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Not that he deserved this, though he liked to think she would draw some comfort from his assurances that he’d die rather than see her forced into prostitution to keep body and soul together.
He dug in his pocket and withdrew the painting he’d worked on since he’d sketched her so hastily as she lay sleeping just before he’d left her. He wanted to study it in the natural light for he’d been somewhat feverish as he’d worked at his masterpiece in the semi-darkness.
He touched the tendrils of hair at her temples. If only he had his paintbrush with him now, he could render the soft curls a little more perfectly.
He unfolded the picture and held it up. It was, perhaps, one of his finest works, despite the fact that in real life her hair was more lustrous than he’d rendered it.
And her eyes were much more arresting than he’d managed, though he wasn’t displeased with the finished piece.
However, all pleasure evaporated at the reminder that he was giving her this because of their impending separation. He’d done numerous drawings of her this past week, wanting to commit her image to his memory but wanting, also, to ensure she’d be in no doubt as to how important she was to him.
A sudden gust of wind whipped the drawing out of his fingers and he tried to snatch it before it caught an eddying breeze that lifted it, fluttering airborne for a moment, before arriving level with the ladder man.
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“I say!” Looking down from his precarious position, the ladder man snatched at Hugo’s work of art, turning to look at him with a grin. “Nice young lady like this ought to be admired by the world!” he declared cheerfully as he pasted the back with glue then slapped the drawing over the single gap on the busy hoarding.
“You can’t do that!” Hugo protested but the ladder man ignored him as he sloshed his glue-laden paintbrush over the front for good measure.
“Not going to see your young lady this evening, then?”
Hugo, about to protest further, turned to see Lord Belvedere on the other side of the road. The fellow looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world and Hugo tried to push aside his real thoughts as he nodded in greeting. Belvedere was off to foreign lands, adventuring by choice, leaving behind Charity’s friend, Violet. Life was easier if one had no scruples, he supposed, though he liked Belvedere, nonetheless.
“I’m going there now,” he said, crossing the road.
“You won’t find her at home.” Lord Belvedere had resumed walking but he said over his shoulder, “Got to dash. But anyway, I saw her just now at the Red Door.”
Hugo watched Belvedere disappear around a corner while he tried to assimilate what Charity would be doing in such a den of iniquity. Nothing safe, he feared, and wondered if her friends had persuaded her to go there with them.
His anxiety increased as he made his way to the notorious gambling den.
Cyril frequented places like this.
But not Charity. Why would she go there unless she’d got it into her head to take matters into her own hands? To try to beat Cyril at his own game?
Charity knew nothing of places like this. For all that she lived in a brothel, she was remarkably sheltered.
He hastened his stride.
Taking on Cyril meant Charity would be throwing herself into the path of a man without compassion or morals. He’d eat Charity for lunch and spit her out, if only to spite Hugo. Cyril was a bounder, a cheat, a reprobate. Ever since they’d been children they’d been at war. If Cyril wanted anything to do with Charity, it was only so he could use her as the ultimate revenge against Hugo.
He wiped the back of his hand across his sweating forehead as his breath hitched.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Hugo stopped, blinking at the elderly woman passing by on the pavement on her husband’s arm.
“Quite alright, thank you,” he said, nodding his thanks and resisting the urge to break into an unseemly run.
The Red Door. He knew where to find it though he’d never been there. He certainly had no desire to go there, now, but if Charity was inside and putting herself in danger, he had no choice.
The cobblestones were slippery as he turned into a narrow alley. The snow had turned to slush and there was nothing magical about this part of the neighbourhood.
Hugo forced himself to stop and take stock. He couldn’t burst inside without a plan. If Charity was at the gaming table, hoping to effect some miracle means of reversing the damage Hugo had wrought then the very least Hugo could do was find a means of safeguarding her from his evil cousin — using his brains rather than wild impulse.
Yes, Cyril was evil.
The Red Door was a gambling den and Cyril was a gambler. A gambler, swindler, and cheat.
