Shaw’s voice halted mid-sentence. Boots crunched in the snow as he approached. “Reaver.”
He turned. Shaw pointed to an older man and younger woman exiting a coach. They were well dressed and arguing. The young woman had sallow skin and large teeth. Reaver grunted in surprise.
“Who is it?” Augusta asked.
“Mr. Elder,” Shaw answered. “And his daughter. Interesting.”
“He must have caught up to them last night,” said Reaver. “Wonder where Glassington is.”
Just then, a coach emblazoned with an elaborate crest pulled into the yard.
Augusta gave a disgusted snort. “There. His trappings were always of greater worth than the man.”
Glassington scrambled down from his coach with a desperate lack of grace. He fell to his knees in the muddy slush. But soon, he regained his feet and ran toward Elder and his daughter.
Elder turned at hearing his name shouted. A disagreement ensued in which Glassington claimed to be a changed man and Mr. Elder insisted he was a weak, scurvy knave with more cravat than sense.
“This is not going to end well for Glassington,” Reaver observed.
Augusta turned her gaze from the argument to him. “Why do you think so?”
“An earl from Surrey is no match for a tradesman from Newcastle.”
Not more than a minute later, Glassington lay with his backside in the muck, a bruise roughly the size and shape of Elder’s fist reddening his cheek. Miss Elder moved to help the prone peer, but her father grasped her elbow, said something that made her frown of concern transform into a frown of disgust, and led her willingly into the inn.
Glassington struggled to his feet, rubbing his jaw and wincing. He looked about and spotted Reaver.
Reaver smiled.
Glassington blanched.
“Should you kill him, or shall I, Reaver?” The question came from Shaw.
“Nah,” he replied. “Killin’s too easy. Man like that should suffer.”
“Mmm. You make an excellent point.”
The inn door opened again and Phoebe appeared. Her eyes rounded as she spotted the earl, and she halted in place. Beside Reaver, Augusta made a sound of distress and started forward. He grasped her arm gently, tugging her back.
“Oh, but …” When she spied Shaw striding purposefully to Phoebe’s side, she came back to Reaver, sliding her arm through his. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Right you are.”
He grinned down at her.
She gave him a prim smirk and lifted brow. “Savor it, my darling husband. For, you shall hear it rarely.”
Then, together, they moved closer to the scene unfolding before the inn’s weathered door.
“… suppose it might be best to continue on to Gretna,” Glassington muttered in morose tones. “We can be married there if Mr. Shaw and Mr. Reaver agree.” He turned his gaze to Shaw. “How soon might I expect the markers to be delivered?”
“Hmm. Let me see,” said Shaw softly. “It takes four days to reach Scotland—five or six in the snow—then an additional four or six days for your return to London. So, if my calculations are correct, your markers will be delivered at half-past never.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Never. You will not receive the markers. You will pay the markers. Every. Single. One.” Shaw moved closer, angling to place himself between Phoebe and the earl. “Oh, and you will not be taking her to Gretna. You will not be marrying her at all.”
“I—I won’t? But, I thought that was what she wanted.” He tilted his head to see past Shaw to Phoebe. “Your sister has plagued me for months.”
Phoebe’s chin elevated in a distinctly Widmore way. “My sister believed you a gentleman. As did I. But gentlemen keep their promises. You have not.”
His expression turned sullen. “I never promised you marriage.”
“We both know that is a lie.” She sniffed. “Still, it is no longer of any importance. I would not marry you if you begged.”
“Have a better offer, do you?” he sneered.
“As a matter of fact”—she looped her arm through Shaw’s—“I do.”
Shaw’s face was pure, possessive triumph.
Glassington’s was incredulity. His mouth worked like a fish’s. “But, the child is mine.”
“No,” said Shaw. “The child is mine.”
The earl appeared dumbfounded. His eyes darted between Phoebe and Shaw and Phoebe’s abdomen. Then, slowly, his expression grew darker. Resentful. As though he’d suddenly realized how weak his position had become. “I can make things difficult for you, Shaw. I shall press my suit legally—”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Shaw replied crisply, as though he was revoking a club member’s credit. “If you attempt to intervene, I shall call in your markers. All of them.”
Glassington went white as the snow blanketing the countryside behind him. “All … at once?”
Shaw grinned, his teeth gleaming. “Indeed. I do believe that should leave you with approximately … hmm, let me think. These sums are rather large. Ah, yes. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. In fact, even your entailed property would only serve to pay interest on the remainder after you’ve sold everything else. So, you see, you will not be pressing a suit or making a claim or causing the slightest jot of difficulty for Phoebe or myself or anyone else.” Shaw’s voice lowered, and the ruthless man who had helped build an empire emerged. “You will disappear from view, Glassington. And, over time, you will pay your markers diligently, knowing those funds will be put to good use for my wife and my child.”
For a moment, Glassington looked like he might protest.
Shaw waved a finger casually toward Reaver. “Best get on, now, my lord. Reaver is a bit unpredictable, and he has no liking for you. His wife’s influence, I suspect.”
The earl shot Reaver a nervous glance before turning and stumbling back to his coach, his once-pristine boots slipping in the mud. As the coach carried the worthless nob away, Reaver felt Augusta sigh.
He glanced down at his wife and found her beaming. “I knew,” she breathed before turning her smile upon him and nearly knocking him on his backside with the beauty of it. “I knew the moment I saw you that you were the answer.”
“To what?”
“Our Glassington problem. But, really, to everything. You’re my answer to everything, Bastian.”
He grinned back, bending down to give her a lingering kiss. “As usual, Gus, you were right all along.”
~~*
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Tell her she is right. The more frequent the application, the happier you will be.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter of advice for husbands who wish to please their wives and, in turn, please themselves.
July 25, 1820
Derbyshire
“You see, Bastian? I was right all along.”
Sebastian glanced away from the coach’s window to give her a dark glower. “About?”
“The carriage. You are far more comfortable. Admit it.”
“It looks ridiculous.”
“Mark my words, everyone will soon be driving a carriage like this. Why, just think how easy it is to enter.”
“Because it is too low.”