So many reasons, and yet only one conclusion: She must persuade him to marry her. But how? The man spent all his time working on the expansion. Acceding to his wishes, she had stayed away. It had given her the chance to put his study and library into proper order, but dash it all, she missed him.
A quiet knock came at the study door. “Miss Widmore?” Anne inquired. “Another delivery arrived. This one is from Mrs. Bowman.”
Augusta grinned and resettled her faded, checked skirt. This might be the last day she would wear the old frock. It had served her well, but should have been torn into rags long ago.
She followed Anne down to the entrance hall as footmen accepted boxes upon boxes from deliverymen and Teedle, the gentle-eyed, white-haired butler, organized the lot. “You may deposit them in my dressing room. Thank you, Teedle,” she directed, marveling at the sheer quantity of packages. She hadn’t remembered there being quite so many gowns and gloves.
But, then, she’d been distracted. Sebastian had watched her like a great, starving bear eyeing a plump, succulent rabbit. When she recalled the look in his eyes, she wanted to melt. Simply melt for him.
The deliverymen from Bowman’s departed, but another cartload of furnishings arrived from Mr. Beauchamp. By the time she’d directed the placement of two large, winged chairs and several tables for the library, she’d checked nearly everything off her list. Satisfaction filled her. A delivery of books from Lackington, Allen and Company, and an assortment of vases from Wedgwood and Byerley’s showroom were all that remained.
She set her list upon the entrance table and started toward the stairs. Just then, another knock sounded. Knowing it was likely another delivery, and that Teedle was occupied, she elected to answer it herself.
But when she opened the door, she did not find deliverymen from Wedgwood and Byerley. She found the oddest trio she’d ever encountered.
First was a petite, raven-haired woman wearing a dark-blue bonnet with little white feathers. Apart from a small scar near the corner of one eye—half of an impossibly lovely indigo-blue pair—her skin was as creamy and flawless as the finest china. Augusta blinked several times to be certain she was real. The woman smiled wide, and her beauty grew. Twinkled like starlight. She was quite the most resplendent creature imaginable.
Behind her, one step lower yet still a foot taller, stood a man. Augusta had seen such height and breadth only once before: Sebastian Reaver. In fact, this man, with his hard, square jaw, low brows, and permanent crease between said brows, resembled Sebastian to an uncanny degree. Apart from their coloring—dark-blond hair and green eyes rather than black and black—this man and Sebastian could be brothers.
Last was a white-haired woman of at least seventy years. She was small-boned with a triangular nose and an imperious expression. She wore a purple, velvet-covered bonnet with a long peacock plume bobbing lightly in the breeze.
“For a maid, dear, you are frightfully rude.” The old woman sniffed and eyed Augusta’s gown, lifting a white brow at her companions. “Perhaps she is mute. While a mute maid might prove a relief from incessant chatter, no servant should ignore basic courtesy.” The woman tsked and addressed Augusta in a trumpeting voice. “Invite us in, girl. I am too old to find November winds bracing. Or inept servants charming.”
Augusta cleared her throat eyed the old woman and the gentleman, feeling another twinge of familiarity. Finally, she addressed the exquisite creature in the dark-blue bonnet. She appeared friendly enough. “I do beg your pardon, but if you are here to see Mr. Reaver, I’m afraid he is not at home.”
“Oh, we know,” the young woman assured her. “We are here to see Miss Widmore.”
Augusta’s heart stuttered and sank. Her? Why would they wish to see her? “I … I am not certain …”
“Good heavens, girl!” the old woman snapped. “My bones are as frigid as Prinny’s ill-begotten marriage. Show us into a room with a large fire and a larger pot of tea. Then inform Miss Widmore she has callers.” The plume bobbed as she nodded toward her companions. “Lord Tannenbrook, Lady Tannenbrook, and Lady Wallingham.” She gored Augusta with a green-eyed glare. “I should not have to instruct another man’s servants in their duties. My son’s are more than enough.”
Although Augusta felt all the blood drain away from her skin, a lifetime of training and generations of Widmore dignity stood her in good stead. She stepped back, opened the door wide, and waved the trio inside. “Forgive my rudeness, Lady Wallingham. Lord Tannenbrook. Lady Tannenbrook. Do come in. I will show you to the drawing room at once.”
“And fetch Miss Widmore,” the old woman grumbled. “It is about time I meet this upstart who presumes to—”
“Enough, Lady Wallingham.” The deep rumble of Lord Tannenbrook’s voice startled Augusta to her core. “Remember our agreement.”
His voice. It was Sebastian’s voice. Or so nearly as to be …
No. It could not be. Tannenbrook was a lord. And Sebastian was a tradesman.
Perhaps Sebastian was a by-blow. Yes, she thought in relief. He must be. It was the only explanation. Half-brother to Tannenbrook, or some such. That would explain their resemblance. She felt the knot of panic subside. No one would balk if a bastard took a disgraced spinster as his wife, surely.
Something tickled the back of her mind, however. She frowned, wondering what it was. Their titles. Tannenbrook. Wallingham.
Lady Tannenbrook cleared her throat delicately. “I was given to understand Miss Widmore has been … in residence.”
Augusta halted. She had been living in Sebastian’s house without benefit of marriage or chaperone. Until now, her reputation had been protected by her obscurity and the fact that London was largely empty of aristocrats this time of year. Additionally, Sebastian had ordered his staff at both the club and house to maintain perfect discretion or risk immediate dismissal.
Oh, God. Augusta had grown careless. Complacent. The three aristocrats waiting impatiently to be shown to the drawing room so they could converse with Miss Widmore—who had been “in residence”—obviously possessed information and interest enough to pay a visit.
They did not, however, yet suspect that she was Miss Widmore. They thought her a maid. Perhaps she could continue the pretense and claim Miss Widmore had just stepped out when they—
“Ah! Miss Widmore. There you are,” said Anne as she descended the staircase. “Teedle was wondering if you would prefer the boxes from Mrs. Bowman be unpacked by the maids or if you would prefer to review them in your dressing room first.”
The weight of shame, cold and sinking, filled Augusta until she wondered if she might remain rooted to this spot at the foot of the stairs like a weed upon a rock. Her eyes drifted closed.
“You?” came Lady Tannenbrook’s sweet voice. “You are Miss Widmore? Oh, why did you not say?”
“Hmmph. Why do you suppose?” A trumpeting voice answered, followed by a sniff. “Mrs. Bowman. Rather a costly choice. Your talents must be positively legion, my dear.”