He would do anything if she would agree to be his.
But his plans had been disastrous from the start. First, she’d felt humiliated by Tannenbrook’s visit—a visit Reaver had known nothing about. At the dinner, he’d confronted Tannenbrook, who had explained, “It was Viola’s idea. When she learned of your attachment, her excitement about Miss Widmore took hold, and she wished to meet her. Lady Wallingham caught wind of it, and she insisted on accompanying us. She claimed having her on Miss Widmore’s side would be a boon, should there ever be a question about Miss Widmore’s … accommodations. Which is true, but I should not have allowed it. I am sorry, Reaver. Viola meant well. She quite admires Miss Widmore.”
Reaver had understood, but had warned Tannenbrook that if Augusta were placed in such a position again, they would exchange more than hard words.
Tannenbrook had smiled and nodded, bracing his hand on Reaver’s shoulder. “Aye,” he’d said simply. “I would do the same.”
Later in the evening, Reaver had watched Augusta move from conversation to conversation with perfect composure, even as she’d grown whiter and more pinched. When Glassington had entered and her eyes had fixed on the other man, seething with some fiery emotion, he’d cursed every daft inch of himself. What the devil had he been thinking?
You wanted to possess her, that’s what, he thought. He’d lost patience with waiting and had elected confrontation over persuasion. Now, as Augusta’s breathing hitched and shuddered with the aftermath of her collapse, he realized how he’d hurt her. Without meaning to, he’d wounded the woman he wished to protect. And he still did not understand Glassington’s hold upon her.
He ran a hand through his hair and released a frustrated breath. In the quiet of the room, amidst the wind and sleet and distant thunder outside, he heard a low tapping at Augusta’s chamber door. Curious, he pushed to his feet and answered it, revealing the boy Augusta had taken in.
God, the woman had a soft heart beneath all that fight.
“She’s sleeping, boy,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I know,” Ash murmured, peeking past Reaver’s leg. “Is she … well?”
It took him a moment to answer. “She will be.” He meant it as a promise, one he intended to keep.
The boy nodded. “Mrs. ’Iggins sent me up. There’s a man to see ye. Says ’ee has a message ye must hear.”
Reaver left Ash to watch over Augusta and made his way downstairs. He found Shaw, drenched and dripping, wiping his face with a cloth offered by Big Annie.
“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins,” Shaw said quietly, returning the damp thing and placing his hat on the nearby entrance table.
“I’ll fetch tea, shall I?”
“Thank you, but no. I shan’t be staying long.”
Reaver frowned as the housekeeper nodded and left. “Shaw,” he said sharply. “What’s happened?”
“We received word from Drayton.” The other man’s face had an odd cast to it. Cold. Hollow. Hard as a steel blade. Reaver hadn’t seen Shaw this way since their earliest days, shortly after his arrival in London. “It’s about Glassington.”
“Tell me.”
“The circumstances are not quite as we’d imagined,” he began, brushing droplets off his sleeves in an odd pretense of nonchalance. “The Widmore sisters encountered Glassington at a house party in June. He was considered quite the catch by the local gentry, apparently. Young. Titled. You understand. He soon set his eye upon one particular lady, and their mutual admiration invited speculation of a match. Some said they’d come to an understanding, but nothing was announced.” Shaw’s voice was as cold and flat as his expression.
Reaver moved closer, wanting to see his friend’s eyes. They were tortured. Haunted. Near mad. “Shaw. What the devil—”
“In August, he left Hampshire for London, and the rumors of an engagement abated. As you know, Glassington subsequently visited the club with a friend and lost his fortune. Thereafter, he retreated to his estate in Surrey to drown himself in brandy and self-pity.” Shaw’s lips curled at one corner. It was not a smile. “But the lady he’d admired would not be allowed to forget him. For, she was left with a memento of their courtship. She—or more rightly, her sister—wrote him urgent letters. His response was less than satisfactory. The vile whoreson admitted fathering the babe, but he refused to acknowledge he had promised marriage. And the lady and her sister were left with no other option but to travel to London—”
“No.”
“—and coerce the holder of Glassington’s markers into—”
“No, by God. She cannot be with child.” It would destroy him. She was his.
“No,” Shaw said softly. “Augusta is not with child.”
Silence fell. Distantly, Reaver heard the tap of footmen’s boots as they went about their duties. The whinny of a horse outside in the square. The patter of sleet and the rush of wind. And all the while, gears clicked and spun, finding their way into proper place at last.
Phoebe was with child. She’d been seduced by Glassington, promised marriage, and abandoned to bear his babe alone.
Augusta had never wanted Glassington for herself. She’d needed him to marry Phoebe, to ensure the babe was born on the right side of the blanket, and that her sister was made a wife—a countess—before anyone discovered her condition.
The relief he felt was so profound, his vision swam. Relief and triumph.
She was his. Augusta was his.
Why she’d never told him the truth, he did not know. Likely she’d thought she was protecting Phoebe, but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered now.
He would take Augusta as his wife. He would shelter both her and her sister. He would bloody well choke Glassington with his own cravat until the man did his duty by Phoebe and the child.
“Did he say anything else?” Reaver asked, wondering what had caused Shaw’s torment.
The other man’s lips twisted bitterly. “A warning. Glassington has set his cap for another woman. An heiress by the name of Miss Elder. Her father is a coal merchant, quite plump of pocket. She is his only daughter, so her dowry is rather sizable. Greater by half than the fortune Glassington lost.”
Reaver’s stomach hardened. “Bloody, bleeding hell.”
Shaw’s eyes dropped to his boots. The twisted smile had disappeared, leaving his mouth flat and tight. He reached into his coat and withdrew the folded letter, tossing it onto the entrance table before retrieving his hat.
Reaver frowned at the damp sheets then at his friend. “Shaw—”
But Shaw wasn’t listening. He was leaving. “Drayton sends his apologies for the delay. The matter required more travel and far deeper investigation than he’d anticipated.” Shaw returned his hat to his head and opened the door. “It seems both Miss Widmores possess an admirable talent for keeping secrets.”