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?”