Christmas Charity (Fair Cyprians of London 5)

“But now I’m the one who has to get you out of this mess of your making.”

“If sending me to India is what you mean by that, then yes. I, as you well know, would prefer to remain in London and make my own way in the world until I come into my inheritance in two years.”

“So you can marry your little whore? I don’t think so.”

Hugo steeled himself to remain impassive. His father would goad and goad until he forced the passionate response he was after. He’d done it so many times before, but Hugo was older and wiser now. Charity had helped him see that biting back was futile. And although he despised himself for not defending her good name right now, he felt sure she’d be the first to counsel him against rash words.

Just the thought of what he’d condemned her to was enough to make his knees buckle and his mind whirl with shame.

Though, strangely, it seemed the skills and fortitude Hugo had reluctantly acquired were proving their value. He wasn’t shaking like the seven-year-old who’d wept when his father had beaten him. Or his nanny, for that matter. Her swing was, if anything, even more deadly, and Hugo hadn’t mourned her for a moment when she’d dropped dead in front of him on his eleventh birthday.

The first time any woman — or man, for that matter — had shown him tenderness was when his father had shoved him into a bedroom at Madame Chambon’s and he’d found himself face to face with a trembling, equally terrified, girl.

Now, there was a thought to bolster him.

In the nearly two years since he’d met Charity, Hugo’s life had become something he could bear. Something that gave him pleasure, in fact.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Now he’d ruined it as effectively as if he’d blown it up with gunpowder.

“You’ve done your best by me, Father, and I know you want me to show the gratitude you feel is your due. But I have no gratitude when my hand is forced. I do not want to leave England.”

“But fools who lose at the gaming table deserve no sympathy, and I am doing what any concerned parent would do who only desires their son to become a man and not throw away his future.” Thomas Adams’s moustache twitched. He moved towards a cluster of chairs but neither sat nor invited his son to sit. This interview would be over within a couple of minutes. And, within the week, Hugo would be on a boat for far distant shores and his father would be shooting grouse at his country estate.

“Cyril — ”

“Made you do it? Come now! You’d blame your cousin for your own actions? That’s beyond anything. Disgusting! I can’t bear to hear you blather excuses like that. Your cousin is twice the man you’ll ever be, and I only wish he were my son.”

“He’ll be a willing pupil if I should perish and he finally becomes what he and you have always wanted — your heir.”

“What rot! Blood will out, and I still have hope that you will become a man I can be proud of. Just because Cyril was with you when you dropped a fortune is of no account to me.”

Hugo knew better than to ask his father if he’d put Cyril up to it. His father would have no compunction in using a left hook to defend his dubious practises and Hugo did not want Charity’s last sight of him to be in the guise of the victim with a bloodied nose. At least let him face her with what dignity he could.

“Nothing to say for yourself, as usual?”

Hugo shrugged. It was safer to remain silent when his father was in this mood. He concentrated on the clock on the mantelpiece rather than his father’s face, though he could tell by the air of tense anticipation that his father was spoiling for a fight and would be disappointed if Hugo didn’t bite.

“So, that’s it then.” The older man looked disappointed. He rolled his shoulders and balled his fists briefly before adding, “Your uncle will meet you at the docks at dawn the day you leave.”

“Then I wish you all the best, father,” Hugo said without warmth though nearly lightheaded with relief that this interview was over as he took a step towards the door.

“You can save your farewells for I shall be on the quay, also.” His father stopped him with a mirthless laugh. “No need to look surprised. I’m doing my due diligence to ensure you don’t bring your little harlot on board. The captain has also been given orders to keep an eye out for stowaways.”

Hugo clenched his teeth and turned. “Her name is Charity and she is the most decent and honest woman I have ever met,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m sure she knows better than to knock at my door asking for my charity when you’re gone.” His father laughed as if he’d made the greatest joke.

Hugo waited for his mirth to subside. “Charity is the proudest woman I’ve met. She’d rather die than beg.”

“Shows how little you know women, my boy,” his father said, still seemingly light-hearted from his unusual foray into levity. “A girl’s got to eat and you’re no longer her meal ticket. She’ll be spreading her legs for the next fellow she’s already got lined up before your boat has left harbour — "

His sentence was truncated by a cry of outrage rather than pain as Hugo’s fist shot out, collecting him on the jaw.

But the response was quicker than Hugo could see coming.

As he knew it would be.

“Puling, pathetic creature,” his father taunted, looking down at Hugo lying at his feet. “Wipe that bloody nose and get out of here.” With a hefty kick that collected Hugo’s rib cage, his father loomed over him, his eyes bulbous over his thick nose and luxuriant moustache. His teeth were bared and his pleasure was genuine for, once again, he could end his latest altercation with his son as the clear victor. “It’s a big bad world out there, my boy, and you need to learn that it’s deeds and actions that make a man. Not pretty words and paintings.”