CHAPTER TWO
“To a lady of substance, a challenge is merely a call to arms. Consider yourself warned.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s rejection of sound advice.
“You must admit she succeeded better than most.”
Sebastian Reaver ignored his best friend and business partner, electing instead to slice through the seal on yet another letter he did not wish to read.
Adam Shaw leaned against the edge of Reaver’s desk and crossed his arms. “Not suggesting we consent to her request, mind you. But she is resourceful. I suspect she has been monitoring our schedule and habits for at least a fortnight. Duff claims a boy picked his pocket minutes before she appeared in your office. Unorthodox but effective.”
Reaver glanced at Shaw over the top of his reading spectacles.
Chuckling, Shaw flashed him a grin. “Yes, yes. Her demands are absurd, I agree. Still, I admire her determination. Perhaps you should grant her a meeting.”
“No.”
“Might be entertaining. You could use a bit of that.”
Reaver released a gust of annoyance and flung the letter into the wooden tray on his desk’s right corner. “Meaning?”
Shaw shrugged. “Only that you’ve become both tedious and discontented. Your little adventure last spring proved a fine distraction, but now that’s over.”
His “little adventure” had involved investigating the poisoning deaths of at least four wealthy lords. At the time, he’d been incensed because among the victims had been one of the few aristocrats he’d ever liked. So, he’d insisted on aiding Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston in apprehending the villain, whom Dunston had pursued for over a decade. They had succeeded, but only after the villain had managed to poison Shaw and come within a hair’s breadth of killing Dunston’s wife.
“A boring sod, am I?” Reaver shook his head. “You should be glad of it. Another adventure like the last one, and ye mightn’t survive.”
Shaw patted his own chest. “Hale and healthy, man. You, on the other hand, grow dourer by the day. Have you considered taking a mistress? Assuming you can find a woman of sufficiently poor vision.” His head tilted. “Or stout construction.”
“Haven’t you a hazard table to oversee?”
“All I’m saying is that you thrive on challenge. You’ve spent the past fourteen years building this.” Shaw waved toward the bookshelves on either side of the window. Reaver assumed he meant the club in general.
It was true that Reaver’s had long been his sole focus. The club was his wife, his mistress, his child. Every thought and action, every moment of every day had been dedicated to making it into what it was—the finest gaming house in London. It was also true that, of late, Reaver had been … restless.
Shaw straightened away from the desk. “The club is as much a success as it will ever be. Time to find a new hill to climb.”
“I have the expansion to—”
“Frelling could manage the project in his sleep.” Shaw swept a disgusted glance across the ledger and papers piled in neat stacks on his desk. “And his waking hours could be spent on this lot.”
“Not if he prefers taking tea with his wife to tending his work. When did that begin, eh?”
Shaw raised a brow and shrugged. “He asked. I gave permission. The fact that you failed to notice his absence is evidence of your problem.”
“My only problem is employees who cannot keep sharp-tongued spinsters from infiltrating my office.”
“That sharp-tongued spinster is the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in months.”
Reaver tossed his spectacles onto the open ledger and shoved away from his desk. Pacing to the window, he braced a hand on the casing and looked down upon the small square bounded by a cluster of brick houses. Beside him, a clock ticked away the time. Below him, the same old faces came and went, most leaving with more brandy and less blunt than when they’d arrived.
“Give it some thought. Take a mistress. God, even a wife, if you prefer a bit more permanence. Frelling would recommend the latter. As would your cousin.”
“Bloody, bleeding hell,” Reaver muttered. “A wife? I’ve enough females burying me in muck at present, thank you.”
“Lady Wallingham is not a female. She is a force of nature. A monsoon.”
True enough. The old woman had appointed herself his American grandmother’s representative here in England. She’d written him every week for the past ten—a campaign to bring him “up to scratch.” Recommendations had ranged from hiring a new tailor to purchasing a country estate to taking discreet lessons from a tutor specializing in “proper diction.” Her imperious, interfering nature made his nerves zing. Every word was like biting down on rusted iron.
A knock sounded. Frelling poked his head past the door. “A visitor for you.”
Reaver glowered. “There were no appointments this morning.”
Frelling adjusted his spectacles, shrugged and grinned. “She insists.”
She? A surge erupted in his belly, rising through his chest, unwanted and unwelcome. Too much like excitement. For a moment, he pictured her as she’d been two days earlier—skin flushed from being carried down the stairs, straw bonnet perfectly straight, brown ribbon neatly tied beneath her stubborn chin. Their hands had lingered on one another for a bare second. Nearly an embrace.
Bloody hell. An embrace? Perhaps Shaw had a point about acquiring a mistress. It had been six months since the last one. Too long, obviously.
“Tell her to leave. Then escort her outside.”
Frelling ignored his order. Instead, the man turned to speak to someone behind him. Then, the door swung open.
It was not the female he’d anticipated.
“Silly goose,” said the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen, brushing past his dazzled secretary and sweeping into his office in a cloud of white muslin and indigo velvet. Upon her raven hair perched a dark-blue bonnet with tiny white feathers. She blinked thick lashes over mesmerizing blue eyes. “I brought gifts. As promised.”
She glided first to his desk, depositing a flat, square package and a folded sheet of paper, before coming to grasp his hands in her tiny, delicate grip. “Come now.” She shook his hands in hers. “Bend down.”
Bloody hell again. This was the last thing he needed. He bent, lowering his cheek so she could reach it. She laid a kiss upon his jaw and gave him a brilliant smile.
“There, now. It is splendid to see you, Elijah.”
He sighed, straightening. “Reaver, Lady Tannenbrook. Sebastian Reaver.”
“And I have told you to call me Viola.”
“Too familiar.”
“We are cousins. Well, you and James are cousins, at any rate. I am certain he won’t mind.”
“I’ve seen how he looks at you. I prefer to keep my blood where it belongs. Speaking of which, where is your husband?”
Viola gave him a mischievous twinkle, a small scar near her eye drawing his attention. It only emphasized her perfection. “He and Mr. Duff are discussing the correct methods for repairing a chimney. I expect him momentarily.”
Again, Reaver found himself sighing. He glanced to Shaw, who nodded and left to retrieve the man.
James Kilbrenner, the Earl of Tannenbrook, tended to be unreasonable about his wife spending time alone with another man. Better to keep the duration short. Tannenbrook hadn’t the softness of a typical nob. He’d been a Scottish stonemason before unexpectedly inheriting an English title from a distant relation at age sixteen.
No, Tannenbrook was far from soft. He’d spent years restoring the estate of Shankwood Hall, the adjacent village, and all its surrounding lands to robust productivity, doing much of the work with his own hands. Concerned about what would happen to the estate and its dependents should he fail to produce a son, he had tracked down the sole remaining male of the Kilbrenner bloodline—Reaver, as it happened.
Reaver had little desire to reclaim his original name, and even less to be the man’s presumptive heir. But, then, James Kilbrenner’s tiny, exquisite wife had decided her husband’s happiness depended upon Reaver’s acceptance of his “familial duty,” and Reaver hadn’t known a peaceful week since.
“Oh, do stop frowning, Elijah. I haven’t come here to torment you.” She released his hands and twirled about, floating toward his desk. When she turned back, she was clutching a sheet of paper to her bosom. “I have come to solve your problem.”
“Why does everybody assume I have a problem?”
“I have made a list!”
“If I have a problem, my lady, it is people advising me about problems I don’t have.”
Ignoring his grumbling, she shook the page open and cleared her throat then began to read. “Lady Tannenbrook’s List of Prospective Brides for Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner. You will adore this. I have spared you untold hours of dreadful chatter about favorite colors and silly questions about why you named your horse Colonel Smoots.”
He frowned. Why should anyone give a damn what he named his horse?
She held up a hand. “Trust me.” Then she lifted a finger. “Prospective Bride One: Miss Lydia Chipperfield. Oh, I like this one, Elijah. Twenty years old. Her father is a barrister who solved a small problem for the Prince Regent and was awarded a knighthood. Sir Emmett Chipperfield is his name. Charming gentleman. Her mother is dull as stagnant pond water, but not to worry. Lydia may share her mother’s beauty, but she inherited her father’s wit. A superb contender, if I do say so.”
He scraped a hand over his head. What an idiotic thing to have shorn himself like a spring sheep. He’d been restless during the waning months of a London summer. Hot and feeling like his skin was too damn tight. Again, he considered whether Shaw might be correct. A mistress. Yes, perhaps …
“Prospective Bride Two: Lady Maria Fitch. Now, here is a bit of a reach, but bear with me. I believe this could be a spectacular match.” Viola nibbled her petal-shaped lip. “Or a spectacular failure. One or the other. No matter. We shall make that determination when you meet. She is an Irish earl’s second daughter. Nineteen. A bit young for you, I admit.”
And twenty wasn’t? His fingers pressed the bones above his nose. “Lady Tannenbrook.”
“Prospective Bride Three—”
“I am not seeking a wife.”
“Hmmph. My James said the same. And yet, here I am.”
“Now, if you have a list of prospective mistresses, I shall take it gladly.” He’d said it to be rude. To force her to stop. Or leave. He should have known better.
She sniffed. “Nonsense. For your sons to be legitimate, you must marry.”
“Neither am I seeking sons.”
“Well, you must.”
His response was a grunt.
“James will sleep more soundly knowing that Shankwood is secure. He respects you, Elijah. He doesn’t mind if you inherit his title, but he would prefer that you were more … settled.”
“He would prefer that I relocate to Derbyshire with a wife and five sons.”
“Naturally. I am far less demanding, however. I see no reason why you may not continue to live in London and produce, let’s say, three sons.”
He sighed. Rubbed harder at his brow. “Lady Tannenbrook.”
“Yes?”
“Not to be indelicate.”
“Of course not. You have always been kind, Elijah.”
“You birthed a daughter only a few months ago.”
She beamed. Lit up like a lantern on a moonless night. “Elizabeth. Yes. A wondrous little beauty. You must come and see her soon.”
He ignored the invitation, as he often did. “In a year or two years, you might give her a brother. Give Tannenbrook a true heir. It could be you with three or five sons.”
The shimmer in her eyes dimmed from joyful to wistful. Her list crinkled in her hand. She whispered, “Unlikely. But how I pray you are right.”
His frown deepened. She was a cheerful, beautiful, vexing pain in his backside. But just then, her sadness made him want to hit something. He liked Viola. Against his better judgment and all rules of maintaining one’s sanity, he liked her. And he did not like seeing her sad.
The door opened then slammed. “Good God, lass. I turned round and you were gone. Never do that again. Bloody hell, I nearly tore Shaw’s head from his shoulders before he told me where you were.”
Had Reaver never learned James Kilbrenner was his cousin, he might have guessed it from the resemblance. Few men came close to matching his size. Tannenbrook was one, though he was perhaps a half-inch shorter than Reaver. And, while his cousin’s coloring was blond, many of their features were the same. Save the nose. Reaver’s was a twice-broken beak while Tannenbrook’s was as blunt as the rest of his face. The man looked like a Scottish stonemason.
Viola spun and all but danced toward her husband. As she had earlier at the mention of her daughter, the tiny beauty glowed with affection. “Forgive me, my love. I was impatient.”
Tannenbrook drew her close. The disparity in their sizes should be a comedy. His hand spanned the entire width of her back, and her bonnet did not even scrape his chin. But Reaver reckoned the love between them was so conspicuous, there was little else one might notice.
“Did you give it to him?” Tannenbrook asked.
“I was just about to.”
Reaver frowned. “Keep your list, Lady Tannenbrook. I have no need of it.”
Tannenbrook glanced up and gave him a matching frown. It was a queer sensation to feel as though he was looking in a mirror. “List.” He tilted his head down at his wife. “What list?”
She waved a dainty hand, tucked the paper behind her back, and retreated toward the desk. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Simply a guide to assist Elijah with his little problem.”
Reaver rubbed the top of his head. “For the last time, I do not have a problem.”
She placed her list on the desk and retrieved the package she’d deposited earlier, presenting it to him with a smile. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see, silly goose.”
He broke the twine with a snap and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a painting. Green and gray and gold, framed in dark wood. A stone village set amongst grassy, rain-washed hills.
“My friend, Lady Atherbourne, painted it. See?” She pointed at a steeple then at a series of chimney spires atop a massive stone structure. “The church. And Shankwood Hall. Portraits are more her specialty, but this came out rather well, I think. You should hang it here, in your office.” She gestured to the bare walls and crinkled her tiny nose. “I daresay this room could use a bit of … refinement.”
Reaver cast a look at Tannenbrook. The man shrugged.
He was beginning to despise that gesture.
“Shankwood might be yours one day, Reaver,” Tannenbrook said, moving to stand beside Viola. “You should at least know what it looks like.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to thrust the painting back into Viola’s hands and inform them both that he would never be a bloody nob, no matter how they pressed and insisted, no matter how many times they visited his club or invited him for supper or called him by a name he’d left in ashes over twenty years ago.
Sebastian Reaver had made his own way. Everything he had was earned with sweat and blood, muscle and calculation.
Nobody could tell him who he was. Inch by inch, he’d discovered that plenty well himself.
Still, he’d already tried explaining this to Tannenbrook. The man had merely grunted and told him about the day a “bluidy English solicitor” had come to his mother’s cottage north of the Scottish border. How he’d resisted accepting the responsibilities that appeared around his neck like a yoke upon an ox. How he’d soon realized his denials were senseless and costly to those who depended upon him.
Reaver had also tried persuading Viola. If anything, she was less receptive, blithely assuring him that he would make a “splendid lord. Look how well you’ve managed Reaver’s!”
Neither of them had let up since arriving in London earlier that month. He expected their campaign to turn him into an acceptable heir would continue until he relented and agreed to visit Shankwood Hall.
He was not prepared to do that. But, in the interest of regaining possession of his office, he accepted the painting, inclining his head to Viola. “My thanks, Lady Tannenbrook.”
She beamed.
Tannenbrook clapped his shoulder fondly.
After another quarter-hour listening to his cousin describe the estate’s recent harvest, at long last, the couple departed. Viola waggled her fingers and gave him a wink on her way out the door, mouthing, “The list! Have a look, Elijah!”
He sighed and plopped the painting atop her crinkled list before sinking down into his chair.
God, he needed new employees. A sentry who didn’t chase pickpockets and abandon his post. A secretary who denied uninvited kin entry into his office.
His office. This was his domain, damn it all. And of late, it had been teeming with interlopers.
He glared at the letter that had arrived that morning. Even the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham harassed him, if only by post. He stacked Viola’s list and the painting on top of the broken seal, removing it from his sight. Then he sat back and rubbed his eyes.
Perhaps he should spend the rest of the day working on renovations next door. He and Shaw had purchased the adjoining property with the intention of expanding the club. Whenever he tired of reconciling the accounts and answering mewling letters from destitute lordlings, he found solace in lifting and smashing and brute labor.
If the end purpose of separating more aristocrats from their fortunes felt less satisfying than he would like, at least the work served to chill his restlessness.
Aye. Physical labor wasn’t much of a challenge, but it cleared his head. Decision made, he began tidying his desk. Just as he finished sorting stacks and shoving his chair back to rise, however, his office door inched open. A white mobcap peeked past the edge. A black-sleeved arm extended inside, along with a gloved hand. This was followed by an ample bosom and lean hips, all draped in plain, dark wool and a crisp, white apron.
She was dressed as a maid.
Curling wisps of russet hair poked beyond her cap’s ruffled edge. Fair, flawless skin was a half-shade creamier than the white of her apron.
Inexplicably, his body tightened until he could only grip the arms of his chair.
She’d returned. Dressed as a maid.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
*~*~*