To Distraction (13 page)

She sincerely hoped he hadn’t, that he didn’t.

Lying on her back, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered if that was a lie.

She wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell—and therein lay her biggest problem.

He made her
feel
so much, even now. Even still. Even though she knew he had the strength to overwhelm her, subdue her, subjugate her. Even though he possessed every one of the physical and social attributes she’d spent the last eight years avoiding.

He was a gentleman of her class, in his prime, infinitely stronger than she, and powerful—not just physically but socially. Able to do much as he pleased, with ladies as with all other things.

She should avoid him, totally and completely, yet he clearly wasn’t going to allow that. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid what he made her feel—and that, beneath it all, was what scared her the most.

That, and the change she’d sensed in him tonight. She didn’t know what he’d seen in her eyes that had turned his features so hard, his gaze so penetrating. For an instant, she’d felt as transparent as crystal, as if she hadn’t been hiding anything at all from him…and then he’d declared that he would learn her secret
but
would never harm her and abruptly left.

What was she supposed to make of that? What did it portend—what did he intend it to presage?

She wrestled with those questions for untold minutes; unresolved, they followed her into her dreams.

The next morning, Deverell sat down before an array of breakfast platters in the club’s dining room and glanced at Gasthorpe. “Send Grainger in.”

Gasthorpe bowed and withdrew.

A few minutes later, Deverell heard Grainger’s jaunty footsteps coming along the corridor.

“You wanted me, m’lord?” Grainger stood just inside the door, hair neat, boots polished.

Deverell nodded. “I want you to watch a house in Park
Street. Number 28. Mrs. Edith Balmain’s residence.”

Grainger’s brow creased. “Balmain? She was at the manor, wasn’t she? She’s Miss Malleson’s aunt.”

Deverell nodded and sipped his coffee. Over the rim of the cup, he met Grainger’s eager eyes. Lowering the cup, he said, “I want you to watch the house and take note of whoever goes in or out, and if Miss Malleson goes out, follow her.”

Grainger straightened. “Right then—I follow her, but just watch everyone else.”

“Precisely.” Deverell nodded a dismissal, and Grainger, happy as a clam, took himself off.

Inwardly shaking his head in benign amusement, Deverell gave his attention to ham and eggs, and his mind to organizing his own investigations.

“Phoebe’s financial state?” Audrey turned from her latest masterpiece to view him as he stood a few paces away. “Good heavens, Deverell dear, why ever do you need to know?”

He smiled cynically. “Humor me, dear Audrey—and do remember that it was at your behest that I went looking for Phoebe.”

“Hmm…yes. Well, I suppose, seeing your mind is, thank heaven, heading in the right direction, I should do all I can to encourage you.” Setting down her brush and palette, she swiveled to face him and happily told him all she knew.

Early afternoon found Deverell in the city.

“Miss Phoebe Malleson, Lord Martindale’s daughter, and his heiress, at least as far as any unentailed property.” Heath-cote Montague, as ever neat, precise, and unshakably calm, carefully transcribed the information onto a fresh sheet of paper. “Very good.”

He looked up; across his desk, he met Deverell’s gaze.
“You want to know all the usual, I take it—current income, such as it might be, expectations?”

Sitting comfortably in the leather chair before the desk, Deverell nodded. “In the circumstances I’d like you to be as thorough as you can. You should remember I haven’t done this before.”

Montague’s round face creased in a smile. “Of course, my lord. And might I say it’s a pleasure and indeed an honor to be called on to assist you in such a matter.”

Deverell acknowledged Montague’s smile with his usual charm; like Audrey, Montague had assumed that his interest in Phoebe’s financial affairs stemmed from matrimonial intent. As part of arranging an appropriate marriage settlement, learning of his intended’s financial situation was a sensible move.

As he did, indeed, ultimately intend to marry Phoebe, he felt no qualms in allowing Audrey and Montague, his and his family’s man-of-business, to believe that prospective marriage settlements were the reason behind his query. “I understand she’s already inherited significant wealth from a great-aunt.”

Montague scribbled some more. “That would most likely be held in trust.”

“No, I believe Miss Malleson’s great-aunt was a strong advocate of females taking responsibility for their own lives and, by extension, their own funds. As I understand it, Miss Malleson has been in control of her inheritance since the age of twenty-one. She’s now twenty-five.”

“Hmm.” Montague frowned. “It’s possible there may not be much left in that account.” Over the pince-nez perched on his nose, he glanced at Deverell. “I gather she moves among the haut ton?”

“She does, but…Miss Malleson is not the average
tonnish young lady.” She certainly hadn’t spent a fortune on gowns or jewels, although from what Audrey had divulged, she could probably afford to. “Look closely at her expenditures as well as her income.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Head down, taking notes, Montague nodded portentiously. “I could wish all my clients were as wise. It never does to be surprised by habits one might have learned of prior to an offer, simply by exercising due caution.”

Deverell suppressed an unexpected urge to correct Montague’s misperception, to defend Phoebe’s financial honor. Regardless of what she might be involved in, she was certainly no profligate.

Uncrossing his legs, he rose. “Send word to Montrose Place as soon as you have anything substantial to report.”

“Indeed.” Setting down his pen, Montague rose. “I expect you’ll want to end the lease on the Mayfair house when it comes up for renewal?”

Deverell raised his brows. “I haven’t considered.” The Paignton estate included a large house in Mayfair; he’d lived in it for a few weeks early in the year, but it was far too large for a single gentleman; he’d rented it out for the Season. “Alert me when the lease nears its end, and I’ll consult with Miss Malleson.”

The thought of him and Phoebe rattling around the huge house wasn’t attractive, but the thought of him, Phoebe, and their children filling the space held considerable appeal.

Imagining it, he shook hands with Montague and departed, leaving his man-of-business and his clerks in absolutely no doubt that wedding bells would shortly be ringing.

He returned to the Bastion Club in time to spend a quiet half hour in the library sunk in an armchair reviewing all he knew, and all he’d set in train. And all he was starting to suspect.

Grainger returned. He came to the library to report that Phoebe had attended various social engagements both before and after lunch, then returned to the Park Street town house. “I figure she’ll be dressing for dinner about now, so I thought I’d come back and see if you wanted me to watch during the night.”

“No. That won’t be necessary.” Lying back in the armchair, Deverell instructed, “Get a good night’s sleep and you can watch again tomorrow—start at nine o’clock. She won’t venture out before that.”

Living up to her role of matrimonial facilitator—she would be offended to be labeled a matchmaker—Audrey had supplied him with a list of the three balls Phoebe was expected to attend that evening. After meeting with him at the last, he doubted she would be up at dawn.

With a jaunty nod, Grainger turned and left.

Deverell let the pleasant silence wrap around him once more. He was glad he was presently the only member living at the club; as matters stood, he wouldn’t have wished to confide in even his colleagues. When the facts, his observations of Phoebe’s actions, were simply stated, the obvious explanations—the ones most minds would leap to—were distinctly unpleasant and nefarious.

He knew, absolutely and without question, that in this case, given Phoebe’s involvement, the obvious didn’t apply. The notion of her being embroiled in schemes linked to prostitution or worse was simply untenable.

Especially given her reaction to him in the wood.

Especially given what was coloring their interaction still.

When he combined everything he knew, he still had no clue what she was up to, not specifically. However, the one thing he felt confident in concluding was that she would never, ever, place another female in a position of fear.

From what he already knew of her, such an act would go
entirely against her grain. Whatever she was doing with the female staff he felt certain she and her helpers, whoever they were, had spirited away, she would be helping the women, not harming them.

Phoebe was an agent for good, not evil.

He’d dealt with enough of the other sort over the years to be absolutely sure.

Unfortunately, being an agent for good could be a dangerous occupation, especially in the arena she’d chosen.

He turned over the possibilities and his options for learning more while the mantelpiece clock ticked on. When it chimed the hour, he glanced up, drained his glass, then headed upstairs to dress for the evening.

D
everell ran Phoebe to earth in Lady Camberley’s ballroom. Rather than standing near where Edith sat chatting with a group of older ladies, she was strolling through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange greetings and observations, but rarely lingering.

As she quit Lady Fitzmartin’s side, she swiftly scanned her surroundings before deciding on her direction. Deverell hid a smile. He’d told her he’d see her tonight, and this was the last event on her evening’s schedule.

She was watching for him—whether to avoid him or gird her loins before he got too near he didn’t know. But if he knew anything of her, by now she would have grown impatient. As he’d planned.

Just as he planned his approach.

She was skirting the edge of the crowd when he came up behind her. She didn’t sense him until he was too near, and then it was too late.

Too late to prevent him placing a palm on her back, to one side of her waist, through two thin layers of silk, feeling the warmth of her skin.

Letting her feel the weight of his hand.

As he’d expected, she didn’t jump at his touch—she froze. Smoothly turning her at right angles to him, halting them both so her back was to the wall and no one could detect his impropriety, he met her wide eyes as they lifted to his.

Reaching across her, he took her hand, enfolded it in his; raising it, holding her violet gaze, he brushed his lips across the sensitive backs of her fingers. “I said I would come for you.”

His tone was deep, dark—private. Phoebe dragged in a too-tight breath and struggled to focus her wits on him—on his eyes and the message therein, on his words and their meaning. Tried to wrench her senses free of his hold, of their immediate lock on the strength and heat of the hard male hand at the back of her waist. He wasn’t touching her any more intimately than he would in a waltz. Why, then, was that simple touch registering as so much more?

It took effort to tilt her chin and coolly state, “I had hoped you’d find something else to amuse you.”

His lips curved. He was standing close; he hadn’t moved his hand. His eyes, a heated green, continued to hold hers, watching. “Learning your secrets—
all
your secrets—consumes me.”

Studying his eyes, she felt her own widen.
All?

As if she’d uttered the word, his gaze dropped to her lips and he reiterated, “All.” His low tone sent the word resonating through her, a verbal caress as well as a promise.

A promise of what, she didn’t want to imagine.

Her lips felt hot and dry; under his gaze, she licked them, and was instantly aware of the flare of heat in his eyes.

She’d noticed before how long and lush his dark lashes
were, but when they veiled his eyes, they were a distracting screen. One she could do without; she wanted to see his eyes, wanted to examine that reaction—

No, she didn’t.

With an effort she mentally jerked her wits back and remembered what she’d been about to say. “My secrets are my own, and no concern of yours.”

The curve of his lips only deepened. “On the contrary, every secret you have commands my attention.”

“Why?”

His lids rose; his eyes met hers. Trapped hers, held hers. Then the hand on her back shifted, sliding slowly, heavily over the silk, down to unhurriedly caress her bottom.

She sucked in a sharp breath, then couldn’t breathe out. His gaze sharpened.

Without pause, let alone hesitation, he continued his artful stroking, every move languidly explicit, invested with an absolute cold-blooded certainty not only that he could do as he was, but of what his touch was doing to her.

Inwardly she shuddered, but forced herself to hold his eyes and not lower hers. Forced herself to let the sensations his touch evoked roll through her, sending a flush spreading under her skin, warming and weakening. She continued to meet his heated gaze, continued to witness that indefinable hardening of his features without wavering.

Without breaking and running, something she knew he wouldn’t permit.

Then his hand left her curves and rose, smoothly, unhurriedly, up her spine. His fingers brushed the curls screening her nape, slid beneath and caressed, then the pads of his fingertips lightly gripped.

The caress made her shiver; the evocative grip made her shudder.

Her lips had parted; her gaze had fallen to his lips.
Realizing, she stifled a weak gasp and looked up—into his eyes.

“Why I intend to learn
all
your secrets should be clear enough.” His voice reached her, soft yet infinitely dangerous, the words slow, uninflected, yet all the more potent for that. His grip on her nape released; his hand slid down to the back of her waist.

“Tell me…or show me. It matters not which you choose. But one way or another, I intend to learn every last secret you possess.”

She’d fallen into the green well of his eyes and couldn’t find her way out. Couldn’t, for the life of her, break free of his hold.

“I’m going to seduce you, as we agreed at the manor. One step at a time—do you recall?”

She almost nodded, stopped herself just in time. “No. That was then, this is now, and—”

“Nothing whatever has changed. I still want you—I still intend to have you. And along the way I intend to learn everything—every last little aspect you hide from the world. From me, you’ll hide nothing.” His gaze held hers, then he softly added, “You won’t be able to. I intend to strip you naked in every way.”

Deverell watched each word sink into her mind, watched her reactions darken her eyes—shock, yes, but that wasn’t her dominant response. Fear, yes, but that, too, was overridden, not wiped away but rechanneled by the rush of some stronger, more elemental and primitive emotion.

There was nothing simple about her response to him and to what he was suggesting; it was complex and complicated. Fascination was a part of it, along with sexual need and a flaring, darker hunger.

He’d been with enough women to recognize its like, but
such responses were strongly individual. And with Phoebe, he sensed he’d be walking a tightrope—it would be crucial to get the balance right.

Tonight, he was feeling his way. Cautiously.

Lifting her hand, he raised it to his lips and once again kissed, breaking the spell. She blinked, then refocused on his face.

“Tonight, I want to waltz with you—just a waltz, nothing more.” He’d pitched his voice to a cadence he knew ladies found soothing.

The suspicion in her eyes told him she wasn’t fooled, but the musicians had started the prelude to a waltz.

“Come.” He urged her forward.

Unable to deny him without creating a scene, she allowed him to lead her to the floor. Allowed him to take her into his arms and set them whirling.

Gradually, revolution by revolution, the frown in her eyes faded, the stiffness in her spine eased. But she remained puzzled, confounded, unsure whether or not she wished to flee. Whether or not she wanted to escape him.

Mildly he arched a brow at her. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t learn anything of substance today. I did, however, set various lines of inquiry underway.”

Her lips thinned; she studied him, then said, “You’re not going to go away, are you?”

He let his mask slip for a moment, let her see the truth, then whirled her to a halt as the music ended.

He bowed over her hand, then straightened; raising her from her curtsy, he met her eyes. “Until tomorrow night—and our next step.”

Without waiting for an answer, with a nod he left her—and left the Camberleys’ ballroom before temptation, and she, got the better of him.

Phoebe didn’t let her emotions surface until Skinner had left her alone in her bedchamber. Clad in her fine nightgown, her hair brushed and rippling over her shoulders, she paced before the dying fire in the hearth and tried to focus her mind.

Tried to deal with her feelings, to put them into some frame of reference so that she could manage them—or at least understand them.

When she couldn’t do that, she turned her frustrated attention to their cause.

Deverell.

While she would have liked to heap full blame on his head, indeed, was sorely tempted, there was no point in self-delusion. It was her reaction to him that lay at the root of her problem.

Flinging out her hands, she addressed the room. “Why
him?
”

Indeed. Him kissing her was bad enough, but when he touched her
like that
—as he had that evening—while every sense she possessed knew enough to be afraid, while fear definitely leapt and coursed her veins, it was instantly, in the same breath, submerged beneath a tide of almost ravenous longing.

Her fear didn’t drown, didn’t evaporate, but became a part of that scintillating, surging sea of need. Merged with it, into it, lending a certain edge, a frankly primitive thrill that only added to the excitement.

The anticipation of excitement. And more.

No other man had affected her as Deverell did.

One part of her rational, logical mind unreservedly labeled him as dangerous—to be avoided. An equally assertive part of that same rational mind pointed out, quite tartly, that she knew perfectly well that with him she was safe.

Not only had he told her—
sworn
to her—that he would never harm her, she believed him.

Oddly enough, to her soul.

He was driving her demented.

He wasn’t going to go away, and her chances of avoiding him were slim to none. If he wanted to whisk her away alone—for instance, tomorrow night—he would. There was precious little she could do to stop a man of his ilk from doing as he pleased, especially not one as experienced as he.

And then…

Her mind halted. Simply refused to go further. Didn’t need to go further and imagine what would follow.

“I have to get control of this.” She muttered the words through clenched teeth; the instant she heard them, she knew they were right.

The right—possibly the only—way forward.

She halted. Glancing at the clock, she grimaced at the hour. She had “business” to attend to tomorrow; determinedly she headed for her bed.

At least she now knew what she had to do.

The one remaining mystery was how.

Phoebe was waiting for Edith in the front hall, ready to leave for their morning engagements, when Fergus McKenna, her longtime groom, who also acted as the household’s coachman, appeared at the open front door.

Alerted by the large shadow he cast, Phoebe looked up from buttoning her gloves and smiled. “What is it, Fergus?”

Fergus beckoned. Henderson, Edith’s butler, was hovering; Fergus rarely ventured into the front hall, Henderson’s domain.

Phoebe joined Fergus by the door, her eyes repeating her question.

“Thought as I should warn you,” Fergus rumbled, his Scots burr smothering his words. “Paignton’s young lad’s skulking about in the street, keeping an eye on the house. D’you want something done about him?”

Lips thinning, Phoebe considered, then shook her head. “As long as he’s only watching the front of the house, he won’t see anything useful.”

“I think he’s been following us about town.”

Phoebe raised her brows, then smiled. “In that case, we’ll certainly keep him busy today—we’ve two morning visits, and three afternoon teas. Let him follow by all means—he won’t learn anything.”

Fergus shuffled. “Skinner said as how Paignton—Deverell as he’s called—saw enough to become suspicious.”

“Indeed.” Phoebe turned as Edith came slowly down the stairs; she lowered her voice. “Which is why I want his lad let be. If you run him off, Deverell will know we’ve something to hide in where we go, and he’ll set someone else to watch, from the mews, for instance. I’d much rather his lad was following us.” She met Fergus’s eyes. “That way, we’ll control what he sees.”

“Aye.” Pulling one earlobe, Fergus nodded. “There is that.” He smiled at Edith, then stepped back onto the porch. “Let’s be off, then.”

Phoebe waited for Edith to join her, then, arm in arm with her aunt, went down the front steps to the waiting carriage.

Phoebe spent the day interviewing prospective employers. Not, of course, that the ladies she spoke with had any inkling she was assessing them and their households; over the four years since she’d established her business, she’d grown adept at conducting such interviews without the interviewees suspecting.

“Lady Lancaster.” Beside Edith, Phoebe curtsied to her
ladyship, the last of the hostesses they planned to call on that afternoon. After exchanging greetings and the usual small talk about the Lancaster children—Phoebe made a mental note that Annabelle, the eldest daughter, now married with her own household, was increasing and would thus, at some not too distant time, require a nursemaid and later a governess—she and Edith moved into her ladyship’s drawing room.

The Lancaster events were always well attended. Despite her lack of success thus far that day, Phoebe remained optimistic that somewhere among the ladies gathered to chat over the teacups, she would find one with the right credentials.

After settling Edith with her cronies, all of whom Phoebe knew well, she started quartering the room, moving easily from one group to the next, all but unremarked.

All her aunts were godsent, but Edith most of all; she was widely regarded as one of those unusual people who always knew the latest news, not by actively searching for it but because the latest news somehow made its way to them. Edith was thus invited everywhere; Phoebe had long realized that becoming her shadow—literally viewed as just another facet of her aunt and therefore unremarkable—was the perfect entree into the circles she needed to assess.

The established households of the wealthy and well-to-do, those presided over by sensible ladies with appropriate sensibility who kept firm hands on the reins and who were looking for female staff were her principal targets.

From Mrs. Gilmore and Mrs. Hardcastle she heard that old Lady Pelham was considering moving to the country.

“Well,” Mrs. Gilmore confided, “now her son’s brought his new wife home, there’s no reason she needs to remain in London, looking after that drafty old house. And being in the capital never suited her health.”