He frowned, wiping the dripping brim of his hat so he could see what had startled her so. Scanning the post-chaises and hacks rolling by, examining the various pedestrians along Piccadilly, he demanded, “What is it? Did someone see us together and—”
“Nothing. It is nothing.”
He spun to meet her eyes, but she was already striding past, white as chalk. Again, he followed her gaze, determined to identify the fool who had given offense. Ahead, there were only three groups and one lone man ambling past the grocer’s windows. The man was old, walking with a cane. One group was a pair of plainly dressed servants, another a middle-aged woman accompanied by her footman. But the third, pausing to gaze through the shop window, was a couple—a man in a finely tailored greatcoat, and a woman with an oversized ermine muff. The man held an umbrella above the woman’s head. They were followed at a discreet distance by a shivering lady’s maid.
Squinting through the driving rain, he tried to see the man’s features, but the couple turned toward the door. As Adam kept pace with Phoebe, the set of the man’s shoulders, his height and frame struck a note of familiarity, but he couldn’t place him.
Then, the wind caught the man’s umbrella. He turned to retrieve it, laughing as he managed to wrestle it closed.
Adam blinked. Glanced at Phoebe, whose arms crossed over her middle as though she were cold or sick.
Past the brim of her bonnet, all he could see were her lips. They had gone bloodless. “You were right, Mr. Shaw,” she said, her voice thin and choked. “We should not have come out today. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He wanted to question her further, but they had already reached the carriage, and the footman, Edward, opened the door. Edward and the coachman both appeared stoic and miserable. So, rather than demanding answers, Adam helped Phoebe into the coach and climbed in beside her, ignoring Edith’s long-suffering sigh.
Instead, he collected the lap blanket Phoebe had abandoned and spread it over her. She didn’t respond, merely sat still and stared out the window as the coach lurched forward.
Time enough later, he told himself. Later, when she was warm and well fed, he would discover why Phoebe Widmore had looked like death when she’d set eyes upon the Earl of Glassington.
~~*
CHAPTER TWELVE
“A lady may signal her interest in a multitude of ways. I have long favored the direct approach. In the time required for a man to decipher the secret language of handkerchiefs and fans, fluttering lashes and discreet smiles, a cleverer woman could have married him thrice.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter explaining the subtleties of courtship.
Seven days after Sebastian’s kiss, Augusta still hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep. How could she, when every time she closed her eyes, she felt his hands upon her, his mouth upon hers, his body pleasuring hers?
Not that he was present, of course. He hadn’t so much as touched her in a week. It was both misery and pleasurable tension.
Even now, as she watched five burly footmen and three of Mr. Beauchamp’s deliverymen carry the dining table through the entrance hall, she effervesced with anticipation.
How she longed to see him again. Despite his sudden spate of gentlemanly restraint. And his long absences. And his burning watchfulness.
He continued sleeping at the club, much to her consternation. Had she not sufficiently conveyed her willingness to be kissed?
She nibbled her lip and marked a mahogany secretary as having been delivered. “Upstairs on the first floor,” she directed the footmen absently. “First set of doors. West wall in the drawing room.”
Perhaps Sebastian needed encouragement. Nothing about him suggested a lack of intelligence or capability. No, indeed, he was most certainly capable. Astonishingly so.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly.
The problem was clearly unrelated to his … capabilities. Yet, he avoided her company for reasons she hadn’t quite puzzled out. She must be bolder, she decided. Yes. If she assured him his ungentlemanly attentions were acceptable to her, then he might overcome whatever misgivings prevented him from taking action.
Action that was necessary. And desired. And well past due.
“My word, he is a wily one, is he not?”
Augusta blinked at Anne, who was helping her direct the deliverymen. The maid had been elevated to housekeeper and was now known as Mrs. Higgins, though she remained unmarried, and Edith continued referring to her as “Big Annie.”
Seeing Augusta’s confusion, Anne clarified, “Our little mouse. He spent this morning persuading John to show him the ‘proper way’ to clean a horse stall.” She nodded toward a strapping young man tracking mud into the house while holding one end of a settee. “By the time John finished his lesson, the task was done. Now, the mouse is nowhere to be found.”
John was one of a dozen new footmen. Mr. Frelling had hired forty servants, including a butler, footmen, maids, a stable master, coachman, grooms, and a talented, surprisingly amenable French cook. Upon viewing the secretary’s neatly penned list of servants and wages, Augusta had surreptitiously added one more—a boy named Ash at two shillings per week. She hadn’t known the boy’s surname, and neither had he, so she’d given him her mother’s maiden name.
“Ash Warrick,” the boy had muttered, fluttering his absurdly long lashes until he almost appeared feminine. He’d lifted and resettled his hat then spit on the floor of the stable. “Sounds a mite odd, ye ask me. Like one of them fancy insults.”
“It is an old and distinguished name, and you will use it without complaint,” she’d retorted.
“Hmmph. I’d rather be Ash Diver. Or Ash Black. Or—oooh, this here’s the best—Ash Cole.”
“You cannot be known as Ash Cole.”
He’d frowned. “Why not?”
If she’d explained, he would have guffawed and insisted on using the moniker. Instead, she’d stated firmly, “The ink is dry. Your name is final.”
He’d grumbled a bit more, but when she had introduced him to the butler, Mr. Teedle, he hadn’t raised a fuss. Still, Ash was a wily one, as Anne rightly observed. He tended to get his way by hook or by crook, so Augusta remained watchful. One never knew when he might change his name or wriggle out of his duties or disappear for half a day.
Now, Augusta sighed and glanced at an amused Anne. “I shall speak with Ash. We cannot have him going missing all the time.”
“He hides because he is afraid.” Anne’s voice was solemn, her eyes flat with anger.
Augusta nodded. She felt the same fury. Despite their efforts to learn the identity of the man who had beaten him, Ash had kept the name secret. Then, he’d raised his little chin and vowed he would leave if the man ever found him. “I won’t let ’im near ye, Miss Widmore. I promise ye that.”