To Distraction (27 page)

“You’ll manage very well with Lady Pelham. Just remember…” Perching on the edge of the narrow cot, Phoebe described her ladyship’s eccentricities, and also gave Jessica a potted history of the family, so she would know what gentlemen she might expect to encounter, without making a point of it informing her that they were all rather old and staid, and therefore unlikely to pose any problem.

Downstairs, Phoebe heard a deep voice saying something, then the bell on the front door of the agency tinkled, and the door shut. She inwardly frowned. Had Deverell gone out?

Rising, she wagged a finger at Jessica. “One thing—if ever you do run into any difficulties of that nature again, do remember that you can always return to the agency. But in
Lady Pelham’s household, you won’t need to worry—her housekeeper and butler are excellent people.”

Jessica blew out a breath. “It’ll be such a relief, miss, not having to guard against…well, you know, every minute of every day.” Jessica rushed on to thank her; Phoebe held up a hand, stemming the flow, and told her to enjoy her work with Lady Pelham, and that would be thanks enough.

Leaving Jessica reassured and firmly focused on taking up her new position, Phoebe returned downstairs. She turned right along the narrow corridor that linked the shop at the front with the kitchen. As she reached the kitchen’s threshold, she realized the voices she was hearing—Emmeline’s and an indistinguishable male rumble—were coming from the shop; when she glanced into the kichen, Constance was alone, neatly forming the dough into shapes on a baking tray.

“Just tell me where. Up here?”

Startled, Phoebe swung around. The cultured accents were Deverell’s. She walked quickly to the archway giving onto the shop, trepidation rising. Was Emmeline alone with him? Was she panicking…?

The sight that met her eyes brought her up short. Far from panicking, Emmeline was directing a viscount—a large, powerful, overwhelmingly male lord—as to precisely where she wished several big boxes containing various files to be placed on the high shelf running along one side wall.

Setting one box on the shelf, Deverell stepped back, dusted his hands, then turned to pick up the next. He saw Phoebe, met her eyes. He hesitated for a second, then hefted the box. “Seeing I was here to keep an eye on you all, Birtles stepped out to order some coal.”

He said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a viscount to be left at the beck and call of females running an employment agency.

“A little to the right, my lord, if you would.” Apparently
subject to the same delusion, Emmeline stood back and pointed. “With a little bit of space between—that way Birtles will be able to grab each easily when we need it down again.”

Deverell followed her directions without a murmur, then turned to heft the next box.

Mentally shaking her head, Phoebe stood in the archway and struggled not to stare.

That was the start of a very odd week. If she’d paid more attention to the incident with the boxes, perhaps she would have been rather less surprised by, or at least better prepared for, the subsequent developments.

Over the following days, having gained an inch, Deverell steadily invaded her world. And not just her daytime world but that of her nights, too; having once found his way to her bedchamber, he had no difficulty retracing his steps on the following and subsequent nights, much to Phoebe’s confusion.

She wanted him there, in her bed, yet every night she felt she was falling deeper under his spell, deeper in thrall to the magic they wove, not independently but together. That was the most enthralling aspect—the give and take, the reciprocity of pleasure, of desire, of need.

There was so much she’d yet to learn, yet every night’s lessons only made her more eager, more curious, more involved.

A dangerous situation.

An unsettling portent.

The days proved even more confounding. Deverell had an amazing knack of reading people, and therefore knowing just how to smooth feathers, as he’d proved with Emmeline. And therefore Birtles. Within forty-eight hours, he’d become an accepted member of her little band, viewed by all the others as one of them. Even Skinner, who hadn’t actually met
him but had only heard of his exploits from Fergus, jettisoned her heretofore prickly view of “his viscountship”; she still irreverently called him that, but her tone made it clear the title was no longer one of contemptuous dismissiveness.

Unlike her easily-won-over staff, Phoebe was significantly more suspicious, not of his good intentions or his trustworthiness but of the wisdom of allowing a gentleman like him too great an involvement in her domain.

She kept expecting him to take charge. Indeed, she was firmly convinced he wouldn’t be able to help himself, that he would at some point find the temptation simply too great and, with the best of intentions, usurp her position. Through those first days she remained constantly on guard, keyed up, ready to repel any encroachment on his part—and time after time he met her eyes, smiled, and waited for her decision.

It was thoroughly disconcerting, and not a little discomposing, to find herself constantly wrong-footed over him, albeit only in her mind, in her expectations. It was equally lowering to realize that he read her as well as, if not better than, he read all the others; he seemed to know just how far he could go without triggering her defenses, unerringly to know when stepping one inch further would bruise her toes.

And he’d stop. And defer to her.

After six days of constantly watching him, of constantly having him around, both at the agency and in the evenings at her elbow in the ton, helping here, assisting there, protecting always, even she mentally threw up her hands and consented to be impressed. Consented to admit, if only to herself, that he was one of that exceedingly rare breed of gentleman who did not constitutionally require to be forever in charge.

Not that she told him; he needed no encouragement.

And
then
she discovered that, courtesy of his particular talent for business, he was perfectly happy to sit down with
the agency’s ledgers and accounts and add, check, balance, and record—all with an ease that bespoke considerable experience—and her resistance crumbled.

As she’d remarked to Skinner that evening while primping to meet him at Lady Parkinson’s ball, any man willing to step in and spare her that ordeal was worth tolerating.

Skinner had humphed and cast a glance at her new gown. “Tolerating…is that what this is?”

She’d blushed and said nothing more.

A week after Jessica had happily left for her new life with Lady Pelham in the country, Phoebe sat in the agency’s kitchen with Emmeline by her side, going over their lists of female staff looking for positions, discussing possible matches with their list of households looking to hire.

Their “rescue work” comprised only a small part of the agency’s activities, a necessary condition to allow them to successfully and unobtrusively place their special clients. After four years of operation, the agency boasted a considerable list of female staff placed, had an enviable if select reputation among those seeking work in the capital, and a significant clientele among the households of the ton whose housekeepers returned again and again when looking for maids, dressers, governesses, or companions.

Deverell listened to Phoebe’s and Emmeline’s comments with half his mind; the other half was engaged in matching recent receipts with a list of projected costs. The agency didn’t have a budget; he’d decided it needed one, and as finance was one area in which Phoebe seemed happy to give him free rein, he was engaged in formulating one.

An activity that kept his mind sufficiently busy and his boots under the agency’s table—alongside Phoebe’s.

The bell over the agency’s front door tinkled; they all looked up and heard Birtles, minding the counter in the shop, greet whoever had walked in. “How was Harrogate, sir?”

Phoebe and Emmeline exchanged surprised and delighted glances, then Birtles continued, “Come you in then, sir. Miss Phoebe’s here and will be right pleased to see you.”

Deverell rose as both Phoebe and Emmeline pushed back their chairs and stood to greet a large, older gentleman, white-haired and well-dressed, neat yet rather somber.

“Loftus.” Smiling, Phoebe advanced, hands outstretched.

“Mr. Coates.” Emmeline beamed.

Loftus Coates took Phoebe’s hands in his, a shy, avuncular smile wreathing his face. “I fear the waters didn’t agree with me, so I returned somewhat earlier than I’d anticipated.”

Coates’s gaze had found Deverell; his voice died away.

An easy smile curving his lips, Deverell rounded the table and offered his hand. “Deverell—Paignton, for my sins.” He still hadn’t got used to his title.

Coates released Phoebe’s hand and gripped his.

Deverell continued, answering the question in Coates’s mind, “I’m assisting Miss Malleson in her endeavors.”

“Oh?” To Coates’s credit, he showed no inclination to retreat. He looked at Phoebe.

Deverell looked at Phoebe. And waited.

She met his eyes briefly, then looked at Coates. “Indeed.” She glanced again at Deverell. “Strange though it may seem, Paignton has indeed been very helpful.” She gestured to the chairs about the table; as they all moved to sit, she went on, “We had a spot of bother while rescuing our latest special client.”

Coates frowned; he waited for Phoebe and Emmeline to sit, then took the chair opposite Deverell. “Spot of bother?” He considered Phoebe for an instant, then turned his gaze on Deverell. “I take it there was some threat that Fergus and Birtles couldn’t handle?”

Meeting Coates’s dark eyes and seeing the real concern therein, Deverell recalled thinking that Loftus Coates might
well prove an ally. Inwardly congratulating himself on his farsightedness, he nodded. “A cosh and a swordstick.”

Coates’s lips thinned; he turned a reproachful gaze on Phoebe. “My dear—”

She stopped him with an upraised hand. “Before you begin any lecture, I’ve accepted Deverell’s offer of…” She caught herself before saying “protection,” caught his eyes for a brief moment then smoothly continued—“an additional escort, additional help whenever we perform a rescue.”

Coates studied her for a moment, then transferred his gaze to Deverell. After a moment, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll say no more on that head. Instead, I’ll ask what I came here to learn—is there any special client you need help with placing? If you performed a recent rescue, I imagine there is.”

Phoebe nodded and proceeded to tell him of Miss Spry. It quickly became apparent that Coates had a large network of acquaintances and business associates, wealthier merchants, bankers, and the like.

“A governess of impeccable character with some experience with very young children. I really don’t think she’ll be difficult to place, my dear.” Coates smiled at Phoebe. “Leave it with me. I should have an answer in a day or two.”

Phoebe exhaled. “If you can manage it, we’d all be very grateful. She’s a lovely young woman, but we’ve nothing in our books that would be suitable, and with the news about the Chifleys’ loss still doing the rounds in the ton, I fear it wouldn’t be wise to look in those circles.”

“No, indeed. Not for Miss Spry, and not for the agency, either.” Coates glanced at Deverell, then looked back at Phoebe. “You really do need to exercise great care, my dear. No placement is worth the risk of jeopardizing all the good work the agency still has before it.”

It was a gentle rebuke, yet Deverell was grateful to Coates for making it; it absolved him of the need. At present he was
doing his best not to tell Phoebe things she didn’t want to hear, but he could only go so far down that road.

Phoebe grimaced but merely rose as Coates did.

Deverell rose, too.

After shaking hands with Phoebe, Coates turned to him. “Perhaps, Lord Paignton, you could spare me a few minutes?”

Deverell smiled. “Of course.” Avoiding Phoebe’s immediately suspicious gaze, he waved to the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”

With a gracious nod, Coates accepted; he turned back to Phoebe. “I’ll be in touch in a few days, my dear.” With a nod to Emmeline, Coates turned and followed Deverell up the corridor.

They both nodded to Birtles at his post behind the counter, then Deverell held the door for Coates and followed him onto the pavement. By unspoken agreement, they strolled a few yards until they were beyond the agency’s windows.

Coates halted; he stared across the street and awkwardly cleared his throat. “I assume I don’t need to inquire as to your intentions, my lord.”

Deverell waited until Coates turned his head and met his eyes. “No.”

Coates studied his eyes, then nodded; Deverell glimpsed fleeting relief in his. “In that case, might I ask your…ah, stance as to Miss Malleson’s activities with the agency. I should tell you that I’ve assisted in my small way for over three years, and in that time I’ve come to admire and, figuratively speaking, greatly applaud the work Miss Malleson has accomplished in saving so many poor girls from…from…”

“An unenviable and undeserved fate?”

“Indeed.” Chin firming, Coates nodded. “Just so.”

Deverell looked down, frowned slightly as he considered
his position—considered the right words to describe it. “I see no reason—none whatever—to disapprove of Miss Malleson’s intent with regard to the females she rescues. Indeed, like you, I find her actions admirable. However, I cannot, and will not, permit her to place herself—or indeed, as I’ve informed her, any of her people or the agency itself—in any danger. Of any kind.”

Looking up, he met Loftus Coates’s eyes. His voice firmed. “My stance, therefore, is that as I have no wish to curtail her activities, I must of necessity join in them—but as her protector, her shield. That’s my purpose in joining her little band—keeping Phoebe, and all her works, safe.”

Coates held his gaze for a moment, then briefly smiled. He held out his hand. “Thank you. I believe we understand each other. It’s a relief to know Phoebe has such a shield. If you ever need assistance of the sort I’m able to give, I’ll be honored to provide it.”