For the next half-hour, as they traveled east along the Strand, past Charing Cross and onto Fleet Street, Sebastian asked about her life in Hampshire. She described her small cottage—the chestnut trees rustling in spring, the garden scented with thyme, the lovely wooden shelves filled with her father’s books.
She grinned as she recalled Phoebe’s first night there. “Owls,” she chuckled. “Phee was frightened of the owls, poor girl. To be fair, they were nested right outside her window. Dreadfully loud. Of course, I explained the Legend of the Night Guardians, which calmed her nerves considerably.”
He raised a brow. “Night Guardians?”
“Why, yes. Since the days when giants and dragons roamed the earth, owls have served as watchmen—er, watch-creatures? In any event, they are charged with watching over all the young ladies of the realm, ever vigilant against those who might seek to steal the maidens away. So long as one can hear an owl’s call, one may be assured all is well. You’ve never heard the story?”
“I fear I haven’t.”
“Well,” she sniffed. “Perhaps that is because I invented it.”
He laughed, deep and rich and rumbly. “How old was she?”
“Thirteen.”
“You would have been one-and-twenty, then.”
Why his knowledge about her background should continue to surprise her, she could not say. The man was renowned for gathering and selling information, most of it a good deal more valuable than her or her sister’s ages.
His eyes sharpened upon her. “How long have you played Night Guardian, Augusta Widmore?”
Her smile faded. She broke away to stare out the window. “My, we are nearly to Mrs. Renley’s lodging house. It is on the other side of St. Paul’s, you know. How much farther?”
He took a long time to answer. “Not far now.”
She nodded. Moments later, they halted in front of a sprawl of brick and oversized radius windows. Above the door was a large sign that read, “Beauchamp & Sons.” Inside, she was astonished by the elegance of the space. It was enormous—at least two hundred feet long and thirty feet high—but it had been divided into rooms by columns and cleverly arranged furniture. Excitement grew as she thought of how quickly she might fill the rooms of Sebastian’s house. He would have a proper home. A sanctuary.
One might lodge many criticisms of Sebastian Reaver. He was a rough man, just as he’d said. He was blunt and rude, stubborn and ill-tempered. But he was also good and honorable, in his way. Furthermore, he had built something grand, built it from nothing with every ounce of effort and cleverness, ambition and determination he possessed—a quantity sufficient to fill a hundred of Mr. Beauchamp’s warehouses.
She glanced up at where he stood beside her, his fingertips resting lightly upon her back. A man of those admirable qualities deserved peace and comfort after so many years of struggle. Before she returned to Hampshire, she intended to see that he had it. Empty rooms simply would not do.
“Beauchamp,” he greeted a short, trim man with a mop of brown curls. “It’s time you settled your debt.”
The man’s welcoming smile faded, and his outstretched hand curled and fell. “M-Mr. Reaver. I … that is, I …”
“I’ve been informed I must furnish my house.”
“In-informed?”
“By my adviser.” He nodded to Augusta. “Miss Widmore. She will tell you which pieces I shall take. Keep a list. We’ll compare sums at the end.”
The man’s eyes rounded and his curls bobbed comically as he rushed to agree. “Of course, Mr. Reaver. Anything you like.”
“Miss Widmore,” Sebastian corrected. “Whatever she likes.”
“Yes, yes. Welcome, Miss Widmore.” He beckoned a young man holding a pencil and notebook then waved her toward a wondrous assemblage of divans and gilded tables. “Come right this way.”
Over the next several hours, Augusta selected pieces for nearly every room in the house. She began with the dining room, choosing a golden-mahogany dining table with twenty matching, shield-backed chairs. Next, she started on the drawing room, choosing an elegant walnut secretary, eight broad-striped blue chairs, two gold damask sofas, three settees, and a multitude of dark rosewood tables. Then came the bedrooms, each with its own color theme, followed by the morning room and sitting room and parlor.
She resisted an exquisitely curved chaise longue of carved rosewood and sky-blue silk that would offer a lovely spot to recline at the foot of her bed. She likewise resisted a mahogany chest-of-drawers and a full-length, gilt-framed mirror that would perfectly complete her dressing room, though the latter riveted her with its beauty.
Instead, at every turn, she considered Sebastian’s needs. Yes, the straight legs on this table are much better. No, he does not find Egyptian designs whimsical; he finds them silly. I shouldn’t think flowers are appropriate. Let us consider stripes. Larger, Mr. Beauchamp. The chair must be larger.
And, at every turn, she could feel Sebastian’s gaze upon her. He stood nearby, yet kept to the perimeter, occasionally murmuring and nodding to Beauchamp’s assistant as the young man made his list.
During one such conference, she pulled Mr. Beauchamp aside. “I have two additional rooms to furnish, but I should like them to be a surprise for Mr. Reaver. They will require, perhaps, two or three pieces crafted to my specifications, along with some items we may select here.”
Beauchamp’s eyes lit and he withdrew his own notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Oh, I say. Splendid, Miss Widmore. Splendid, indeed. We have two hundred apprentices and many, many craftsmen here at Beauchamp and Sons. We can make whatever your heart desires.”
“Excellent. Let us begin with the most important piece—a desk. An exceedingly large desk.”
Frantically, he took notes, producing sketches and dimensions based on her descriptions. By the time they completed her order, the light streaming through the radius windows had dulled and darkened. Sebastian settled matters with Mr. Beauchamp and bundled her outside, where the wind had begun howling. Once again, he fairly lifted her into the coach and climbed in beside her.
This time, she was grateful for his assistance—certainly not because she enjoyed the feel of his hands gripping her waist. No, no. It was merely that her feet and lower back ached from standing so long, and she was light-headed and weary.
She glanced to where he sat, his elbows on his knees. “Mr. Beauchamp appeared displeased before we left.”
“Aye. He attempted to overcharge me by ten percent.”
“Well, it was quite a large order, and he will have much trouble delivering it in a timely fashion.”
His response was a grunt. As usual, she could not decide whether it signified agreement or poor digestion.
“Have you considered his family?” she asked. “His sons—”
“He hasn’t any sons.”
“Oh, but his business is named—”
“Aye. An attempt to mimic his competitors and suggest longevity.”
She frowned. “But, it is a lie.”
“A lie that worked.”
“Is that all that matters? Surely one should strive for honesty in one’s dealings.”