God, he needed new employees. A sentry who didn’t chase pickpockets and abandon his post. A secretary who denied uninvited kin entry into his office.
His office. This was his domain, damn it all. And of late, it had been teeming with interlopers.
He glared at the letter that had arrived that morning. Even the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham harassed him, if only by post. He stacked Viola’s list and the painting on top of the broken seal, removing it from his sight. Then he sat back and rubbed his eyes.
Perhaps he should spend the rest of the day working on renovations next door. He and Shaw had purchased the adjoining property with the intention of expanding the club. Whenever he tired of reconciling the accounts and answering mewling letters from destitute lordlings, he found solace in lifting and smashing and brute labor.
If the end purpose of separating more aristocrats from their fortunes felt less satisfying than he would like, at least the work served to chill his restlessness.
Aye. Physical labor wasn’t much of a challenge, but it cleared his head. Decision made, he began tidying his desk. Just as he finished sorting stacks and shoving his chair back to rise, however, his office door inched open. A white mobcap peeked past the edge. A black-sleeved arm extended inside, along with a gloved hand. This was followed by an ample bosom and lean hips, all draped in plain, dark wool and a crisp, white apron.
She was dressed as a maid.
Curling wisps of russet hair poked beyond her cap’s ruffled edge. Fair, flawless skin was a half-shade creamier than the white of her apron.
Inexplicably, his body tightened until he could only grip the arms of his chair.
She’d returned. Dressed as a maid.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
~~*
CHAPTER THREE
“A properly negotiated agreement involves give and take: I give sage advice and you take appropriate action. There, now. This understanding will suit both our needs much better, wouldn’t you agree?” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Mr. Elijah Kilbrenner in a letter defining the relative duties of instructor and instructed.
Finding a maid’s attire had been more a matter of luck than cleverness. The lodging house where Augusta and Phoebe had obtained rooms featured several unconventional residents, including a woman who called herself Delilah Honeybrook. As Augusta had discovered on laundry day, Miss Honeybrook possessed a peculiar assortment of costumes—a chambermaid’s dress, an old-fashioned nun’s habit, and a gown she’d dubbed her “spinster ensemble.” The last one had been disturbingly similar to some of Augusta’s own frocks.
However, the maid’s costume had been precisely what she’d needed. Fortunately, Miss Honeybrook matched Augusta’s height. Unfortunately, the woman’s bosom was a good deal smaller, which had made the journey to Reaver’s Club uncomfortable.
As she slid inside Mr. Reaver’s office for the second time, she tried to sigh in relief. The dratted bodice would not permit a full breath.
“Miss Widmore,” a dark voice rumbled from across the room. “One would think seven unanswered notes, three refusals from Shaw, and an involuntary trip to the front door would be sufficient response to your inquiry.”
Her heart stumbled and squeezed. Oh, my, he is large, it seemed to say. Though, perhaps her bodice was at fault. It was dreadfully tight.
She tugged her gloves tighter and moved further into the room. “If you wish me to leave, Mr. Reaver, then simply listen. That is the quickest route to my departure, I assure you.”
“Doubtful.”
“Well, perhaps coming to an understanding is more what I—”
“You want me to forgive Glassington’s debt. That will not happen.”
She raised a brow. “On the contrary. I do not seek forgiveness. You see? This is precisely why you should listen.”
He braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and propped his fingertips together, reclining in a sardonic pose. “Go on, then.”
Clearing her throat, she paced toward his desk, stopping just short of its edge. “Lord Glassington has made certain … commitments. He cannot—or should I say will not—keep those commitments if he hasn’t the means to do so.”
“A nob prefers keeping his wealth to keeping his word? I shall alert The Times.”
“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Reaver. Innocent lives will be devastated should Lord Glassington fail to fulfill his prior agreements.”
“Which are?”
She paused. This had always been the most troublesome part of the conversation to navigate. How much should she tell a lowborn ruffian known for trading in secrets? She began sparingly. “He agreed to a betrothal. After his disgraceful turn at your club, he withdrew his offer of marriage.”
Light from the window flashed in his eyes. “Let me guess. He cried off on account of losing his fortune. Claimed he could not, in good conscience, marry ye and burden ye with such a debt.”
For a moment, she considered correcting his assumptions. But Sebastian Reaver was too clever. If she set him straight, he would surmise the whole truth—precisely what she wished to prevent.
“He made promises,” she said, raising her chin. “What I ask is that you help me ensure he keeps them.”
That square jaw flexed. “How?”
“Give me his markers.”
A low, rumbling chuckle. “Ye’re a bold one, Miss Widmore. I’ll grant ye that.”
“Not permanently, of course. I shall return them to you once he has met his obligations. You have my word.”
“Hmm. Your word, eh? That and a shilling or two will pay for a hack to Bedlam.” He pushed at the arms of his chair, rising to his full height. “Precisely where I belong if I agree to this twaddle.”
He started toward her. Anticipating his intentions, she skirted around the other side of the desk, placing the massive slab of oak between them. “You lose nothing in this bargain,” she argued.
“No, I gain nothing, apart from a bloody headache.”
“Well, what do you want in exchange? Perhaps I can—”
He stalked around the desk.
She matched him, step for step.
“Negotiations are over,” he rumbled. “I listened to your request. My answer is no. Now, once again, Miss Augusta Widmore, it is time to leave. This is a club for gentlemen.” His eyes fell briefly to her bodice, his frown vaguely puzzled. “You are hardly that.”
His movements were smooth, swifter than one would suppose. She watched warily, dismayed by how nimble he was for his size. “I might say the same of you, Mr. Reaver.”
A split second before he reached for her, she wheeled back, leaving his giant hand grasping at air.
“Stand still, woman. By God, you are a nuisance.”
“Even if you toss me out this time, I shall return. Again and again. You shall never be rid of me.”