CHAPTER ONE
“If you must speak like a night soil man, at least choose one vulgar pattern rather than several. Your particular blend of London dockworker and Cumberland rustic may be comprehensible to lowborn ruffians, but it tries the nerves of those with superior breeding.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the merits of proper diction.
October 26, 1819
London
“I keep it? The whole lot.” Thick, dark grime upon the boy’s face failed to mask his skepticism. He snorted and adjusted his cap. The hat was, if anything, filthier than the boy himself. “Gammon, that.” He aimed a grimy thumb over his shoulder at the unusually large fellow standing guard at a door across the mews. “Ee’s like to crush me ’ead betwixt his fingers. Worse. Bugger me.” The boy spit on the cobblestones. “That why ye say I can keep it all? Aye. Ye aim to sell me arse. Lady, I might be a rum diver, but I ain’t no—”
Although she’d comprehended approximately half of the boy’s diatribe, Augusta Widmore stopped him with a tsk. “The terms of our agreement have not changed since we first discussed them. You may keep the coin I give you and you may keep whatever you … obtain from Mr. Duff.” She straightened and gazed her challenge down at the grimy youth. “Provided you are as swift and skilled as you claim.”
Glittering, cynical eyes narrowed. “Nobody better.”
She managed to translate the second word—“beh-ah”—from the context of their conversation, but his speech was swift and vulgar, his accent a series of stunted grunts and coiling vowels. A different language, really. No one spoke this way in Hampshire. No one of her acquaintance, at any rate.
How she longed to return. A fortnight in London was more than sufficient to send her fleeing back to her tiny cottage with its rustling chestnut trees and scent of beeswax.
She raised her chin. “A bold claim. It would seem you have some proving to do.”
He sniffed and glared over his shoulder. “Ee catches me, I want double.”
“No.”
“’Aff now, ’aff later. Double, like I said.”
“And I said no. You made a promise. I expect you to honor it, as I will mine.”
He snorted rudely.
“Something in your throat, perhaps?”
The boy mumbled and shifted, casting dubious glances in Mr. Duff’s direction. With a neck that showed no discernable narrowing from a sizable head, the guard at the back door of the gaming club was an intimidating sight. Augusta understood the boy’s hesitation. If Mr. Duff caught him, his fate might be dire, indeed.
She inched past the wheel of the cart they stood behind, taking care to pull her skirts clear of a malodorous pile before sidling closer to the boy. “He is large, yes.”
Another snort. “Aye, lady. That ’ee is.”
“His size will make him slow.”
The boy swallowed and gave a jerky nod.
“Be certain he notices. Be certain he follows you.”
A deep sigh shuddered from a chest that was far too thin.
She gritted her teeth and smothered her conscience. It must be done. “And, boy?”
“Aye?”
“Be certain he does not catch you.”
The boy pulled his hat tighter on his head, hitched up rough, dirty breeches, and swiped at his nose with a grimy wrist. “Aye.” The single syllable cracked in the middle.
She nearly stopped him. Nearly reached out to grasp the bony arm, but he’d already moved away, crossing the cobblestones into the shadow of red bricks and dark timbers.
Augusta castigated herself for her moment of weakness. Sympathy for pickpockets? She could ill afford such softheaded rubbish.
Watching the boy dart between a departing delivery wagon and a stack of wine barrels, she moved around the rear of the cart, struggling to draw a full breath without gagging.
Good heavens. Even in one of the cleanest, wealthiest parts of town, the filth was staggering. Again, she thought of her Hampshire cottage. The gated garden where she grew mint and rosemary. The little parlor with its tidy hearth. The bookcase stocked with what remained of her father’s books.
She would kiss every inch of beeswax-polished wood when she returned. But for now, she would remain in London and do what must be done. For Phoebe’s sake.
Everything was for Phoebe’s sake. It always had been.
As Mr. Duff shouted an order at one of the gaming club’s grooms, and the wagon rattled out of sight into the alley that led onto St. James, the busy mews began to quiet. It was a pattern she’d noted over the past week—this hour of the morning, fewer patrons came and went, and Mr. Duff could often be found alone at the service entrance.
Now was her best chance.
A shadow slunk between two barrels and crouched beside the wooden steps leading up to the door.
The boy was good. Small and quick. He would complete his task without being caught, Augusta assured herself. And if he did not, if Mr. Duff tried to hurt him …
Her eyes darted to a long, iron pry bar lying on the rim of the cart.
Well, she could not allow him to be injured. She prayed the boy was as stealthy as he’d claimed.
“Ey! What the devil? Come ’ere, ye little thief!”
The boy ducked a giant, swiping paw, sprang sideways, and sprinted past the stable. Mr. Duff lumbered after him with heavy thuds and a string of insults for the boy’s parentage. As they passed Augusta’s position and headed toward the alley, Mr. Duff’s long strides closed the distance between them. They turned the corner and disappeared.
She listened, struggling to hear past her quickened breaths and pounding heart. No squeals from the boy. No sounds of thrashing.
She shot a glance at the wooden steps and unguarded door.
Now, Augusta. Now.
She rushed across the mews, making no attempt to hide. Speed was more important. She had to get inside before Mr. Duff returned.
She climbed the steps, nearly tripping herself on her own petticoats. Grasping the knob, she twisted and stumbled inside. Leaned back against the door. Blinked. Breathed. Examined her surroundings—or tried to, at least. It was dark. She was in a long passage, she thought, but there was little light.
Straightening, she listened. In the distance, she heard servants chattering. Masculine laughter. A feminine taunt. Footsteps.
She smelled … something delicious. Onions and roasting meat. Yeasty bread. A wine sauce of some sort.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.
As her eyes accustomed to the dark, she spotted an opening off the corridor. If her information was correct, she needed to locate the service stairs and make her way up three floors. A clank sounded. A man shouted a curse. She darted ahead and ducked blindly into the opening.
And halted.
A maid descended the stairs, her gray skirts swinging, her steps brisk and cheerful. The girl’s arms were piled high with linens, so her attention was on her feet.
Quickly, Augusta flattened herself along one wall, hoping the deep shadows would hide her.
The maid drew closer. She was whispering beneath her breath. Counting.
“Seventy-nine. Eighty.” She paused as she navigated the bottom step. Her feet shuffled. Then the count continued. “Eighty-one.”
Mere inches away, she halted again. Her skirts whispered against Augusta’s. She shifted the load of linens that towered past her mobcap and whispered, “Or is it eighty-two?” A scoff. “Who will care? It’s just a wager with Big Annie, ye silly goose. Now, if it were Mr. Reaver …” The girl shuddered, her stack tilting this way and that. Apparently, Mr. Reaver was a good deal more exacting than Big Annie.
Augusta could believe it. She’d learned a lot about the proprietor of Reaver’s over the past ten days. And none of it boded well for her present task.
His reputation made him sound like a dark god. Hades, perhaps—the guardian of the underworld. Few ever saw him. No one was granted an audience unless he requested it, and when he requested it, the reasons were usually … unpleasant.
The owner of the most exclusive gaming establishment in all of London had not become one of the richest men in all of England by being charitable. No, indeed. Sebastian Reaver—former pugilist, tavern owner, and general ruffian—always collected upon his markers. One way or another.
Most spoke of him in forbidding tones. His staff. The club’s members. The men who delivered coal and the ones who lit the lamps in the club’s quiet square off St. James. Everyone spoke about Mr. Reaver as if he were the devil himself.
Which was why, although her heart pounded while she waited for the little maid with the big stack of linens to pass, Augusta feared discovery far less than what lay ahead.
One step at a time, Augusta. One step at a time.
The maid resumed counting. “Eighty-five. Eighty-seven. Eighty-nine.”
There, now. She’d turned the corner.
Augusta released a breath, her head swimming. With renewed purpose, she climbed the narrow wooden stairs, pausing on the landing to listen for voices. Again, all was quiet. Hurrying now, she raced up one flight after the next, clutching her skirts higher than was proper. Finally, she reached the floor where she’d been assured she would find Mr. Reaver’s private office. She cracked open the door that led into a hushed, white-paneled corridor. Cringing as the boards creaked beneath her feet, she glanced to either side. Empty. Relief was a warm wash. She rushed down the corridor, searching frantically for the hidden door. It should be tucked inside a recess, just past the seventh sconce. Most who managed to visit this floor, her source had claimed, thought it the entrance to a closet or equally innocuous space. He had not used the word “innocuous,” of course. Much like the pickpocket she’d hired to distract Mr. Duff, her source had scarcely spoken a word of proper English, weighing her coins in his palm and muttering about “daft chits what need a man ta take ’em in ’and.”
Augusta begged to differ. She did not need a man. Not for herself, at any rate.
Passing the fifth sconce, she stopped.
Footsteps. A refined masculine voice with admirable diction. It could only be Mr. Shaw, the club’s majordomo.
Oh, dear God. She spun in place, searching frantically for the recess and finding only white paneling and sporadic doors. Ahead, dividing the corridor into two sections was a cased opening where a door must have once been. She rushed toward it, hoping the framed protrusion would hide her well enough. But just before she reached it, the long paneled wall—designed to appear flat until one stood in this precise spot—gave way to a recess.
Inside the recess was a dark wood door.
As Mr. Shaw’s voice grew louder, his brisk footsteps closer, she closed her eyes briefly. Said a quick prayer. And opened the door.
The antechamber was smaller than she’d imagined. Hushed and plain, it contained only a small, L-shaped desk and a rather large set of winged chairs. From floor to ceiling along one wall stood a series of wooden drawers with numbered labels topped by shelves of ledgers. All the ledgers were uniform in size, their spines labeled with a code of numbers and dashes. Upon the desk sat two lamps, both brightly lit. On the far wall was another door.
This was it. Her reason for coming to London, spending her coins on pickpockets and bribable servants, risking her reputation and her safety.
Because she must.
Because Phoebe would suffer if she did not.
She smoothed her hair with a gloved hand. Adjusted the folds of her brown woolen pelisse. Gathered her breath and courage.
Opened the door to the devil’s lair. And stepped inside without so much as a by-your-leave.
The room was not what she’d expected. Neither was he.
“Need a new ink pot, man,” rumbled the black-haired giant wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. He sat behind an oak desk as plain, massive, and neatly arranged as the room itself. He did not look up from his ledger, instead giving the nib of his pen a disgusted glare. “Ran through another one this morning.”
The man’s voice was so deep, it vibrated through the plank floors and up into her bones. She could not place his accent. It sounded similar to the pickpocket’s, but much more comprehensible with rounder O’s, flatter A’s, and a bit of a burr. Northern, perhaps, near the Scottish border? At least she could understand him. That would make this conversation easier.
From where she stood, she could see the white of his shirt, the gray of his waistcoat, the black slash of his brows. She could measure the width of his shoulders and the muscles of his arms as he wrote. His wrists were thick and solid. His hands looked bigger than her head.
She wondered if she might disgrace herself by swooning.
Good God. The man was twice a normal human’s size. He was wider than Mr. Duff and much, much more muscular. His forearms, dusted liberally with hair the same black as the close-shorn strands upon his head, bulged and flexed and rippled in fascinating fashion.
He could not be real. Giants were a myth.
“Frelling, either speak or leave. We’ve discussed this.”
Mr. Frelling was Mr. Reaver’s secretary. Ordinarily, the man would be ensconced in the antechamber, but Augusta had learned of Frelling’s fondness for taking his new wife to Gunter’s Tea Shop on Tuesday mornings. Evidently, this was news to Mr. Reaver.
Delicately, she cleared her throat.
His pen did not stop. He dipped it into the waning ink pot.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to push away from the door and step further into the room. Closer to … him. “Mr. Reaver, there is a matter we must discuss.”
He kept writing.
“It is most urgent.”
The pen stilled. Thick, long, blunt fingers placed it back into its stand with a decisive click. Then, they removed the silver-rimmed spectacles from his nose and laid them gently upon the oak desk. He straightened in his chair and flexed his right hand as though it pained him. Finally, he looked at her.
She lost her breath. His eyes were like onyx.
“Unless you are here delivering ink, we have nothing to discuss. Nothing whatever.”
She moved three steps closer. “My name is—”
“I know who you are.”
“—Miss Augusta Widmore. One of your club’s members is a gentleman with whom I am acquainted. Lord Glassington. He … owes you a substantial sum.”
His features were strangely raw. Heavy brows. Piercing black eyes, cold and deep. A hawkish nose with a crook at the bridge like a road cut in two. His jaw was wide and square, the bones of his cheeks sharp and unforgiving. Darkness shadowed the lower half of his face where his whiskers threatened to grow. He’d been ruthless with the hair upon his head, cutting it severely short. She imagined he’d be equally ruthless with his beard. And with people, for that matter.
“You may leave on your own. Or I may toss you out the door. Your choice.”
She swallowed. Licked her lips. Moved another step closer. “Regretfully, I must prevail upon your honor, sir.”
Most men would have risen by now. Even the lowliest knew it was customary to stand when in the presence of a lady.
She cleared her throat. “With the greatest respect, I would ask you to forfeit Lord Glassington’s markers.”
“No.”
“I haven’t yet explained my reasons. Allow me to—”
“With the greatest respect, Miss Augusta Widmore, your reasons mean less to me than the deposits made in the privy this morning.”
Her mind stuttered as she took his meaning.
“Now. Leave my office.”
“Mr. Reaver, I realize my request is unusual—”
“You are the fourth one this week. And it is only Tuesday.”
The fourth? Blast. It was worse than she’d imagined. Much worse than she’d hoped. “Nevertheless, I beseech you. If you will only listen—”
“How did you elude Shaw? He would not have let you inside, much less shown you to my office.”
She pressed her lips together. How to answer? “Mr. Shaw refused me entry. He is unaware of my presence.”
His expression—as forbidding and chilling as his reputation—darkened. “So, it was Duff.”
“No,” she answered, cursing the tremor in her voice. “I found my way here on my own. You mustn’t seek to punish your employees. They are not to blame.”
He released an amused puff of air. “If you are here, then they have failed in their duties.” Unnerving onyx eyes swept the length of her, pausing almost imperceptibly at her hips and her shoulders. Though, perhaps that last stop had been slightly below her shoulders. It happened too quickly to be certain. “And you are undeniably here.”
She swallowed. Her eyes fell to his hands, casually clasped atop his desk. Blunt, sizable fingers were stained with ink. It was difficult to imagine a man as physically powerful and ruthlessly potent as this one sitting behind a desk all day, complaining of empty ink pots.
“I am here because you are the only one who can help me.” Her eyes lifted to find him frowning. “Lord Glassington’s debt is outrageously large, so it is understandable that you would hesitate to set it aside. But he was deep in his cups when he—”
“If I forgave every marker signed by a drunkard, I would be both a pauper and a bloody imbecile.”
“He has family obligations, sir. Responsibilities.”
“They all do. Never stopped one from turning a card.”
“His judgment was appalling, but—”
Black eyes narrowed upon her. “Who is this blighter to you, Miss Augusta Widmore? Not your brother, for he hasn’t any siblings. Some other relation?”
“How we are acquainted is of little consequence.”
Mr. Reaver’s hands flattened upon his desk. He pushed to his feet. Straightened to his full height.
Dear God and all His angels. Not a myth. Giants were very, very real.
He rounded the desk and approached. She now wished with every fiber of her quivering being that she had not tread so deeply into the room. In fact, she was beginning to regret every choice that had led to this moment—coddling Phoebe, believing Glassington, leaving Hampshire. The last one especially.
Augusta was hardly a small woman—several inches above average for a female, in fact. But he towered a foot taller than she. Maybe more. That would be sufficient to explain her spinning head and sudden need for air. But he was also broad enough to block all light from the office’s window, casting his rough-hewn features into stark shadow.
His gaze scoured her skin. She could imagine what he saw. Plain, albeit dignified, Widmore features. Dark-red hair pinned flat against her head to tame the curl. Unadorned straw bonnet. Woven wool pelisse that might have been fashionable five years earlier, when she’d first sewn it, but was now worn and dull. Gloved hands tightly clasped at her waist.
Despite the intensity in his gaze, she did not delude herself that he found her comely. She’d gone eight-and-twenty years without a man commenting upon her attractiveness. After so long, the conclusions were obvious.
No, Mr. Reaver was not staring down at her from his great, gargantuan height because he was riveted by her beauty. This was a test. His silent regard was meant to intimidate, to make her shrink and retreat.
Well, perhaps she was no beauty. And perhaps her quiet life in Hampshire had been poor training for a confrontation of this sort. But Mr. Reaver had a thing or two to learn about Augusta Widmore if he thought a bit of size and intimidation would dissuade her from her task.
She lifted a brow. “Staring is rude, you know.”
Once again, he frowned. One of those blunt, ink-stained fingers came up to flick her lapel. The gesture startled her. He was like a great bear playing with his food.
“Figured you’d landed a ripe one, eh? Newly minted earl. Did he promise marriage, then?”
She retreated two steps before she stopped herself. Tension took hold of the muscles in her legs and belly and neck. He was too close to the truth.
“Must have disappointed ye when he lost all but the title in a single fortnight.”
“Disappointed” did not begin to describe her reaction. Glassington had destroyed not only his own fortune but everything she’d worked to build since she was seventeen. He’d consigned a woman who had trusted him with her heart and her body to a life of disgrace and poverty.
All for two weeks of drunken revelry.
She raised her chin and held his gaze. “It is not for Lord Glassington’s sake that I make my request. Others will be harmed when you call in his markers. Innocents who have done nothing more than—”
“Trust the wrong bloody nob. Aye. A common problem, that.” His head gave a subtle tilt. “Not my problem, however. ”
She blinked and stiffened in alarm as he closed the few feet between them and leaned forward until his chest nearly touched her nose. Behind her, the faint squeak of the doorknob sounded. A whoosh of air moved her skirts.
Oh! He was opening the door. Thank goodness. For a moment, she’d thought he intended to … but, no. Mr. Reaver might be a lowborn ruffian, but he was not known for importuning women. In fact, amidst all the reports and rumors she’d collected, precious little was said about his habits regarding female companionship. He was unmarried, but that was all her sources knew.
“Time to go, Miss Widmore.”
He smelled better than she would have guessed. Rather good, actually. Like bracing autumn air—clean and golden with just a hint of wool and wood smoke.
A gigantic paw encircled her upper arm. Before she could speak a word, he spun her about and propelled her through the door. While painless, her exit was swift and tidal. There was no resisting it.
Although she lost her breath somewhere inside the antechamber, she managed to castigate him by the time they turned into the corridor.
“Mr. Reaver! This is most unmannerly.” She had to crane her neck to see past her bonnet’s brim, but she caught a glimpse of flexing jaw. “Release me at once, sir.”
He did not release her. He did not even slow his pace, which was striding for him and sprinting for her.
“Have you no conscience? No honor?”
At last, he halted. Turned her to face him.
Breathless, she watched as he bent forward. Was he … bowing to her? How very odd.
His shoulder brushed her midsection. A moment later, the world upended. She yelped as a band of warm muscle seized her thighs. Squeaked as a gigantic hand firmly gripped her backside. Then the world began jostling up and down.
No. She was jostling up and down. He was descending the stairs, hauling her upon his shoulder like a sack of flour. He did not even have the courtesy to breathe heavily, behaving for all the world as though carrying strange women down the front stairs of his club was a tedious routine.
“Mr.—ooph! Mr. Reaver. I insist you put me down at—ugh. At once!”
Then, suddenly, he did.
Her head swam. Her hands lingered on wide, wide shoulders. His hands lingered on her waist.
“Well, well. The quality of the rabble appears to be improving around here.” The voice was refined and amused. Mr. Shaw.
Mr. Reaver stepped back, leaving her swaying and disoriented. He glared at the majordomo who had appeared beside them. Then, without another word, he climbed the stairs and disappeared—a dark, forbidding giant returning to his lair.
She blinked. Glanced to Mr. Shaw, who stood grinning at her, his teeth flashing white in contrast to his strong-tea skin. Over the man’s shoulder, she glimpsed a statue of a woman holding some sort of receptacle. A cornucopia, perhaps, spilling gold coins.
“Miss Widmore.” Mr. Shaw tsked and gently took her elbow, urging her toward the door. “I did warn you. He does not like visitors.”
A cold, damp breeze rushed in as he opened the door. On the outside, it was painted red.
“Mr. Shaw.”
He paused while pressing her past the threshold. “Yes?”
She spun to face him. “This is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
“I do get that impression.”
“I shall not give up until Mr. Reaver hears me fully. I cannot.”
Mr. Shaw’s grin gentled. Amber eyes grew thoughtful. “A bit of advice, if I may be so bold.”
“Yes?”
“Give up.”
“I—”
“Appealing to Reaver’s mercy is …” He chuckled. “One might as well expect gold coins to fall from a goddess’s basket into one’s reticule. Give up now, Miss Widmore. Save yourself immeasurable frustration.”
“But—”
His only answer was to close the door.
She comforted herself that he didn’t slam it. No, Mr. Shaw—unlike his employer—had been both polite and patient.
Absently, she rubbed a hand over her belly. He hadn’t hurt her, but she could still feel the hardness of his shoulder. The strength of his arm. The heat of his hand on her backside.
How she wished she could take Mr. Shaw’s advice. But neither he nor Mr. Reaver understood the dire nature of her circumstances or the persistence of her character.
She stared at the red door. Tugged her gloves a bit tighter. And straightened her perfect Widmore posture.
They did not understand now, perhaps. But they would. Very soon, they would.
*~*~*