Page 26 of Charlotte's Kisses

Enough of this sentimental mush. He would ignore his physical state and focus on the upcoming negotiations with Chesterhill. He needed to be clear-headed if he was to work for the marquess. But, before he investigated anything, he required fresh clothing and a scrub. There was no sense in reeking when in the presence of a woman who smelled like a summer garden.

Hell’s teeth. Why was every one of his thoughts about Charlotte? He was a fool who needed to concentrate.What had he been thinking about?

Ah, yes, negotiations. Chesterhill needed to get his wife under control. She needed to stay away from Hugh and far, far away from Charlotte. Mayhap another country? Another continent would be even better. Hugh could shove rags into the marchioness’ mouth, tie her up, and then toss her onto aship to the Americas, where she could cohabitate with rats in the bilge. He chuckled at the demented fantasy.

After buttoning his shirt and righting his now grimy garments, Hugh strolled the room’s perimeter a few times. Each step invigorated him. Since he’d always healed quickly, he should have his strength back in approximately two days. For now, he had forty-eight hours to anticipate Charlotte’s visits and nursing.

Lovely, sweet, Charlotte. As bright as a firefly and as sweet as honey. If only he could keep from throttling her family and their staff.

Hugh was drumming his fingers on the table and contemplating his future when Chesterhill arrived with his pair of unsavory miscreants. It was a fortunate thing Charlotte had left quite a bit earlier because the three of them ignored Hugh’s privacy and barged in as if they were welcome visitors. Although, in all fairness, this was the marquess’ property. But still… Unannounced entrances would be a problem during Charlotte’s visits.

“Good day, Mr. Fletcher,” Chesterhill said.

Hugh could not bring himself to mutter a greeting. Instead, he glared as the filthy duo dropped a large trunk on the floor beside him.

“Will that be all ye be requiring of us, me lord?” Mister Mustache asked.

“Yes. Remember our arrangement,” Chesterhill said.

“We remember every word ye says,” Mister Mustache said as Stilts bobbed his head in agreement.

“I know you remember,” Chesterhill said, “But follow the directives this time. No more beating on my guests.”

“But he was fightin’ with us.”

Chesterhill’s glare ended the discussion, and the men hurried from the cottage, leaving their stench behind. That Hugh could smell them over his stale odor proved what lowlifes the marquess had hired. However, employing miscreants had its benefits. Their loyalty came cheap, and they wouldn’t spread gossip within theton.

Hugh pointed at the trunk. “What in the deuces is that?” Please do not let it be a dead body he was expected to do something about.

Sitting across from Hugh, the marquess steepled his fingers and sighed. “A detailed record of my shame.”

It would take a lot of self-reproach to fill that massive box. Hugh’s curiosity piqued, he bent to lift the lid. A half dozen dusty books were piled inside. At least there was no severed corpse. He chose the volume on top, opened to the first page, and read.

“The 12th ofAugust 1788.

Lady Mary Ravenforde has agreed to meet me later this evening once her husband is asleep. What a fool Ravenforde is. But since he does not see to his wife’s needs, I shall. She is rather lovely with ebony-colored hair, and her eyes are—”

Hugh closed the book and grunted. “Were you not married to the first Lady Chesterhill at this time?” he asked.

“I was.” At least Chesterhill had the sense to color up.

“Was your first wife Alexander and Charlotte’s mother?” He was positive she was, but Hugh had learned the hard way never to assume anything in an investigation.

“Yes,” Chesterhill said.

Hugh thumbed to a page toward the back of the book.

The 4thof September 1791. I have finally won over Mademoiselle Francesca. All it took was a ruby necklace. Tonight, we shall meet after her show. She has a small but lovely room right around the corner…

Hugh skimmed over paragraphs of salacious details. At the end of the entry, in neat script, someone had recorded:The 10thof November 1791. Francesca was given two hundred pounds to pay a woman who assists with secret births. She is also to forget she ever knew me.

Hugh was far from innocent. Still, the rather scandalous details shocked him. If only he could unsee the things he’d just read.

“You kept records of your indiscretions?” he asked.

“Yes. I also saved some of the correspondences.”

Hugh was no stranger to bedding women, but there was something disturbing about recording the assignations, paying off the women, and denying one’s children and responsibilities.