Page 39 of Charlotte's Kisses

“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.