She blinked and stiffened in alarm as he closed the few feet between them and leaned forward until his chest nearly touched her nose. Behind her, the faint squeak of the doorknob sounded. A whoosh of air moved her skirts.
Oh! He was opening the door. Thank goodness. For a moment, she’d thought he intended to … but, no. Mr. Reaver might be a lowborn ruffian, but he was not known for importuning women. In fact, amidst all the reports and rumors she’d collected, precious little was said about his habits regarding female companionship. He was unmarried, but that was all her sources knew.
“Time to go, Miss Widmore.”
He smelled better than she would have guessed. Rather good, actually. Like bracing autumn air—clean and golden with just a hint of wool and wood smoke.
A gigantic paw encircled her upper arm. Before she could speak a word, he spun her about and propelled her through the door. While painless, her exit was swift and tidal. There was no resisting it.
Although she lost her breath somewhere inside the antechamber, she managed to castigate him by the time they turned into the corridor.
“Mr. Reaver! This is most unmannerly.” She had to crane her neck to see past her bonnet’s brim, but she caught a glimpse of flexing jaw. “Release me at once, sir.”
He did not release her. He did not even slow his pace, which was striding for him and sprinting for her.
“Have you no conscience? No honor?”
At last, he halted. Turned her to face him.
Breathless, she watched as he bent forward. Was he … bowing to her? How very odd.
His shoulder brushed her midsection. A moment later, the world upended. She yelped as a band of warm muscle seized her thighs. Squeaked as a gigantic hand firmly gripped her backside. Then the world began jostling up and down.
No. She was jostling up and down. He was descending the stairs, hauling her upon his shoulder like a sack of flour. He did not even have the courtesy to breathe heavily, behaving for all the world as though carrying strange women down the front stairs of his club was a tedious routine.
“Mr.—ooph! Mr. Reaver. I insist you put me down at—ugh. At once!”
Then, suddenly, he did.
Her head swam. Her hands lingered on wide, wide shoulders. His hands lingered on her waist.
“Well, well. The quality of the rabble appears to be improving around here.” The voice was refined and amused. Mr. Shaw.
Mr. Reaver stepped back, leaving her swaying and disoriented. He glared at the majordomo who had appeared beside them. Then, without another word, he climbed the stairs and disappeared—a dark, forbidding giant returning to his lair.
She blinked. Glanced to Mr. Shaw, who stood grinning at her, his teeth flashing white in contrast to his strong-tea skin. Over the man’s shoulder, she glimpsed a statue of a woman holding some sort of receptacle. A cornucopia, perhaps, spilling gold coins.
“Miss Widmore.” Mr. Shaw tsked and gently took her elbow, urging her toward the door. “I did warn you. He does not like visitors.”
A cold, damp breeze rushed in as he opened the door. On the outside, it was painted red.
“Mr. Shaw.”
He paused while pressing her past the threshold. “Yes?”
She spun to face him. “This is a matter of the greatest urgency.”
“I do get that impression.”
“I shall not give up until Mr. Reaver hears me fully. I cannot.”
Mr. Shaw’s grin gentled. Amber eyes grew thoughtful. “A bit of advice, if I may be so bold.”
“Yes?”
“Give up.”
“I—”
“Appealing to Reaver’s mercy is …” He chuckled. “One might as well expect gold coins to fall from a goddess’s basket into one’s reticule. Give up now, Miss Widmore. Save yourself immeasurable frustration.”
“But—”
His only answer was to close the door.
She comforted herself that he didn’t slam it. No, Mr. Shaw—unlike his employer—had been both polite and patient.
Absently, she rubbed a hand over her belly. He hadn’t hurt her, but she could still feel the hardness of his shoulder. The strength of his arm. The heat of his hand on her backside.
How she wished she could take Mr. Shaw’s advice. But neither he nor Mr. Reaver understood the dire nature of her circumstances or the persistence of her character.
She stared at the red door. Tugged her gloves a bit tighter. And straightened her perfect Widmore posture.
They did not understand now, perhaps. But they would. Very soon, they would.
~~*
CHAPTER TWO
“To a lady of substance, a challenge is merely a call to arms. Consider yourself warned.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter answering said gentleman’s rejection of sound advice.
“You must admit she succeeded better than most.”
Sebastian Reaver ignored his best friend and business partner, electing instead to slice through the seal on yet another letter he did not wish to read.
Adam Shaw leaned against the edge of Reaver’s desk and crossed his arms. “Not suggesting we consent to her request, mind you. But she is resourceful. I suspect she has been monitoring our schedule and habits for at least a fortnight. Duff claims a boy picked his pocket minutes before she appeared in your office. Unorthodox but effective.”
Reaver glanced at Shaw over the top of his reading spectacles.
Chuckling, Shaw flashed him a grin. “Yes, yes. Her demands are absurd, I agree. Still, I admire her determination. Perhaps you should grant her a meeting.”
“No.”
“Might be entertaining. You could use a bit of that.”
Reaver released a gust of annoyance and flung the letter into the wooden tray on his desk’s right corner. “Meaning?”
Shaw shrugged. “Only that you’ve become both tedious and discontented. Your little adventure last spring proved a fine distraction, but now that’s over.”
His “little adventure” had involved investigating the poisoning deaths of at least four wealthy lords. At the time, he’d been incensed because among the victims had been one of the few aristocrats he’d ever liked. So, he’d insisted on aiding Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston in apprehending the villain, whom Dunston had pursued for over a decade. They had succeeded, but only after the villain had managed to poison Shaw and come within a hair’s breadth of killing Dunston’s wife.
“A boring sod, am I?” Reaver shook his head. “You should be glad of it. Another adventure like the last one, and ye mightn’t survive.”
Shaw patted his own chest. “Hale and healthy, man. You, on the other hand, grow dourer by the day. Have you considered taking a mistress? Assuming you can find a woman of sufficiently poor vision.” His head tilted. “Or stout construction.”
“Haven’t you a hazard table to oversee?”
“All I’m saying is that you thrive on challenge. You’ve spent the past fourteen years building this.” Shaw waved toward the bookshelves on either side of the window. Reaver assumed he meant the club in general.