Chapter 2
Two
“Good grief, Hugo. It’s like the gods forgot to bless you with any brains. How are you ever going to find a suitable husband walking around like that?”
Hugo bit his tongue to hold in his acerbic response. It wasn’t as if he’d walked out of the house in one of his best suits covered in mud. No, that had happened when he’d pulled the most handsome man in the world to safety as a runaway carriage had charged pell-mell at him.
“And I see by your empty hands. You couldn’t even pick up the parcel from the tailor,” his mother continued.
“After being splashed with mud, I turned back and came home. It seemed the wiser course instead of wandering about town in wet, muddy clothes where everyone could gawk at me.”
Jessamine Baker winced. “Did anyone see you? Or recognize you?”
Hugo bit his already sore tongue a second time and gave his mother a look. Of course, people had seen him. How could they not have? The young man he’d saved and his friends had gaped at him, but there was no benefit in pointing that out.
His mother’s expression softened, and she reached up to pat his cheek, but stopped at the last moment, the number of wrinkles on her face tripling with her frown.
He couldn’t blame her. It felt like there wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t coated in mud.
“I don’t mean to be harsh, my darling, but the Season has just begun and you’re twenty-two.
Dorian turns twenty this winter. If I don’t have you properly married and settled this Season, I’ll have a devil of a time trying to find a suitor for both you and your brother next Season. Don’t get me started on Augustine.”
“Augustine isn’t even eighteen yet. You have two years before you need to concern yourself with him.”
“Yes, and since your father’s death, money isn’t pouring into the house like it used to.
Why you and your brothers couldn’t have been blessed with more useful magic, I’ll never understand.
But it is what it is. Go clean yourself up and change clothes.
I’ll see to your garments later. I’m off to the tailor to pick up the parcel. ”
Hugo had taken a step toward the narrow stairs leading to the second floor but stopped. “No need. I ran into Augustine on my way back and sent him to the tailor for the parcel in my stead,” Hugo stated.
“Augustine? He has even less sense than you!”
His mother hurried off, snagging one of her bonnets from a peg near the door. She stuffed it on her head, muttering the entire way about how her husband had been far too selfish and inconsiderate to die so young and leave her all alone to raise these three useless sons.
Hugo stood alone in the foyer for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock, letting the familiar comforts of the old house seep into his bones.
His mother could be caustic, but he knew she spoke out of constant gnawing fear.
They were reaching a desperate tether in their lives.
It was felt all the more keenly given how far they’d fallen in a short time.
Not long ago, they’d been a happy family of five.
Their mother had run a small housecleaning service, thanks to her innate magical ability to control cleaning implements.
For just one silver coin, she would have a modest two-bedroom home sparkling and smelling of pine in less than an hour.
It took little more than a wave of her hand and occasionally a stern word for the mop.
But that business had lasted only until Hugo was born.
By then, his father’s business had skyrocketed.
Charles Baker’s magic had occupied the realm of baking.
There wasn’t a confection in all the world he hadn’t been able to make.
His pastries had been airy, delicate works of sweet art, his pies with the flakiest crust. He’d even made the wedding cake for Queen Lilianna and King Hubert.
After that momentous event, his bakery had sold out of all its creations before noon.
Everyone in all the kingdom had demanded to have him cater their events.
Money had poured into their home. Jessamine gave up her cleaning business and devoted herself to becoming a proper noblewoman, as she’d rubbed elbows with all the wealthy merchants and aristocracy.
Hugo and his brothers had grown up in a large, comfortable home in Frostbourne.
They’d always had the best clothes, the best toys, and the best tutors.
They hadn’t inherited their father’s magical skill with baking, but no one seemed to worry.
With their father’s business, there had been no need to concern themselves with other magic.
At least, not until Charles died of an illness two years ago.
The bakery had attempted to limp along without him, but that had lasted only a year. Charles had been the magic of that shop, and if he wasn’t there to create the confections, there were plenty of other magical bakers willing to take his place.
After the closure of the bakery, the family had moved to the small house outside of Buckleford—a far less fashionable address than what they had enjoyed in Frostbourne.
Not that Hugo minded. He preferred the quiet of Buckleford over the bustle and pretension of Frostbourne.
Even though he did miss the amazing bootmaker he used to frequent in Frostbourne.
As far as Hugo could tell, his mother had burned through their savings and was now selling off bits and bobs around the house to help fund his Season.
If he didn’t find a wealthy husband this Season, they would have to leave the lazy life of aristocrats and get jobs.
He couldn’t see his mother returning to the life of a common charwoman.
Not after all her fancy gowns and tea parties with baronesses and countesses.
A heavy sigh tumbled from Hugo’s lips, and he tore his gaze away from the threadbare carpet and discolored patch on the parlor wall where yet another painting had gone missing.
He had no interest in marrying a wealthy husband—particularly a duke or a baron.
His preference was for a nice country squire who had a little farm he could help with.
They could spend a quiet life together away from the hustle and bustle of balls and extravagant dinners.
A country squire was less likely to look down on his family’s humble roots.
Yet, he was willing to put himself out there for a member of the aristocracy because it would mean that his mother could live the rest of her life in comfort. His brothers would be able to marry for love rather than social standing and money.
“I take it the streets are still muddy, and I should wear my old boots into town,” Dorian drawled.
Hugo’s head snapped up to see his younger brother standing at the top of the stairs, an ever-present book clutched to his chest and a smirk on his pale-pink lips.
Hugo groaned. “It wasn’t my fault. A spell went wrong on a horseless carriage, and it went tearing through the streets. The damn thing nearly plowed into a young man. I only just managed to pull him to safety—”
“And the thing went through a mud puddle, splashing you from head to toe?”
“Yes,” Hugo growled, stomping up the stairs.
“Did the man get splashed as well?”
“Not a single drop.”
Dorian grinned, but there was warm sympathy in his chestnut brown eyes. “Sounds about right.”
Hugo sighed as he crossed to his bedroom on the left.
Dorian trailed behind him and shut the door.
Hugo paused, staring at his brother in question.
He hadn’t expected Dorian to follow him.
There wasn’t more to tell, and he still had to get cleaned up.
Except maybe for the fact that he’d saved the world’s most dashing man, but he wasn’t ready to share those details yet.
He wanted to spend some time daydreaming about the stranger’s eyes and almost-smile.
“I have good news. Well…” He made a face and shrugged. “Well, I have news at least. Good for us, but I doubt Mother will be pleased.”
“What’s happened?”
“Mr. Cuthbert has hired me at the bookshop. He was impressed with the way I improved the binding on one of his treasured books. The pay isn’t much, but I’ll be selling books and rebinding some of the rarer ones in hopes of enticing nobles into shelling out some serious coins for pretty collectibles.
He’s promised to give me a bonus percentage of the books we sell that I’ve improved the binding on. ”
Despite Dorian’s worries, excitement bubbled up in his words. There was nothing Dorian loved more than books. It was fitting that his magical gift revolved around binding and repairing books.
Unfortunately, their mother was unlikely to see this as a good thing.
How could Dorian find a nobleman to marry if he was working as a common bookseller?
The best he could ever do would be another merchant or a merchant’s son.
Not that there was anything wrong with that.
It was just that Jessamine had tasted the rarefied air of the aristocracy, and now nothing else would be good enough for her children.
The only problem was that without one of them getting a job soon, they were going to be destitute and living on the streets. Forget marriage to a duke or baron.
“Let me worry about Mother. You focus on impressing Mr. Cuthbert,” Hugo reassured him.
“You sure?”
“I’ll handle it. Besides, I’ve been thinking about talking to Mrs. Weatherly to see if she’d take me on as an apprentice. Mother has an appointment with her seamstress tomorrow. That should take all day. Maybe I can sneak out.”
Mrs. Weatherly ran the finest glass-blowing workshop in the district, producing the very best wineglasses, vases, and pieces of art.
Hugo’s magical gift was in the creation and manipulation of glass.
Not valuable or special. Why couldn’t it have been in the creation of diamonds or gold?
Then everyone would be eager to have him as a husband or son-in-law.
Most people might not think much of his magic, but it was a valuable skill. There were plenty of people in the world who would pay to have him make a set of unique and elegant wineglasses or even basic glass jugs. It was a good, sturdy magical gift.
At least he and Dorian had magic. Augustine was almost eighteen and had yet to exhibit even a spark of magic.
Most people developed their gifts between the ages of twelve and sixteen.
Mother kept claiming he was a late bloomer, but even she was struggling to hold on to that rationale as Augustine’s eighteenth birthday edged closer.
Of course, not everyone possessed a magic gift, but there was no stopping people from pitying or looking down on those who lacked magic.
Augustine pretended not to care one whit, but Hugo knew he was trying to hide his pain from his family.
Personally, Hugo thought Augustine’s grief over the loss of their father was hindering his magic, and now the worry about not having any magic was exacerbating the situation.
“You may want to hold off on chatting with Mrs. Weatherly,” Dorian advised, wincing.
Hugo had been in the middle of peeling off his jacket but stopped at Dorian’s tense words. “Why?”
“Mother somehow gained an invitation to the Winthrop Spring Gala.”
“What?” Hugo cried, his voice cracking. His knees gave out, and he sank toward his bed.
Dorian lunged forward, catching his arm and holding him upright.
His brother’s quick action was enough to jolt his brain awake, reminding him that he was still coated in mud and had no desire to spread that same mud onto his bedding.
“How? How could she have gotten such a coveted invitation? Our family has never traveled in the same circles as the Winthrops.” Hugo paced away from his bed, dropping his soiled jacket to the floor.
Hopping on one foot, he tugged off a boot and tossed it aside with a heavy thud.
“Lady Winthrop is a duchess and a close friend of the queen. Her Spring Gala is the party of the Season, and the guest list comprises only the best families of Frostbourne. How in the world did we get on that list?”
“Not we. You and Mother. That’s it. I’m not going, thank the gods for that minor miracle. As for how, I have no idea. I’m sure Mother pulled every last string and called in every favor she had left. Good luck. No pressure, of course.”
Hugo stared at his mud-covered clothes, wearing just one boot.
He was the poor eldest son of a former renowned baker whose one skill lay in making glass flowers.
It was all on his shoulders to save his family.
If he found a rich, powerful husband, he would be able to use that newfound clout to pave an easier path for his brothers and secure a comfortable life for all of his family.
And if he failed, an apprenticeship to a glassblower would not be nearly enough to save his family from poverty and homelessness.
Yeah. No pressure.