Anything but a Gentleman

by Elisa Braden

  John was one of a dozen new footmen. Mr. Frelling had hired forty servants, including a butler, footmen, maids, a stable master, coachman, grooms, and a talented, surprisingly amenable French cook. Upon viewing the secretary’s neatly penned list of servants and wages, Augusta had surreptitiously added one more—a boy named Ash at two shillings per week. She hadn’t known the boy’s surname, and neither had he, so she’d given him her mother’s maiden name.

  “Ash Warrick,” the boy had muttered, fluttering his absurdly long lashes until he almost appeared feminine. He’d lifted and resettled his hat then spit on the floor of the stable. “Sounds a mite odd, ye ask me. Like one of them fancy insults.”

  “It is an old and distinguished name, and you will use it without complaint,” she’d retorted.

  “Hmmph. I’d rather be Ash Diver. Or Ash Black. Or—oooh, this here’s the best—Ash Cole.”

  “You cannot be known as Ash Cole.”

  He’d frowned. “Why not?”

  If she’d explained, he would have guffawed and insisted on using the moniker. Instead, she’d stated firmly, “The ink is dry. Your name is final.”

  He’d grumbled a bit more, but when she had introduced him to the butler, Mr. Teedle, he hadn’t raised a fuss. Still, Ash was a wily one, as Anne rightly observed. He tended to get his way by hook or by crook, so Augusta remained watchful. One never knew when he might change his name or wriggle out of his duties or disappear for half a day.

  Now, Augusta sighed and glanced at an amused Anne. “I shall speak with Ash. We cannot have him going missing all the time.”

  “He hides because he is afraid.” Anne’s voice was solemn, her eyes flat with anger.

  Augusta nodded. She felt the same fury. Despite their efforts to learn the identity of the man who had beaten him, Ash had kept the name secret. Then, he’d raised his little chin and vowed he would leave if the man ever found him. “I won’t let ’im near ye, Miss Widmore. I promise ye that.”

  She’d nearly ground her teeth to dust holding the tears at bay. Ash needed her to be strong, and so she would be. She’d permitted herself one hug, disguising it as an inspection of his hair and clothing. He had tolerated her attentions, protesting only once when she’d squeezed too tight.

  Clearing her throat, Augusta stifled her sentiment and trained her eyes upon her list of deliveries. One of them was a grand, Sebastian-sized desk. She frowned, recalling a question she had for Anne.

  “Mrs. Higgins, several days ago, I ventured to the attic and found a peculiar assortment of crates.”

  Suddenly, Anne appeared fascinated by the limestone at her feet. Her lips pressed together before she replied, “Yes?”

  “They were stacked neatly along the east wall. Then, yesterday, I discovered they were filled with stone—extraordinarily heavy. Yet, they all had been moved across the attic to the west wall.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Indeed. I cannot help but wonder if this is some odd training scheme for the footmen.”

  “I could not say.”

  Augusta narrowed her eyes upon the evasive housekeeper. “I shall require the attic for storage of a few items. What precisely is the purpose of copious crates of stone?”

  Anne did not answer.

  “Mrs. Higgins?”

  Sighing, the woman glanced around the entrance hall, waited until a pair of footmen passed carrying a walnut sideboard, then turned so her bulk blocked light and sound from the direction of the front door. “It is Mr. Reaver’s practice,” she said in a low voice. “He transfers them from one side of the attic to the other. I hear him late into the night, after I’m abed. My chamber lies one floor below, along the east wall.”

  “Why on earth would he do such a thing?”

  Anne shrugged. “It is said he worked the docks when he was young. Perhaps he likes to remind himself how far he’s come. Or perhaps it helps him sleep. He is a vigorous man.”

  Yes, Augusta knew about Sebastian’s vigor all too well. She swallowed and nodded, tucking away the question for another time. A pair of deliverymen entered, tilting a gracefully rolled chaise longue this way and that to fit through the door.

  She glanced down at her list, frowning. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I’m afraid there is some error. Mr. Reaver did not request this piece.”

  A third deliveryman entered with a notebook, plucking a pencil from behind his ear. “Aye, miss. He did. Says so right here.”

  She went to the man’s side and looked. Indeed, the rosewood chaise longue with blue velvet upholstery was listed between the walnut sideboard and … a large, gilt mirror.

  Blinking, she grasped the edge of the man’s notebook, pulling it closer. Two more items—a writing desk and a chest of drawers—were listed, as well. Her gloved fingers hovered over her lips.

  Sebastian had purchased these items. For her.

  He must have added them to his order while negotiating with Mr. Beauchamp.

  Distantly, she heard Anne directing the men to place the chaise in her bedchamber. Augusta would have done so, but her heart was in her throat, restricting her breathing and her voice and turning her insides as soft as porridge.

  Foolish man. No doubt he’d seen her coveting the items and had wished to please her. Beneath her fingers, her own lips smiled helplessly.

  She wanted to see him. Thank him. Ask him about the crates and explain how much she enjoyed his kisses.

  “Anne,” she murmured absently. “I must visit the club. Could you …?”

  “Of course.” The housekeeper accepted Augusta’s list with a knowing grin. “Perhaps Mr. Reaver will be home for supper. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  Augusta nodded, curiously out of breath and only half-listening.

  An hour later, she greeted a cheerful Duff and entered through the rear door of Reaver’s. Edith was exiting the service stairs and heading toward the kitchen. As she passed, the maid waved and called, “Good day to you, Miss Widmore. How is Big Annie farin’ with her new post? Not puttin’ on airs, is she?”

  Augusta chuckled. “She asked me to tell you she is winning your wager by a mile.”

  Edith snorted and continued toward the kitchen, tossing her reply over her shoulder. “A mile. That’s how tall her tale is. And you can tell her I said so.”

  Quicker than was strictly proper—or sensible—Augusta made her way upstairs to Sebastian’s office. Mr. Frelling looked up from his desk as she closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

  “Miss Widmore!”

  “Mr. Frelling,” she said, catching her breath. “A footman whose name is either Tim or Tom seems to have spotted me in the corridor. I fear he may have suffered a fright, as he took me for a ghostly apparition.”

  Behind his spectacles, Mr. Frelling’s eyes sparkled with humor. “A mite superstitious, that one. Cook regaled him with stories about a desperate, penniless woman who fell to her death whilst riding to an illicit meeting with a highwayman. He is convinced she haunts the halls of Reaver’s. I have explained the tale was merely an attempt to win a wager with one of the croupiers, but …” He shrugged.

  “Why would he take me for a ghost and not simply a maid?”

  Mr. Frelling’s smile faded as his glance dropped to Augusta’s brown pelisse. He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and busied himself with tidying papers. “I assume you are here to see Mr. Reaver. I’m afraid he is not in his office. You are welcome to wait, but I cannot be certain when he will return.”

  Disappointment wrapped her in a cold, damp blanket. “Oh,” came her brilliant reply.

  “However, I happen to know Miss Phoebe would be most grateful for a visit from her sister. Mrs. Frelling was saying so only an hour past.”

  She straightened, tugging her gloves tighter. “Splendid. I shall see her at once. Thank you, Mr. Frelling.”

  Phoebe was not merely grateful. She was frantic. She squeaked when she saw Augusta at the door. Then she burst into tears. Then she pulled Augusta into a vise-like hu
g and sobbed, “Oh, thank heaven you’ve come.”

  The door closed behind her as she maneuvered them into the sitting room. Alarmed and flooded with stinging fire, Augusta grasped her sister’s shoulders and demanded, “Who has harmed you? I shall tear vital pieces from the knave’s body, beginning with his protuberances.”

  Phoebe shook her head against Augusta’s shoulder.

  “Well, perhaps I will ask Mr. Reaver to do the tearing,” Augusta clarified. “He is absurdly strong. And intimidating. But I shall direct the proceedings, Phee, I swear it.”

  “D-do not remove anyone’s protuberances,” came her watery reply. “I am fine.”

  Augusta leaned back. “You are leaking.”

  Phoebe’s shoulders now shook on a laugh. She pushed away and swiped her cheeks with her fingers. “I missed you, that is all.”

  “Rubbish. Let us drink tea, and you can explain what has turned you into a watering pot.”

  Damp lashes fluttered and fell. Phoebe turned away, drifting toward the settee.

  “Phee?”

  “I saw him, Augusta,” she said without turning. “Glassington.”

  Augusta’s stomach knotted. “Where?”

  “On Piccadilly. Outside a grocer’s shop. He was … with a woman.”

  Striding forward, Augusta grasped her sister’s elbow, forcing Phoebe’s red-rimmed eyes to meet hers. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed happy.”

  “Of course he is happy,” Augusta snapped. “He is a dog frolicking about whilst abandoning his most essential duties.”

  “I believe he may be … looking to marry elsewhere.”

  Augusta could not bear the listless tone of Phoebe’s voice, the hopeless look in her eyes. “He is not married yet,” she gritted. “And he will not marry anyone but you. I have said so, have I not?”

  Phoebe bit her lip and dropped her gaze.

  “Well?”

  Phoebe nodded but continued her forlorn lip-nibbling.

  “Steady yourself. Unlike Lord Glassington, I keep my promises. We will see it done, Phee. Have I ever misled you?”

  Her sister sniffed and half-smiled. “Only about the owls.”

  “You slept soundly enough. I don’t recall you being snatched away in the night. Clearly, the owls did their job.”

  For the next hour, they talked of pleasant things—the luxury of good tea, the silly wager between Anne and Edith, the attentiveness of Mr. Shaw. The last topic turned Phoebe’s cheeks rosy, but Augusta could not decide whether it was the warmth of the fire or something more secretive. She elected to explore the subject another day.

  She’d restrained herself long enough. It was time to find Sebastian.

  Making her way back to his office, she learned from Mr. Frelling that he’d been spending a good deal of time at the neighboring house, Number Five. She next inquired of Mr. Duff the best way to enter said house, and the large sentry agreed to escort her, showing her past the piles of debris and stacks of wooden planks with cheerful gallantry.

  “Thank you, Mr. Duff,” she breathed moments after entering the large, open space. “I shall find my way from here.”

  “Are ye sure—”

  “You have been most kind.”

  She started toward the largest man she saw, so tall and broad, one had to blink to be certain he was real. His arms bulged and strained as he lifted a stack of wood, bracing it upon his shoulder. Short, black hair was peppered with dust, and a white linen shirt was damp with sweat.

  He made her heart trip on its own feet.

  Drifting closer, she watched him balance the long planks with lithe economy of movement. Given the weight of the stack he held, his steadiness was even more impressive. Now he was turning. And she had drifted closer than she’d realized.

  And the stack of planks was swinging around. At her head.

  She yelped and ducked, her garbled cry echoing through the cavernous space. The wood missed her head, but her bonnet was knocked sideways and now sat at an ungainly angle, the ribbon beneath her chin choking her windpipe.

  “Bloody, bleeding hell!” The rumble was a roar. “I nearly took your head off, ye daft woman!” A sharp, cascading thud signaled he had dropped the wood.

  She straightened, loosening the ribbon from around her neck. Gigantic hands gripped her shoulders then cupped her jaw. She blinked up into black eyes flashing with fury.

  “What the devil are ye doin’ here?” His thumbs stroked her cheeks. His fingers removed her bonnet and explored her scalp.

  The contrast between the devilish rage in his eyes and the gentleness of his touch was dizzying.

  “I—I came to find you.” Her breathing quickened. “Of course. Why else? S-Sebastian. I am fine.”

  “Ye’re not bloody fine!”

  “You surprised me, that’s all. The planks only caught the crown of my bonnet—”

  His hand cupped her nape and drew her face near his. “Forever goin’ into places you shouldn’t be. I’ve a mind to—”

  She didn’t think. His mouth was there. Hers was there. Bringing their lips together was … right. So she kissed him. Laid her hands upon his chest. Felt the rapid, pounding rhythm of his heart. Felt his hands drop to grip her waist and pull her in tight.

  He groaned, the sound humming against her.

  She smiled and kissed him more.

  “Bloody hell, woman,” he panted, gripping her hard. “What are ye thinkin’?”

  “That I wished to thank you.”

  “For what? Nearly killing you?”

  She sniffed. “Perhaps I drifted a bit too close.”

  “Aye. A bit.”

  “My reaction was timely and sensible. No harm done.” She glanced at her bonnet, lying on the rough plank floor. “Well, my hat is damaged. But it can be repaired.”

  “God Almighty.” He released her to stalk ten paces away, one hand on his hip, the other running across the top of his head.

  His hair was longer, she noticed. Dark and thick. In another month or so, he’d need a trim.

  He returned at a rapid clip. “Never, never put yourself in harm’s way again. Do ye hear me, Augusta?” He’d lowered his head near hers so that she felt his breath on her cheek.

  “Mmm. Yes. Well, I do enjoy having my head in its proper position, so I shall endeavor to remain outside the range of swinging objects in future.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “It is the best I can do.”

  Onyx flashed. A powerful jaw flexed.

  Once again, she laid a hand upon his chest. “I came here to thank you, Sebastian.”

  His glower did not abate, but his rumble quieted. “For?”

  “My chaise longue.”

  “Shezz what?”

  She stifled a grin. “The long chair with a rolled back and no arms. It’s blue. You added it to your order with Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “Oh. That.” He shifted his weight and reddened around those sharp cheekbones.

  “The writing desk and chest of drawers, as well. Oh, and the mirror. The mirror is simply splendid. Thank you.”

  One large hand came up to rub the back of his neck. He squinted at her, his ruddy color deepening. “You neglected to furnish your chamber. I’d already spent a fortune. Reckoned I might as well spend a bit more.”

  “My thanks is not for what you spent,” she said. “It is for noticing which pieces I had admired and giving me such a pleasurable surprise.”

  His nostrils flared. “I’ve become a mite preoccupied with giving you pleasurable surprises, Augusta Widmore.”

  Oh, dear heaven. Now, her cheeks were heating.

  Behind him, two workmen descended the exposed staircase along the far wall. Struggling to regain her composure, she knelt to retrieve her dented bonnet, but Sebastian got there first. Restoring the crown to its proper shape with a few deft strokes of his long fingers, he positioned the hat on her head and tied the ribbon beneath her chin.

  “Ye shouldn’t be here.” His voice might b
e hard, but his fingertips touched her skin with tingling seduction. “Now, get in the coach and go home.”

  “Why do you not come with me?”

  “I’ve work to do.”

  She eyed the pile of planks he’d dropped haphazardly then searched the open, skeletal space with its bared framing and piles of brick, wood, and other materials. They were Sebastian-style piles—neat and categorized and perfectly positioned, ready to be used in the most efficient manner possible.

  Then, she noticed the workmen murmuring to one another, shooting her curious glances as they made their way toward the lengthy kitchen hearth, which was being rebuilt.

  “Mr. Frelling has a talent for hiring staff,” she observed. “Perhaps he could help you find more competent laborers, so your assistance in these tasks would not be necessary.”

  “They’re all competent. I hired them myself.”

  She lifted a brow in mock surprise. “Oh? How puzzling. One wonders why you should need to haul wood and brick, when there are capable craftsmen on the job.”

  For several long moments, he glared at her. “I don’t need to. I like to. Cease your bothersome questions, woman.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “By God, you are a nuisance.”

  “Tell me.”

  He released a loud sigh. “It helps settle my mind.”

  “Is it the physical exertion or the organizing that does it?”

  His eyes took on a considering glint, as though she’d surprised him. “Both.”

  That explained the crates. Sebastian had an excess of energy and a need for order she recognized. She had a bit of both, herself. Though for her, laboring had not precisely been optional. Not since her father’s death, at any rate.

  “Well, I enjoyed watching you work,” she confessed. “You are quite … skilled.”

  A grunt served as his reply.

  “Will you be home for supper?”

  His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then her bosom. Then back up to her eyes. “Aye.”

  Somewhere in her middle, heat bloomed outward, tightening and tingling along its path. Slowly, she smiled before turning toward the rear entrance. As she reached the door, she glanced over her shoulder.