Page 46 of Barbarous

“When I first met him, he was working in a brothel in New Orleans. Women flock to him like crows to corn.”

William blanched at the word brothel; perhaps Hugh should have claimed he’d met Martín in a church or tending to lepers?

“And how do you propose to utilize his skills?” Will’s mouth was a flat, disapproving line.

“He’ll need to meet a wench on the Whitton staff. Any wench.”

“It sounds like releasing a fox into the henhouse.”

Hugh shrugged. “It’s not my henhouse. Besides, it’s far better to have Martín working his way through Whitton Park than Lessing Hall. We’ll be doing Lady Davenport a good turn if we can divert his energies.” He glanced at his friend’s outraged expression and bit back a grin. “Or perhaps you would like to try charming one of the ladies?”

Will gave him a withering look. “Your ship won’t return for months—what should we do in the meantime?”

“At this time of year the winds are propitious and I’m expecting the Ghost anytime during these next few weeks. For the time being we will just be extra watchful—we now know to check saddles, carriages—anything and everything. And see to it neither she nor the boys set foot beyond the front door without somebody watching.”

Will nodded grudgingly, his thoughts obviously stuck on Martín.

The boys were still stroking the long-suffering Pasha, who cut Hugh a look of equine martyrdom.

“All right, Cousins, your tutor awaits.” Hugh turned back to Will. “For the time being just have your agent keep a round-the-clock watch on Hastings. When Martín returns I will place him in your hands to use as you see fit.” Hugh paused. “Please believe me when I say you will not be the only one who has to suffer his disrespectful behavior.” It was difficult not to laugh at the image of prudish Will dealing with the amoral golden-eyed Lothario. “I feel it’s only fair to warn you—” He stopped, as if he’d changed his mind.

“Warn me about what, my lord?”

“Well, you’d be wise to keep any woman you fancy out of Martín’s path. I doubt there’s a female alive who could resist him.”

Will gave a snort of disgust, his mouth pursed with disapproval.

Hugh threw back his head and laughed, and was immediately punished for his teasing by an agonizing pain in his ribs.

Chapter Twelve

Daphne was hunched over her desk with J. F. Fries’s Neue oder anthropologische Kritik der Vernunft and a German dictionary open before her. She’d hoped to finish a first draft of her paper before she left for London. She’d published several scholarly articles under an alias, Publius, but hadn’t sent anything to the London Philosophical Society since Thomas’s death.

As things stood, it did not seem likely she would ever send anything to them again—not unless they wanted a paper on the subject of Hugh Redvers.

Daphne was still staring at the same page she’d been looking at for the past half hour when the door opened and the subject of her irritating ruminations paused in the doorway, so handsome and vibrant her chest felt as though somebody were standing on it.

“Am I disturbing you, my lady?”

Daphne wanted to fling down her quill and shout, Yes! Of course you are! and then hurl a book at his head—a big book.

Instead she gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat. How are you feeling this morning?”

He gingerly folded his long body into the wingback chair across from her desk. “I am sore but otherwise quite well.” He lifted one boot as if to lay it on his opposite knee but then winced and lowered it back to the floor. “I never had a chance to thank you for your nursing.”

A vision of his mouth on hers and his hand on her breast slammed into her like a tidal wave and her nipples hardened. She hunched her shoulders.

“It is of no account,” she said, transferring a pile of papers from one side of the desk to the other. And then moving them back again.

“It is of great account to me, Daphne.” He was no longer smiling and Daphne had no idea what his intense, almost harsh, expression meant. And then it was gone and he was once again amiable. “I wanted to thank you and I also have some questions for you.”

“Questions?” she repeated shrilly.

“William Standish thinks my accident was not an accident.”

Daphne almost wept; for one terrible, endless moment she had feared he’d learned about Malcolm. She realized he was waiting for an answer. “As do I. I believe the girth on your saddle was cut.”

“May I ask why you didn’t think to mention this to me?”