Chloe stood up slowly. "I'm sorry I interrupted you," she said with an ironic courtesy. "Please forgive me. I didn't realize you had a visitor." She turned and ran up the stairs without a backward glance.
"That's a pickle, an' no mistake," Betsy observed wisely as Hugo opened the front door for her. "You'd do best to keep your little entertainments out of the 'ouse, if you wants my advice."
Hugo said nothing, simply closed the door on her. He went back to the library and steadily gathered up all the bottles scattered around the room, the full, the half full, and the empty. He took them into the kitchen, then went upstairs and woke Samuel.
Samuel listened to his instructions in complete silence. When his employer had finished, he said, "Reckon you can do it'"
"I must," Hugo said simply, but there was quiet desperation in his voice and eyes. "Keep Chloe away from the library at all costs." As he left the room, he added with a tinge of humor that surprised them both, "She has the devil's own facility for appearing in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Mebbe so, but then, mebbe not," Samuel mused as he got out of bed. Maybe this time she'd appeared in the right place at the right time.
Hugo went back to the library and closed the door. He sat down in the cracked leather wing chair beside the empty grate and stared sightlessly into the graying light of the room as he waited for the long, slow descent into hell to begin.
Chapter 9
Chloe didn't co back to sleep. She sat on the window seat, watching the sunrise, Dante's head on her knee, Falstaff preening his raggedy feathers with a peacock's pride. Beatrice climbed out of the hat box, stretched, yawned, arched her back, and glided purposefully to the door. Chloe let her out. The cat knew her way in and out of the house by now.
Chloe examined her emotions with an almost distant curiosity. She discovered that she was no longer hurt or confused; she was, very simply, angry. She supposed it was none of her business whom her guardian chose to bed, but the supposition did nothing to cool her indignation. He'd banished her from his presence and taken a fat whore in her place! Maybe she was a kind, fat whore, but a whore nonetheless. From now on she was going to have nothing to do with Sir Hugo Lattimer beyond the absolute necessities engendered by his guardianship. She'd been hurt and humiliated enough, and the sooner she made arrangements to leave his roof, the better it would be for everyone. The only question was where she should go.
And then she remembered Miss Anstey. Why shouldn't she set up an establishment with Miss Anstey? Presumably her fortune could pay a companion at least as much as she'd be paid by Lady Colshot. She would write first to Miss Anstey, and if she received a favorable response, then she would lay out the plan in a formal letter to her guardian. He'd made no secret of his anxiety to be rid of her, and it was so like the plan he'd had
himself that he'd surely jump at it. But she would insist on establishing herself in London.
Thus resolved, Chloe went down to the kitchen to fetch a jug of hot water. The library door was closed as she passed it, and she stuck out her tongue at it in a childish gesture that nevertheless relieved her feelings.
"You'll be wantin' your breakfast," Samuel observed as she entered the kitchen. In full possession of the facts now, he cast her a shrewd glance, assessing her state of mind. The leaden depression of the past few days seemed to have left her, although the light in her eyes didn't strike him as particularly joyful.
"I'd like a bath more than anything," Chloe said, surprising herself with the realization. She ran her hands through her hair. "I'd like to wash my hair."
"Long as you don't mind the kitchen," Samuel said. "I don't relish carrying jugs of 'ot water up them stairs. There's a tub somewhere in the scullery." He went into the small back kitchen, reappearing with a tin hip bath. He set it down in front of the range. "Reckon ye'll need a screen or summat."
"There's that fire screen in the library," Chloe said, moving to the door.
"I'll get it, miss. You're not to go in there, you understand?" The sharp urgency of his voice arrested her.
"I've seen him drunk before," she said acidly. "And rather more than that."
"I know," Samuel said. "But what's goin' on in there now is between Sir 'Ugo and 'is own self. You put one finger on that door, and you'll be answerin' to me."
Chloe blinked at this unlooked-for ferocity from the usually phlegmatic Samuel. "What's he doing, then?"
"Never you mind. None o' your business." He stomped to the door. "I'll set that bath up for you straightaway."
Chloe sat at the table, thoughtfully picking at the crust on a loaf of bread. Now what was going on?
Samuel went quietly into the library. Hugo was still sitting in the chair, his hands clenched on the arms, the knuckles bloodless. Sweat shimmered on his forehead.
"Bring me some coffee, Samuel."
"Right you are." Samuel picked up the heavy fire screen. "Miss is goin' to 'ave a bath in the kitchen."
"Well, watch young Billy," Hugo said. "I wouldn't put it past him to play Peeping Tom."
It was an attempt at levity, and Samuel smiled tightly in response. "You want anythin' to eat'"
Hugo just shook his head.
Samuel returned with a pot of coffee and set it down beside Hugo. He filled a beaker and silently held it out. Hugo took it carefully, his hands curling around the warmth, the aromatic steam hitting his nostrils. "Thanks."
"Anythin' else?"
"No, just leave me."
The door closed behind Samuel, and Hugo took a sip of coffee. His stomach revolted and a wave of nausea broke over him. He set the mug down and closed his eyes. He'd been blind drunk for four days, in a constant state of semi-intoxication for several years, and it was going to get a lot worse before it got better.
While Chloe bathed, she tried out her plan for Miss Anstey's companionship on Samuel, who was peeling potatoes beyond the screen, keeping a watchful eye out for unexpected visitors.
"I should think Sir Hugo would approve," she concluded, pouring a jug of water over her hair. "If he ever sobers up enough to listen, of course."
"There's no call for talk like that," Samuel reproved. "Don't go meddlin' in what you don't understand."
"You mean the demons?"
"Reckon so."
"But you don't understand them either. You said so."
"No, I don't. And so I don't go throwin' stones."
Chloe was silenced. She stood up and reached for the towel hanging over the screen. "I wish I did understand," she said finally, twisting the towel around her wet hair. "Then maybe I wouldn't be so angry." She shrugged into a dressing gown and came out from behind the screen. "I could stick a knife in his ribs, Samuel!"
Samuel smiled his tight smile. "I wouldn't recommend tryin' it, miss. Not with Sir 'Ugo. Drunk or sober, 'e's a hard man to tangle with."
Chloe went upstairs to dress. As she selected one of her new gowns, she found herself wondering if Crispin would pay her another visit. The prospect surprisingly was rather pleasing. Not least because she suspected Hugo would be annoyed by it.
A man who amused himself in drunken sport with fat whores deserved to be annoyed.
She was in the stable yard, examining Rosinante's wounds when Crispin arrived, leading a roan mare of elegant lines.
"What a disgusting beast," he said without thought as he took in the turnip seller's abused nag. "It should be fed to the crows."
Chloe laid a strip of gauze over one of the still-oozing wounds on Rosinante's flanks before saying in a deceptively neutral tone, "Oh, do you really think so?"
"I know so." Crispin dismounted. "It's not even worth a bullet. Why are you wasting your time and good medicine on such a travesty?"