Augusta’s hand fell to her side, clutching the coins tightly.
Phoebe had changed. Augusta been slow to see it, as their circumstances were dire, and action—not contemplation—had consumed her of late. But the differences were noticeable. Phoebe was thinner, even more delicate than before. Slender arms often hugged her middle. White skin had grown snowy, blue eyes bigger and underscored with half-moon shadows. Her ill stomach was likely to blame. And the fretting, Augusta supposed. Fretting had grown like a demon, complete with teeth and horns, over the past two months.
Her physical changes were not the only difference, however. Phoebe rarely demanded answers—rarely demanded anything, really. She’d long been the sort of girl who let life take her where it would. She was sweet. Biddable. A pretty blossom waiting for sun and dew and bees to pay her a visit.
She accepted the gowns Augusta provided, attended the fetes Augusta suggested, played the tunes Augusta commanded on their shabby square pianoforte. And, while Phoebe shared Augusta’s dark-red hair, she’d never demonstrated a hint of Augusta’s temperament.
Today was the exception.
Augusta moved nearer and gently eased open Phoebe’s cold fingers where they gripped pink muslin over her belly. The coins clinked into her palm.
“Give these to the boy.” Augusta slid the reticule from her wrist and set it atop the coins. “Keep the rest for yourself.”
Blue eyes flew up, sparking with temper. “What are you doing?”
Raising her chin, Augusta replied, “What I’ve always done, Phee. Whatever is necessary.”
Phoebe’s chest heaved as she stared at the brown wool reticule. “You are leaving me here. You’ve done something …” She swallowed and covered her mouth. “Something to do with Mr. Reaver?”
“I am to reside with him—”
“No.”
“—for six weeks. Afterward, he will permit me the use of—”
“No!” A tear trickled past half-moon shadows.
“—Lord Glassington’s markers.” Augusta gripped Phoebe’s shoulders. They felt fragile and small, like a child’s. “It is the only way. Listen to me.”
“I will not listen. I have listened too long. Enough of this, Augusta! I shall not allow you to pay such a price for my mistakes.”
“I shall not allow you to pay a higher price. This is six weeks of my life. If we cannot persuade Glassington to keep his promises to you, then your punishment will last forever. And your child will be born a bastard. Is that what you want for him? To live as a bastard rather than an earl’s heir?”
She shook her head, lip quivering, shoulders slumping.
“Quite right. Now, then.” Augusta reached back to untie her apron. “You needn’t fret. Mr. Reaver may be a giant, but he is no monster. I suspect he is trying to put me off.”
“By demanding you live with him?”
“Mmm. It is my impression that he finds my persistence a trifle vexing.”
“He is not the only one,” Phoebe muttered, forgetting that Augusta’s hearing was excellent.
Depositing the folded apron on the bed, Augusta stripped off her cap and presented her back to her sister. “Help me, please. I can scarcely breathe in this frock.”
Phoebe complied, loosening the hooks at the back of the bodice. “Good heavens. How on earth did you manage to fasten these in the first place?”
“Miss Honeybrook assisted me. Incidentally, you may wish to keep your distance from that one. These costumes … well, I suspect Miss Honeybrook is not precisely treading the boards at a Theatre Royal.”
“You did not keep your distance.”
“My association was necessary. Yours is not.”
“I like her.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” Augusta chided. “I shan’t be here to watch over you. You must protect yourself.”
A sigh and a jerk of the fabric. “How much more ruined can I possibly be, for goodness’ sake?”
The final hook gave way. Augusta wheezed a deep, satisfying breath and moaned at the sublime relief. Her bosoms ached from being flattened, but by God, she had done it. She had forced Reaver’s hand. And in only six short weeks, Glassington would keep his promise and marry Phoebe.
The timing was tight. By then, her sister might be showing, but no matter. Glassington could hardly protest, since he’d been the one to plant the seed.
Perhaps she could persuade Mr. Reaver to accompany her when she confronted the blackguard. She grinned, imagining the scene. Mr. Reaver was a masterful intimidator.
“Why are you smiling? Augusta, honestly. This is mad. Let us return to Hampshire. I shall marry Mr. Snellgrove. He flirted with me outside the church two days before we left for London.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Lewis Snellgrove is a farmer’s fourth son.”
“He has always been kind to me.”
“He is poor as a church mouse and closely resembles a cow.”
“But he will marry me without asking questions.”
Augusta sniffed and plucked a new gown from her trunk, tossing the black wool chambermaid’s costume beside the apron. “Lord Glassington made a promise, and he will keep it. That is that.” Just as she would keep her promises. It was what Father would have wanted. It was what was best for Phoebe and the child.
Besides, Augusta had already made her agreement with Mr. Reaver. She had no intention of backing down from that black-eyed devil.
A curious thrill chased round her spine as she recalled the hard set of his jaw, the span of his hands, the onyx flash of his eyes. Swallowing, she brushed the image away.
“Come, Phee. Help me dress. By Christmas, this will all seem nothing but a momentary hardship, followed by a lifetime of comfort.”
Her sister’s only answer was another sigh.
Twenty minutes later, dressed in green-and-white checked cambric topped with her brown pelisse and straw bonnet, Augusta led Mr. Duff out of the dreadful lodging house. Rain had started again, sullen and gray. Surreptitiously, she glanced up and down the street, taking care not to draw Mr. Duff’s notice.
Carts and refuse. A pair of drunkards exiting a public house. A feral cat darting into the alley. She breathed deeply in relief. The boy had followed her direction.
Additionally, the hack had remained in place. Mr. Duff’s threats had accomplished their aim. While the big man loaded her trunk, she climbed inside.
Where a small, dark form huddled on the floor.
Her eyes flared, her heart squeezing. Stuttering.
A filthy cap tilted up until the most visible part of him was the white of his eyes.
Her own eyes narrowed. She wanted to shout at him. Grasp his arm and yank him from the coach’s interior. But she could not. The blasted boy would be snatched by Mr. Duff in a trice. Even if she could prevent his being pummeled, he would likely be turned over to a constable. Who knew what sort of punishment would befall him then.
Instead, she sat calmly, pulling the door closed with a snap. “You have forfeited your coins, boy,” she hissed. “I distinctly remember telling you to hide.”
The coach rocked as Mr. Duff climbed up beside the driver.
Wide eyes blinked. “I did. ’Ee didn’t see me, did ’ee? Ye headed back to Reaver’s?”