19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter nineteen

S pending the day with Stilts and Curly acting as his escorts left much to be desired. The men were absolute buffoons. But Hugh had not had a choice. He did not have a horse, and the distance from Chesterhill Manor to Mayfair was too far to travel on foot. Therefore, he found himself squished between the odoriferous duo in a too-small curricle.

First, they rode to Mulas House, the Ravenforde’s Grosvenor Square townhouse, where Hugh ascertained that Theodore had not been home in days. Hell-bent on destruction, the illegitimate heir to the Ravenforde Viscountcy often found his way to The Green Gate, a gaming hell in Covent Garden.

Hugh arrived at The Green Gate hopeful but left frustrated. According to three young aristocrats Ravenforde owed money to, he had been there and moved on .

“No idea why he went in search of cunny. The fool was too deep in his cups to do much about it,” said Lord Freedman’s son. “Always drunk these days and so angry at the world.”

Bloody wonderful since angry drunk men were so easy to relay bad news to.

“Probably at Clara’s at the edge of the city,” declared some posh pup who could not have been more than nineteen.

“Did you fight with him over money or a woman?” Freedman pointed at Hugh’s face.

It took Hugh a moment to realize that Freedman was referring to his bruises. He’d have told him it was none of his blasted business, but it did no good to anger a bloke you wanted information from.

“If you find him, tell him Keeting wants his thirty pounds,” said a scowling Keeting.

’Twas dark by the time Hugh arrived at the West end.

Curly parked the curricle in an alley behind the three-story brothel. “Here ye’ are, mate,” he said.

“I am not your mate,” Hugh repeated for about the twentieth time that afternoon.

Stilts rubbed his hands together. “I love me a fancy brothel.”

Fancy—nay. Women willing to do anything—absolutely.

Hugh had often visited Clara’s in his youth. He had no peculiar interests. A nice hard tup without a commitment kept him satisfied. He’d had a preference for the proprietress, an older woman with long red hair and huge arse tits. But that seemed a lifetime ago. Now, he fancied kisses from a flaxen-haired beauty—before, during, and after his tup.

Hugh sighed. He needed to get his head out of his arse and concentrate on the business at hand. If he did not finish his task soon, he would not return to the cottage in time for Charlotte’s visit, and then she might worry. He had considered writing her a note about his trip into the city, but the chances were her father or stepmother would intrude upon his privacy and find it. Then he would be forced—perhaps with a pistol aimed at his brain—to end things with Charlotte. He would not allow that to happen. At least not yet. First, he must ensure she was safe from whatever ill-deed Lady Chesterhill was up to.

“Stay out here and wait for me,” Hugh told his half-witted assistants.

“It won’t take me but a minute to get me willy-shined,” declared Curly.

“Aww,” Stilts fussed. “I was hopin’ for a little longer. I likes to satisfy me whores.”

“Both of you keep your pricks in your bloody pants,” Hugh declared. “And I mean it, stay here. Theodore will be none too happy to receive this news, and he is probably armed. I may need to make a quick escape.”

“Drat,” Stilts mumbled. “But he’s probably naked, balls deep in a wench. Which is where I wanna be.”

“Aye. Me too.” Curly crossed his arms over his chest and harrumphed.

Hugh glared at the men. “Stay,” he growled out again as if they were misbehaving dogs.

While trudging around the building toward the massive front portico, Hugh re-lived randy memories of sex and sin, which interestingly held very little appeal after having experienced Charlotte’s passionate kisses.

Hugh stood in the doorway, taking in the scene with a critical eye. The brothel had not changed an iota since his last visit almost five years ago. The women may have been different; it was difficult to discern details, with the candles and lanterns being few and far between. But the gauche-gilded furniture, velvet curtains, and scarlet wall coverings were all the same. At least a dozen men and women in various states of undress lounged in the parlor.

A woman clad in a purple gown glided toward him, her full breasts spilling out of her low-cut bodice. New creases aged her fair skin, but she still had bright eyes and a charming smile.

“Clara,” he said, “how lovely to see you.”

“My darling, boy.” She caressed his forearm affectionately. “Oh, I have missed you.”

He pecked her cheek. “You look as handsome as ever.”

“You look as though you had a fight with an angry tiger. Shall I have Barnard pour us a warm bath?”

Once upon a time, a steaming soak with Clara eased every ache in his youthful body. “Nay. I am here for information.”

“How disappointing.” Clara’s bottom lip stuck out in a sensual little pout. “You are not here to visit with me?”

Hugh could not help his nostalgic grin. “You will always have a special place in my heart, but I am here on business. I am looking for a man who frequents your establishment.”

Clara placed a hand on her hip and lifted her chin. “I heard you’d gone respectable. A Bow Street Runner, they say. Do you really chase down criminals? ”

“Sometimes,” Hugh said.

She caressed his cheek. “I know my handsome boy would never show up here to arrest one of my clients.”

“I am not here to arrest him.”

“Hmm.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his soul. “I know ye would never lie to me.”

“Never.” After all, Clara had often made him see stars and taught him everything he knew about satisfying a woman. “I promise, I am not here to arrest him. One of my clients has personal business with him.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“My client means him no harm, and neither do I.” Hugh internally winced. Chesterhill meant him no harm, but finding out he was not the legitimate heir to his title would not exactly make Ravenforde’s life a sunny picnic.

“Who is this man you are searching for?” Clara asked.

Best to get this over with. “Theodore Ravenforde.”

Clara cringed.

“What is wrong?”

“Do ye have a death wish?”

Bollocks. He’d known this was unpalatable business. “Why would you say that?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

Clara placed her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Theodore is lost. On a path to destruction. I do so worry about him.”

Probably because he drank too much, gambled too much, and spent his days and nights with doxies. Hugh knew firsthand what that lifestyle did to a man’s spirit.

“Do you know what troubles him?” Hugh asked since the knowledge might help him relate to Ravenforde.

“The girls say when he finally falls asleep, he calls out for someone he calls Pipsqueak. ”

Since Ravenforde had been debauched and entitled even in their school days, Hugh doubted this Pipsqueak was the sole reason for his ails.

Clara crooked her finger. “He is upstairs. Come.”

Hugh followed her swinging hips up the steep stairwell. With each step he took, the moans and groans of amorous congress grew louder until they echoed, bouncing between the walls and the high ceiling. By the time he reached the landing, blocking out the sinful sounds was impossible.

Clara led him to the last door in the long hallway. “He is in here. Please be careful. His temper is like an out-of-control fire.”

The cacophony emanating from the room would disturb the most wanton of blokes.

“How many people are in there?” Hugh asked.

“Counting Theodore, six.”

Bloody hell. “How many blokes?”

“Counting Theodore, one.”

Thank hell since a half dozen men in the throes of passion might add another layer of difficulty to his task. However, how many wenches could one man tup at once? Hugh was quite proud of his record, which included two. Perhaps three. He’d been rather drunk on the occasion. Come to think of it, maybe he’d been too intoxicated to finish with any of them. What a crying shame.

Oh well. There were far worse things than realizing memories of your one and only orgy might be inflated.

Hugh chuckled at himself before schooling his expression and slowly opening the chamber door.

Hugh’s entrance did nothing to halt the scene in front of him. Two naked women on the bed lay between a third woman’s thighs, feasting on her quim. He stared at the titillating fantasy a bit longer than he cared to admit, but it was far more appealing than the threesome on the chair.

A massive bull of a man, his eyes closed and his head thrown back in abandon, hummed as two women sat between his thighs, taking turns sucking his cock.

Hugh huffed loudly, then cleared his throat.

The women pleasuring each other in the bed giggled as the two at Ravenforde’s feet looked up from their task.

Ravenforde opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus his gaze. His huge palms landed possessively on the women’s heads. “Out, mate. They are mine. I paid for them for the entire night.”

Hugh retrieved Ravenforde’s trousers from the floor and tossed them to him. “Get dressed.” His gaze slid to each of the women. “All of you. Put on your clothing. You can return once we talk.”

The pair at Ravenforde’s feet stood.

“Stay,” the hedonistic aristocrat grumbled.

They halted, their gazes traveling back and forth between Hugh and Ravenforde.

Ravenforde growled. “Mate, if I were you, I would turn around and walk out.”

“You can return to your entertainment as soon as we talk,” Hugh said .

Ravenforde scoffed as he reached his hand beneath the chair. He withdrew it quickly, aiming a pistol at Hugh.

Screaming whores ran amok before fleeing the room.

Hugh held out his hands to show he was unarmed. “Put the pistol away, Ravenforde. I just want to talk.”

“Wait a bloody minute.” Ravenforde carelessly waved the pistol about. “Is that you, Fletcher?”

“Yes. Would you put the blasted weapon away before you kill us both? And could you put on some friggin pants so that I do not have to stare at that?” Cringing, Hugh pointed at Ravenforde’s crotch.

Ravenforde shoved the pistol back into its hiding place and stood.

“This better be good, Fletcher. I do not know if you noticed, but I was engaged.”

Oh, Hugh had noticed, although currently, he was looking into a high corner so that he did not have to observe a naked bloke hobbling about.

“There, dressed,” Ravenforde said.

Hugh slowly lowered his gaze. Ravenforde stood before him, trousers on, shirt hanging open, long dark hair disheveled, and a couple of days of unshaven beard poking through his skin.

“You might want to sit down for this,” Hugh said, inclining his chin toward the blow job chair.

He strolled to a half-empty decanter and poured two glasses, handing one to Ravenforde, who sat leisurely, a bare foot crossed over his tree trunk-sized thigh. Hugh gulped from his glass before pulling a chair across the room so that he could sit beside him.

“What is this all about? You cannot still be angry over that fight at Cambridge,” Ravenforde declared with an arrogance that made Hugh want to relocate the ape’s nose.

“Nay,” Hugh said. Although perhaps he was still irritated over being called a guttersnipe. He may not have been titled, but he had hardly been a pauper. Ravenforde had a good three inches and at least twenty pounds on him, but he’d bloodied the fool’s nose and given him a hellish black eye.

“I won that game of cards fair and square,” Ravenforde said.

“You cheated like a son of a bitch,” Hugh said.

Ravenforde threw his head back and chuckled. There was one positive thing about this shite situation—Ravenforde was more coherent than Hugh had anticipated.

“Get on with it, I’ve got cunny calling my name.”

Hugh rolled his eyes. “Keep the bloody pistol away.” He inclined the drink in his hand toward Ravenforde’s hiding place before asking, “Do you know the Marquess of Chesterhill?”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course, I do. Mayhap you do not realize that we all know each other, being titled lords and all.”

It would be rewarding as hell to tell the rat bastard he did not have a legitimate title. However, no matter Hugh’s personal feelings, he needed to handle this diplomatically, so he exhaled his anger.

“Do you not recall that we went to school with Alexander,” Ravenforde said. “He was one of my mates.”

“Then are you aware that his father was quite the libertine in his youth?”

“None of my concern,” Ravenforde said. “But what about it?”

“He had an affair with your mother,” Hugh declared before he lost his nerve .

Ravenforde waved a dismissive hand. “Lies.”

“Perchance. But why claim you are his son? What could he possibly gain from it?”

Ravenforde’s posture remained relaxed, but his voice rose. “His son? Me? What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, Ravenforde, it brings me no pleasure to tell you this, but Chesterhill is your legitimate father.”

Hugh braced himself for a tantrum of major proportions. However, Ravenforde sat quietly, staring into his drink. “What the deuce does he want from me?”

“Just to talk to you. He has hired me to find all of his bastards so that he can do right by them.”

“Do right by us? Bloody hell, I am to be a viscount. Does he expect me to simply relinquish my title? My father will kill him. Kill me.” He sighed, then practically whispered, “Kill my mother.”

“Why not meet with Chesterhill and talk to him? At this point, what could it hurt? I do not think he means to destroy anyone’s life. He can be rational.” His wicked wife was another story entirely.

“How many of us are there?” Ravenforde asked.

“From my investigations so far, at least six. Chesterhill kept detailed records of all of his indiscretions.”

Ravenforde gaped, chugged, and then held up his glass.

Neither spoke as Hugh moved about the chamber, refreshing their libations.

After a massive gulp, Ravenforde declared, “I will meet with him on one condition.”

“What is that?” Hugh asked.

“My dubious parentage remains a secret. I will not have my mother’s death on my head. ”

Hugh nodded. “I will relay your terms to Chesterhill. If he is agreeable, will you call at the old gardener’s hut behind the Chesterhill estate two mornings hence at about eleven?”

Ravenforde nodded and then downed his port. “Now, send my girls back.”

Well, that went much easier than Hugh anticipated. He stood, placed his glass on the side table, and strolled to the door. “By the by, who is Pipsqueak?” he asked.

Ravenforde blinked, then, without warning, he flew from his chair.

Before Hugh could prepare for the blow, Ravenforde’s fist cracked Hugh’s jaw so forcefully that he flew backward, and his head hit the door with a resounding thwap !