by Elisa Braden
“What the devil?”
Reaver ran a hand over his too-short hair and released a frustrated gust. “No help for it. I must take her for a dress fitting.”
Shaw’s face tightened, his eyes squinting as though he could not see Reaver clearly. Which was absurd. Shaw had fine vision, and they stood only a few feet apart.
The other man opened his mouth once. Closed it. Then said, “If this is your attempt at a jest, I must tell you, it is a dreadful one. Had you more practice with humor, perhaps you would find greater success in its application.”
“Would that I were joking.” In seconds, he calculated the total cost of the gowns and the furniture and the staff. “Getting rid of her is going to be damned expensive.”
Shaw was silent while Reaver stalked past him and yanked open the door. “Frelling! Set an appointment with Mrs. Bowman, the dressmaker on Bond. Two hours at her shop after closing. No interruptions.” He shut the door, only to pull it open again a moment later. “Make it three hours.”
Frelling nodded and adjusted his spectacles calmly. “Three hours at Bowman’s. How soon would you prefer?”
Reaver frowned. Miss Widmore would be occupied interviewing servants and selecting furnishings and arranging deliveries for the next several days at least. “A week,” he replied. “No more than a fortnight.”
“Consider it done.”
Reaver closed the door and searched for his greatcoat. Ah, yes. He’d left it on the chair.
“What. Precisely. Are you doing?”
Shrugging on his coat, Reaver shot a glance at Shaw. “Going next door.”
“There are better uses of your time than hauling bricks,” Shaw snapped. “Now, for God’s sake, answer my question. What are you doing with Miss Widmore?”
“Getting rid of her.”
“You’re out of your head.”
“She’s like a bur in a ball of fleece. You don’t rid yourself of it without some coaxing.”
Moving closer, Shaw gazed up at him and crossed his arms. “Coaxing.”
“Aye.”
“Hmm. And you say ridding yourself of her will be expensive. The furnishings. The gowns. The servants. Not to mention all the time she will be spending at your house. At least a week or two, if I am not mistaken.”
Reaver nodded, wondering at Shaw’s sharp tone and assessing stare. Then, he saw a subtle grin tug at the other man’s lips. “What’s amusing?”
“Oh, nothing significant. Carry on, Reaver. Do be certain to keep a tally of your expenses.”
“Always do.”
“Yes, of course.” Shaw gave one last grin before striding briskly to the door. “Incidentally, you may wish to add a small amount for Miss Widmore’s sister. I have installed her in rooms on the third floor. She will be residing here until both Miss Widmores return to Hampshire.”
“Here? Bloody, bleeding hell, Shaw.”
Shaw turned in the open doorway. When he spoke, his voice was hard. Cold. “She arrived this afternoon, white as linen. Demanded to see you, to tell you she would not permit you to ruin her sister. Then she cast up her accounts all over Fortuna. She is ill, Reaver. Slight and innocent, carrying less than four quid in her reticule. Duff told me where they’ve been staying. A hovel off Cheapside.”
Reaver ran a hand over his head and muttered a curse.
“Phoebe Widmore will be staying here,” Shaw informed him crisply, “where she may be properly fed and looked after.”
“Have you summoned Dr. Young?”
“He should arrive within the hour.”
Sighing, he nodded. “Very well. Just keep it quiet, eh? A girl can be ruined for entering a place like this, let alone residing here.”
Shaw’s disbelieving glare accused him of hypocrisy.
“Damn it, man. Augusta Widmore is not my mistress. She merely thinks she is. Far as everybody else knows, she works for me. That’s all.”
The disbelief remained. “Works for you in what capacity?”
“Whatever spinsters ordinarily do for a living.”
“She’s your governess, then.”
Reaver snorted. “Ye’re a right jester, ye are.”
“Companion?”
Contemplating the description, Reaver thought it was close enough. “Aye. Companion.”
“Spinsters are companions to other females, Reaver. Old females.”
He gritted his teeth. “Housekeeper, then.”
“Wasn’t she going to hire a housekeeper? Does one have two housekeepers?”
As he stalked through the doorway, he shoved his annoying friend aside. “God, man. Leave off.”
“Now, two secretaries—that is likelier.”
Frelling glanced up from his desk and frowned. “Are you taking on another secretary, Mr. Reaver?”
Reaver elected not to answer. Instead, he left his partner and his secretary to their bloody chuckling. They did not know how determined Augusta Widmore could be. They did not understand that he must drive her away. He must outrage her sensibilities, bring a flush to those pale cheeks.
And to do that, he must draw her close. Aye. Very close, indeed.
As he took the back stairs down into the yard, he noticed Duff eyeing him strangely.
“What is it, Duff?”
The big man adjusted his hat and sniffed. “Nothin’ much, sir. Just never seen ye smile quite like that before.”
“Like what?”
Duff shrugged. “Like ye was plannin’ to steal a batch of Cook’s peach tarts and keep ’em all for yourself.”
Reaver scoffed and continued toward the door of the adjacent building.
Duff was daft. Peach tarts? If only his temptation were so resistible.
*~*~*
Adam Shaw was still marveling at Reaver’s behavior as he knocked upon the door of Phoebe Widmore’s suite later that afternoon. His friend was obviously suffering unrequited lust, likely due to his infrequent employment of mistresses. Adam had repeatedly advised him to remedy the situation, of course, but Reaver could be intractable. Lately, his restlessness had grown as outsized as the man himself. Perhaps it was driving him mad. Distinctly possible.
Any fool would have realized by now the easiest way to rid oneself of Augusta Widmore was to grant her the use of the markers. Reaver was no fool, which left one conclusion: He relished jousting with the woman. Further, there was only one reason a man would deliberately keep the battle blazing, and it was not to send her scurrying back to Hampshire.
“My father should be here shortly, Mr. Shaw,” said Mary Frelling from behind him. “I’m afraid he’s taken up napping after luncheon.” She chuckled fondly. “Age, you know.”
Adam gave her a nod over his shoulder. He noted her husband, Frelling, grinned at her like a mooncalf. The man had been enchanted from the moment she’d stained his sleeve with her chocolate ice beneath the maples of Berkeley Square. Gunter’s had been their favorite place ever since.
He supposed she was a pleasant-looking woman—tidy and a bit plump with a dusting of freckles on her nose. He enjoyed her bright humor and sensible charm. But to entangle oneself in a woman’s skirts to such a degree? Incomprehensible.
Knocking again, this time harder, Adam waited for Miss Widmore to open the door. And waited. And waited.
His stomach tightened. What if she was unconscious? What if she needed help?
Without another second’s thought, he twisted the knob and charged inside, ignoring Mrs. Frelling’s gasp.
The sitting room was empty. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a tea tray rested upon the marble-topped table. Miss Widmore, however, was nowhere in sight.
“Er, Mr. Shaw, perhaps I should be the one to—”
Again, Adam ignored Frelling’s wife, taking the length of the room in a few strides and charging into the bedchamber.
A groan came from behind the screen on the other side of the bed. He rushed toward the sound.
“Oh, my word. Really, Mr. Shaw,” Mrs. Frelling protested. “I must insist yo
u allow me to—”
“Miss Widmore?” he called, rounding the edge of the screen.
She slumped over the chamber pot, forehead resting upon her arm, half of her wine-and-brandy curls tumbling randomly from dislodged pins. On one skein, two pins still clung to the length, having failed in their duty.
He knelt beside her, gently brushing a silken strand from her cheek. Her color fell somewhere between paper and cabbage.
“Oh, God,” she panted. “Mr. Shaw? Please … you must leave …” Her right arm clutched her middle. “I am going to be …”
For the next two minutes, she heaved terribly, her fragile bones shaking until he thought she might shatter. He stroked her back, feeling the delicate latticework of her ribs and spine through thin, pink muslin.
From behind him came a hiss of outrage. “Mr. Shaw, it is most improper—”
“Mrs. Frelling, would you be so good as to fetch a shawl?” He did not care that his tone was clipped. He used his strength to brace Phoebe Widmore against the rough spasms. “Tea and bread, as well.”
As the storm began to calm, he gently gathered her half-loosened hair in his hand, then began unpinning the rest from her unraveled knot. Soon, he was able to plait the cool, silken mass.
He’d done this for his mother countless times. Toward the end, her skin had been more gray than green or white, as though life had already departed and left cold ash in its stead.
Blinking, he forced the memories back into their box. He sent the box back across the sea to India, where it belonged.
Phoebe Widmore was not his mother. She was a girl who was dreadfully ill, panting and weak. She needed his help.
He continued stroking her back.
“You are—you are good at this,” she rasped. “But you shouldn’t be here. It is improper.”
“I am merely a servant, Miss Widmore. Much like a butler or footman. Pay me no mind.”
Her shoulders shuddered again, this time with dry, rusty laughter. “Servant. Not likely.”
“Mmm. What makes you think so?”
“I just do.”
She was beginning to relax. That was good, but he did not wish for her to fall asleep hunched over the chamber pot.
“Come.” Looping her slack arm around his neck, he gently repositioned her so he could lift her in his arms. She made a few protesting noises, but did not struggle.
She was exhausted. Pale and small-boned and hollow-eyed. He carried her to the bed, wondering what her sister had been thinking to leave her in that miserable house, alone and ill.
Why would Glassington’s markers be more important to Augusta Widmore than her sister’s welfare?
As he laid her upon the coverlet, blue eyes caught his. They were underscored by dark circles and already listing closed every few seconds. “Mr. Shaw,” she whispered, grasping his hand in her soft, cold grip.
He glanced down, wondering how her skin would look next to his, should he remove his gloves.
“Thank you for taking care of me, but I really must see Mr. Reaver.”
“He is not here.”
“Augusta, then. I want to speak with my sister.”
He searched the room for a spare blanket, finding one at the foot of the bed. Carefully, he drew it over her.
“Please, Mr. Shaw.”
“I shall send a message to your sister. One imagines she will wish to speak with you, as well, when she discovers you are residing here.”
“Here? Don’t be silly.”
He sniffed. “Well, it hasn’t a jot of feminine charm, I admit, but it’s a cut above that rat-ridden hovel—”
“I cannot stay here, Mr. Shaw. It is a gentleman’s club. I may be from Hampshire, but even I know a young lady should not be lodging in a gaming hell.”
“Reaver’s is hardly a hell. And no one will know.” He heard the clink of the tea tray as Mrs. Frelling returned. “Now, don’t fret about it. Mrs. Frelling’s father is a physician. He should arrive momentarily.”
Blue eyes flared. The waifish girl propped herself up on her elbows. “Physician?”
“Dr. Young. He’s advanced in years, but the old man still knows what he’s about. I can attest to that. He saved my life last summer.”
Mrs. Frelling came to stand at Miss Widmore’s bedside. “My father is a kind man, Miss Widmore. I think you will like him.”
The girl shook her head slowly, her eyes round and alarmed and … pleading. “No. No physician.”
Adam frowned. “You are quite ill. A physician is precisely what you need.”
She shook her head with more vigor. “Absolutely not. I refuse to see him.” Her eyes darted to Frelling’s wife. “I am sorry. I mean no insult.”
Mrs. Frelling grew quiet and thoughtful.
Adam grew frustrated. “Miss Widmore, with all due courtesy, only a halfwit would decline the services of a competent physician after spending the majority of the afternoon paying homage to the chamber pot.”
A tiny, delicate chin elevated. Blue eyes narrowed and sparked. “Then call me a halfwit if it pleases you, Mr. Shaw. Because that remains my answer.”
“Your answer is rubbish,” he snapped.
Mrs. Frelling cleared her throat. “Mr. Shaw, perhaps you could keep Mr. Frelling company in the sitting room whilst Miss Widmore and I have a chat, hmm?”
He frowned at both women, wondering what the devil was going on.
Mrs. Frelling wrinkled her freckled nose and nodded toward the door.
Weary of dueling with intractable females, he released a hiss and exited the chamber. Frelling sat on a small settee, examining his watch. He looked up when Adam strode to the fireplace and crossed his arms.
“Trouble?”
“She’s refusing to see a physician.”
“Rather odd. From the sound of things, she needs one.”
“Precisely what I told her. Confounding chit.”
For a while, they both fell quiet. Then Frelling offered, “Perhaps it is a female complaint.”
“Perhaps. Even so, she cannot go on like this much longer.” Adam remembered the feel of her spine and ribs. “I shan’t allow it.”
Frelling murmured his agreement and adjusted his spectacles.
Before long, his wife exited the chamber. “Miss Widmore has agreed to see my father.”
“At last,” Adam said wryly. “Sanity has prevailed.”
Mrs. Frelling shot him a strange look. “She was concerned about confidentiality. I assured her that Papa prizes discretion and will share his findings only with those she wishes to be informed.”
A knock sounded. Frelling moved to answer it.
Adam approached Mrs. Frelling and lowered his head. “Unacceptable. I cannot help her if I do not know what is amiss.”
She patted his elbow. “You may be accustomed to directing everyone and everything here at Reaver’s, Mr. Shaw. But I daresay you’ll find a young lady is quite another matter.”
He might have taken offense, except that her tone was amused and gentle. She obviously thought he was overreacting. But he wasn’t. Phoebe Widmore needed help. His help. And he’d be damned if he would permit her pointless desire for privacy to prevent him from taking action.
“Adam. It is good to see you looking so well.” Stooped and wizened, Dr. Everett Young came toward him with a smile and a palsied, outstretched hand.
Adam clasped it and gave the gray-haired physician a broad smile. “Good to see you awake, old man. Mrs. Frelling tells me you’ve taken up napping.”
Chuckling, Dr. Young replied, “A restorative pastime. Far superior to cricket.” He turned to his daughter. “My patient?”
She nodded and showed him into the bedchamber as he murmured, “I do hope you’ve arranged for tea, my dear.”
An hour later, Frelling had returned to his office, and Adam was contemplating an invasion worthy of the Normans. Really, how long did it take to examine a woman? He could have done it in ten minutes. Perhaps twelve. Of course, it would depend on the woman. And
how long she preferred him to linger.
With Phoebe Widmore, he suspected even an hour would not suffice.
He blinked. What the devil? She was a poor, wretchedly ill girl. Granted, her eyes were the color of periwinkle flowers and her hair a blend of port and brandy. She was pretty in the way of many Englishwomen—fair and soft-featured. Or, she would be, were she not so thin.
The point was, while she might be an attractive young woman, he had no business regarding her with such lustful thoughts. He was a civilized man, not a beast.
The bedchamber door opened. Dr. Young emerged, alongside Mrs. Frelling, who was frowning at a slip of paper.
“Ginger biscuits and …” She squinted. “What is rabbit’s left toe?”
“Raspberry leaf tea. Add some mint, as well.” Dr. Young noticed Adam and came forward. “Rest easy, dear boy. Miss Widmore will recover in time. Another two or three weeks, I should think.”
Adam glared at the old man, wondering where his wits had gone. “Two or three weeks? She is wasting away!”
Dr. Young nodded. “Be certain she eats regularly, every few hours. Only those foods she can tolerate. She mentioned chocolate. That’s a good start. Perhaps some broth. No onions. Oh, and sleep.” He gave a small smile. “She, too, will need to take up napping.”
“What is wrong with her? Tell me.”
Dr. Young patted Adam’s shoulder. “Do you know, your club serves the finest tea in London. What a pleasure it is to visit.” He moved past him to the door and pulled it open, accepting his coat and hat from Mrs. Frelling. “A pleasure to see you, as well, Adam. Perhaps you will invite me again soon.”
Tugging at his hat’s brim, he left Adam standing in Miss Widmore’s sitting room, wondering how he’d been outmaneuvered by a wisp of a girl and a palsied old man.
“I will discover the truth, Mrs. Frelling,” he said in a low voice.
She raised her brows and folded the paper neatly. “Perhaps, Mr. Shaw. But not today, hmm?”
*~*~*
CHAPTER SEVEN
“To train one’s servants adequately is an unenviable task rife with peril. Much like training children. Or intractable males of unusual stature.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter exploring the challenges of household staffing.
