Martha’s eyes as they’d looked that night—shattered and betrayed—were never far from his mind.
He told himself that the chaos in his head would settle after this business with the duke was over tonight.
Either that, or he’d be dead—depending on what he did, which he’d not yet decided.
He placed a plain silver pin in the soft folds of his cravat, turned away from the mirror, and took one last moment to collect himself before going to work. It was likely to be a long evening. But then they’d all been long since that last, nightmarish night with Martha.
Hugo exhaled, rolled his shoulders and let himself out of his room, locking the door to the same suite he’d lived in before Laura sent him on his journey. Although she’d found his money and cache of valuables, she’d left the contents of his large dressing room untouched. He suspected that she would have gotten rid of that, too, given enough time.
Four days ago, Hugo had sold everything of value except three outfits of clothing.
Because he had always purchased the very best, even a quick sale had yielded him almost five hundred pounds.
He had deposited the five hundred, along with the rest of his money, into Joss’s bank and then sent him a detailed letter explaining what he’d done. No matter what happened tonight, Martha would have enough money to take care of both her and Cailean for at least five years.
Hugo knew that if he died tonight Joss and Mel would both help Martha and Cailean. Perhaps they’d give her a job at one of the orphanages they were so fond of opening. He smiled; Martha would love that.
Yes, he had taken care of every last detail.
He grimaced. Well, except one.
Not until three o’clock Monday afternoon—after he’d thoroughly wrecked his marriage and moved back into Solange’s—had he recalled that he was supposed to have met Daniel at Lady Selwood’s.
When he’d finally found Daniel, the younger man’s shocked expression told Hugo just how rough he looked. “I forgot to tell you that—”
“I went to the house, but nobody was there,” Daniel interrupted. “I assumed something had happened to change your plans.”
Well, you could say that.
“I’ll still pay you for your time,” Hugo had promised.
“You don’t—”
But Hugo hadn’t been in any mood to debate the matter. “I’ll be in my study and don’t want to be disturbed.” He’d locked the door and hidden away from the world until half past five, when he’d gone to Lady Selwood’s house.
He’d told himself that he wanted to make sure Martha was gone. But what he’d really hoped was that she’d defied him and he’d find her curled up in her favorite window seat reading. Cailean would be making a racket in the kitchen with some new cat, and his little dog Fergus—a wiry-haired terrier cur who would give his life for the lad—would be patrolling the back garden and keeping it safe from squirrels.
But he’d known even before Butterbank opened his mouth that Martha and Cailean were gone.
“You just missed them, sir. They left a short while ago.”
“Good,” he’d said, the last of his hope dying inside him. “I’ll have somebody come by next week to pack up the rest of our things.”
So, that had been that. Hugo had given an order and Martha had obeyed him. He told himself that he was relieved—and he was—but he also felt as if somebody had reached into his chest, crushed his heart, and ripped out his lungs.
It had been a struggle to breathe as he’d walked down the steps of Lady Selwood’s house.
And breathing hadn’t gotten any easier in the days since.
As he pondered the night ahead and prepared to sacrifice himself for a business that he no longer wanted, Hugo wondered if breathing was really worth the effort anymore.
◆◆◆
Just to complicate matters, Solange’s was busier than ever that night. Hugo could hardly walk five steps before some punter accosted him.
It was not quite midnight and Hugo was bloody exhausted. The duke rarely made it to Solange’s until after one, which meant Hugo still had an hour to wait.
He surveyed the crowded card tables without really seeing them until raised voices pulled his attention to the back of the room—to the table that always seemed to attract every young, spoiled, and drunk aristocrat in London.
Tonight was no different.
Hugo ground his teeth as he watched the five men harassing the dealer, an older woman named Irene.
Irene had been dealing cards longer than most of the young bucks had been breeched and she didn’t look flustered so much as irritated. As Hugo watched, one of the younger men reached over and swatted her on the arse.
Hugo spat out an especially vulgar word and stalked toward the table. He stopped between Irene and her harasser. “Good evening gentlemen,” he said, needing to raise his voice to be heard above the raucous shouting and laughing. “It’s time for Irene to take her supper break. I shall step in for her.”
The arse-slapper was Lord Elwood Yates, the youngest son of the Duke of Montrose. God save him from younger sons.
Lord Elwood blinked owlishly up at him, weaving in his chair. “Oh, I say … Buckingham. I was—hic—I was on a run.”
Hugo gave the empty baize in front of the younger man a pointed look and the rest of the players erupted with jeers and laughs.
Hugo bared his teeth at the feckless aristocrat. “Well, let’s see if we can’t get you running in another direction, shall we?”
It took him less than half an hour to disperse the men in various directions—most toward expensive rooms and even costlier whores. Lord Elwood—who’d lost consciousness about ten minutes into the play—Hugo poured into a hackney and sent home.
He’d just finished sorting out that mess when Daniel came toward him, his expression tense. “Excuse me, sir, but you’re wanted in the Diamond Suite.”
So, the time of reckoning had
