Page 21 of Charlotte’s Kisses (Rakes, Rogues, & Scoundrels #1)

Chapter twenty-one

I t was well past midnight when Hugh stomped into the cottage, berating himself for giving his rent money to a woman he did not know. If he had minded his own business, he would not have set this entire fiasco into motion. Finally rid of the absurdly irritating Curly and Stilts, he slammed the door and howled into the rafters until his throat was raw.

Yes, indeed, he’d had enough of everyone, starting with the bloke who had beaten his wife in the street. Things had continued to spiral downward when the disapproving Magistrate Thomas had waggled his finger in Hugh’s face and reprimanded him as if he were a recalcitrant child.

There were arrogant aristocrats like Lord Nash and Alexander who needed to be brought down a few pegs. As if he needed more arses messing with his life, Lady Chesterhill and her caped blighters thought nothing of blackmailing him. Well, she could crawl back to hell. She was not privy to his investigation, so no matter how much she threatened him, he would not tell her a thing. Besides, Charlotte was intelligent. She would never believe her stepmother’s absurd lies.

To top it all off, Lord Chesterhill and his depraved record-keeping infuriated Hugh for at least a half-dozen reasons.

And finally, Theodore Ravenforde could sod off. In fact, the entire bloody lot of them could sod off.

Giving up cards and excessive drinking had done nothing to improve Hugh’s life, and obviously, being a kinder, gentler man was in no way advantageous. All it had done was make him weak. He’d let down his guard and got his arse kicked entirely too many times. At heart, he was a brutal fuck, and he liked himself better that way. His violent streak had nothing to do with his upbringing because his parents were perfectly loving. Simply put, he had no patience for bullies, arses, and fuck-heads.

He snorted at his dramatics. Perhaps he was not unjustifiably violent since he cared about children, animals, and women. Make that most women because Lady Chesterhill was beyond horrific.

He lowered his aching body onto the chair, taking notice that someone had left a delicious spread on the table. He inhaled her lingering scent.

Charlotte—sweet, lovely Charlotte. She was the only person in the last few days who did not make him want to punch something, and after his debacle of an evening, he had missed her visit. He growled at the wall .

After shoving the food into his mouth and swigging a glass of brandy, he snuffed the lights, undressed, and toppled into bed.

Folding his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. His ruminations led him to two conclusions. Firstly, these beatings were for the birds, and he needed to get his arse back into the boxing gym. Secondly, he wanted nothing to do with Chesterhill and the consequences of his tupping his way through the female population. He was only doing this job to be close to Charlotte. His main goal was seeing to her happiness and safety.

Grasping his cock in his hand, he conjured images of Charlotte. Her hair cascaded past her shoulders, and her innocent blue eyes clouded over with lust as she took his cock into her mouth.

“ That’s it, Firefly. Suck me dry,” he commanded his fantasy.

Hugh spent the next afternoon studying Chesterhill’s papers. He spent the early evening looking for a slip of paper he had written notes on. He would never have left the cottage carrying such an incriminating document, which meant it had to be shoved in the stack of letters, or in between the pages of one of the books. He would simply have to find it on the morrow.

As the sun set, Hugh received a missive reading:

Fletcher,

I will be at the location you suggested at the time you proposed to discuss matters. See that my conditions are met, or you will receive another beating .

TR

How dare Theodore Ravenforde threaten him. What a horse’s arse. After Ravenforde’s unprovoked attack, and his long day searching for another of Chesterhill’s mistresses, Hugh’s patience was sorely on edge.

He’d spent the afternoon visiting brothels and inquiring about a woman named Cleopatra. He doubted that was her real name, and every clue to her whereabouts led to a dead end. Perchance he had missed vital information. He retrieved the journal from the trunk and checked the entry again.

The 3rd of October 1791,

The lovely Cleopatra at The Pink Petal is the most attentive of lovers. What a shame I must end our assignation, but I must, for she is with child. She claims it is mine, but how am I to know? You would think a whore would take more care with a man’s seed. Unless she meant to trap me?

I digress because how can one ever know what the fairer sex is up to? I have paid her well and advised her to set herself up in a small cottage outside of London. Am I disappointed or relieved that I shall never hear from her again? Can a man be both? Because the things she did to my co—”

Gagging, Hugh set the book down and rubbed his tired eyes.

Unfortunately, there was not much information in the entries about Cleopatra. Doxies, shop girls, and chambermaids would prove harder to track down than the aristocratic women. However, he suspected that once he found them, they would be easier to deal with than privileged ladies concerned for their reputations.

For now, he needed to put aside his investigation and prepare for Charlotte’s visit. Although that brought about his own wanton thoughts and desires .

Chuckling at himself, he sprawled across the mattress, accentuating the best parts of his physique. Thereupon, he waited and wanted…

Hugh awoke to booming thunder and heavy raindrops pelting the roof—a roof that seemed to be way too high. And that was not the only conundrum. His limbs were stretched out, but his feet were not hanging off the edge of the mattress. This meant he was not sleeping in his tiny bed in his square box of a flat. The next deafening crackle stabbed his already aching brain. Had he over-imbibed, ended up in a street brawl, and found himself in a stranger’s chamber?

Lightning struck nearby, illuminating a small window and triggering his memories. He was at a cottage in the woods on the outskirts of Chesterhill Manor, waiting for Charlotte.

With the next zigzagging bolt, he sat upright. It had to be the middle of the night, meaning he had not seen her in almost forty-eight hours. His instincts sent unnerving prickles to every one of his nerve endings. Something was wrong.

It was settled. He would go to her—immediately.

After donning his boots, he lit the lantern and traded his warm, dry cottage for a muddy trek.

By the time he reached the main house, the lightning had moved on, the torrential downpour had turned to a sputtering rain, and he’d come up with a plan. Not a great plan, but it would have to do.

He reconnoitered beneath the canopy of an oak and studied the structure .

More than likely, the servant’s entrance was off to the right side of the house. That would probably be the best place to enter. From where he stood, he could see two second-floor balconies. The largest was probably Lady Chesterhill’s. Flowerpots and a birdcage adorned the smaller of the two. This had to be Charlotte’s chamber. Luckily it was located in the center of the structure.

He would sneak into the servant’s entrance and find the stairs leading to the second floor. From there, he would go to the center of the hallway, because one of the rooms near there would be hers.

Unfortunately, this would only work if he did not encounter servants, and the chances of that were slim to none. Hugh was nothing if not adaptable, and plan Bs were his specialty.

Praying that a shoulder-high branch of a massive tree would hold his weight, he sprinted across the lawn and leaped.

Huzzah!

He hoisted himself until his hips were in line with the branch, and then began his climb. His bruised muscles strained and ached, and he was huffing hard by the time he reached the balcony. He swung his leg over the balustrade and peeked into the chamber.

Thank the heavens above. His instincts were correct. His fair-haired beauty sat on her bed petting a kitten. Candlelight played off her skin and silky night shift, ensconcing her in a magical glow. A shimmering dream in a dark storm, his brilliant Firefly illuminated the night.