Augusta stiffened. “A bit of privacy would be appreciated, Mr. Reaver.”
“No,” Phoebe said, pulling away from her sister and approaching his position in front of the door. “I want to speak with you.” Wide blue eyes sparked with outrage. “How dare you, sir. How dare you proposition my sister with such a scandalous—”
“Phoebe.”
“—arrangement. She is no one’s mistress. Any man with a jot of sense would know upon first sight she is a lady of uncommon worth. She should be treated with the courtesy due such a virtuous—”
“Phoebe, this is not helpful.”
“—and splendid woman. I say again, how dare you!”
Oddly enough, her diatribe generated a slithery, sickly sensation beneath his skin. It felt like shame.
“Phee! Please. My arrangement with Mr. Reaver is mutual. He has not forced me into anything—”
Phoebe swung around, her hands on her hips. “You were desperate. He took advantage. That is despicable, even for a lowborn ruffian.”
Shame slithered deeper and went cold. Dark. He felt every muscle deaden.
“He’s done nothing I did not want,” Augusta said quietly. “Do you really believe I would allow a man to manipulate me in such a way?”
Phoebe heaved a shuddering breath and slid her arms across her own waist. “You will be ruined, Augusta.”
The words were whispered, but they slammed into Reaver like a fist to the gut.
She would be. Despite his precautions, Augusta Widmore would be ruined. Forever. She was a spinster, yes, and a tempting, aggravating, delectable, challenging nuisance. But, whether her role as his mistress was real or a ruse, she would never again make an acceptable wife for a gentleman.
Except, perhaps, for Glassington. He might marry her, if only to erase the markers.
Abruptly, what had been cold went hot. The darkness rose higher and burned in his stomach. In his throat. When his voice emerged, it was guttural and singed.
“The decision was hers. She chose to be mine.” He looked at Augusta, who wore a frown. “Withdraw if you like. Return to Hampshire. But know this. If you do, it will be without the markers. We have an agreement. I mean to keep it.”
Before the bizarre, raging forces inside him could spiral further out of control, he threw open the door. “I’ll send a maid for you, Miss Widmore. Half-hour,” he barked as he stalked into the corridor. “Don’t leave this room without her.”
~~*
Augusta flinched as the door closed. Then, she sighed.
“He is a ruffian,” Phoebe said. “Oh, Augusta, are you certain—”
“Yes,” she replied. “I am.”
Sebastian Reaver might be a ruffian. He might be rude and cantankerous and entirely too Spartan, but he would never hurt her. She knew that as surely as she knew her left hand from her right. The man had gone to great pains not to hurt her, even when she’d driven him mad, invading his club, pestering and haranguing him into making a bargain with her.
The bargain he’d offered had, in fact, been intended to drive her away and frighten her into preserving her own reputation. She’d wager her beloved cottage on it.
Mr. Reaver had honor. Perhaps it was of a different sort than her father’s, but it was no less real.
“Now,” Augusta continued, giving her sister a stern glance. “Let us discuss your reckless behavior for a moment.”
“Must we?”
“You are presently residing in a gaming club, Phee.”
“Well, yes. Mr. Shaw insisted.”
“And you’ve allowed a physician to examine you.”
Phoebe bit her lip and nodded. “He promised to tell no one. Dr. Young is a gentleman.”
Noting that Phoebe’s hands had settled protectively over her belly, Augusta eased into a small smile. “When does he say the babe will come?”
“Seven months, if all goes well.”
Augusta swallowed and nodded. “We must take great care now. You understand, do you not? If anyone learns you are with child before you wed Lord Glassington, there will be no way to mend the damage.”
“I know.”
“Tell nobody else. Especially Mr. Shaw.”
Suddenly, Phoebe’s expression shuttered. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Why him, especially?”
“He will surely inform Mr. Reaver, and one cannot be certain how that man might react.”
Phoebe’s mouth tightened. “Toss us out, likely. Or perhaps demand further concessions from you.” Her eyes focused upon Augusta’s face. “Marriage, even.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s not so farfetched. The Widmore name—”
“Means nothing to a man like him. Besides, a permanent attachment does not suit his purpose.”
“What precisely is his purpose?”
Augusta sighed. “I have set him a challenge he does not wish to lose.”
Phoebe opened her mouth, undoubtedly to ask another question, but Augusta simply held up a hand. “Leave Mr. Reaver to me. You must focus upon regaining your strength. Living here should make it easier.”
She nodded and grinned. “Much. No children crying in the corridor. No scurrying rats or dripping pots.”
Laughing at the memories, Augusta shook her head. “That place was horrid, wasn’t it? Mrs. Brown’s screaming fits. Mrs. Renley’s fondness for gin. Miss Honeybrook’s frequent visitors.”
“Oh, I quite liked Miss Honeybrook.”
Augusta brushed at a curl along Phoebe’s cheek. “Having you here, where you are safe, sets my mind at ease. Now, I can concentrate on Mr. Reaver.”
Blue eyes went wide. “What do you intend to do?”
Raising her chin, she sniffed. “I intend to hold him to his promise. Whether he likes it or not.”
Precisely a half-hour later, the maid knocked upon the door. Augusta was surprised to note it was the same girl she’d encountered on the service stairs on her first incursion into Reaver’s.
The girl smiled warmly. “Miss Widmore? I’m Edith. Mr. Reaver sent me to show you to his office.”
Augusta nodded, gave Phoebe one last hug, and reminded in a whisper, “If you need anything, send a note to the address I gave you. I shall come straight away.”
Phoebe sniffed and squeezed her tight before bidding goodbye.
As Augusta followed Edith into the corridor, the maid proved to be rather chatty. “So, you’re workin’ for Mr. Reaver now, I hear.”
Augusta blinked. Rather an odd way to phrase their arrangement, she thought. “You might say that. Do you enjoy working here at the club?”
“I adore it. Hard work, but the pay is mighty generous. And Mr. Shaw and Mr. Reaver don’t countenance so much as a lustful glance our way from the men. First sign of such things, and they toss the blackguard out on his … well, his ear.” Edith giggled. “Big Annie says it’s even better at Mr. Reaver’s house. Double the sum and scarcely a footstool to dust. You’ll like it there, I reckon.”
Ah, so Anne was known as Big Annie, at least to Edith. The older maid was, indeed, quite large. She wondered if Anne had managed to force little Ash into Mr. Reaver’s shirt after Augusta’s departure. The boy was incorrigible. She stifled a grin.