“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.”
~~*
CHAPTER FIVE
“Properly, a gentleman belongs to a club, Mr. Kilbrenner. If it happens the other way round, he is no gentleman at all.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining poorly understood concepts in terms even a ruffian might comprehend.
It looked nothing like she’d pictured, nothing at all like a gentleman’s club. Phoebe Widmore frowned up at the four-story brick building in a tiny square off St. James. It had a red door and long, symmetrical windows.
She would have imagined an elderly couple living there. Or a widow with multiple pugs and a penchant for lengthy anecdotes. She would not have guessed that this—this—was the infamous Reaver’s.
Behind her, the hack rattled away. There was no help for it. She could not bear for Augusta to sacrifice herself to that … man. Sebastian Reaver. By all accounts, he was a lowborn ruffian, wealthy and powerful though he might be. Of course, the only account she’d heard was Augusta’s, but still.
Straightening her spine to Widmore standards, Phoebe swallowed down her nausea and ascended the few short steps to the door. She knocked twice.
Did one knock upon the door of a gentleman’s club? She’d never asked.
The red door opened. Inside the shadowy interior, she saw only a white cravat and waistcoat. Then, she saw teeth. Those were white, too.
“May I help you, miss?”
Oh, good heavens. His voice was … delicious. Like chocolate, dark and rich and sinfully warm. By contrast, his accent was crisp and proper. Perfectly English. Perfectly refined.
“Well, now, it appears you’ve lost your way. What address were you seeking? Perhaps I can assist.”
Yes, like chocolate. If she’d been able to afford such a luxury, she would drink a cup every morning. Of late, everything else made her sick. But not that.
The door opened wider as he stepped into the light.
Her eyes flared. He was the color of chocolate, too. Well, perhaps tea or cinnamon. Dark and rich. Handsomer than any man she’d ever seen, with a slender nose and black hair. And his eyes. Good heavens. Thick-lashed and glowing, they were like bronze or amber.
A single black brow rose. “Miss?”
“I—is this … Reaver’s?”
A subtle grin curled his lips, drawing her attention. “Indeed it is.” He glanced toward the sky beyond her bonnet. “I’m afraid we do not permit ladies to enter.” Those eyes searched her face then swept the length of her walking dress. They lingered on her muddy hem. “However, as it is raining, perhaps I can arrange for a hack.”
Blinking away her peculiar fascination with his sculpted, lovely lips, she straightened further and moved a step closer. “I am here to speak with Mr. Reaver. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
A long pause. “Hmm. Your name wouldn’t happen to be Miss Widmore, would it?”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“I thought so.” He sighed and tilted his head. “Mr. Reaver is not available.”
“Oh, but I must speak with him, Mr. …?”
“Shaw.”
“I must see him, Mr. Shaw.”
“Regretfully, I must decline your request.”
“You cannot.”
“And yet, I did.”
“He has”—she glanced around to ensure they were alone—“propositioned my sister in a most ungentlemanly fashion. I shan’t allow it.”
“Your sister. Miss Augusta Widmore.”
“Yes.”
“The same Augusta Widmore who entered this fine establishment this very morning dressed as a chambermaid.”
Her mouth tightened as she glimpsed the wicked humor in those amber eyes. “She is a good woman, Mr. Shaw. A spinster from Hampshire! Her aims were simply to—”
“Acquire Lord Glassington’s markers. Yes. I know.”
Her hands landed upon her hips. “And do you know that Mr. Reaver has demanded she live with him? At his house?”
At last, surprise lit Mr. Shaw’s handsome features. He blinked. Frowned. Tapped the edge of the door with a gloved finger. “That is … most unlikely. You misunderstood the situation.”
Out of patience, she charged forward, pushing past him. “Did I misunderstand the brutish Mr. Duff coming to collect my sister’s belongings? I think not.”
“Duff visited your residence?”
A statue of a woman stood a few feet away. She was draped in Greek fashion and held a cone-shaped basket filled with coins. Phoebe blinked. The entire space was a study in ostentation—ornate silk walls, gilt mirrors, gleaming wood.
“He accompanied my sister to help transport her trunk to Mr. Reaver’s house. I must …” Inside, her throat swelled in a familiar fashion. Oh, dear.
Her hand moved over her belly. Oh, no.
The scent of roasting meat and wine assaulted her in a fog of sick. Her stomach churned. Her gorge rose. She sensed Mr. Shaw behind her, heard him murmuring something about her pallor. Frantic, she covered her mouth and searched the foyer for some sort of receptacle. A vase or urn would do.