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“The dice could have been loaded,” Violet said.
“It is possible, Violet, to make dies that favours particular numbers.” Rosetta glanced between Violet and Lizzie. “Perhaps you might make a few discreet inquiries amongst your gentlemen as to what else they know about Mr Adams and his enthusiasm for gaming.” She looked over to Charity. “Perhaps we can uncover some misdeeds that will reverse Hugo’s situation.”
Charity’s smile lacked conviction. With no independent funds, Hugo was in an impossible situation if his father was determined to send him out of the country.
Could she be the real reason? she wondered.
Could it be that she wasn’t good enough for Mr Adams’ son, and never would be?
As she tried to pay attention and be grateful for all the suggestions her friends were bandying around, the terrible thought kept running around her head: If Hugo hadn’t lost his independence at the gaming table, would his father have found another means of separating them?
In which case, what hope was there for them to ever be together?
* * *
It took Hugo a full five minutes to pace the length of the long drawing room and back while he waited for his father to make an appearance.
How he hated this place and how glad he’d be to see the last of it. It was a house, not a home, with no evidence of a woman’s touch since his mother had died so many years before.
No flowers in vases or paintings other than austere landscapes and portraits.
No feminine, decorative touches.
His father channelled his wealth into accoutrements that showcased his success, his power. Not his appreciation of culture for he had none. He’d been a lad when his father had amassed his fortune. Thomas Adams’ own home had been modest for the first few years of his life, his schooling rudimentary. Success was based on grit and grind and, as far as he was concerned, anything soft or beautiful indicated weakness.
Of course, a potential wife from the upper classes might present herself as soft and beautiful but it would be her breeding papers that would concern Thomas Adams.
Having failed to fulfil his own marital ambitions — Hugo knew this from the servants’ whispers — Thomas Adams wanted just the right wife for his son. He’d go to his grave having overseen the Adams family’s elevation from traders to aristocrats within his lifetime.
Hugo stopped by a wall of paintings. Landscapes and horses, mostly. Turners and Constables. It was Hugo’s favourite room in the house but he doubted his father considered the artworks themselves. He’d bought them as investments.
Just as he’d seen it as an investment to nip Hugo’s love of beauty in the bud by sending him off to boarding school.
However, a gruelling regime at Eton had only reinforced Hugo’s hatred of vigorous pursuits rather than turning him into the man his father wanted him to be. Fencing lessons, pugilism bouts with the English heavyweight champion, and various other efforts to desensitise Hugo in the hope he’d develop manly interests and abandon his whimsies, had had the opposite effect.
Hugo moved to the end of the landscapes and stood facing a portrait of a pretty, finely dressed young woman standing by a horse. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised
that his mother had been relegated to the shadows. His father never spoke of his late wife. She’d been a solicitor’s daughter, too inferior to fulfil his marital ambitions, yet beguiling enough to entice Thomas Adams into a sexual indiscretion he’d regretted his whole life. The resulting pregnancy had required that honour be fulfilled but the marriage had been doomed. Twelve years of miscarriages had finally resulted in Hugo. His mother had died five years later giving birth to another son who’d died within the week.
Hugo turned away with a sigh.
His father was keeping him waiting for effect. He wanted to rattle Hugo so he’d have the advantage.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Loud and intimidating, as they were intended to be. Hugo squared his shoulders and positioned himself with his back to the fireplace as the door opened. The room was cold but the warmth from the flames would provide some meagre bolstering, he hoped.
“Your trunks have gone ahead of you, boy?”
It was the kind of greeting he’d have expected having not seen his father for three months. The scathing correspondence had become a torrent, but his father was more economical in speech.
Hugo nodded. “They have.”
“And what do you have to say for yourself.”
“I was a fool.”
“A fool to squander the inheritance your great aunt kept in trust, enabling you, these past two years, to enjoy a freedom most young men can only dream of.”
“It was not much but I was glad not to have to call on you, Father.”
