by Elisa Braden
“Depends. Shaw mentioned he spotted Miss Elder and Glassington by chance outside a shop on Piccadilly a short while ago. Said she appeared smitten.” He shrugged. “Her father intends to purchase her a title, that much is clear. If the cost is her misery—”
She nodded, nibbling her lip. “Yes, I agree. Unless he bears her a great affection, he may ignore your warnings in favor of making his daughter a countess.”
“What would your father have done?”
Blinking, she considered his question. “Father wanted us safe and happy. Although he believed a title would give us the best chance at the first, he would have wanted us to have both, title or no.”
Sebastian nodded. “He would not have approved of Glassington.”
“No, I expect not.”
Ash entered, carrying a fresh pot of tea. He set it on the table with a clatter and released a dramatic breath. “Mighty ’eavy pot, Lady Reaver. Whew! I might need another slice of bacon, if ye can spare it for a poor, small lad what works ’is fingers to the bone.”
Augusta raised a brow. “Have you completed your tasks in the kitchen?”
“Every one. I carried in wood. I swept the floor. I even cleaned some pots.”
Her eyes narrowed upon him. “And the stables?”
He shifted his feet and dropped his gaze. “Might be a task or two left.”
“Such as?”
“Tendin’ the stalls.”
She waited.
“And cleanin’ the saddles.”
She suppressed a smile. The boy was incorrigible. “Have you entered the stables at all this morning, Ash?”
“Nah.”
“Did you spend the entire night in your bedchamber?”
His sweet little chin went up. “Aye, indeed, Lady Reaver. I promised, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” she said gently, unable to stop herself from stroking his hair. “Very well, you may have more bacon. But I expect you to complete your duties in the stables. And do not run off, understand? You must tell Mrs. Higgins when you have finished.”
As usual, he ceased paying attention the moment she gave him what he wanted. He dashed to the sideboard and filled a plate bigger than his head with a pile of bacon, then returned to the kitchen.
Beside her, Sebastian stood. He bent and kissed her mouth with a bit more fervor than she’d been expecting. She moaned and melted, grasping the back of his head and pulling him tighter against her.
But he drew away to gaze into her eyes. “I must go. You make me want too much, woman.”
“I do?”
“Aye. You’re bloody wondrous.”
She blinked, her throat tightening. “I am?”
“You are, love.”
“Will you be here for dinner?”
“I will.”
“Because I want you home as soon as possible.”
“Is that so?”
“Luncheon, even.”
He kissed her again.
“Or—or midmorning tea.”
And again.
“Now, Bastian. We could go upstairs now—”
He kissed her one last time, grinned wickedly, and stroked her cheek. “I like when you call me Bastian.”
“It is how I think of you,” she confessed in a whisper. “My bastion. A fortress of stone surrounding me.”
“God, love. I’ll be takin’ ye right here on the table if ye don’t stop temptin’ me.”
“Oh. Am I meant to object?”
He pulled away, the skin upon his cheeks and jaw tight and flushed. “Bloody, bleeding hell, Gus.”
As he stalked from the morning room, his pantaloons offering flagrant proof of his desire, she called, “I shall see you at dinner.”
A grunt was his only reply.
*~*~*
Outside an absurdly ostentatious house on the edges of Mayfair, Reaver watched his breath plume in the frigid air and glared hard at Shaw. “What the devil was that?”
Shaw settled his hat tighter on his head and raised a brow. “To what are you referring?”
“Ye bloody well made a muck of everything.”
A sniff. “One man’s opinion. I would say I made a fair and reasoned argument.”
“You told the man his daughter stood no chance of landing a title like Glassington’s, should he refuse to allow the match.”
“Which is true. You did not see her, Reaver. Sallow skin. Teeth better suited to Colonel Smoots, there.” He nodded at Reaver’s horse.
Reaver ran a gloved hand down his face. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Elder hastens the wedding now.”
“In fairness, Glassington is precisely the sort of gentleman he set out to leg-shackle. Titled and desperate.” He shrugged. “Who can blame a father for wanting—”
“When I told him of Glassington’s tendency to seduce and abandon virtuous young ladies, you said he should prevent disaster by locating a clergyman at once.”
“Sound advice.”
“Then you implied Glassington would ‘mature’ once he was married.”
“It could happen. Some men do.”
“What am I to tell Augusta?”
Shaw glanced down at his boots. His fists tightened and loosened. His lean jaw hardened. When he raised his eyes, they were blazing. “Tell her Phoebe should never marry that miserable pile of dung.”
Stunned by Shaw’s cold ferocity, Reaver studied the man with whom he’d built an empire. The man who had been his best friend since their docker days. Unlike Reaver, he never suffered black moods or untoward restlessness. His passions were limited to British ships, excellent tea, and the club. Reaver assumed Shaw had bedded many women, but they rarely discussed it. Shaw never boasted of his conquests or even mentioned them. And, above all, he was not sentimental. Moments earlier, Reaver would have sworn that to Shaw, no woman merited obsession.
Evidently, one woman had changed his mind.
“God, Shaw. The babe is not yours. Have you considered—”
“But she is mine. She is.”
“Have you asked her what she wants?”
“Have you?”
Reaver frowned. He hadn’t. He’d assumed Phoebe wanted Glassington to marry her and do right by the child.
“She is in love with me,” Shaw said, his voice stark.
Reaver did not bother to ask how Shaw felt. The raw emotion on his face was like looking in a mirror. “If she agrees to marry you, none of it will be easy. You understand that better than most. But it will be doubly hard for the child. Are you ready for what’s to come?”
“No man can gainsay me once Phoebe and I are wed. So long as I claim it, the child will be mine. Legally.”
“Shaw.”
His voice grew quiet. Deadly. “And she will be mine.”
“You’re not thinking clearly, man.”
“Do you suppose I do not know how we will be scorned?” His voice, now a lash, cut with precision. “I have spent my entire life being told my place. I have spent my life clawing for what I want, spiting them all.”
“I know. I fought at your side.”
“Yes. And sometimes you carried me.”
“You did the same.”
“Nothing means anything without her, Reaver. Bloody nothing.”
Reaver dropped his gaze to the frost beneath his feet. He huffed and shook his head, watching the vapor roil out and up. “Aye.” He took a deep breath. “What do you intend to do?”
“I will fight.”
“Does she wish to be won?”
“She will.”
Rubbing his forehead with his fingers, Reaver looked at his daft, besotted friend. “Very well. If you can persuade her, then I’ll help where I can.”
“Thank you, Reaver.”
“Aye. You’ll be cursing me for letting you pursue this madness when Augusta discovers your plan.”
“She cannot stop it.”
Reaver laughed loud and deep as he turned to mount his horse. Colonel Smoots shifted restlessly beneath him before settling
. He was a good horse, big and sturdy.
“Ah, Shaw. Never took you for a fool. You haven’t any idea what’s coming your way. God help us both.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“And gifts, Mr. Kilbrenner. Do not neglect the gifts.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in an addendum to a letter reminding said gentleman of recommendations for maintenance of domestic tranquility.
Sometime after luncheon, a package arrived for Augusta. Inside, she found a bottle of rose milk hand cream, a jar of sweet almond oil, and a pair of supple, white kid gloves embroidered with an exquisitely detailed bouquet of pink flowers and golden leaves. Beneath the gloves lay a note. It read, To Gus. For the hands I love best. Yrs Always, S.
Slowly, she smiled and ran a finger over the rose milk’s label, over the glove’s silk embroidery. He loved her. He must. To love her red, worn, callused hands, he must love her very much indeed.
Heat and painful pleasure filled her until she thought it would surely spill out or cause her heart to burst. It felt like … joy. Too much. It was too much. She wished to see him. To touch and kiss.
Augusta clutched the gloves to her chest, nibbling her lip and formulating a plan in which she would visit him in his office and refuse to leave until he gave her what she wanted—himself.
“What did he give you?” Phoebe said from behind her. Blue eyes were hollow, as before, only now they were also reddened. She’d been weeping.
Augusta drifted toward her sister, extending the box so she could see.
Phoebe gave the items a glance and nodded. “I am glad he decided to include the oil.”
Her heart sinking a bit, Augusta wondered if she’d read too much into the gift. Perhaps it was simply a token and not the carefully planned, love-inspired gesture she’d assumed. “These were your suggestions?”
“Only the oil. I discovered a formulation for a lovely salve. When he mentioned the gift he planned, I thought you might like—oh!”
Augusta pulled her sister into a hug.
Phoebe chuckled her surprise. “What is this about?”
“Nothing. Just that … he loves me.”
“Of course he loves you, ninny. The man is positively mad with it.”
“I never thought …”
Phoebe pulled back to meet Augusta’s eyes. “You deserve the greatest happiness. I thank God you found Sebastian, even if the circumstances under which you met have been trying.”
Augusta tucked a stray curl behind Phoebe’s ear and examined the dark circles beneath her eyes. “Tell me what is wrong, Phee.”
Her brow crumpled. Her lower lip trembled. “I cannot.”
“Yes,” Augusta commanded. “You can. You must.”
“I have burdened you too long.”
“You were never a burden.”
Phoebe snorted, her mouth twisting. “Do not lie. I’ve never been anything else.”
“That is utter rubbish, and well you know it.”
The small, delicate chin firmed and tilted to a familiar angle. It reminded Augusta of herself. She now had an inkling of how Sebastian must feel when she grew stubborn. The man must truly love her, for it was most vexing.
“If this is about Glassington,” Augusta tried, “I have promised he will be made to keep his word. You mustn’t worry.”
The assurance only seemed to increase Phoebe’s misery. Her eyes sheened.
“Dash it all! Tell me what is wrong,” she snapped. “This very moment, Phee.”
Phoebe’s mouth opened—whether to explain or vex her further, Augusta did not know—but she was interrupted by Anne, who bustled into the entrance hall looking harried.
“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Kilbrenner. Have you seen Ash?”
Augusta frowned at the housekeeper. She did not like the frantic concern upon the woman’s face. “No. Have you looked in the stables?”
Anne swallowed visibly. “I have looked everywhere. I think—I think he’s been taken.”
Cold rushed through her.
“John answered an inquiry at the service entrance yesterday,” Anne explained. “It was a man claiming to be a sweep, offering his services. John declined, of course. Our chimneys are spotless. But the man lingered outside the house. Teedle saw him an hour later, staring through the mews gate.”
The cold turned to ice, freezing Augusta from the inside. “What did he look like?” she whispered, trying to remember everything Ash had told her. It wasn’t much. The boy had slept in her room for weeks, too frightened to be anywhere else. She’d heard his nightmares. Held him as long as he would allow before squirming away. It had torn her heart in two. In time, Ash had begun to sleep soundly, but Augusta remembered his fear only too well.
“Big,” Anne said. “Not tall, but big. With great jowls, like a bulldog.”
The room swam and spun. The Dog. That was what Ash had called the monster in his nightmares. The Dog.
If that man had taken Ash, he might do anything. He might break the boy in two.
Dear heaven, Augusta could not bear it. “I must find him.”
Phoebe’s hand squeezed hers, taking the box Augusta had nearly dropped. “We must find him. You are not alone, Gus.”
Augusta glanced at Phoebe’s belly hidden beneath the folds of her gown. “No. Stay here, where it is safe.”
Her chin turned stubborn again. “I shall come along.”
“So shall I,” said Anne.
Augusta opened her mouth to refuse, but Phoebe continued calmly, “We shall stop at the club and retrieve Sebastian.”
Sebastian. Yes, of course. In her urgency, Augusta had forgotten she had … Bastian. Her protector. Her fortress. Her husband.
Phoebe was right. She was not alone. Augusta listened as Anne ordered John to have the coach prepared. Then, she tugged her sister toward the staircase. “I do not want you anywhere near this, Phee. You must think of the babe.”
“I shan’t put myself in danger.” Phoebe frowned. “Perhaps Mr. Duff could come, as well. I watched him dispatch an unruly gentleman from the club once. I suspect the man’s head may still be ringing.”
While they retrieved their pelisses and bonnets, climbed into the coach beside Anne, and braced against the sides of the carriage as it flew toward St. James, Augusta struggled against panic. It expanded her ribs, churning and tormenting her with visions of Ash’s tiny, broken body. Ash’s dark, vacant eyes. Ash’s slender arms, which had hugged her waist only once or twice, and that only when she’d refused to release him promptly.
She wanted to hurt the Dog for what he’d done to Ash already. Watch him be pummeled and bruised and crushed, hear him beg for mercy. But if he had further harmed the boy after she had promised Ash safety, she would kill him. She would find a pistol or a sword or a knife. She would cut the man in two.
They arrived at the club’s rear entrance after what felt like weeks to Augusta. While Anne and Phoebe spoke to Mr. Duff, Augusta rushed to Sebastian’s office, her heart and breath racing.
Frelling glanced up, startled. “Why, Mrs. Kilbrenner!” He adjusted his spectacles. “I fear Mr. Reav—er, Mr. Kilbrenner has gone out.”
Her heart fell. She needed Sebastian. Needed him more and more with every second that passed. “Where? Please, Mr. Frelling. This is a most urgent matter.”
“He has gone to speak with Mr. Elder. I expect his return within the hour.”
She could not wait. Time pulsed around her, wearing away at Ash’s odds. “Paper, Mr. Frelling. I need paper and a pen.”
Minutes later, she climbed inside the coach with Anne and Phoebe. Duff sat with the coachman, and John rode on the back. They careened through London’s wet winter streets, the pounding of the horses’ hooves echoing her galloping heart.
A small, steady hand squeezed hers. She looked to Phoebe, whose eyes were calm and smiling with reassurance. “We shall find him, Gus.”
Her face distorted as Augusta’s eyes welled and swam. She dashed away the tears
impatiently. Unable to speak, she simply nodded.
Eternity passed before they reached Cheapside. The street was clogged with carts, carriages, horses, and men. It stank of animals and clamored with the shouts of those selling their wares.
Traffic lightened but the street narrowed as they rounded a corner toward the lodging house. Before the carriage fully stopped, Augusta threw open the coach door. Her feet could not carry her swiftly enough. Distantly, she heard Phoebe following behind.
As usual, Mrs. Renley was little help. The rotund woman, red-eyed and listing, squinted at Augusta’s inquiry. “Boy? Haven’t seen a boy.”
“Do you know where a boy might be staying round here? There would be more than a few. Chimney sweeps or—”
“Lot of pickpockets, ye mean. No.” She shook her head then appeared to think better of it as she wobbled on her feet. “Last pickpocket I saw made off with a week’s rent. If I knew where ’ee were, I’d have walloped ’im good.”
Augusta gritted her teeth. She’d pinned all her hopes on Mrs. Renley’s assistance. She should have known better. The woman hadn’t been helpful in so much as removing dead rats from the staircase. Cursing beneath her breath, Augusta turned to Anne, who appeared as frantic as she. “We shall have to begin a search, house by house. He and the other boys stayed somewhere near here. I just don’t know where.” She rubbed her forehead, wishing Sebastian were there, holding her.
“Augusta,” Phoebe said softly from behind her.
Augusta turned. Her sister stood beside a tall, slender woman with dark-brown hair and a flat bosom. “Miss Honeybrook?”
The woman with the cynical smile and unusual assortment of costumes sauntered forward. “Miss Widmore. I understand you’re searching for a band of young brigands. Fancy themselves sweeps, though they’re more likely to clean your pockets than your chimney.”
“Yes. Do you know where I might find them?”
Miss Honeybrook’s head nodded in the direction of the alley on the south side of the building. “Four houses down. I see them come and go. An older one propositioned me once.” Her mouth quirked and she rolled her eyes. “I told him he’d a few more years of diving before he could afford me.”
