Anything but a Gentleman Page 5

  Augusta started toward the door to the bedchamber. “Mr. Duff, if you will kindly wait here whilst I pack a few items, I should be most grateful.” Gesturing for Phoebe to follow, she waited only moments inside the room before her slim, pale sister charged past her. Augusta closed the door gently and headed for her trunk, which was tucked neatly into one corner.

  “Augusta!” Phoebe hissed. “Explain, if you please. I thought you’d headed to Leadenhall Market to purchase some meat for supper. You were gone an hour longer than I expected, only to arrive with”—she gestured wildly toward the bedchamber door—“some enormous man!”

  Digging through her possessions, Augusta located her small reticule and withdrew two shillings. She recalled the boy’s thin, bony arms then doubled the amount before looping the reticule’s strings over her wrist.

  “Here.” She held the coins out to Phoebe, who shook her head. “Take them,” Augusta ordered. “They are for the boy. He will come after I leave.”

  “Tell me what is going on. Why are you wearing an apron?”

  Augusta’s hand fell to her side, clutching the coins tightly.

  Phoebe had changed. Augusta been slow to see it, as their circumstances were dire, and action—not contemplation—had consumed her of late. But the differences were noticeable. Phoebe was thinner, even more delicate than before. Slender arms often hugged her middle. White skin had grown snowy, blue eyes bigger and underscored with half-moon shadows. Her ill stomach was likely to blame. And the fretting, Augusta supposed. Fretting had grown like a demon, complete with teeth and horns, over the past two months.

  Her physical changes were not the only difference, however. Phoebe rarely demanded answers—rarely demanded anything, really. She’d long been the sort of girl who let life take her where it would. She was sweet. Biddable. A pretty blossom waiting for sun and dew and bees to pay her a visit.

  She accepted the gowns Augusta provided, attended the fetes Augusta suggested, played the tunes Augusta commanded on their shabby square pianoforte. And, while Phoebe shared Augusta’s dark-red hair, she’d never demonstrated a hint of Augusta’s temperament.

  Today was the exception.

  Augusta moved nearer and gently eased open Phoebe’s cold fingers where they gripped pink muslin over her belly. The coins clinked into her palm.

  “Give these to the boy.” Augusta slid the reticule from her wrist and set it atop the coins. “Keep the rest for yourself.”

  Blue eyes flew up, sparking with temper. “What are you doing?”

  Raising her chin, Augusta replied, “What I’ve always done, Phee. Whatever is necessary.”

  Phoebe’s chest heaved as she stared at the brown wool reticule. “You are leaving me here. You’ve done something …” She swallowed and covered her mouth. “Something to do with Mr. Reaver?”

  “I am to reside with him—”

  “No.”

  “—for six weeks. Afterward, he will permit me the use of—”

  “No!” A tear trickled past half-moon shadows.

  “—Lord Glassington’s markers.” Augusta gripped Phoebe’s shoulders. They felt fragile and small, like a child’s. “It is the only way. Listen to me.”

  “I will not listen. I have listened too long. Enough of this, Augusta! I shall not allow you to pay such a price for my mistakes.”

  “I shall not allow you to pay a higher price. This is six weeks of my life. If we cannot persuade Glassington to keep his promises to you, then your punishment will last forever. And your child will be born a bastard. Is that what you want for him? To live as a bastard rather than an earl’s heir?”

  She shook her head, lip quivering, shoulders slumping.

  “Quite right. Now, then.” Augusta reached back to untie her apron. “You needn’t fret. Mr. Reaver may be a giant, but he is no monster. I suspect he is trying to put me off.”

  “By demanding you live with him?”

  “Mmm. It is my impression that he finds my persistence a trifle vexing.”

  “He is not the only one,” Phoebe muttered, forgetting that Augusta’s hearing was excellent.

  Depositing the folded apron on the bed, Augusta stripped off her cap and presented her back to her sister. “Help me, please. I can scarcely breathe in this frock.”

  Phoebe complied, loosening the hooks at the back of the bodice. “Good heavens. How on earth did you manage to fasten these in the first place?”

  “Miss Honeybrook assisted me. Incidentally, you may wish to keep your distance from that one. These costumes … well, I suspect Miss Honeybrook is not precisely treading the boards at a Theatre Royal.”

  “You did not keep your distance.”

  “My association was necessary. Yours is not.”

  “I like her.”

  “Don’t be stubborn,” Augusta chided. “I shan’t be here to watch over you. You must protect yourself.”

  A sigh and a jerk of the fabric. “How much more ruined can I possibly be, for goodness’ sake?”

  The final hook gave way. Augusta wheezed a deep, satisfying breath and moaned at the sublime relief. Her bosoms ached from being flattened, but by God, she had done it. She had forced Reaver’s hand. And in only six short weeks, Glassington would keep his promise and marry Phoebe.

  The timing was tight. By then, her sister might be showing, but no matter. Glassington could hardly protest, since he’d been the one to plant the seed.

  Perhaps she could persuade Mr. Reaver to accompany her when she confronted the blackguard. She grinned, imagining the scene. Mr. Reaver was a masterful intimidator.

  “Why are you smiling? Augusta, honestly. This is mad. Let us return to Hampshire. I shall marry Mr. Snellgrove. He flirted with me outside the church two days before we left for London.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Lewis Snellgrove is a farmer’s fourth son.”

  “He has always been kind to me.”

  “He is poor as a church mouse and closely resembles a cow.”

  “But he will marry me without asking questions.”

  Augusta sniffed and plucked a new gown from her trunk, tossing the black wool chambermaid’s costume beside the apron. “Lord Glassington made a promise, and he will keep it. That is that.” Just as she would keep her promises. It was what Father would have wanted. It was what was best for Phoebe and the child.

  Besides, Augusta had already made her agreement with Mr. Reaver. She had no intention of backing down from that black-eyed devil.

  A curious thrill chased round her spine as she recalled the hard set of his jaw, the span of his hands, the onyx flash of his eyes. Swallowing, she brushed the image away.

  “Come, Phee. Help me dress. By Christmas, this will all seem nothing but a momentary hardship, followed by a lifetime of comfort.”

  Her sister’s only answer was another sigh.

  Twenty minutes later, dressed in green-and-white checked cambric topped with her brown pelisse and straw bonnet, Augusta led Mr. Duff out of the dreadful lodging house. Rain had started again, sullen and gray. Surreptitiously, she glanced up and down the street, taking care not to draw Mr. Duff’s notice.

  Carts and refuse. A pair of drunkards exiting a public house. A feral cat darting into the alley. She breathed deeply in relief. The boy had followed her direction.

  Additionally, the hack had remained in place. Mr. Duff’s threats had accomplished their aim. While the big man loaded her trunk, she climbed inside.

  Where a small, dark form huddled on the floor.

  Her eyes flared, her heart squeezing. Stuttering.

  A filthy cap tilted up until the most visible part of him was the white of his eyes.

  Her own eyes narrowed. She wanted to shout at him. Grasp his arm and yank him from the coach’s interior. But she could not. The blasted boy would be snatched by Mr. Duff in a trice. Even if she could prevent his being pummeled, he would likely be turned over to a constable. Who knew what sort of punishment would befall him then.

  Instead, she sat calmly, pul
ling the door closed with a snap. “You have forfeited your coins, boy,” she hissed. “I distinctly remember telling you to hide.”

  The coach rocked as Mr. Duff climbed up beside the driver.

  Wide eyes blinked. “I did. ’Ee didn’t see me, did ’ee? Ye headed back to Reaver’s?”

  “No.”

  The boy fell silent. The sound of him scratching some unknown itch chafed in the background as they pulled away from the lodging house. “Where to, then?”

  “That is none of your concern. When we stop, you should wait until I can distract Mr. Duff, then either exit the hack or remain inside until the driver reaches his next stop.”

  “If I exit, I should know where I am.”

  Her mouth tightened. Phoebe had never been this disobedient; it made her teeth grind. “My destination is Mr. Reaver’s private residence in Marylebone.”

  He gave a low whistle. “Never thought of ye as that sort, Miss Widmore.”

  She felt prickling heat touch her cheeks before snapping, “What sort?”

  “The ’ousekeeper sort. Sure enough, ye like things clean, but I figured ye for a lady.” Another round of scratching. “Could ye get me on there, d’ye suppose? I’m a rum hand with hearths and chimneys and such.”

  “Boy—”

  “They call me Ash, they do. That’s ’ow good I am.”

  She released a frustrated breath. “Boy, I cannot—”

  “Ye can call me Ash, too, if ye like. Seein’ as ’ow we’ll be workin’ in the same house, it’s only right.”

  “I cannot get you a position in Mr. Reaver’s household. I shall only be there six weeks. Now, do as I say and—”

  “Six weeks! That’s plenty. After I’m finished, Reaver’ll beg me to stay on.”

  Sensing the fruitless nature of their argument, she gritted her teeth, clamped her lips closed, and tightened her fingers in her lap.

  Reaver would have no interest in either hiring the boy or keeping him on. In fact, she predicted he would do all in his power to rid himself of her long before six weeks had passed.

  Well, they would see about that, wouldn’t they?

  “Lady,” the boy whispered, followed by more scratching. “Do ye suppose Reaver makes his servants wear livery?”

  She closed her eyes in dread and asked, “Why?”

  “I think I ’ave fleas.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Properly, a gentleman belongs to a club, Mr. Kilbrenner. If it happens the other way round, he is no gentleman at all.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining poorly understood concepts in terms even a ruffian might comprehend.

  It looked nothing like she’d pictured, nothing at all like a gentleman’s club. Phoebe Widmore frowned up at the four-story brick building in a tiny square off St. James. It had a red door and long, symmetrical windows.

  She would have imagined an elderly couple living there. Or a widow with multiple pugs and a penchant for lengthy anecdotes. She would not have guessed that this—this—was the infamous Reaver’s.

  Behind her, the hack rattled away. There was no help for it. She could not bear for Augusta to sacrifice herself to that … man. Sebastian Reaver. By all accounts, he was a lowborn ruffian, wealthy and powerful though he might be. Of course, the only account she’d heard was Augusta’s, but still.

  Straightening her spine to Widmore standards, Phoebe swallowed down her nausea and ascended the few short steps to the door. She knocked twice.

  Did one knock upon the door of a gentleman’s club? She’d never asked.

  The red door opened. Inside the shadowy interior, she saw only a white cravat and waistcoat. Then, she saw teeth. Those were white, too.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Oh, good heavens. His voice was … delicious. Like chocolate, dark and rich and sinfully warm. By contrast, his accent was crisp and proper. Perfectly English. Perfectly refined.

  “Well, now, it appears you’ve lost your way. What address were you seeking? Perhaps I can assist.”

  Yes, like chocolate. If she’d been able to afford such a luxury, she would drink a cup every morning. Of late, everything else made her sick. But not that.

  The door opened wider as he stepped into the light.

  Her eyes flared. He was the color of chocolate, too. Well, perhaps tea or cinnamon. Dark and rich. Handsomer than any man she’d ever seen, with a slender nose and black hair. And his eyes. Good heavens. Thick-lashed and glowing, they were like bronze or amber.

  A single black brow rose. “Miss?”

  “I—is this … Reaver’s?”

  A subtle grin curled his lips, drawing her attention. “Indeed it is.” He glanced toward the sky beyond her bonnet. “I’m afraid we do not permit ladies to enter.” Those eyes searched her face then swept the length of her walking dress. They lingered on her muddy hem. “However, as it is raining, perhaps I can arrange for a hack.”

  Blinking away her peculiar fascination with his sculpted, lovely lips, she straightened further and moved a step closer. “I am here to speak with Mr. Reaver. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  A long pause. “Hmm. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Miss Widmore, would it?”

  She frowned. “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” He sighed and tilted his head. “Mr. Reaver is not available.”

  “Oh, but I must speak with him, Mr. …?”

  “Shaw.”

  “I must see him, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Regretfully, I must decline your request.”

  “You cannot.”

  “And yet, I did.”

  “He has”—she glanced around to ensure they were alone—“propositioned my sister in a most ungentlemanly fashion. I shan’t allow it.”

  “Your sister. Miss Augusta Widmore.”

  “Yes.”

  “The same Augusta Widmore who entered this fine establishment this very morning dressed as a chambermaid.”

  Her mouth tightened as she glimpsed the wicked humor in those amber eyes. “She is a good woman, Mr. Shaw. A spinster from Hampshire! Her aims were simply to—”

  “Acquire Lord Glassington’s markers. Yes. I know.”

  Her hands landed upon her hips. “And do you know that Mr. Reaver has demanded she live with him? At his house?”

  At last, surprise lit Mr. Shaw’s handsome features. He blinked. Frowned. Tapped the edge of the door with a gloved finger. “That is … most unlikely. You misunderstood the situation.”

  Out of patience, she charged forward, pushing past him. “Did I misunderstand the brutish Mr. Duff coming to collect my sister’s belongings? I think not.”

  “Duff visited your residence?”

  A statue of a woman stood a few feet away. She was draped in Greek fashion and held a cone-shaped basket filled with coins. Phoebe blinked. The entire space was a study in ostentation—ornate silk walls, gilt mirrors, gleaming wood.

  “He accompanied my sister to help transport her trunk to Mr. Reaver’s house. I must …” Inside, her throat swelled in a familiar fashion. Oh, dear.

  Her hand moved over her belly. Oh, no.

  The scent of roasting meat and wine assaulted her in a fog of sick. Her stomach churned. Her gorge rose. She sensed Mr. Shaw behind her, heard him murmuring something about her pallor. Frantic, she covered her mouth and searched the foyer for some sort of receptacle. A vase or urn would do.

  “Good God. Do not. Miss Widmore, just wait …”

  She could not wait. It was coming. Suddenly and with great force. She staggered forward. Clutched at something cold and woman-shaped. A moment later, she filled the frigid woman’s cornucopia with something far less desirable than gold.

  The next thing she knew, she was being wrapped up in heat and strength and a clean, arid scent. “Rest easy, now,” that sinful voice soothed. “I shall look after you. Cannot have the sister of Reaver’s new mistress perishing on my watch, now can I?”

  *~*~*
<
br />   He had lied to her. Augusta did not know why she’d thought him above deliberate deception, but she had been wrong.

  “This is not your house,” she said tightly, glaring about the vast, empty drawing room. “When did you secure it? This morning? We had an agreement, Mr. Reaver.”

  “What are you on about, woman?” His grumble was deep and low behind her.

  She spun in place. “It is empty. All of it.”

  A fierce glower creased his forehead. “You’ve seen the staircase and the drawing room. That’s hardly all of it.”

  “If one’s drawing room is empty, one’s house is empty. Which begs the question of whether it is, in fact, one’s house.”

  He grunted. “Ye’re daft. I haven’t had time to buy a cartload of bloody furniture. I’ve a club to run.”

  “How long have you owned this place?”

  He did not answer. Instead, those onyx eyes bored into her with ferocious irritation.

  She tugged her gloves tighter and walked past him to the window—one of four in the cavernous, beautiful room. “This won’t do. You do not even have a proper housekeeper, let alone a butler. A maid-of-all-work for a house this size? Preposterous.”

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

  “Oh, you needn’t ask. It is my gift to you.”

  The town house was enormous, occupying one entire corner of Cavendish Square. Like its purported owner, it was rather simple and spare on the outside. Red brick. Stout, white quoins on the corners. Seven long windows spaced symmetrically across each of the four stories, and all topped with a fifth level sporting seven dormers.

  No, the exterior was much like other houses she’d seen in fashionable Mayfair and Marylebone. But inside … ah, inside, it was lovely. Lovely and large and empty.

  “I shall begin interviewing servants tomorrow. Have you a cook?”

  “Don’t need one. I take my meals at the club.” He was nearer than she had expected. Quite close, actually. She could smell the wool of his coat.

  A tiny shiver rippled over her skin. Ignoring the odd sensation, she continued crisply, “Well, I cannot do likewise.”