Hugo and the Maiden

generations of careful breeding.
The same could not be said for Hugo, who resembled a street cur. Even his costly, tasteful clothing couldn’t disguise his rough features or hide the fact that his eyes were permanently hungry, no matter how much he ate or how much money he had.
Hugo snatched up one of the heavy silk robes provided for both clients and their companions and slipped his arms into it.
Companion was yet another term of art that Melissa had coined.The word still made him laugh, even though he’d been whoring at Solange’s for well over a decade—the last three of those years as an owner. He frowned. Well, co-owner.
He tied the black silk sash around his waist and strode into the sitting room that adjoined each of the bedchambers on this side of the house—the ladies’ side.
His own garments hung on the hooks where he’d left them, and he fished a ruby-encrusted silver case from his coat pocket. The case was a gift from the duchess and the vile cigars inside it were from one of his other clients—a member of the Spanish royal family if you believed what the man had told Hugo. The cigars stank, but there was something about them Hugo couldn’t resist.
He poured himself a healthy measure of the fine brandy the duchess paid to have stocked and went to the huge fire that roared in the fireplace—yet another luxury the duchess paid for. He took a spill from a glass bowl on the mantle and lit the cigar, tossing the small twist of paper into the fire before lowering himself into the big leather wingback chair nearest the blaze. Even though it was late summer, he was cold. He was always cold.
“You are a terriblaay avertissmon for my cooking, Yougo. You ’ave no fat on you!” Oliver, the French chef who terrorized Solange’s kitchen staff—as well as slaughtering the English language—had yelled at Hugo more than once.
Hugo ate almost constantly, but his body burnt food the way this huge fireplace consumed coal. No matter how much he ate, he remained lean, nothing but skin stretched taut over muscle, bone, and sinew.
He exhaled a plume of dirty brown smoke, his jaws tightening as he contemplated the woman who owned the other fifty percent of this venture and was occupying his thoughts far too often these days.
Laura Maitland was at least ten years older than Hugo and had been working at the exclusive brothel for over twenty years. She should have earned enough money to buy the brothel twice over. But Laura had a strong thirst for gin and cards, both of which had left her life in tatters.
It had been lucky for Laura that Melissa Griffin had discovered the other woman’s addiction and taken charge of her before Laura could lose everything she had, including her life. Even with Melissa’s help, it had taken Laura years to pay her debts and save any money.
Three years ago, when Melissa sold the brothel, Laura had finally scraped up enough money to buy half.
Hugo had been furious. He’d saved for years to buy the place, but Mel refused to sell him the entirety of the business, insisting that she had an obligation to Laura. And so Hugo was stuck with Laura.
He’d had to put up with the woman’s drunkenness for three long years. And he’d also had to advance her money repeatedly for her share of the business expenses. While she’d been drinking and gambling, Hugo had worked twice as much—taken twice as many clients—and saved every penny. He was ready to buy her out.
Hugo doubted that Laura would even consider an offer from him if she hadn’t begun seeing a big, brutal bastard named Cowan Morgan about six months ago. It was the first time Hugo had known Laura to take a regular lover. But then she was getting a bit long in the tooth to attract the young, handsome men who’d once flocked to her in droves. It wasn’t only her age, but all the drink that had taken its toll.
Cowan had been lurking around Solange’s far too much for Hugo’s comfort. But the man worked as an enforcer for the Welsh crime lord Bevan Davies, so Hugo couldn’t exactly chase him off. Nobody in their right mind offended anyone connected to Davies.
And so Hugo had tolerated Morgan’s presence. But the man was greedy and stupid and Hugo suspected that he might encourage Laura to accept an offer to buy her out. As dumb as Cowan looked, Hugo knew the man had to know that Laura lost more of the business every month she owned it.
Hugo didn’t think it would be too hard for Cowan to convince her to sell and get away. Especially since Laura hated Hugo with such a virulent hatred.
Hugo grinned; there was nothing like a woman scorned when it came to hating.
The animus between them was mutual and dated back to his first week at the brothel, when Laura had shown up in Hugo’s bedroom, naked beneath her dressing gown. He’d been bloody amazed at her cheek.
Hell! He had sex for a living—did the woman really believe that was how he wanted to spend his free time?
Not bloody likely.
That long-ago night—after he’d told Laura that if she wanted to have sex with him she could pay him just like any other customer—she’d shaken with fury. And had hated him ever since.
Laura wasn’t the only person he’d angered with that sort of rejection. His steadfast refusal to take lovers had caused no small amount of heartburn over the years.
Well, that was too damned bad; the last thing he wanted was to throw his lot in with anyone else—especially another whore. Other people were a burden he didn’t need. He'd spent the first twenty years of his life in poverty and want. He fully intended to spend the rest of it in comfort and luxury.
His plan for the future was a simple one: get control of Solange’s—one way or another—and operate the brothel until he died.