CHAPTER THREE
“A properly negotiated agreement involves give and take: I give sage advice and you take appropriate action. There, now. This understanding will suit both our needs much better, wouldn’t you agree?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter defining the relative duties of instructor and instructed.
Finding a maid’s attire had been more a matter of luck than cleverness. The lodging house where Augusta and Phoebe had obtained rooms featured several unconventional residents, including a woman who called herself Delilah Honeybrook. As Augusta had discovered on laundry day, Miss Honeybrook possessed a peculiar assortment of costumes—a chambermaid’s dress, an old-fashioned nun’s habit, and a gown she’d dubbed her “spinster ensemble.” The last one had been disturbingly similar to some of Augusta’s own frocks.
However, the maid’s costume had been precisely what she’d needed. Fortunately, Miss Honeybrook matched Augusta’s height. Unfortunately, the woman’s bosom was a good deal smaller, which had made the journey to Reaver’s Club uncomfortable.
As she slid inside Mr. Reaver’s office for the second time, she tried to sigh in relief. The dratted bodice would not permit a full breath.
“Miss Widmore,” a dark voice rumbled from across the room. “One would think seven unanswered notes, three refusals from Shaw, and an involuntary trip to the front door would be sufficient response to your inquiry.”
Her heart stumbled and squeezed. Oh, my, he is large, it seemed to say. Though, perhaps her bodice was at fault. It was dreadfully tight.
She tugged her gloves tighter and moved further into the room. “If you wish me to leave, Mr. Reaver, then simply listen. That is the quickest route to my departure, I assure you.”
“Doubtful.”
“Well, perhaps coming to an understanding is more what I—”
“You want me to forgive Glassington’s debt. That will not happen.”
She raised a brow. “On the contrary. I do not seek forgiveness. You see? This is precisely why you should listen.”
He braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and propped his fingertips together, reclining in a sardonic pose. “Go on, then.”
Clearing her throat, she paced toward his desk, stopping just short of its edge. “Lord Glassington has made certain … commitments. He cannot—or should I say will not—keep those commitments if he hasn’t the means to do so.”
“A nob prefers keeping his wealth to keeping his word? I shall alert The Times.”
“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Reaver. Innocent lives will be devastated should Lord Glassington fail to fulfill his prior agreements.”
“Which are?”
She paused. This had always been the most troublesome part of the conversation to navigate. How much should she tell a lowborn ruffian known for trading in secrets? She began sparingly. “He agreed to a betrothal. After his disgraceful turn at your club, he withdrew his offer of marriage.”
Light from the window flashed in his eyes. “Let me guess. He cried off on account of losing his fortune. Claimed he could not, in good conscience, marry ye and burden ye with such a debt.”
For a moment, she considered correcting his assumptions. But Sebastian Reaver was too clever. If she set him straight, he would surmise the whole truth—precisely what she wished to prevent.
“He made promises,” she said, raising her chin. “What I ask is that you help me ensure he keeps them.”
That square jaw flexed. “How?”
“Give me his markers.”
A low, rumbling chuckle. “Ye’re a bold one, Miss Widmore. I’ll grant ye that.”
“Not permanently, of course. I shall return them to you once he has met his obligations. You have my word.”
“Hmm. Your word, eh? That and a shilling or two will pay for a hack to Bedlam.” He pushed at the arms of his chair, rising to his full height. “Precisely where I belong if I agree to this twaddle.”
He started toward her. Anticipating his intentions, she skirted around the other side of the desk, placing the massive slab of oak between them. “You lose nothing in this bargain,” she argued.
“No, I gain nothing, apart from a bloody headache.”
“Well, what do you want in exchange? Perhaps I can—”
He stalked around the desk.
She matched him, step for step.
“Negotiations are over,” he rumbled. “I listened to your request. My answer is no. Now, once again, Miss Augusta Widmore, it is time to leave. This is a club for gentlemen.” His eyes fell briefly to her bodice, his frown vaguely puzzled. “You are hardly that.”
His movements were smooth, swifter than one would suppose. She watched warily, dismayed by how nimble he was for his size. “I might say the same of you, Mr. Reaver.”
A split second before he reached for her, she wheeled back, leaving his giant hand grasping at air.
“Stand still, woman. By God, you are a nuisance.”
“Even if you toss me out this time, I shall return. Again and again. You shall never be rid of me.”
He leaned across the desk, hands splayed on its tidy surface, shoulders dwarfing the thing. “Magistrates might have something to say about that. Trespassing is a crime.”
“Involving the law would only prove another headache for you. Much simpler to come to terms.” She inched backward, measuring the length of his arms and the distance between them. Her back brushed the wall. “There must be something you want. I could do a bit of work for you, perhaps. I’ve grown quite skilled at acquiring information. That is one of your more lucrative commodities, if I am not mistaken.”
He shook his head, his fingers flexing on the wood. “Why do ye not plague Glassington with your incessant intrusions? He’s to be your husband. He should be the one to suffer.”
She winced then stiffened. “You are a rude man.”
“If it bothers ye, then leave.”
“Without the markers, my attempts to persuade Lord Glassington carry little weight. I am here because it is the only remedy left to me.” She raised her chin. “Make a demand, Mr. Reaver. If it is within my power to deliver, I shall do it. I trust you to keep your word and deliver the markers in exchange.”
Black eyes narrowed. He straightened. Crossed his arms and gave her a long, sweeping look from mobcap to muddy half-boots. His expression grew thoughtful. Calculating.
“Very well, then.”
Her heart soared. She blinked. He was relenting. Dear heaven, finally—finally—she had a chance of repairing this wretchedly broken situation.
“Here are my terms: I will grant you the temporary use of Glassington’s markers for purposes of leg-shackling the nob.”
She swallowed, scarcely daring to hope.
“In exchange, you will become my mistress.”
Air abandoned her. The light brightened, dimmed, swam.
A dark smile curved one corner of his mouth. “You will deliver your part of the bargain first, of course.” His gaze dropped to her bodice then came back to spear her through. “Six weeks should suffice.”
Her thoughts clambered, spun, and slipped like carriage wheels in October mud. First, she imagined she’d misheard him, an idea she quickly dismissed. No. She’d told him to make a demand, and devil that he was, he’d made an outrageous one, likely intended to shock her sensibilities. In that, he had succeeded.
Next, she scrambled for alternatives. Unfortunately, she had little to offer the man. It had always been her plan’s great flaw. Her skills were limited, her wealth nonexistent. Her bloodline was old and distinguished, but that would be meaningless to someone like Mr. Reaver. And she gravely doubted offering to mend his shirts or write his correspondence would lure him away from his scandalous proposal. In short, she’d hoped to rely upon his sympathy for her plight. Clearly, he had none.
Last, she contemplated the bargain he had offered—truly considered it. He obviously assumed she would decline, probably hoping she would storm out of his office and never return. After all, if she were seeking to marry Glassington herself, becoming Sebastian Reaver’s mistress would negate her purpose. Any lord in Glassington’s position would refuse a sullied woman regardless of her leverage, for all he had left was his dubious gentlemanly honor. But, as she was not seeking to marry Glassington herself, Mr. Reaver’s assumption was in error. And that was to her advantage.
Indeed, she was so deeply on the shelf, she might as well be covered in mold. Who would mind if she carried on a brief, discreet liaison—even one with the proprietor of a notorious gaming club? Once Phoebe was safely wed to Glassington, Augusta’s affairs would cease to matter in the slightest. She could return to Hampshire, enjoy a sisterly visit from time to time, and consign these weeks in London to a dim, hazy corner of her memory.
The more she thought about it, the better the bargain seemed.
She examined Mr. Reaver more closely. This time, she did not allow his impossible height to distract her. Shoulders? Wide. Waist? Trim. Hands? Huge. So were his arms and thighs. Come to that, every inch of him was thick and heavily muscled, from neck to ankles. The man’s power was visceral.
She swallowed and caught her breath as she forced herself to meet calculating onyx. Pressing her lips together as a curl of heat wrapped around her spine, she gave her gloves another tug and straightened her posture.
“We have a bargain, then.” She was glad her voice remained steady, for nothing inside her did likewise.
Several heartbeats passed while his smile disappeared and his gaze cooled into a glare. Evidently, he was displeased she had recognized his gambit.
A displeased Sebastian Reaver was an intimidating sight, indeed.
She struggled for a deep breath. Her bodice refused her. Shallow would have to do.
“I shall be your mistress,” she continued, refusing to shrink beneath the force of his withering stare. “After six weeks, you shall deliver me Lord Glassington’s markers.” She sidestepped his desk, came forward, and extended her hand. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Reaver. I accept your terms.”
*~*~*
Reaver glanced down at the small, gloved hand then returned to the dove-gray eyes of Miss Augusta Widmore.
She had agreed. To the most insulting demand he could devise. Bloody, bleeding hell. Did the chit have no sense of self-preservation? Was she witless? Mad?
“It is customary to shake hands when sealing a bargain.”
No. Neither witless nor mad. The intelligence in those eyes was no illusion. She might be a bit blurry this close, but even he could see it. She expected him to back down. Perhaps she even counted on it.
Aye. That was it. He merely needed to push her harder.
“That is not how I seal anything with a mistress.” He kept his voice low and suggestive, but he suspected he hadn’t done it right—her reaction was a prim smirk.
“I am not your mistress until we finalize our bargain. Mmm. Quite the paradox, I agree. Let us shake hands so it cannot continue to befuddle us with its contradictions.”
Thought she was clever, did she? Rubbish. This drab little country spinster who’d likely mistaken Glassington’s drunken groping for a marriage proposal was no match for him. He would send her scurrying for Hampshire with her cheeks burning and her handkerchief clutched to her bosom.
The thought drew his eyes there, where she was strangely flattened. Different than before.
“You assume my terms are final,” he said, inching closer and lowering his head. “They are not.”
She withdrew her hand before it brushed his belly, folding it neatly at her waist. “Oh? I should think ‘mistress’ covers a good deal of territory.”
“My needs are very … specific.”
“Ah, I see. You wish to add details to our arrangement.”
“Aye. Details.”
“Such as?”
This was not going as he’d anticipated. She appeared more amused than apprehensive. “Your gowns, for a start.”
“My gowns.”
“They are ugly. Dull.”
Glancing down at the white apron tied at her gown’s high waist, she plucked at her skirt’s folds. “Well, this one is not actually mine, Mr. Reaver. Perhaps you hadn’t realized. It is a maid’s costume. I borrowed it from an acquaintance.”
He frowned and eyed her bosom again. “It doesn’t fit you properly.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know. Dreadfully tight. One can scarcely draw a full breath. But it did facilitate my entry into your establishment. For that I am grateful.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t hear much beyond “dreadfully tight.” He was picturing those full breasts being pressured and squeezed. How they might look once unbound.
“As to my other gowns, I admit they are a trifle staid. I have never been a mistress before. If you would like to provide new garments for me to wear, I shan’t object.”
He found himself scowling. “You should.”
“Why?”
Deliberately, he traced the high neckline of her gown. “This will be much lower.”
Her breathing quickened and gooseflesh bloomed on her throat.
At last, she was taking proper offense. Perhaps he should kiss her and have done with this aggravating business. His eyes fell to her lips. Not remarkably full, but certainly wide. The shape of her jaw—gentle and narrow—made them appear more prominent.
“The garments will be at your expense, Mr. Reaver. If you wish them to be more … revealing, that is your prerogative. Presumably, I would only wear them in my capacity as your mistress.” She blinked slowly and quirked those wide lips. “As you can see, costumes do not frighten me.”
What would? That was the question. He frowned down at the woman who seemingly had few qualms about selling herself to a stranger. Something was amiss.
After her second thwarted visit to Reaver’s, Shaw had recommended investigating her background. Part of Reaver’s business involved collecting information through a vast network of sources inside and outside London, so the task had been a simple one.
She was an unmarried woman of eight-and-twenty from a quiet village in Hampshire. Her father had been a baronet, but upon his death, the title had passed to her uncle. She’d lived with the uncle for less than four years before securing a cottage for herself and her younger sister, Phoebe Widmore. None of these facts suggested a woman of flexible morals.
On the contrary. According to Drayton, a Bow Street runner he’d sent to her village to make inquiries, most of her neighbors described her as pleasant but a bit too proud. “High in the instep,” Drayton had said, mimicking the villagers’ accent. He’d huffed and shaken his head. “Polite way of sayin’ she fancies herself too fine for us commoners.”
Reaver had been sure she would balk at his crude proposal. Let him bed her? Any woman who valued her reputation—her virtue—would have spewed fire and stormed out of his club at the mere suggestion. Of course, any woman who valued her reputation would not have repeatedly invaded an exclusive gentleman’s club.
Still, her acquiescence was out of character.
Either she expected him to back down, or her aim to marry Glassington was a lie. The latter was possible, he supposed. But why else would she be so desperate to acquire Glassington’s markers? Revenge, perhaps? Had Glassington harmed her?
The thought made his guts knot. Men who preyed upon women and children deserved a long, slow death.
He examined her face—slender nose and wide mouth, gray eyes and russet brows. She was taller than average, but her bones were slight. Her skin was pale, as were her lips. But her eyes were far from cowed or wounded. Rather, they sparked with wry intelligence. The tilt of her head and the straightness of her spine gave no hint of victimhood. They spoke of pride. Dignity. Challenge.
“You’re daft, woman,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“If you plan to renege, Mr. Reaver, be warned: I shall regard such an action as a breach of promise similar to that of Lord Glassington. And you have seen the lengths to which I will go in reminding him of his obligations.” Gray eyes sharpened and wide lips pursed. “You and I have an agreement, sir. Should you break it, I will stand outside your club’s entrance every day. I shall inform every man who enters that the proprietor of Reaver’s hasn’t the decency to keep his word. How many of them will feel honor-bound to pay their debts then, do you suppose?”
That did it. The only way to be rid of her was to raise the stakes. “Where are you staying?”
She opened her mouth to answer.
“Never mind. You’ll be moving in with me.”
Her eyes flared. “I—”
“Being my mistress means being available. All the time.”
“All—all the time?”
“Aye.”
One gloved hand flattened over her middle. She glanced around his office. “Do you reside … here?”
He wondered which would be more to his advantage—the truth or a lie. On one hand, he reckoned most women would blanch at the idea of living in a gentlemen’s club. On the other, she’d been unabashed about entering Reaver’s on multiple occasions.
A wonder the club didn’t feel like home to her already.
No, the truth was better. The audacity of suggesting she move into the private house of a man she scarcely knew—where that man would have her all to himself—was likelier to put her off.
Biting back a grin, he answered, “I sleep here from time to time. But, no. I have a separate residence. You’ll live there. With me.”
For several breaths, he watched her. Gray eyes explored his face and shoulders. Gloved hands flattened and squeezed over her waist. Wide lips pressed together. Finally, she released a puff of air. “Very well.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I understand it is customary to keep a separate residence for one’s mistress. Many gentlemen do. But as our arrangement is of short duration, I concede this is more sensible.”
Bloody, bleeding hell. He was wrong. She was mad. Utterly, blindingly mad.
She acted as though he’d suggested they take ale rather than wine with their supper. Her slender nose and delicate jaw and russet brows were all composed. Utterly, maddeningly composed.
“Tonight,” he gritted, searching for her snapping point. “I want you there this evening.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t—”
“This is not negotiable. Either comply or our agreement is void.”
“—be too onerous. I must return to my current lodgings to retrieve a few items, of course.” She glanced toward the window. “There appears to be ample time before dark. Shall we consider our agreement settled, then?”
*~*~*