CHAPTER FOUR
“An obligation to one’s bloodline, however burdensome, must be attended. Tolerance for a nephew’s imbecility or encouraging a son’s latent procreative instincts, for example, forms the mortar of our very civilization. Gird your loins, my dear fellow. And do what must be done.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the onerous nature of performing one’s familial duty.
Augusta slipped her gloved hand into the overlarge one offered to her. Then, pining for a free breath, she climbed down from the hack and gave her thick-necked escort a nod of thanks.
“I do appreciate your assistance, Mr. Duff, but this is quite unnecessary.” She glanced pointedly at the shabby residence with its soot-stained bricks and peeling-paint door. “Coming here is a daily occurrence, you see.”
The oversized man merely shot her a flat gaze and uttered, “Reaver says I’m to see ye here then see ye to ’is ’owse.”
She would sigh, but her bodice made expressing annoyance difficult. “It seems we both are bound to follow Mr. Reaver’s instructions. Did he specify that you must accompany me inside?”
“Nah.”
“Excellent. Then wait here, if you please. I shall return momentarily.” She spun on her heel, stopping short when she spotted a furtive shadow lurking where the alley entrance loomed like a great, dark mouth. Swallowing, she tugged at her gloves and straightened her spine. “On second thought, Mr. Duff, I could very much use your help.”
“Eh?”
“Since you’ve been so good as to accompany me, perhaps you could carry my trunk down the stairs.”
While Mr. Duff turned away and argued with the hack driver, offering to remove his arms if he should leave while they were inside, she rushed toward the alley entrance. “I told you, boy,” she whispered, pretending to lean against the bricks while examining her half-boots. “I haven’t any more tasks for you.”
“That ’im?” the boy squeaked.
“That is Mr. Duff, yes. You should not be here.”
“Did ’ee catch you, Miss Widmore?” The boy’s voice darkened. She could scarcely see his features in the shadows cast by the buildings. “I could ’elp. You run inside. I’ll lead ’im a merry chase, like last time.”
Her heart twisted. The boy had been haunting her over the past few days, hovering in the alley, jumping on the back of her hired hacks, following her to the market. She had paid him well for his timely distraction of Mr. Duff, of course, and she assumed his desperation drove him to seek out additional “work” from her, but little remained of her small savings. And that pittance would be needed to provide for Phoebe while Augusta stayed with Mr. Reaver.
At his house.
At his beck and call.
For six weeks.
Good heavens, had she really agreed to such an outrageous bargain? Once she’d consented to move into his residence, she’d half expected him to cry off and thrust the markers into her hands, just to be rid of her. Instead, his features had hardened to stone. He’d growled, “Aye, Miss Widmore. Have it your way.” Then he’d called for Mr. Duff to escort her home and retrieve her belongings.
Now, her stomach cramped. It was likely hunger, but she admitted some trepidation. Becoming a mistress was no small step. And she was leaping into it like a horse into a dark ravine.
She glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Duff gestured strangely with his forearm dangling from an outstretched elbow. He appeared to be illustrating what the driver would experience should his arms be broken.
“Boy,” she whispered. “You mustn’t let Mr. Duff see you. Hide until you see us depart, do you hear? I shall leave a coin with my sister. You may retrieve it later.”
The boy shivered and shook his head. She wanted to ask where his coat had gone.
“Hide? Not if ’ee means to hurt ye.”
She frowned and took his arm gently. Her fingers overlapped. “You must. He will not hurt me. He is here to see me safe. But he may hurt you if he recognizes you.” Firmly, she moved him deeper into the shadows.
“Why’s ’ee ’ere?”
She released his arm, tugged his sleeve straighter, and glanced over her shoulder. “I have an arrangement with his employer,” she murmured. “Mr. Duff is no threat to me, I promise you.”
The boy grunted. “What about Reaver?”
She chose not to answer. “Do as I said, and seek out Miss Phoebe after our departure.” She started toward the door then halted after two steps. “And, boy?”
“Aye.”
“Buy yourself a coat.”
Minutes later, as she led Mr. Duff up a creaking, half-rotted staircase, she worried the boy would ignore her. He was a stubborn one.
She stifled her fretting and continued climbing the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “Mind the hole, Mr. Duff. And the rat. Mrs. Renley should have removed it by now, but … well, perhaps she was occupied with emptying buckets. The leaks in the roof are legion.”
“’Ow long you been stayin’ ’ere?”
“Three weeks or so. Why?”
“’Ow much you pay?”
“Five shillings per week.”
First, a snort. Then, a grunt. Last, a grumble. “Ain’t fit. Five shillings. Wouldn’t pay five pence for this place.”
She didn’t have the air or the patience to explain her choice of accommodations. In truth, it had been the best she could do on short notice and a scant budget. They reached the door to her room soon enough, and she turned the rickety knob, leading Mr. Duff inside.
“Good heavens, Augusta, I thought you’d never … oh!” Phoebe halted mid-pace, blue eyes flaring wide. Just recently, Augusta’s younger sister had developed the habit of pacing back and forth in front of the small hearth in their rooms. She claimed it helped ease her unsettled stomach. Her discomfort must have been particularly bad this morning, as her ivory complexion was tinged green.
“Miss Phoebe Widmore, this is Mr. Duff. Mr. Duff, my sister, Miss Phoebe Widmore.”
Looming behind her, Mr. Duff grunted again. “Why ye repeatin’ yerself? She ’ard of ’earin’?” He nodded his massive head in Phoebe’s direction and tugged at his cap. “Miss.” The word was a bellow.
Phoebe frowned. Blinked. She wore the same expression she’d had as a girl when Augusta had explained they would be required to empty their own chamber pots—bewilderment edged with disgust. “Who is this, Augusta? What is going on?”
Augusta started toward the door to the bedchamber. “Mr. Duff, if you will kindly wait here whilst I pack a few items, I should be most grateful.” Gesturing for Phoebe to follow, she waited only moments inside the room before her slim, pale sister charged past her. Augusta closed the door gently and headed for her trunk, which was tucked neatly into one corner.
“Augusta!” Phoebe hissed. “Explain, if you please. I thought you’d headed to Leadenhall Market to purchase some meat for supper. You were gone an hour longer than I expected, only to arrive with”—she gestured wildly toward the bedchamber door—“some enormous man!”
Digging through her possessions, Augusta located her small reticule and withdrew two shillings. She recalled the boy’s thin, bony arms then doubled the amount before looping the reticule’s strings over her wrist.
“Here.” She held the coins out to Phoebe, who shook her head. “Take them,” Augusta ordered. “They are for the boy. He will come after I leave.”
“Tell me what is going on. Why are you wearing an apron?”
Augusta’s hand fell to her side, clutching the coins tightly.
Phoebe had changed. Augusta been slow to see it, as their circumstances were dire, and action—not contemplation—had consumed her of late. But the differences were noticeable. Phoebe was thinner, even more delicate than before. Slender arms often hugged her middle. White skin had grown snowy, blue eyes bigger and underscored with half-moon shadows. Her ill stomach was likely to blame. And the fretting, Augusta supposed. Fretting had grown like a demon, complete with teeth and horns, over the past two months.
Her physical changes were not the only difference, however. Phoebe rarely demanded answers—rarely demanded anything, really. She’d long been the sort of girl who let life take her where it would. She was sweet. Biddable. A pretty blossom waiting for sun and dew and bees to pay her a visit.
She accepted the gowns Augusta provided, attended the fetes Augusta suggested, played the tunes Augusta commanded on their shabby square pianoforte. And, while Phoebe shared Augusta’s dark-red hair, she’d never demonstrated a hint of Augusta’s temperament.
Today was the exception.
Augusta moved nearer and gently eased open Phoebe’s cold fingers where they gripped pink muslin over her belly. The coins clinked into her palm.
“Give these to the boy.” Augusta slid the reticule from her wrist and set it atop the coins. “Keep the rest for yourself.”
Blue eyes flew up, sparking with temper. “What are you doing?”
Raising her chin, Augusta replied, “What I’ve always done, Phee. Whatever is necessary.”
Phoebe’s chest heaved as she stared at the brown wool reticule. “You are leaving me here. You’ve done something …” She swallowed and covered her mouth. “Something to do with Mr. Reaver?”
“I am to reside with him—”
“No.”
“—for six weeks. Afterward, he will permit me the use of—”
“No!” A tear trickled past half-moon shadows.
“—Lord Glassington’s markers.” Augusta gripped Phoebe’s shoulders. They felt fragile and small, like a child’s. “It is the only way. Listen to me.”
“I will not listen. I have listened too long. Enough of this, Augusta! I shall not allow you to pay such a price for my mistakes.”
“I shall not allow you to pay a higher price. This is six weeks of my life. If we cannot persuade Glassington to keep his promises to you, then your punishment will last forever. And your child will be born a bastard. Is that what you want for him? To live as a bastard rather than an earl’s heir?”
She shook her head, lip quivering, shoulders slumping.
“Quite right. Now, then.” Augusta reached back to untie her apron. “You needn’t fret. Mr. Reaver may be a giant, but he is no monster. I suspect he is trying to put me off.”
“By demanding you live with him?”
“Mmm. It is my impression that he finds my persistence a trifle vexing.”
“He is not the only one,” Phoebe muttered, forgetting that Augusta’s hearing was excellent.
Depositing the folded apron on the bed, Augusta stripped off her cap and presented her back to her sister. “Help me, please. I can scarcely breathe in this frock.”
Phoebe complied, loosening the hooks at the back of the bodice. “Good heavens. How on earth did you manage to fasten these in the first place?”
“Miss Honeybrook assisted me. Incidentally, you may wish to keep your distance from that one. These costumes … well, I suspect Miss Honeybrook is not precisely treading the boards at a Theatre Royal.”
“You did not keep your distance.”
“My association was necessary. Yours is not.”
“I like her.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” Augusta chided. “I shan’t be here to watch over you. You must protect yourself.”
A sigh and a jerk of the fabric. “How much more ruined can I possibly be, for goodness’ sake?”
The final hook gave way. Augusta wheezed a deep, satisfying breath and moaned at the sublime relief. Her bosoms ached from being flattened, but by God, she had done it. She had forced Reaver’s hand. And in only six short weeks, Glassington would keep his promise and marry Phoebe.
The timing was tight. By then, her sister might be showing, but no matter. Glassington could hardly protest, since he’d been the one to plant the seed.
Perhaps she could persuade Mr. Reaver to accompany her when she confronted the blackguard. She grinned, imagining the scene. Mr. Reaver was a masterful intimidator.
“Why are you smiling? Augusta, honestly. This is mad. Let us return to Hampshire. I shall marry Mr. Snellgrove. He flirted with me outside the church two days before we left for London.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Lewis Snellgrove is a farmer’s fourth son.”
“He has always been kind to me.”
“He is poor as a church mouse and closely resembles a cow.”
“But he will marry me without asking questions.”
Augusta sniffed and plucked a new gown from her trunk, tossing the black wool chambermaid’s costume beside the apron. “Lord Glassington made a promise, and he will keep it. That is that.” Just as she would keep her promises. It was what Father would have wanted. It was what was best for Phoebe and the child.
Besides, Augusta had already made her agreement with Mr. Reaver. She had no intention of backing down from that black-eyed devil.
A curious thrill chased round her spine as she recalled the hard set of his jaw, the span of his hands, the onyx flash of his eyes. Swallowing, she brushed the image away.
“Come, Phee. Help me dress. By Christmas, this will all seem nothing but a momentary hardship, followed by a lifetime of comfort.”
Her sister’s only answer was another sigh.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in green-and-white checked cambric topped with her brown pelisse and straw bonnet, Augusta led Mr. Duff out of the dreadful lodging house. Rain had started again, sullen and gray. Surreptitiously, she glanced up and down the street, taking care not to draw Mr. Duff’s notice.
Carts and refuse. A pair of drunkards exiting a public house. A feral cat darting into the alley. She breathed deeply in relief. The boy had followed her direction.
Additionally, the hack had remained in place. Mr. Duff’s threats had accomplished their aim. While the big man loaded her trunk, she climbed inside.
Where a small, dark form huddled on the floor.
Her eyes flared, her heart squeezing. Stuttering.
A filthy cap tilted up until the most visible part of him was the white of his eyes.
Her own eyes narrowed. She wanted to shout at him. Grasp his arm and yank him from the coach’s interior. But she could not. The blasted boy would be snatched by Mr. Duff in a trice. Even if she could prevent his being pummeled, he would likely be turned over to a constable. Who knew what sort of punishment would befall him then.
Instead, she sat calmly, pulling the door closed with a snap. “You have forfeited your coins, boy,” she hissed. “I distinctly remember telling you to hide.”
The coach rocked as Mr. Duff climbed up beside the driver.
Wide eyes blinked. “I did. ’Ee didn’t see me, did ’ee? Ye headed back to Reaver’s?”
“No.”
The boy fell silent. The sound of him scratching some unknown itch chafed in the background as they pulled away from the lodging house. “Where to, then?”
“That is none of your concern. When we stop, you should wait until I can distract Mr. Duff, then either exit the hack or remain inside until the driver reaches his next stop.”
“If I exit, I should know where I am.”
Her mouth tightened. Phoebe had never been this disobedient; it made her teeth grind. “My destination is Mr. Reaver’s private residence in Marylebone.”
He gave a low whistle. “Never thought of ye as that sort, Miss Widmore.”
She felt prickling heat touch her cheeks before snapping, “What sort?”
“The ’ousekeeper sort. Sure enough, ye like things clean, but I figured ye for a lady.” Another round of scratching. “Could ye get me on there, d’ye suppose? I’m a rum hand with hearths and chimneys and such.”
“Boy—”
“They call me Ash, they do. That’s ’ow good I am.”
She released a frustrated breath. “Boy, I cannot—”
“Ye can call me Ash, too, if ye like. Seein’ as ’ow we’ll be workin’ in the same house, it’s only right.”
“I cannot get you a position in Mr. Reaver’s household. I shall only be there six weeks. Now, do as I say and—”
“Six weeks! That’s plenty. After I’m finished, Reaver’ll beg me to stay on.”
Sensing the fruitless nature of their argument, she gritted her teeth, clamped her lips closed, and tightened her fingers in her lap.
Reaver would have no interest in either hiring the boy or keeping him on. In fact, she predicted he would do all in his power to rid himself of her long before six weeks had passed.
Well, they would see about that, wouldn’t they?
“Lady,” the boy whispered, followed by more scratching. “Do ye suppose Reaver makes his servants wear livery?”
She closed her eyes in dread and asked, “Why?”
“I think I ’ave fleas.”
*~*~*