by Elisa Braden
No, Tannenbrook was far from soft. He’d spent years restoring the estate of Shankwood Hall, the adjacent village, and all its surrounding lands to robust productivity, doing much of the work with his own hands. Concerned about what would happen to the estate and its dependents should he fail to produce a son, he had tracked down the sole remaining male of the Kilbrenner bloodline—Reaver, as it happened.
Reaver had little desire to reclaim his original name, and even less to be the man’s presumptive heir. But, then, James Kilbrenner’s tiny, exquisite wife had decided her husband’s happiness depended upon Reaver’s acceptance of his “familial duty,” and Reaver hadn’t known a peaceful week since.
“Oh, do stop frowning, Elijah. I haven’t come here to torment you.” She released his hands and twirled about, floating toward his desk. When she turned back, she was clutching a sheet of paper to her bosom. “I have come to solve your problem.”
“Why does everybody assume I have a problem?”
“I have made a list!”
“If I have a problem, my lady, it is people advising me about problems I don’t have.”
Ignoring his grumbling, she shook the page open and cleared her throat then began to read. “Lady Tannenbrook’s List of Prospective Brides for Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. You will adore this. I have spared you untold hours of dreadful chatter about favorite colors and silly questions about why you named your horse Colonel Smoots.”
He frowned. Why should anyone give a damn what he named his horse?
She held up a hand. “Trust me.” Then she lifted a finger. “Prospective Bride One: Miss Lydia Chipperfield. Oh, I like this one, Elijah. Twenty years old. Her father is a barrister who solved a small problem for the Prince Regent and was awarded a knighthood. Sir Emmett Chipperfield is his name. Charming gentleman. Her mother is dull as stagnant pond water, but not to worry. Lydia may share her mother’s beauty, but she inherited her father’s wit. A superb contender, if I do say so.”
He scraped a hand over his head. What an idiotic thing to have shorn himself like a spring sheep. He’d been restless during the waning months of a London summer. Hot and feeling like his skin was too damn tight. Again, he considered whether Shaw might be correct. A mistress. Yes, perhaps …
“Prospective Bride Two: Lady Maria Fitch. Now, here is a bit of a reach, but bear with me. I believe this could be a spectacular match.” Viola nibbled her petal-shaped lip. “Or a spectacular failure. One or the other. No matter. We shall make that determination when you meet. She is an Irish earl’s second daughter. Nineteen. A bit young for you, I admit.”
And twenty wasn’t? His fingers pressed the bones above his nose. “Lady Tannenbrook.”
“Prospective Bride Three—”
“I am not seeking a wife.”
“Hmmph. My James said the same. And yet, here I am.”
“Now, if you have a list of prospective mistresses, I shall take it gladly.” He’d said it to be rude. To force her to stop. Or leave. He should have known better.
She sniffed. “Nonsense. For your sons to be legitimate, you must marry.”
“Neither am I seeking sons.”
“Well, you must.”
His response was a grunt.
“James will sleep more soundly knowing that Shankwood is secure. He respects you, Elijah. He doesn’t mind if you inherit his title, but he would prefer that you were more … settled.”
“He would prefer that I relocate to Derbyshire with a wife and five sons.”
“Naturally. I am far less demanding, however. I see no reason why you may not continue to live in London and produce, let’s say, three sons.”
He sighed. Rubbed harder at his brow. “Lady Tannenbrook.”
“Yes?”
“Not to be indelicate.”
“Of course not. You have always been kind, Elijah.”
“You birthed a daughter only a few months ago.”
She beamed. Lit up like a lantern on a moonless night. “Elizabeth. Yes. A wondrous little beauty. You must come and see her soon.”
He ignored the invitation, as he often did. “In a year or two years, you might give her a brother. Give Tannenbrook a true heir. It could be you with three or five sons.”
The shimmer in her eyes dimmed from joyful to wistful. Her list crinkled in her hand. She whispered, “Unlikely. But how I pray you are right.”
His frown deepened. She was a cheerful, beautiful, vexing pain in his backside. But just then, her sadness made him want to hit something. He liked Viola. Against his better judgment and all rules of maintaining one’s sanity, he liked her. And he did not like seeing her sad.
The door opened then slammed. “Good God, lass. I turned round and you were gone. Never do that again. Bloody hell, I nearly tore Shaw’s head from his shoulders before he told me where you were.”
Had Reaver never learned James Kilbrenner was his cousin, he might have guessed it from the resemblance. Few men came close to matching his size. Tannenbrook was one, though he was perhaps a half-inch shorter than Reaver. And, while his cousin’s coloring was blond, many of their features were the same. Save the nose. Reaver’s was a twice-broken beak while Tannenbrook’s was as blunt as the rest of his face. The man looked like a Scottish stonemason.
Viola spun and all but danced toward her husband. As she had earlier at the mention of her daughter, the tiny beauty glowed with affection. “Forgive me, my love. I was impatient.”
Tannenbrook drew her close. The disparity in their sizes should be a comedy. His hand spanned the entire width of her back, and her bonnet did not even scrape his chin. But Reaver reckoned the love between them was so conspicuous, there was little else one might notice.
“Did you give it to him?” Tannenbrook asked.
“I was just about to.”
Reaver frowned. “Keep your list, Lady Tannenbrook. I have no need of it.”
Tannenbrook glanced up and gave him a matching frown. It was a queer sensation to feel as though he was looking in a mirror. “List.” He tilted his head down at his wife. “What list?”
She waved a dainty hand, tucked the paper behind her back, and retreated toward the desk. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Simply a guide to assist Elijah with his little problem.”
Reaver rubbed the top of his head. “For the last time, I do not have a problem.”
She placed her list on the desk and retrieved the package she’d deposited earlier, presenting it to him with a smile. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see, silly goose.”
He broke the twine with a snap and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a painting. Green and gray and gold, framed in dark wood. A stone village set amongst grassy, rain-washed hills.
“My friend, Lady Atherbourne, painted it. See?” She pointed at a steeple then at a series of chimney spires atop a massive stone structure. “The church. And Shankwood Hall. Portraits are more her specialty, but this came out rather well, I think. You should hang it here, in your office.” She gestured to the bare walls and crinkled her tiny nose. “I daresay this room could use a bit of … refinement.”
Reaver cast a look at Tannenbrook. The man shrugged.
He was beginning to despise that gesture.
“Shankwood might be yours one day, Reaver,” Tannenbrook said, moving to stand beside Viola. “You should at least know what it looks like.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to thrust the painting back into Viola’s hands and inform them both that he would never be a bloody nob, no matter how they pressed and insisted, no matter how many times they visited his club or invited him for supper or called him by a name he’d left in ashes over twenty years ago.
Sebastian Reaver had made his own way. Everything he had was earned with sweat and blood, muscle and calculation.
Nobody could tell him who he was. Inch by inch, he’d discovered that plenty well himself.
Still, he’d already tried explaining this to Tannenbrook. The
man had merely grunted and told him about the day a “bluidy English solicitor” had come to his mother’s cottage north of the Scottish border. How he’d resisted accepting the responsibilities that appeared around his neck like a yoke upon an ox. How he’d soon realized his denials were senseless and costly to those who depended upon him.
Reaver had also tried persuading Viola. If anything, she was less receptive, blithely assuring him that he would make a “splendid lord. Look how well you’ve managed Reaver’s!”
Neither of them had let up since arriving in London earlier that month. He expected their campaign to turn him into an acceptable heir would continue until he relented and agreed to visit Shankwood Hall.
He was not prepared to do that. But, in the interest of regaining possession of his office, he accepted the painting, inclining his head to Viola. “My thanks, Lady Tannenbrook.”
She beamed.
Tannenbrook clapped his shoulder fondly.
After another quarter-hour listening to his cousin describe the estate’s recent harvest, at long last, the couple departed. Viola waggled her fingers and gave him a wink on her way out the door, mouthing, “The list! Have a look, Elijah!”
He sighed and plopped the painting atop her crinkled list before sinking down into his chair.
God, he needed new employees. A sentry who didn’t chase pickpockets and abandon his post. A secretary who denied uninvited kin entry into his office.
His office. This was his domain, damn it all. And of late, it had been teeming with interlopers.
He glared at the letter that had arrived that morning. Even the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham harassed him, if only by post. He stacked Viola’s list and the painting on top of the broken seal, removing it from his sight. Then he sat back and rubbed his eyes.
Perhaps he should spend the rest of the day working on renovations next door. He and Shaw had purchased the adjoining property with the intention of expanding the club. Whenever he tired of reconciling the accounts and answering mewling letters from destitute lordlings, he found solace in lifting and smashing and brute labor.
If the end purpose of separating more aristocrats from their fortunes felt less satisfying than he would like, at least the work served to chill his restlessness.
Aye. Physical labor wasn’t much of a challenge, but it cleared his head. Decision made, he began tidying his desk. Just as he finished sorting stacks and shoving his chair back to rise, however, his office door inched open. A white mobcap peeked past the edge. A black-sleeved arm extended inside, along with a gloved hand. This was followed by an ample bosom and lean hips, all draped in plain, dark wool and a crisp, white apron.
She was dressed as a maid.
Curling wisps of russet hair poked beyond her cap’s ruffled edge. Fair, flawless skin was a half-shade creamier than the white of her apron.
Inexplicably, his body tightened until he could only grip the arms of his chair.
She’d returned. Dressed as a maid.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
*~*~*
CHAPTER THREE
“A properly negotiated agreement involves give and take: I give sage advice and you take appropriate action. There, now. This understanding will suit both our needs much better, wouldn’t you agree?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter defining the relative duties of instructor and instructed.
Finding a maid’s attire had been more a matter of luck than cleverness. The lodging house where Augusta and Phoebe had obtained rooms featured several unconventional residents, including a woman who called herself Delilah Honeybrook. As Augusta had discovered on laundry day, Miss Honeybrook possessed a peculiar assortment of costumes—a chambermaid’s dress, an old-fashioned nun’s habit, and a gown she’d dubbed her “spinster ensemble.” The last one had been disturbingly similar to some of Augusta’s own frocks.
However, the maid’s costume had been precisely what she’d needed. Fortunately, Miss Honeybrook matched Augusta’s height. Unfortunately, the woman’s bosom was a good deal smaller, which had made the journey to Reaver’s Club uncomfortable.
As she slid inside Mr. Reaver’s office for the second time, she tried to sigh in relief. The dratted bodice would not permit a full breath.
“Miss Widmore,” a dark voice rumbled from across the room. “One would think seven unanswered notes, three refusals from Shaw, and an involuntary trip to the front door would be sufficient response to your inquiry.”
Her heart stumbled and squeezed. Oh, my, he is large, it seemed to say. Though, perhaps her bodice was at fault. It was dreadfully tight.
She tugged her gloves tighter and moved further into the room. “If you wish me to leave, Mr. Reaver, then simply listen. That is the quickest route to my departure, I assure you.”
“Doubtful.”
“Well, perhaps coming to an understanding is more what I—”
“You want me to forgive Glassington’s debt. That will not happen.”
She raised a brow. “On the contrary. I do not seek forgiveness. You see? This is precisely why you should listen.”
He braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and propped his fingertips together, reclining in a sardonic pose. “Go on, then.”
Clearing her throat, she paced toward his desk, stopping just short of its edge. “Lord Glassington has made certain … commitments. He cannot—or should I say will not—keep those commitments if he hasn’t the means to do so.”
“A nob prefers keeping his wealth to keeping his word? I shall alert The Times.”
“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Reaver. Innocent lives will be devastated should Lord Glassington fail to fulfill his prior agreements.”
“Which are?”
She paused. This had always been the most troublesome part of the conversation to navigate. How much should she tell a lowborn ruffian known for trading in secrets? She began sparingly. “He agreed to a betrothal. After his disgraceful turn at your club, he withdrew his offer of marriage.”
Light from the window flashed in his eyes. “Let me guess. He cried off on account of losing his fortune. Claimed he could not, in good conscience, marry ye and burden ye with such a debt.”
For a moment, she considered correcting his assumptions. But Sebastian Reaver was too clever. If she set him straight, he would surmise the whole truth—precisely what she wished to prevent.
“He made promises,” she said, raising her chin. “What I ask is that you help me ensure he keeps them.”
That square jaw flexed. “How?”
“Give me his markers.”
A low, rumbling chuckle. “Ye’re a bold one, Miss Widmore. I’ll grant ye that.”
“Not permanently, of course. I shall return them to you once he has met his obligations. You have my word.”
“Hmm. Your word, eh? That and a shilling or two will pay for a hack to Bedlam.” He pushed at the arms of his chair, rising to his full height. “Precisely where I belong if I agree to this twaddle.”
He started toward her. Anticipating his intentions, she skirted around the other side of the desk, placing the massive slab of oak between them. “You lose nothing in this bargain,” she argued.
“No, I gain nothing, apart from a bloody headache.”
“Well, what do you want in exchange? Perhaps I can—”
He stalked around the desk.
She matched him, step for step.
“Negotiations are over,” he rumbled. “I listened to your request. My answer is no. Now, once again, Miss Augusta Widmore, it is time to leave. This is a club for gentlemen.” His eyes fell briefly to her bodice, his frown vaguely puzzled. “You are hardly that.”
His movements were smooth, swifter than one would suppose. She watched warily, dismayed by how nimble he was for his size. “I might say the same of you, Mr. Reaver.”
A split second before he reached for her, she wheeled back, leaving his giant hand grasping at air.
“Stand still, woman. By God,
you are a nuisance.”
“Even if you toss me out this time, I shall return. Again and again. You shall never be rid of me.”
He leaned across the desk, hands splayed on its tidy surface, shoulders dwarfing the thing. “Magistrates might have something to say about that. Trespassing is a crime.”
“Involving the law would only prove another headache for you. Much simpler to come to terms.” She inched backward, measuring the length of his arms and the distance between them. Her back brushed the wall. “There must be something you want. I could do a bit of work for you, perhaps. I’ve grown quite skilled at acquiring information. That is one of your more lucrative commodities, if I am not mistaken.”
He shook his head, his fingers flexing on the wood. “Why do ye not plague Glassington with your incessant intrusions? He’s to be your husband. He should be the one to suffer.”
She winced then stiffened. “You are a rude man.”
“If it bothers ye, then leave.”
“Without the markers, my attempts to persuade Lord Glassington carry little weight. I am here because it is the only remedy left to me.” She raised her chin. “Make a demand, Mr. Reaver. If it is within my power to deliver, I shall do it. I trust you to keep your word and deliver the markers in exchange.”
Black eyes narrowed. He straightened. Crossed his arms and gave her a long, sweeping look from mobcap to muddy half-boots. His expression grew thoughtful. Calculating.
“Very well, then.”
Her heart soared. She blinked. He was relenting. Dear heaven, finally—finally—she had a chance of repairing this wretchedly broken situation.
“Here are my terms: I will grant you the temporary use of Glassington’s markers for purposes of leg-shackling the nob.”
She swallowed, scarcely daring to hope.
“In exchange, you will become my mistress.”
Air abandoned her. The light brightened, dimmed, swam.
A dark smile curved one corner of his mouth. “You will deliver your part of the bargain first, of course.” His gaze dropped to her bodice then came back to spear her through. “Six weeks should suffice.”
