Shaw was silent while Reaver stalked past him and yanked open the door. “Frelling! Set an appointment with Mrs. Bowman, the dressmaker on Bond. Two hours at her shop after closing. No interruptions.” He shut the door, only to pull it open again a moment later. “Make it three hours.”
Frelling nodded and adjusted his spectacles calmly. “Three hours at Bowman’s. How soon would you prefer?”
Reaver frowned. Miss Widmore would be occupied interviewing servants and selecting furnishings and arranging deliveries for the next several days at least. “A week,” he replied. “No more than a fortnight.”
“Consider it done.”
Reaver closed the door and searched for his greatcoat. Ah, yes. He’d left it on the chair.
“What. Precisely. Are you doing?”
Shrugging on his coat, Reaver shot a glance at Shaw. “Going next door.”
“There are better uses of your time than hauling bricks,” Shaw snapped. “Now, for God’s sake, answer my question. What are you doing with Miss Widmore?”
“Getting rid of her.”
“You’re out of your head.”
“She’s like a bur in a ball of fleece. You don’t rid yourself of it without some coaxing.”
Moving closer, Shaw gazed up at him and crossed his arms. “Coaxing.”
“Aye.”
“Hmm. And you say ridding yourself of her will be expensive. The furnishings. The gowns. The servants. Not to mention all the time she will be spending at your house. At least a week or two, if I am not mistaken.”
Reaver nodded, wondering at Shaw’s sharp tone and assessing stare. Then, he saw a subtle grin tug at the other man’s lips. “What’s amusing?”
“Oh, nothing significant. Carry on, Reaver. Do be certain to keep a tally of your expenses.”
“Always do.”
“Yes, of course.” Shaw gave one last grin before striding briskly to the door. “Incidentally, you may wish to add a small amount for Miss Widmore’s sister. I have installed her in rooms on the third floor. She will be residing here until both Miss Widmores return to Hampshire.”
“Here? Bloody, bleeding hell, Shaw.”
Shaw turned in the open doorway. When he spoke, his voice was hard. Cold. “She arrived this afternoon, white as linen. Demanded to see you, to tell you she would not permit you to ruin her sister. Then she cast up her accounts all over Fortuna. She is ill, Reaver. Slight and innocent, carrying less than four quid in her reticule. Duff told me where they’ve been staying. A hovel off Cheapside.”
Reaver ran a hand over his head and muttered a curse.
“Phoebe Widmore will be staying here,” Shaw informed him crisply, “where she may be properly fed and looked after.”
“Have you summoned Dr. Young?”
“He should arrive within the hour.”
Sighing, he nodded. “Very well. Just keep it quiet, eh? A girl can be ruined for entering a place like this, let alone residing here.”
Shaw’s disbelieving glare accused him of hypocrisy.
“Damn it, man. Augusta Widmore is not my mistress. She merely thinks she is. Far as everybody else knows, she works for me. That’s all.”
The disbelief remained. “Works for you in what capacity?”
“Whatever spinsters ordinarily do for a living.”
“She’s your governess, then.”
Reaver snorted. “Ye’re a right jester, ye are.”
“Companion?”
Contemplating the description, Reaver thought it was close enough. “Aye. Companion.”
“Spinsters are companions to other females, Reaver. Old females.”
He gritted his teeth. “Housekeeper, then.”
“Wasn’t she going to hire a housekeeper? Does one have two housekeepers?”
As he stalked through the doorway, he shoved his annoying friend aside. “God, man. Leave off.”
“Now, two secretaries—that is likelier.”
Frelling glanced up from his desk and frowned. “Are you taking on another secretary, Mr. Reaver?”
Reaver elected not to answer. Instead, he left his partner and his secretary to their bloody chuckling. They did not know how determined Augusta Widmore could be. They did not understand that he must drive her away. He must outrage her sensibilities, bring a flush to those pale cheeks.
And to do that, he must draw her close. Aye. Very close, indeed.
As he took the back stairs down into the yard, he noticed Duff eyeing him strangely.
“What is it, Duff?”
The big man adjusted his hat and sniffed. “Nothin’ much, sir. Just never seen ye smile quite like that before.”
“Like what?”
Duff shrugged. “Like ye was plannin’ to steal a batch of Cook’s peach tarts and keep ’em all for yourself.”
Reaver scoffed and continued toward the door of the adjacent building.
Duff was daft. Peach tarts? If only his temptation were so resistible.
~~*
Adam Shaw was still marveling at Reaver’s behavior as he knocked upon the door of Phoebe Widmore’s suite later that afternoon. His friend was obviously suffering unrequited lust, likely due to his infrequent employment of mistresses. Adam had repeatedly advised him to remedy the situation, of course, but Reaver could be intractable. Lately, his restlessness had grown as outsized as the man himself. Perhaps it was driving him mad. Distinctly possible.
Any fool would have realized by now the easiest way to rid oneself of Augusta Widmore was to grant her the use of the markers. Reaver was no fool, which left one conclusion: He relished jousting with the woman. Further, there was only one reason a man would deliberately keep the battle blazing, and it was not to send her scurrying back to Hampshire.
“My father should be here shortly, Mr. Shaw,” said Mary Frelling from behind him. “I’m afraid he’s taken up napping after luncheon.” She chuckled fondly. “Age, you know.”
Adam gave her a nod over his shoulder. He noted her husband, Frelling, grinned at her like a mooncalf. The man had been enchanted from the moment she’d stained his sleeve with her chocolate ice beneath the maples of Berkeley Square. Gunter’s had been their favorite place ever since.
He supposed she was a pleasant-looking woman—tidy and a bit plump with a dusting of freckles on her nose. He enjoyed her bright humor and sensible charm. But to entangle oneself in a woman’s skirts to such a degree? Incomprehensible.
Knocking again, this time harder, Adam waited for Miss Widmore to open the door. And waited. And waited.
His stomach tightened. What if she was unconscious? What if she needed help?
Without another second’s thought, he twisted the knob and charged inside, ignoring Mrs. Frelling’s gasp.
The sitting room was empty. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a tea tray rested upon the marble-topped table. Miss Widmore, however, was nowhere in sight.
“Er, Mr. Shaw, perhaps I should be the one to—”
Again, Adam ignored Frelling’s wife, taking the length of the room in a few strides and charging into the bedchamber.
A groan came from behind the screen on the other side of the bed. He rushed toward the sound.
“Oh, my word. Really, Mr. Shaw,” Mrs. Frelling protested. “I must insist you allow me to—”
“Miss Widmore?” he called, rounding the edge of the screen.