To Distraction (26 page)

From the first, he had read her very well, and while she wasn’t at all sure she approved of that ability, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t appreciate the outcome.

Gone was her fear, vanquished—made as redundant as modesty and decorum, at least between them.

So yes, she felt…blissfully sated all the way to her toes, her body glorious and more alive, more whole, more real, more engaged with the world, and she owed it all to him. Gratitude was what she should have felt, but as her gaze rested on him, she was very aware that it wasn’t simply gratitude that filled her.

Inwardly, she frowned. She wasn’t sure what she truly felt, only that it went deep and stirred her in ways she hadn’t before encountered.

He sat on the bed to pull on his boots. She stared at his broad back and wondered.

She didn’t want him to leave, although she accepted he must. But it was her certainty that she wanted to see him again, to invite him to her bed and her body the next night, and the next, that troubled her.

Such a fascination—wanton and real, unfettered now they’d indulged to the point of intimacy—wasn’t going to make her life, the decisions she would need to make, any easier. Her simple plan to embark on a liaison, short-lived and soon over, had headed down a track she hadn’t intended…and now
he’d learned about the agency and her secret, her “little crusade.”

The events of the past night had created an upheaval in the landscape of her life. How should she respond?

As he rose, glanced at her, then came around the bed, she rephrased her question: How was she going to manage him?

He halted beside the bed and looked down at her. After a moment, he reached out, with the fingers of one hand lightly stroked her cheek. Then he caught her chin, tipped it up, leaned down, and kissed her—gentle and sweet.

“Take care.” He breathed the words against her lips, then released her and straightened. He hesitated, then said, “I’ll call on you later in the day.”

With a nod, he turned and silently crossed the room. Even though she was watching, she barely saw the shadow that was him open the door and slip through, then the door closed, and he was gone.

With a sigh, she sank back and stared up at the dark canopy. There was simply no sense in imagining she might draw back and bring their liaison to a quick end, not before she’d fully explored all the pleasures to which he could introduce her and, even more, learned of all the ways in which she could pleasure him.

Learning one without the other seemed immensely unwise; if he was going to be able to hold her senses hostage, she wanted to be able to reciprocate. That, to her mind, seemed eminently sensible; she shouldn’t give him—or any man—any unnecessary advantage.

As matters now stood, every time Deverell came near her, she felt an illicit thrill—an expectation of forbidden, deeply sensual delight. Every time his eyes met hers, every time he touched her, however innocently, she thought of being with him, alone, in his arms.

Now she would think of having him between her thighs,
or behind her, of the indescribable pleasure of him joining with her.

Of course, he was the only man with whom she could imagine engaging in such activities, so obviously the time for her education in this sphere was here and now.

With him she had a chance to explore all that fate had left her ignorant of, and there was no way she would turn aside from that. No matter the risk…if she was honest, to her heart. It was that that had stirred when minutes ago she’d stared at him through the dark.

She pushed the thought away; in attempting anything worthwhile, there was always some risk. Witness the agency.

Tugging the covers up, she snuggled down. As matters now stood, there was nothing to prevent her from accepting Deverell’s standing offer to fully experience her sensual self, to explore her own nature and come to know and understand the full gamut of all as a woman she could be.

That was important, as important as all else.

“And he already knows about the agency.”

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep; to her surprise, she succeeded.

L
ate that morning in a town house in fashionable Arlington Street, just around the corner from St. James, Malcolm Sinclair paused outside his guardian’s study. After an instant’s hesitation, he raised a hand and knocked.

“Come in!” Henry barked from within.

Opening the door, Malcolm did as he was bid.

Henry sat behind his massive desk, papers spread before him. An imposing figure with steel gray hair, he was engaged in transcribing a judgment; a downward twitch of one corner of his thin lips was his only acknowledgment of Malcolm’s presence.

Unperturbed, Malcolm quietly shut the door and crossed the room on silent feet.

Henry glanced up from beneath beetling brows as Malcolm gracefully sat in the chair facing the desk. He scrutinized Malcolm’s impassive countenance, and as usual could
read nothing in it. “Well?” he demanded, his brusque tone giving warning of his ire over having been disturbed.

Malcolm dutifully reported, “It appears we have a problem.”

Settling himself elegantly, he observed his guardian’s harsh-featured face and waited with his customary patience. Others sitting in that particular chair would have felt apprehension, certainly a degree of nervousness, but Malcolm had been Henry’s ward from the age of six; he’d grown accustomed to his guardian’s arrogant and contemptuous severity, inured to the effect of his unmitigatingly hard and ruthless presence.

While Henry believed his was the superior intellect, Malcolm knew better; he, however, saw no reason to correct Henry’s mistake.

Henry humphed and returned to his writing.

The
scritch-scratch
of his pen continued, the dominant sound in the room. Malcolm let his gaze roam, taking in the gleam of wooden stocks, of finely wrought iron and steel, the glint of brass inlays, the sleek, destructive lengths of the numerous pistols mounted on the walls. Henry’s obsession with pistols—for obsession it truly was—never failed to amaze him, a curious insight into the incalculable folly of an otherwise careful man.

To Malcolm the assembled pistols, valuable antiques and rarities though they were, were merely guns, tools to be used if necessary but otherwise relatively uninteresting objects.

To Henry they were passion. And desire—definitely desire.

Indeed, his desire to acquire one of Napoleon’s personal pistols had reduced Henry’s funds to the almost embarrassing. And now with the final end of the war, there were pistols from defeated French marshals coming onto the market. Henry was eager and ever-greedy for funds.

He finally came to the end of his paragraph. He looked up to dip his nib in the inkpot. “What problem?” He didn’t bother looking at Malcolm.

“That sweet little governess we were to pick up from Chifley. She’s gone.”

Henry paused, then lowered his pen, and finally looked at Malcolm.
“Gone?”

Malcolm toyed with the idea of making Henry repeat himself but decided against it. “Indeed. She ran away—or should that be escaped?—last night. According to Chifley it was organized—there were others, including guards, waiting in the alley to help her get away.”

Henry’s lip curled. “And you believed him? That posturing bantam can’t keep his pants buttoned. Are you sure he didn’t give her a poke and she fled into the night?”

Malcolm smiled thinly. “In the normal way of things, a likely possibility, I’ll allow. However, in this case, I’m inclined to believe him. Aside from his disgruntled manner—I’d swear the girl had eluded his manly embrace—he’s sporting a bruise on his jaw that certainly didn’t come from the door he told his mother he’d walked into.”

Frowning, Henry set down his pen. His expression darkened as he considered the possibilities, as Malcolm had already done. Pale eyes narrowing, Henry tapped a yellowed fingernail on the parchment before him, the final judgment on a man’s life, now forgotten. “That sounds like we have some other gang pursuing the same game as we—
in our territory.
”

Malcolm inclined his head. “There’s more. I’d heard rumors that female staff had gone missing while attending house parties with their mistresses. As that action wasn’t here, in Mayfair, it didn’t seem relevant, and indeed, the first two instances could have been mere coincidence. Now, however, another lady’s maid—Lady Moffat’s—has vanished from
Cranbrook Manor. Together with this latest incident…” He gestured deferentially. “I think your deduction may well be correct.” He paused, then diffidently asked, “What are your orders?”

Henry’s eyes narrowed to shards of flint. “Find out more.” He paused, then his fist clenched and his voice took on a darker note. “If there’s a gang of interlopers operating around here, they’re poaching on our turf. Clearly we need to teach them a lesson.
And
exact retribution.”

Trust—it was all about trust. In wooing Phoebe, it was the most vital element he had to establish. And in that respect, Deverell felt he was progressing exceptionally well. All he had to do was capitalize on his success to date and further deepen her implicit trust in him.

His way forward was clear. Of necessity, women trusted the men they slept with; now Phoebe had allowed him into her bed, into her body, he’d cleared that hurdle and had gained that most fundamental of trusts, but it was unquestionably in his best interests to consolidate his position and allow that trust to deepen, as it naturally would over time, over more interludes.

Until eventually she was sufficiently enamored of him to happily entertain the notion of marriage.

He hadn’t lost sight of his ultimate goal, and now that she’d entrusted him with her secret life—her involvement with her agency—he had another facet of her trust to pursue.

Apropos of that, he presented himself at Edith’s town house at noon. The butler showed him into the morning room—the French door of which he’d locked on his way out seven hours before.

Phoebe was there, along with Edith. After exchanging greetings with her aunt, he turned to her. “I wondered if
you’d care to take a drive in the park, Miss Malleson?” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “Or perhaps, as the day is so fine, we might venture a trifle further.”

To Kensington Church Street, for instance.

She blinked. “Oh. Yes. That is…” She drew breath and found a smile. “Thank you. A drive in the park would be pleasant. That is”—she turned to Edith—“if you’re sure you can manage without me, Aunt?”

“Oh, indeed, indeed.” Edith beamed at Deverell. “It’s only Lady Hardcastle’s this morning. I’ll do perfectly well on my own.”

“In that case, if you’ll wait, my lord, I’ll fetch my bonnet and cloak.” Phoebe rose and headed for the door, then paused and glanced back at Edith. “You will remember if you meet Lady Purcell…?”

Edith smiled and waved her on. “Of course, dear. If I see her I’ll drop a word in her ear.”

With a nod, Phoebe turned and left.

Once upstairs, she summoned Skinner; while she set her bonnet over her hair and tied the wide ribbons under her chin, she explained she was going to the agency to check on Miss Spry and Jessica, too. “She’ll be leaving with Lady Pelham tomorrow—I must check that she has everything she needs. How’s Fergus?”

“Still laid down upon his bed.” Skinner gave Phoebe’s cloak a sharp shake. “Luckily that lad of his viscountship’s has called around and offered his services—said as his viscountship said as he ought. Fergus said he helped him last night. Seems the old Scot’s willing to trust his horses to the lad, so he’ll drive Mrs. Edith to her engagements today. Fergus swears he’ll be better come evening.”

Phoebe glanced at Skinner’s tight expression; she was worried about Fergus, and about Phoebe, too. Phoebe had
told her about the trouble at the Chifleys’ and how Deverell had helped them. Skinner’s opinion of “his viscountship” had noticeably mellowed.

Standing, she let Skinner swing the cloak about her shoulders, then, tugging on her gloves, she went downstairs.

Deverell stood waiting in the front hall. “Edith’s gone to get ready for her visit.” Taking Phoebe’s hand, he turned to the front door.

Phoebe shot him a sharp look as she walked beside him. She’d jumped at the chance to visit the agency; she hadn’t until that moment wondered why
he
was so keen. He appeared his usual, arrogantly confident self; going down the steps beside him, she told herself it was merely understandable curiosity on his part—a wish to know how the agency worked, given that he’d elected himself its protector as well as hers.

A niggling little voice murmured that men like him were wont to take charge, to insist on running any enterprise. Jaw setting, she let him hand her into his curricle; they would see about that—just let him try.

“How much does Edith know of your little enterprise?”

The question pulled her back to the present; picking up the reins, he set his grays trotting.

She took a moment to find the right words to answer. “She knows, yet she doesn’t.” She caught his eye as he glanced at her. “Edith’s one of those people you don’t have to explain things to—she’s terribly
knowing
. She sees and understands, and somehow just
knows
. And in this case, she and I have left matters like that—if she hasn’t been told, then if Papa asks, she can with a clear conscience say she’s heard nothing.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Deverell nodded, accepting her odd description. “But if you were to disappear, or she needed to contact you urgently, would she know where the agency is?”

“No, but everyone else in the household knows. And she knows they do. She’d simply ask Henderson to send a message to me.”

He nodded again. “So why is Edith having a word with Lady Purcell?”

She inwardly grimaced; she’d hoped he hadn’t picked that up. “Because although Edith knows no details, she does understand the thrust of the agency’s work. Lady Purcell is Lady Chifley’s sister, and a much more sensible sort of lady.”

His eyes narrowed. “Edith was with you when you met young Chifley yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, so she’s guessed enough to see the value in mentioning to Lady Purcell how troubling she found her nephew’s behavior when we called…and then Lady Purcell will no doubt hear of the governess who ran away, put two and two together, and being the sort of female she is, she’ll take her sister aside and have a stern word in her ear, and with any luck Lady Chifley will be much more careful over what sort of female staff she brings into her household.”

A moment passed, then he murmured, “Very neat.”

He tooled them through the busy thoroughfares around the park, then turned into Kensington Church Street, drove past the agency and around to the rear. Drawing rein in the lane, he deftly backed the curricle into the narrow space immediately before the agency’s back door, moving the horses out of the laneway before halting them and applying the brake.

As he stepped down—a distinctly strange sight in that locale, with his drab, many-caped greatcoat and glossy Hessian boots—two urchins, wide-eyed and wondering, came sidling down the lane to stare.

Deverell saw them; he beckoned. They edged closer, unsure, but then he spoke, asking them if they could keep an eye on his horses.

Phoebe couldn’t see what he passed them, but their faces lit, they nodded and pocketed his largesse, then took station at the horses’ heads. Deverell went with them, showing them how much rein to leave loose, then giving them the ribbons. Then he rounded the carriage and handed her down.

Phoebe eyed the large, powerful grays. “Are they safe?”

She glanced back at Deverell in time to see his lips twitch.

“I assume you mean the boys, but yes, my cattle are excellently well behaved.”

She read the message in his amused green eyes: Excellently well behaved, just like their owner. She humphed and led the way inside.

Emmeline was in the kitchen, standing over the table kneading dough. Miss Spry stood beside her, grinding nuts. Birtles sat in the chair by the fire, keeping out of the way. He grinned and rose as Phoebe entered; he nodded to her, then rather more warily at Deverell as he appeared behind her. “M’lord.” His gaze returned to Phoebe. “How’s Fergus?”

“Improving but still under the weather. He swears he’ll be well by this evening.” With a smile for Birtles, Phoebe went to Emmeline. “Biscuits?”

Emmeline had frozen, her gaze on Deverell; she shook herself, looked down at her hands, then nodded and resumed working her dough. “I thought to send some with Jessica tomorrow—for the trip.” Emmeline glanced at Miss Spry beside her. “Constance kindly offered to help.”

Phoebe pulled a straightbacked chair to the table and sat. “I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal? It was certainly a shock, having him chase you like that.”

Constance Spry glanced up and met her eyes; a small smile curved her lips, then she looked back at the mortar in which she was grinding almonds and walnuts. “It helped seeing his lordship hit him. Now whenever I think of him, I see his eyes rolling back and him going down like a sack of onions.”

Phoebe grinned at the image; busy with Fergus, she hadn’t seen what Deverell had actually done, only the results. “Before I leave today, we must talk—you, Emmeline, and I—so that we have some idea of what sort of position will best suit you. But first, I must speak with Jessica.”

Emmeline nodded, her gaze fixed on her dough. “She’s upstairs packing.”

Behind her, Phoebe could hear Birtles and Deverell talking, something about horses. He seemed inoccuous—well-behaved—enough, and Birtles well knew his wife’s difficulty over large and powerful gentlemen; Birtles wouldn’t let anything upset Emmeline.

Reassured, Phoebe rose and headed for the stairs.

She found Jessica in the small room at the rear of the first floor, carefully folding her few belongings and setting them in her battered satchel. She looked up and beamed when she saw Phoebe, and quickly bobbed a curtsy. Phoebe smiled back, well-pleased; the panicked look had gone from Jessica’s eyes. Just a few days with Emmeline and Birtles, free of any hint of threat, and Jessica was once again the bright, cheerful lass she should have been.