She’d nearly ground her teeth to dust holding the tears at bay. Ash needed her to be strong, and so she would be. She’d permitted herself one hug, disguising it as an inspection of his hair and clothing. He had tolerated her attentions, protesting only once when she’d squeezed too tight.
Clearing her throat, Augusta stifled her sentiment and trained her eyes upon her list of deliveries. One of them was a grand, Sebastian-sized desk. She frowned, recalling a question she had for Anne.
“Mrs. Higgins, several days ago, I ventured to the attic and found a peculiar assortment of crates.”
Suddenly, Anne appeared fascinated by the limestone at her feet. Her lips pressed together before she replied, “Yes?”
“They were stacked neatly along the east wall. Then, yesterday, I discovered they were filled with stone—extraordinarily heavy. Yet, they all had been moved across the attic to the west wall.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed. I cannot help but wonder if this is some odd training scheme for the footmen.”
“I could not say.”
Augusta narrowed her eyes upon the evasive housekeeper. “I shall require the attic for storage of a few items. What precisely is the purpose of copious crates of stone?”
Anne did not answer.
“Mrs. Higgins?”
Sighing, the woman glanced around the entrance hall, waited until a pair of footmen passed carrying a walnut sideboard, then turned so her bulk blocked light and sound from the direction of the front door. “It is Mr. Reaver’s practice,” she said in a low voice. “He transfers them from one side of the attic to the other. I hear him late into the night, after I’m abed. My chamber lies one floor below, along the east wall.”
“Why on earth would he do such a thing?”
Anne shrugged. “It is said he worked the docks when he was young. Perhaps he likes to remind himself how far he’s come. Or perhaps it helps him sleep. He is a vigorous man.”
Yes, Augusta knew about Sebastian’s vigor all too well. She swallowed and nodded, tucking away the question for another time. A pair of deliverymen entered, tilting a gracefully rolled chaise longue this way and that to fit through the door.
She glanced down at her list, frowning. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I’m afraid there is some error. Mr. Reaver did not request this piece.”
A third deliveryman entered with a notebook, plucking a pencil from behind his ear. “Aye, miss. He did. Says so right here.”
She went to the man’s side and looked. Indeed, the rosewood chaise longue with blue velvet upholstery was listed between the walnut sideboard and … a large, gilt mirror.
Blinking, she grasped the edge of the man’s notebook, pulling it closer. Two more items—a writing desk and a chest of drawers—were listed, as well. Her gloved fingers hovered over her lips.
Sebastian had purchased these items. For her.
He must have added them to his order while negotiating with Mr. Beauchamp.
Distantly, she heard Anne directing the men to place the chaise in her bedchamber. Augusta would have done so, but her heart was in her throat, restricting her breathing and her voice and turning her insides as soft as porridge.
Foolish man. No doubt he’d seen her coveting the items and had wished to please her. Beneath her fingers, her own lips smiled helplessly.
She wanted to see him. Thank him. Ask him about the crates and explain how much she enjoyed his kisses.
“Anne,” she murmured absently. “I must visit the club. Could you …?”
“Of course.” The housekeeper accepted Augusta’s list with a knowing grin. “Perhaps Mr. Reaver will be home for supper. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
Augusta nodded, curiously out of breath and only half-listening.
An hour later, she greeted a cheerful Duff and entered through the rear door of Reaver’s. Edith was exiting the service stairs and heading toward the kitchen. As she passed, the maid waved and called, “Good day to you, Miss Widmore. How is Big Annie farin’ with her new post? Not puttin’ on airs, is she?”
Augusta chuckled. “She asked me to tell you she is winning your wager by a mile.”
Edith snorted and continued toward the kitchen, tossing her reply over her shoulder. “A mile. That’s how tall her tale is. And you can tell her I said so.”
Quicker than was strictly proper—or sensible—Augusta made her way upstairs to Sebastian’s office. Mr. Frelling looked up from his desk as she closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
“Miss Widmore!”
“Mr. Frelling,” she said, catching her breath. “A footman whose name is either Tim or Tom seems to have spotted me in the corridor. I fear he may have suffered a fright, as he took me for a ghostly apparition.”
Behind his spectacles, Mr. Frelling’s eyes sparkled with humor. “A mite superstitious, that one. Cook regaled him with stories about a desperate, penniless woman who fell to her death whilst riding to an illicit meeting with a highwayman. He is convinced she haunts the halls of Reaver’s. I have explained the tale was merely an attempt to win a wager with one of the croupiers, but …” He shrugged.
“Why would he take me for a ghost and not simply a maid?”
Mr. Frelling’s smile faded as his glance dropped to Augusta’s brown pelisse. He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and busied himself with tidying papers. “I assume you are here to see Mr. Reaver. I’m afraid he is not in his office. You are welcome to wait, but I cannot be certain when he will return.”
Disappointment wrapped her in a cold, damp blanket. “Oh,” came her brilliant reply.
“However, I happen to know Miss Phoebe would be most grateful for a visit from her sister. Mrs. Frelling was saying so only an hour past.”
She straightened, tugging her gloves tighter. “Splendid. I shall see her at once. Thank you, Mr. Frelling.”
Phoebe was not merely grateful. She was frantic. She squeaked when she saw Augusta at the door. Then she burst into tears. Then she pulled Augusta into a vise-like hug and sobbed, “Oh, thank heaven you’ve come.”
The door closed behind her as she maneuvered them into the sitting room. Alarmed and flooded with stinging fire, Augusta grasped her sister’s shoulders and demanded, “Who has harmed you? I shall tear vital pieces from the knave’s body, beginning with his protuberances.”
Phoebe shook her head against Augusta’s shoulder.
“Well, perhaps I will ask Mr. Reaver to do the tearing,” Augusta clarified. “He is absurdly strong. And intimidating. But I shall direct the proceedings, Phee, I swear it.”
“D-do not remove anyone’s protuberances,” came her watery reply. “I am fine.”
Augusta leaned back. “You are leaking.”
Phoebe’s shoulders now shook on a laugh. She pushed away and swiped her cheeks with her fingers. “I missed you, that is all.”
“Rubbish. Let us drink tea, and you can explain what has turned you into a watering pot.”
Damp lashes fluttered and fell. Phoebe turned away, drifting toward the settee.
“Phee?”
“I saw him, Augusta,” she said without turning. “Glassington.”
Augusta’s stomach knotted. “Where?”
“On Piccadilly. Outside a grocer’s shop. He was … with a woman.”
Striding forward, Augusta grasped her sister’s elbow, forcing Phoebe’s red-rimmed eyes to meet hers. “Who?”