He scraped a hand over his head. What an idiotic thing to have shorn himself like a spring sheep. He’d been restless during the waning months of a London summer. Hot and feeling like his skin was too damn tight. Again, he considered whether Shaw might be correct. A mistress. Yes, perhaps …
“Prospective Bride Two: Lady Maria Fitch. Now, here is a bit of a reach, but bear with me. I believe this could be a spectacular match.” Viola nibbled her petal-shaped lip. “Or a spectacular failure. One or the other. No matter. We shall make that determination when you meet. She is an Irish earl’s second daughter. Nineteen. A bit young for you, I admit.”
And twenty wasn’t? His fingers pressed the bones above his nose. “Lady Tannenbrook.”
“Prospective Bride Three—”
“I am not seeking a wife.”
“Hmmph. My James said the same. And yet, here I am.”
“Now, if you have a list of prospective mistresses, I shall take it gladly.” He’d said it to be rude. To force her to stop. Or leave. He should have known better.
She sniffed. “Nonsense. For your sons to be legitimate, you must marry.”
“Neither am I seeking sons.”
“Well, you must.”
His response was a grunt.
“James will sleep more soundly knowing that Shankwood is secure. He respects you, Elijah. He doesn’t mind if you inherit his title, but he would prefer that you were more … settled.”
“He would prefer that I relocate to Derbyshire with a wife and five sons.”
“Naturally. I am far less demanding, however. I see no reason why you may not continue to live in London and produce, let’s say, three sons.”
He sighed. Rubbed harder at his brow. “Lady Tannenbrook.”
“Yes?”
“Not to be indelicate.”
“Of course not. You have always been kind, Elijah.”
“You birthed a daughter only a few months ago.”
She beamed. Lit up like a lantern on a moonless night. “Elizabeth. Yes. A wondrous little beauty. You must come and see her soon.”
He ignored the invitation, as he often did. “In a year or two years, you might give her a brother. Give Tannenbrook a true heir. It could be you with three or five sons.”
The shimmer in her eyes dimmed from joyful to wistful. Her list crinkled in her hand. She whispered, “Unlikely. But how I pray you are right.”
His frown deepened. She was a cheerful, beautiful, vexing pain in his backside. But just then, her sadness made him want to hit something. He liked Viola. Against his better judgment and all rules of maintaining one’s sanity, he liked her. And he did not like seeing her sad.
The door opened then slammed. “Good God, lass. I turned round and you were gone. Never do that again. Bloody hell, I nearly tore Shaw’s head from his shoulders before he told me where you were.”
Had Reaver never learned James Kilbrenner was his cousin, he might have guessed it from the resemblance. Few men came close to matching his size. Tannenbrook was one, though he was perhaps a half-inch shorter than Reaver. And, while his cousin’s coloring was blond, many of their features were the same. Save the nose. Reaver’s was a twice-broken beak while Tannenbrook’s was as blunt as the rest of his face. The man looked like a Scottish stonemason.
Viola spun and all but danced toward her husband. As she had earlier at the mention of her daughter, the tiny beauty glowed with affection. “Forgive me, my love. I was impatient.”
Tannenbrook drew her close. The disparity in their sizes should be a comedy. His hand spanned the entire width of her back, and her bonnet did not even scrape his chin. But Reaver reckoned the love between them was so conspicuous, there was little else one might notice.
“Did you give it to him?” Tannenbrook asked.
“I was just about to.”
Reaver frowned. “Keep your list, Lady Tannenbrook. I have no need of it.”
Tannenbrook glanced up and gave him a matching frown. It was a queer sensation to feel as though he was looking in a mirror. “List.” He tilted his head down at his wife. “What list?”
She waved a dainty hand, tucked the paper behind her back, and retreated toward the desk. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Simply a guide to assist Elijah with his little problem.”
Reaver rubbed the top of his head. “For the last time, I do not have a problem.”
She placed her list on the desk and retrieved the package she’d deposited earlier, presenting it to him with a smile. It was wrapped in brown paper and twine.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see, silly goose.”
He broke the twine with a snap and unwrapped the paper. Inside was a painting. Green and gray and gold, framed in dark wood. A stone village set amongst grassy, rain-washed hills.
“My friend, Lady Atherbourne, painted it. See?” She pointed at a steeple then at a series of chimney spires atop a massive stone structure. “The church. And Shankwood Hall. Portraits are more her specialty, but this came out rather well, I think. You should hang it here, in your office.” She gestured to the bare walls and crinkled her tiny nose. “I daresay this room could use a bit of … refinement.”
Reaver cast a look at Tannenbrook. The man shrugged.
He was beginning to despise that gesture.
“Shankwood might be yours one day, Reaver,” Tannenbrook said, moving to stand beside Viola. “You should at least know what it looks like.”
He wanted to argue. He wanted to thrust the painting back into Viola’s hands and inform them both that he would never be a bloody nob, no matter how they pressed and insisted, no matter how many times they visited his club or invited him for supper or called him by a name he’d left in ashes over twenty years ago.
Sebastian Reaver had made his own way. Everything he had was earned with sweat and blood, muscle and calculation.
Nobody could tell him who he was. Inch by inch, he’d discovered that plenty well himself.
Still, he’d already tried explaining this to Tannenbrook. The man had merely grunted and told him about the day a “bluidy English solicitor” had come to his mother’s cottage north of the Scottish border. How he’d resisted accepting the responsibilities that appeared around his neck like a yoke upon an ox. How he’d soon realized his denials were senseless and costly to those who depended upon him.
Reaver had also tried persuading Viola. If anything, she was less receptive, blithely assuring him that he would make a “splendid lord. Look how well you’ve managed Reaver’s!”
Neither of them had let up since arriving in London earlier that month. He expected their campaign to turn him into an acceptable heir would continue until he relented and agreed to visit Shankwood Hall.
He was not prepared to do that. But, in the interest of regaining possession of his office, he accepted the painting, inclining his head to Viola. “My thanks, Lady Tannenbrook.”
She beamed.
Tannenbrook clapped his shoulder fondly.
After another quarter-hour listening to his cousin describe the estate’s recent harvest, at long last, the couple departed. Viola waggled her fingers and gave him a wink on her way out the door, mouthing, “The list! Have a look, Elijah!”
He sighed and plopped the painting atop her crinkled list before sinking down into his chair.