Again, he laughed as he closed the door behind him.
Frelling’s advice, as it happened, was equally useless. His secretary blinked owlishly behind his desk in response to Reaver’s bluntly stated question minutes later. “Woo a lady, Mr. Reaver? I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is this a new scheme for the club?”
“You are married, are you not?” Reaver demanded.
“Yes.” The word was cautious. “Mrs. Frelling and I celebrate one year of marriage in January.”
“How did you persuade her to marry you?”
Frelling knuckled his spectacles and cleared his throat. “Well, now. That is quite a long story—”
“Shorten it.”
“Gunter’s.”
“Gunter’s?”
“The tea shop in Berkeley Square. It’s better known for its ices, I daresay. Mrs. Frelling is fond of the chocolate cream variety.”
“It is raining torrents, Frelling. When the wind gusts—which it does every few seconds—the stuff batters you until you’re envious of a rock off the Scottish shore.”
“Well … yes.”
“Your recommendation is likelier to end in a lung complaint than a wedding.”
“My courtship with Mrs. Frelling occurred summer before last. Ices are really best suited to warmer weather.”
“Then why Gunter’s?”
Frelling shrugged. “I did say it was a long story. They serve tea, as well. Not as fine as ours here at the club, but—”
Reaver sighed and rubbed his forehead, raising the other hand for silence. “Forget I asked. I’ll be next door doing something useful. You might consider that, Frelling. Being useful.”
With a placid smile, Frelling nodded. “Usefulness is, indeed, a laudable goal, Mr. Reaver.”
Muttering under his breath, Reaver made his way to Number Five, the building they’d acquired the previous spring for the expansion. As he entered through the back door, the sounds of hammers and male laughter greeted him.
He glanced around the ground floor, where they’d removed many of the walls to create larger rooms and a service passage from Number Six, the club’s current location. The bare framing and exposed brick alongside a chimney revealed rot and deterioration from a roof leak. He breathed the scent of mortar and plaster, wood and sweat, anticipating the satisfaction of real, honest work. Then, he stripped off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and began filling a wheelbarrow with bricks.
When he’d worked the docks, he’d spent his time planning—move a crate, calculate lease costs. Tie off a rope, contemplate profit margins. Load a ship, plan for efficient staffing. His body had moved, but his mind had moved faster. He’d longed for a time after physical labor, with wealth enough to live where he pleased and answer to no one but himself. Now, he’d surpassed that docker’s dream a thousand times over, and in some ways, it was satisfying.
But, for all his knowledge of probabilities, he hadn’t anticipated the restlessness. It ate at him like a burrowing insect, itching beneath his skin. Shaw knew, but he didn’t understand—not really. Shaw’s job as majordomo required constant motion and prompt reaction. He hadn’t time to grow weary of the stillness with only an ormolu clock ticking away the silence. There was always too much to do.
Not for Reaver. Until Augusta Widmore had come charging into his office with her prim smirks and preposterous demands, Reaver hadn’t known what to do with himself. He’d worked on the expansion, and the physical labor had helped, but that insect had burrowed deeper until he thought he’d go mad.
Now, she was all he thought about, a subject far more engrossing than the wealth fantasies of a twenty-year-old bruiser or the business schemes of a twenty-five-year-old tavern owner. Aye. Even as he gripped bricks, two in each hand, and piled them high, he found himself grinning. By God, that woman was extraordinary. Half measures take one precisely nowhere, she’d said. In some, such statements might sound boastful. In her, it was simply fact.
He’d watched her with Beauchamp, noticed her firm, decisive manner. She’d selected chair after sofa after table after desk as though she were plucking items from her attic—no hesitation, no wasted time.
Above all things, Augusta Widmore took charge. She did not wait to be instructed. She did not bother to soothe or mince. She was fair-minded but demanded high standards of herself and others.
Before Augusta, if anybody had asked whether such a woman would appeal to him, he would have thrown the fool out of his office. He’d long assumed if he ever married, his wife would be a calming sort. Biddable and easy. Augusta was anything but easy. She was trouble. From her spectacular red hair to her frayed brown hem.
He wanted her so much, he ached from his knees to his teeth.
Which was why he was currently wheeling a load of bricks to the opposite end of the ground floor, where two masons nodded their thanks and continued rebuilding the kitchen hearth. He no longer needed the labor to curb his restlessness, but it helped when his desire for her grew unbearable.
“Your mortar is too stiff,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind him as he began another load. “Should be wetter.”
Reaver glanced over his shoulder and raised a brow. “Tannenbrook. Thought you worked more with stone than brick.”
His cousin stood with his hands on his hips, eyeing the slumping chimney and running his thumb over a misaligned seam. “Having expertise in one area doesn’t make me ignorant in others.”
Grunting his agreement, Reaver resumed stacking bricks. “What brings you here?”
“Viola intends to host a dinner. She would like you to come.”
Reaver sighed and paused. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist then pivoted to face Tannenbrook. “Why?”
“She is fond of you. Bit of a mystery, that. Our resemblance is likely to blame.” Most of the time, Tannenbrook spoke like a typical English nob. But every so often, when emotion took him, a hint of Scot slipped through. It happened more frequently whenever Viola entered the conversation. At the moment, affection was bringing out his burr.
Which made Reaver wonder if Tannenbrook might not be the ideal adviser. Shaw and Frelling had been useless, but James Kilbrenner had landed a beauty for the ages—and, as he’d observed, he resembled Reaver, which meant he hadn’t relied upon appearance to win her. Viola could have had any husband she desired—prince or duke, handsome or rich—but she’d chosen Tannenbrook. Beneath his title, the man was a Scottish stonemason of intimidating size and unhandsome features. Hardly a prime catch. No, he was either one lucky Scot, or he possessed secret knowledge he hadn’t yet shared—knowledge Reaver intended to discover.
“Forget the mortar, man. I need your advice.”
Frowning, Tannenbrook folded his arms. “About?”
“Persuasion.”
“If you think to change Viola’s mind, I should warn you—”