin’ early, eh?”
Hugo ignored him and climbed into the passably clean carriage.
He tossed his hat and cane onto the opposite seat and closed his eyes; he was so exhausted. It wasn’t the work that was tiring him—operating Solange’s was so much easier without Laura interfering—but the strain of keeping his two lives separate.
He had hoped to spend more time with Martha but undoing all the damage that Laura had done was taking more time than he’d anticipated.
Fortunately, Bev had been as good as his word and handed him complete control, not showing his face once in the month since Hugo had taken charge.
“My mug ain’t the sort to make toffs come clamberin’ in, is it?”
No, it wasn’t, although Hugo didn’t say that.
“I’ll sign over your half of the business if you can make this place pay, every month, for a year.”
Since Bev Davies hadn’t needed to give Hugo so much as a penny, he’d leapt at the offer.
Another part of his deal with Bev involved Laura. Hugo had been tempted to give her a taste of her own medicine, but, at the end of the day, she was too bloody pathetic to be worth the effort. But he refused to put up with her at Solange’s. Although Hugo despised himself for even bothering, he’d extracted a promise from Bev to give her work at one of his other brothel’s.
His request had greatly amused the old criminal. “Yer soft in the head, Hugo. I was going to kick her onto the street, where she belongs.”
Not that the witch had shown any gratitude.
In fact, the last Hugo saw Laura—when he’d gone down to the Drunken Duckto release her—she’d hurled invectives as the hackney carried her away.
“Oi!”
Hugo opened his eyes to find the driver glaring in at him. “We’re ’ere.”
He paid the man and climbed the familiar steps to the regal off-white mansion that took up a large chunk of the short street. From the outside it looked no different than any other grand house, but there were few men in London who didn’t know what the walls contained.
Solange’s also owned the building next door, which had been converted into more luxurious rooms and a huge ballroom that was used for larger frolics, like the debauches commonly known as Roman Nights, one of which was scheduled for this coming Saturday.
Hugo gritted his teeth; he’d have to lie to Martha about a business dinner, yet again.
Roman Nights were exactly what they sounded like: orgies. They were also some of the busiest nights of the year, which meant all hands on deck. It wouldn’t only be Hugo working Saturday night, but also Andrew, Moira, and Enid, his most trustworthy employees, who usually functioned as managers in his absence.
Hugo had stopped finding orgies amusing at least ten years ago and was dreading Saturday. Mostly because it would be an exercise in tedium. But there was always a possibility for volatile situations whenever you tossed a hundred or so wealthy patrons in with four dozen whores—half of whom he’d bring in from two other exclusive brothels—and then poured endless amounts of liquor on the situation.
The front door opened before Hugo reached the landing and Daniel stood inside the foyer, looking magnificent in his dark green and black livery. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hugo.”
“Anything I need to know about?” Hugo asked as he handed him his hat, cane, and coat.
“Mild altercation in the Gold Room, Sir Lawrence Blackheathe and Mr. Alan Percival kicked up a bit of a dust. But Mr. Andrew was here and had the matter smoothed over in a tick.”
“What were they fighting about?”
Frank’s lips twitched. “Er, it was over Maisie, I believe.”
Hugo rolled his eyes and Daniel
