CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Regarding courtship, some strategies are universal. Gifts. Flattery. A fine head of hair. Others must be tailored to the object of one’s affection, necessitating gentle conversation to learn her preferences. In your case, Mr. Kilbrenner, I would emphasize the hair.” — The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of advice on the subject of wooing.
“I want to keep her.”
Shaw’s brows arched at Reaver’s declaration. “As your mistress?”
“No.”
Abandoning his post by the window, Shaw strolled toward Reaver’s desk and sat on its edge, idly examining the painting Lady Tannenbrook had given him. “As your wife, then. Certain of that?”
“If I could have the deuced wedding this morning, I would.”
“Hmm. What does she say about it?”
Reaver released a frustrated gust. “Haven’t asked her. She is fixed on bloody Glassington. Apart from the title, I cannot guess why. The man is a reckless idiot.”
“Yes, I recall. Lively chap. Blustering sort of charm. Drunk as an emperor after his second brandy.” Shaw frowned. “Never saw a man suffer such steep losses so quickly. Remarkable.”
Clenching and releasing his hold on the arms of his chair, Reaver struggled to remain calm. “I’ll break every bone in that sod’s body before I let him touch her.”
Shaw’s eyes crinkled on an annoying grin. “Well, you are preternaturally talented in that regard. And it has been an age since I’ve seen you make a man cry out for his mother. Damned entertaining.”
Reaver grunted an acknowledgment. Aye, he’d once been a bruiser. And Shaw had run the wagers, flashing his grin and feigning a servile nature to invite deeper play. In those days, they’d been two dockers with empty pockets and ravenous ambition. They’d clawed for something better than hauling crates and rope, doing whatever it took to gain ground—from breaking other men’s jaws to dicing in the lower hells and taverns. Frequent wins had drawn accusations of rooking, but their success had come more from calculation than weighted dice.
They both had a head for numbers, he and Shaw. It was how they’d earned enough to buy their first tavern. It was how they’d built Reaver’s. It was how Reaver knew the long odds of a woman like Augusta Widmore pursuing a worthless fop like Glassington for any reason other than desperation. But desperation about what, precisely? He needed answers.
Shaw crossed his arms. “A pummeling would be amusing. However, if your aim is to entice Miss Widmore into marriage, you may wish to apply your hands to more productive endeavors.”
“Such as?”
Shaw chuckled. “If I must explain, perhaps matters have deteriorated more than I thought.”
“Bastard.”
“Hmm. No, merely a half-blood.”
Reaver glared. “I don’t like that term. Now, tell me what I should do.”
Shaw’s brows arched. “To woo Miss Widmore? Bloody hell, Reaver, how should I know?”
“Women seem to favor you.”
“Women favor blunt. The man to whom it’s attached is an afterthought.”
“Not her. She’s … different.”
“Then why is she after Glassington, if not for the title? Merely another form of blunt, truth be told.”
“I don’t know,” Reaver said, his gut churning. “Drayton is running their connection to ground, but he’s been delayed.” Reaver glanced at the window where rain pelted the glass. “Storms, likely.”
“They haven’t let up,” agreed Shaw before pushing to his feet and tugging the lapels of his coat. “Must return to the floor. When I left, Sir Barnabus Malby was declaring his admiration for the brooch pinned to Lady Brannigan’s bodice last evening. Lord Brannigan was not amused. My sense was that Malby would be lying prone on the hazard table within a quarter-hour. I should summon Duff. Malby is rather … portly.”
Reaver nodded and waved him off.
At the door, Shaw turned, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps she is different, as you say, and not the sort to favor deep pockets. But it mightn’t go amiss to show her the advantages of being Mrs. Sebastian Reaver.”
“She’s a respectable lady, Shaw. I cannot do those things until after we are married. It’s bloody maddening.”
Laughing, Shaw replied, “Not those things, man. Take her places she wishes to go. Buy her things she wishes to have. Spoil her a bit. Turning a country spinster’s head should be easy for a man of your means.”
“You were right,” Reaver growled.
“I was? What about?”
“Your advice regarding females is useless. I’ll ask Frelling.”
Again, he laughed as he closed the door behind him.
Frelling’s advice, as it happened, was equally useless. His secretary blinked owlishly behind his desk in response to Reaver’s bluntly stated question minutes later. “Woo a lady, Mr. Reaver? I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is this a new scheme for the club?”
“You are married, are you not?” Reaver demanded.
“Yes.” The word was cautious. “Mrs. Frelling and I celebrate one year of marriage in January.”
“How did you persuade her to marry you?”
Frelling knuckled his spectacles and cleared his throat. “Well, now. That is quite a long story—”
“Shorten it.”
“Gunter’s.”
“Gunter’s?”
“The tea shop in Berkeley Square. It’s better known for its ices, I daresay. Mrs. Frelling is fond of the chocolate cream variety.”
“It is raining torrents, Frelling. When the wind gusts—which it does every few seconds—the stuff batters you until you’re envious of a rock off the Scottish shore.”
“Well … yes.”
“Your recommendation is likelier to end in a lung complaint than a wedding.”
“My courtship with Mrs. Frelling occurred summer before last. Ices are really best suited to warmer weather.”
“Then why Gunter’s?”
Frelling shrugged. “I did say it was a long story. They serve tea, as well. Not as fine as ours here at the club, but—”
Reaver sighed and rubbed his forehead, raising the other hand for silence. “Forget I asked. I’ll be next door doing something useful. You might consider that, Frelling. Being useful.”
With a placid smile, Frelling nodded. “Usefulness is, indeed, a laudable goal, Mr. Reaver.”
Muttering under his breath, Reaver made his way to Number Five, the building they’d acquired the previous spring for the expansion. As he entered through the back door, the sounds of hammers and male laughter greeted him.
He glanced around the ground floor, where they’d removed many of the walls to create larger rooms and a service passage from Number Six, the club’s current location. The bare framing and exposed brick alongside a chimney revealed rot and deterioration from a roof leak. He breathed the scent of mortar and plaster, wood and sweat, anticipating the satisfaction of real, honest work. Then, he stripped off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and began filling a wheelbarrow with bricks.
When he’d worked the docks, he’d spent his time planning—move a crate, calculate lease costs. Tie off a rope, contemplate profit margins. Load a ship, plan for efficient staffing. His body had moved, but his mind had moved faster. He’d longed for a time after physical labor, with wealth enough to live where he pleased and answer to no one but himself. Now, he’d surpassed that docker’s dream a thousand times over, and in some ways, it was satisfying.
But, for all his knowledge of probabilities, he hadn’t anticipated the restlessness. It ate at him like a burrowing insect, itching beneath his skin. Shaw knew, but he didn’t understand—not really. Shaw’s job as majordomo required constant motion and prompt reaction. He hadn’t time to grow weary of the stillness with only an ormolu clock ticking away the silence. There was always too much to do.
Not for Reaver. Until Augusta Widmore had come charging into his office with her prim smirks and preposterous demands, Reaver hadn’t known what to do with himself. He’d worked on the expansion, and the physical labor had helped, but that insect had burrowed deeper until he thought he’d go mad.
Now, she was all he thought about, a subject far more engrossing than the wealth fantasies of a twenty-year-old bruiser or the business schemes of a twenty-five-year-old tavern owner. Aye. Even as he gripped bricks, two in each hand, and piled them high, he found himself grinning. By God, that woman was extraordinary. Half measures take one precisely nowhere, she’d said. In some, such statements might sound boastful. In her, it was simply fact.
He’d watched her with Beauchamp, noticed her firm, decisive manner. She’d selected chair after sofa after table after desk as though she were plucking items from her attic—no hesitation, no wasted time.
Above all things, Augusta Widmore took charge. She did not wait to be instructed. She did not bother to soothe or mince. She was fair-minded but demanded high standards of herself and others.
Before Augusta, if anybody had asked whether such a woman would appeal to him, he would have thrown the fool out of his office. He’d long assumed if he ever married, his wife would be a calming sort. Biddable and easy. Augusta was anything but easy. She was trouble. From her spectacular red hair to her frayed brown hem.
He wanted her so much, he ached from his knees to his teeth.
Which was why he was currently wheeling a load of bricks to the opposite end of the ground floor, where two masons nodded their thanks and continued rebuilding the kitchen hearth. He no longer needed the labor to curb his restlessness, but it helped when his desire for her grew unbearable.
“Your mortar is too stiff,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind him as he began another load. “Should be wetter.”
Reaver glanced over his shoulder and raised a brow. “Tannenbrook. Thought you worked more with stone than brick.”
His cousin stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing the slumping chimney and running his thumb over a misaligned seam. “Having expertise in one area doesn’t make me ignorant in others.”
Grunting his agreement, Reaver resumed stacking bricks. “What brings you here?”
“Viola intends to host a dinner. She would like you to come.”
Reaver sighed and paused. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist then pivoted to face Tannenbrook. “Why?”
“She is fond of you. Bit of a mystery, that. Our resemblance is likely to blame.” Most of the time, Tannenbrook spoke like a typical English nob. But every so often, when emotion took him, a hint of Scot slipped through. It happened more frequently whenever Viola entered the conversation. At the moment, affection was bringing out his burr.
Which made Reaver wonder if Tannenbrook might not be the ideal adviser. Shaw and Frelling had been useless, but James Kilbrenner had landed a beauty for the ages—and, as he’d observed, he resembled Reaver, which meant he hadn’t relied upon appearance to win her. Viola could have had any husband she desired—prince or duke, handsome or rich—but she’d chosen Tannenbrook. Beneath his title, the man was a Scottish stonemason of intimidating size and unhandsome features. Hardly a prime catch. No, he was either one lucky Scot, or he possessed secret knowledge he hadn’t yet shared—knowledge Reaver intended to discover.
“Forget the mortar, man. I need your advice.”
Frowning, Tannenbrook folded his arms. “About?”
“Persuasion.”
“If you think to change Viola’s mind, I should warn you—”
“Not Lady Tannenbrook. I need …” Reaver released a breath and ran a hand over his head. “There is a woman I must … woo.”
Green eyes crinkled. A smile curved one side of his cousin’s mouth. “A woman. Bluidy hell, Reaver, why didna ye say so?” A deep laugh and a bruising slap of his shoulder made Reaver wonder if he’d made a mistake.
“This conversation stays between us, understand?” Reaver glared a warning. “No carrying tales to your wife. Next thing I know, she’ll be penning a list of instructions for my wedding night.”
Another deep laugh. “Aye, that she would. Very well, what do ye want to know?”
“How do I persuade a lady to marry me?”
“First, you must tell me who she is.”
Reaver frowned. “A spinster. From Hampshire.”
“More, Reaver. What has you contemplating marriage?”
Looking his cousin up and down, Reaver decided to be blunt. Tannenbrook had been a rough sort, once. “I want her until I cannot think of anything else.”
Tannenbrook snorted. “Is that all?”
“It’s a bloody lot.”
“Not enough for a lifetime. Not enough to father her bairns.”
Reaver released a breath and propped a hand on his hip. “She maddens me. I’ve never known a more determined woman. Or one with such courage. Daft, terrifying courage. I’ll not see her wed another, Tannenbrook. I’ll break him in ten pieces before—”
“Ah,” his cousin said in an annoying tone. “Another man. Who is it?”
“Bloody, bleeding nob.”
“You say she is a spinster?”
“Aye.”
Tannenbrook braced a hand against the brick wall. “Then, you must discover what she wants. If she desires marriage with this other fellow—”
“A thousand pieces.”
“—then it is not marriage she resists. If the title matters, you might tell her you’re my heir.”
“Presumptive heir. The moment you father a son, that nonsense ends.”
Tannenbrook cast him an odd glance, then shoved away from the wall. He moved to the pile of brick and began silently loading the wheelbarrow.
Reaver joined him. “How did you manage to persuade Lady Tannenbrook to marry you?”
His cousin smiled. “I didn’t. She persuaded me. Quite thoroughly, at that.”
Picturing the sprightly, beauteous Viola pursuing the overlarge, taciturn James Kilbrenner, he huffed out a chuckle.
Tannenbrook continued, “I did woo her a bit after we were married. Followed a friend’s advice at first, paid her compliments and such. If I were better with words, it might have worked. But all I had were these.” He held up his hands. “So, I made her a gift.” His grin was slow and secretive. “She liked it verra much.”
“Why would wooing be necessary after you were wed?” Reaver frowned. “She was yours already.”
His cousin laughed again, shaking his head. “You and I are much alike, Reaver. Can you not guess?”
Reaver grunted and stacked another pair of bricks. “I have warned Augusta I am a rough man.”
“Is that her name? Augusta?”
“Aye,” he rasped. “Augusta Widmore.” Merely saying it made his heart thud, full and heavy.
With a nod, Tannenbrook resumed loading. “A warning is not enough. You must be better, treat her better than you would anybody else. In return, if she is a woman of worth, she will love you more than anybody else.”
He thought of the instances when he’d spoken harshly and a crinkle of pain had flashed around her eyes. “What if I wound her feelings? She is a strong woman, but I can be … disagreeable.”
Tannenbrook stopped, dusted his hands together, and clapped Reaver’s shoulder. “Beg her forgiveness. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. An apology is a magical spell, man. Use it readily and often, for with females, such measures never lose their charm.”
*~*~*
Adam knocked on Phoebe Widmore’s door minutes before their three-o’clock visit. He’d also visited at ten and noon, and he would return again at six. Four times a day seemed sensible. He must monitor her eating and ensure she was napping properly.
“Yes, Mr. Shaw, you may enter,” she called from inside.
He opened the door and swiftly closed it behind him. “What the devil are you wearing?” he snapped.
Tightening the pink ribbon on her poke bonnet, she blinked at him from the settee in front of the fireplace. “Well, I don’t know what they call it in India, but here, we call it a gown.” She glanced mockingly down at her fawn wool bodice. “A walking gown, to be precise.” Then, she bent forward to tug on a pair of half-boots.
“You should be napping,” he said sternly. “Dr. Young’s recommendations have worked wonders, but—”
“Do you think so?” Periwinkle eyes sparkled up at him as a half-smile curled her pretty lips.
“Obviously.” He sniffed and straightened, his hands clasped behind his back. “The dark circles beneath your eyes are gone. There is color in your cheeks—a glow, I daresay. And your figure is …” He swallowed as he examined the graceful swell of her bosom. “Quite improved.”
She stood and began donning a pair of gloves. “Then, it is time I took in a bit of air, wouldn’t you say?”
“What? No. I would not say. You should stay here. Lie down. Have a nap.”
Glancing behind her on the settee cushion, she turned in a circle like a pup chasing its tail then halted and raised a finger when she spotted her reticule on a side table. She looped the strings over her wrist. “Don’t be silly. Even a hound is granted a walk now and then.”
He frowned. “A hound defecates on the carpets. I hardly see the similarities.”
She laughed. She was always doing that, her voice light and cheerful, her eyes soft and bright. Sometimes, he went out of his way to catch her at the beginning. It was like watching a sunrise—first slow, then spectacular.
Other times, like now, he amused her without trying, even though he was deadly serious. Only last evening, he’d chided her for failing to finish her soup. She had rolled her eyes at him and said if he liked it so well, then he should finish it. “As for me,” she’d continued with perfect cheek, “only chocolate will do.” Then, she’d sipped from her cup and smiled at him over the brim. In any other woman, he would have called it flirting. He’d wanted to shake her and demand an explanation for her casual attitude toward her illness. He felt the same now.
“Perhaps I did not soil your carpets, Mr. Shaw, but your statue must have needed a thorough cleaning.”
“Fortuna has seen worse.”
“Come,” she said, looping her arm through his and turning them both toward the door. “We shall go together. There must be a park or—”
He pulled her to a stop. “It is raining sideways,” he snapped. “The wind is liable to carry you away.”
Her smile faded. She released him, glanced at her toes then met his eyes with alarming resolve. “I am going. Come along, if you like. Or don’t. But I am going. I cannot spend another afternoon in this room.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you intend to be stubborn, at least let me summon Edith and Duff to accompany you.”
“I should like you to escort me.”
“It cannot be me, Miss Phoebe.”
“Whyever not? You have proven a most pleasant companion, when you are not behaving like a humorless nursemaid. I especially enjoyed your tutelage in the game of hazard. And your stories about Captain Tully and his seasick crew.”
The tension in his stomach eased as he remembered their hours together over the past week. As Phoebe had begun to recover, she had grown restless. At first, he’d given her books from his private collection, but she hadn’t been as enthralled with the history of English shipbuilding as he. Before long, she’d begged him to teach her the games played by gentlemen at Reaver’s. He’d refused, of course. Then, she’d smiled and cajoled. He’d agreed to teach her vingt-et-un. She’d gazed at the cards, a little furrow between her brows, while she nibbled her lip and slowly learned the trick of it. The next night, she’d begged to learn another game. He’d taught her faro. The night after that, he’d brought dice and demonstrated why a game would be named hazard, and why the goddess Fortuna stood in Reaver’s entrance hall.
All the while, she’d laughed and clapped her hands in delight as the dice had tumbled and the cards had flashed.
And he had craved more. More of her laughter. More of her glow.
So, he’d told her tales from his days with the East India Company. How an entire crew had been struck low, leaving only him and Captain Tully to man the sails, tossing lines to one another over the backs of the poor wretches lining the rail. Of course, he’d told her a far more amusing and pleasant version of the story—his intent had been to make her laugh, not cast up her accounts.
Now, he looked down into blue eyes, soft and bright, and felt again the need. To hear her laugh. To make her smile. To please her.
“It should not be me,” he repeated.
“Nonsense,” she said, inching closer. “Come with me, Mr. Shaw. Surely a breath of air would be refreshing for you, as well.”
A lovely innocent from Hampshire should not have to learn the realities of his world. He wished it were not necessary. But, as he’d realized countless times through countless experiences, one was better off seeing the jagged rocks before one ran aground.
“I cannot accompany you,” he said. She opened her mouth to protest, but he grasped her shoulders and leveled his gaze with hers. “If others see us together, they will not take it kindly.”
She frowned as though puzzling through the strategy of vingt-et-un. “We shall bring a chaperone, then. Perhaps Edith could—”
“I am Indian, Miss Phoebe.”
“You are also English.”
“I do not appear so, whereas you are a perfect English rose.”
Her frown deepened, her mouth tightening. “And you are quite the handsomest man I have ever seen. If others cannot abide the sight of us together, then let them look away. They are blind, in any case.”
Warmth filled him, unaccustomed and breath-stealing. She was a brave girl, but he suspected most of that bravery stemmed from naivety. She simply had no idea how cruel the world could be.
He dropped his hands and stripped off a glove. Next, he lifted her wrist and removed one of hers. Then, he held her bare hand in his and directed her gaze downward. “You see?” he said, enjoying the softness of her silken palm far too much. “This is why.”
Her fingers intertwined with his, forming a weave of dark and light. “This is lovely,” she whispered.
God, she was innocent. And a pretty, blushing temptation. He tugged his hand away, donned his glove, and returned hers. “I shall come with you,” he said, his voice a bit raspier than it should be. “On the condition we take a carriage.”
“Oh, but—”
“That is my condition. I won’t have you catching your death. Neither will I risk your reputation after going to great lengths to protect it.”
Grudgingly, she agreed, and a half-hour later they rolled along Piccadilly, rocking each time frigid gusts battered the coach. Edith sat alongside Phoebe, tense and watchful as rain slammed the window. Phoebe, by contrast, remained wide-eyed and smiling, seemingly delighted by the numerous shops, from booksellers to grocers.
“Mr. Shaw,” she murmured between gusts. “I wish to walk.”
“I wish to remain dry,” he retorted. “You agreed to the carriage, if you’ll recall.”
Although she did not argue, her mouth turned mutinous—an increasingly familiar expression. Her hands worried at the edge of the blanket he’d also insisted upon.
Another blast of rain hit his window, drawing his attention to the team of horses struggling with a heavy load beside them. The horses balked and shied, taking the cart around in a circle. The disruption created havoc, and their carriage slowed to a rocking stop.
Distracted by the scene out the window, he felt a blast of cold air moments before he heard Edith’s gasp. “Mr. Shaw! She—she is …”
“Bloody hell,” he gritted, leaping through the open carriage door and chasing the escaping Phoebe Widmore out into the icy rain. He spotted her ten feet away, her pert little backside twitching this way and that. By heaven, he thought, tugging his hat lower and his greatcoat collar higher. He’d thought her biddable. Sweet.
Pure rubbish. She was a hoyden.
He trotted to catch up, his eyes scanning the busy street for potential problems. Fortunately, most Londoners were sane enough not to go out in such conditions, and if they did, they were too busy trying to stay dry to take notice of an English rose and an Indian chap.
“What in blazes are you doing?” he hissed as he reached her side.
She didn’t answer.
“Phoebe, I am warning you. I will lift you in my arms and carry you back to the coach.”
“No, you won’t. You shall walk beside me.” She looped her arm through his as though they went strolling together through horrid rain and wind every day. “Because to do otherwise would draw too much attention.”
She was right, of course, which did little to ease his temper.
“Stubborn chit,” he muttered, cringing as a blast of rain slapped him in the face.
Before long, they arrived at Green Park, and he sighed in relief. He saw only one or two other idiots braving the conditions for a chance to enjoy the park’s dubious charms. This time of year, the few trees were bare, the skies dark as iron, and the turf sodden as a washrag.
He glanced down at the mud. “These are my best boots, dash it all.”
Her bonnet tipped closer to him. “They will come clean.” Droplets flew upward as she raised her chin. “So will you. So will I.”
“For God’s sake, Phoebe, let us return—”
“I was suffocating,” she said softly, periwinkle eyes calm and defiant. “I needed to breathe.” She released him to turn in a circle, ending with her back to him. Her shoulders heaved. One hand braced on her hip. The other settled over her belly.
A particularly strong gale thrust her skirts sideways, flattening along one leg and ballooning out along the other. She did not budge. Every so often, her slender shoulders would shudder and sigh.
He hadn’t the faintest sense of what to do.
“Adam,” she said, her voice nearly carried away by wind and rain. “Have you ever felt … trapped?”
He didn’t know how to answer. Firstly, she’d used his given name. A woman shouldn’t do that unless she wished to give a man notions. Secondly, she’d asked a question with a much longer answer than yes or no.
Adam Shaw had seen everything once. Everything vile and hellish. Everything wondrous and fine. He’d seen a man flayed to death for spilling his ale. He’d seen his mother turn cold and lifeless in the thick, living heat she’d despised. He’d seen the sun rise out of endless water into an endless sky. He’d seen Phoebe Widmore laugh.
“Yes,” he answered, moving closer, angling his body to protect her from the worst of it. “I have. The trick is not to let the trap spring fully.”
“How do you escape?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you live through it. Then plan.”
She turned her eyes upon him. They were swimming. “And sometimes you’ve so thoroughly trapped yourself, there is nothing more to plan.”
“Phoebe …” Frowning, he inched closer, watching her fragile shoulders begin to shiver. “Why this despair?” he murmured.
She sniffed, smiled weakly, and shook her head. “Perhaps it is the weather.”
As though it had been waiting to be announced, the weather shoved at his back, necessitating the bracing of his arms around her, the gathering of her close and tight. Her bonnet scraped his chin, and her warm, slender form tucked in against him like she was made for that very purpose.
“We should return,” he murmured, stroking her back and trying to ignore the way she clutched at his lapel. “Mustn’t give the staff reasons for speculation.”
Another sniff. “Speculation?”
“Oh, come now. Surely you know of their habit of making absurd wagers. I shouldn’t be surprised to find Duff collecting a shilling or two when we return before dusk.”
She giggled. “Should we—”
“No. That would generate a new set of wagers. And likely a scandal.”
Sighing, she pulled away and started toward Piccadilly, leaving cold wind and empty space where she’d been. As he walked by her side, he was struck by a peculiar sensation. A charged chill over his skin. A warm flush beneath it. Deeper still, it was earth, flat and solid, rooted and certain.
He’d felt it only once before—the day he’d met Reaver.
Then, as now, his heart had begun to race, his hands and arms tingling. He glanced down at Phoebe. Her little red nose. Her soft lips. Her pale, milky skin. Wisps of hair had come loose, plastered across her cheek and chin by the damp. She didn’t bother to brush them away. Instead, she strode on across muddy turf toward the bustling street, her gaze distant and bothered.
“One day soon,” he said quietly, “when the weather eases, perhaps we could ride in the park. The club has a fine mount or two in its stable.”
She glanced his way, her smile oddly sad. “Perhaps.”
Her diffidence disturbed him. He could only guess she’d had time to realize the implications of being seen at his side. Flexing his jaw, he bit back old bitterness and offered, “If you prefer, I can wear livery.”
Her steps halted. “I beg your pardon?”
Having passed her by several paces, he turned. Blue eyes previously dulled by despair now fired with indignation.
“Why should you wear livery?” she snapped. “You are not a servant.”
“It would go easier for you if I were.”
She stomped toward him, small, gloved hands clenched into fists. “Listen to me, Adam Shaw. You are neither my footman, nor my nursemaid, nor my butler. You are my friend.”
Bloody hell, she’d struck him square in the heart. The damned thing ached and pounded. He tilted his head. Brushed the wet strands of hair from her cheek. Swallowed against a tight throat. “As your friend, I wish to protect you.”
“I do not need protecting.”
His smile felt bittersweet upon his lips. “A statement which only proves that you do.”
She released an exasperated breath. “The prejudices of others are their shame, not mine.”
“My mother said the same. She was a strong woman.” Remembering the determined tilt of her jaw, the challenging lift of her brow whenever anyone cast them an untoward stare, he chuckled. “Never gave an inch. Remained adamantly English in every respect, of course, yet she rejected just as strongly the notion that one’s origins matter more than one’s character.”
Phoebe’s expression softened. “She sounds sensible. How did she come to live in India?”
“I shall tell you the story if you will resume walking. It is too dashed cold out here, and your luncheon is waiting.”
She clicked her tongue but started forward again.
He fell in beside her and continued his tale. “My mother traveled to India to marry her first husband, a clerk with the East India Company. When he died, she moved heaven and earth to return”—he shot a wry glance skyward—“to her beloved, rain-soaked isle.”
“What happened? Why did she stay?”
“Moving heaven and earth takes time. In that year, she met my father.”
Her mouth quirked knowingly, as though his mother’s reasoning was obvious. “He looked like you, I take it.”
“So she said. I do not remember him well. He died when I was still a boy.”
“But she stayed.”
He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back and glancing briefly at his boots. “For my sake, at the beginning. Company men often took bibis—”
“Bibis?”
“Indian consorts or wives. The children of these unions were better accepted in India than here. My father was the product of such a union, and my mother believed I could more readily carve out a place for myself there. As it happened, the opposite proved true.” Indeed, their lives had been hell, complete with murderous heat and desperate poverty. No, India had not been kind to him. But it had killed his mother, and for that, he bore his birthplace scant affection.
She drifted closer, brushing another strand of hair away from her lips. “So, you came to England.”
“Mmm. After she died. Upon my arrival, I met Reaver.”
Her lips formed a moue of disapproval.
“He is not the villain you have judged him, Phoebe,” he cautioned. “Your sister is safe, I assure you. Safer than with somebody of Glassington’s ilk, that much is certain.”
She jerked. Stiffened. Drew away as though he’d struck her.
What the devil had he said?
Moving faster as they reached Piccadilly, she marched onward past numerous shops, huddling against a blast of rain and ignoring him entirely. He didn’t blame her, of course, despite a twinge of disappointment. Being seen in his company was not to her advantage.
Suddenly, a dozen yards later, she halted like a bird colliding with a window. Her eyes went wide, fixed on the area in front of Fortnum and Mason.
He frowned, wiping the dripping brim of his hat so he could see what had startled her so. Scanning the post-chaises and hacks rolling by, examining the various pedestrians along Piccadilly, he demanded, “What is it? Did someone see us together and—”
“Nothing. It is nothing.”
He spun to meet her eyes, but she was already striding past, white as chalk. Again, he followed her gaze, determined to identify the fool who had given offense. Ahead, there were only three groups and one lone man ambling past the grocer’s windows. The man was old, walking with a cane. One group was a pair of plainly dressed servants, another a middle-aged woman accompanied by her footman. But the third, pausing to gaze through the shop window, was a couple—a man in a finely tailored greatcoat, and a woman with an oversized ermine muff. The man held an umbrella above the woman’s head. They were followed at a discreet distance by a shivering lady’s maid.
Squinting through the driving rain, he tried to see the man’s features, but the couple turned toward the door. As Adam kept pace with Phoebe, the set of the man’s shoulders, his height and frame struck a note of familiarity, but he couldn’t place him.
Then, the wind caught the man’s umbrella. He turned to retrieve it, laughing as he managed to wrestle it closed.
Adam blinked. Glanced at Phoebe, whose arms crossed over her middle as though she were cold or sick.
Past the brim of her bonnet, all he could see were her lips. They had gone bloodless. “You were right, Mr. Shaw,” she said, her voice thin and choked. “We should not have come out today. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He wanted to question her further, but they had already reached the carriage, and the footman, Edward, opened the door. Edward and the coachman both appeared stoic and miserable. So, rather than demanding answers, Adam helped Phoebe into the coach and climbed in beside her, ignoring Edith’s long-suffering sigh.
Instead, he collected the lap blanket Phoebe had abandoned and spread it over her. She didn’t respond, merely sat still and stared out the window as the coach lurched forward.
Time enough later, he told himself. Later, when she was warm and well fed, he would discover why Phoebe Widmore had looked like death when she’d set eyes upon the Earl of Glassington.
*~*~*