To Distraction (30 page)

Edith was also interested and intrigued, but raised as a
Malleson within the haut ton, hemmed in by numerous dreadfully stuffy relatives, she found it more difficult to relax among ordinary people. Although Audrey had an equally august background, and arguably an even more stuffy and high-in-the-instep family, she’d made a career of being unconventional.

And Deverell was the same. Seeing the understanding glance he exchanged with Loftus, remembering the ease with which he’d won over Fergus and Birtles, and even Emmeline, his easy way with Grainger—from whom Phoebe had now learned enough to appreciate Deverell’s appointing the boy as his groom as a “rescue” of sorts—she realized that Deverell’s interest in and facility in engaging so easily with people of lesser degree weren’t, as she’d supposed, an outcome of his military service but the result of something deeper, more like an inherited ability.

It was one she valued. She’d lost her own “distance” from others long ago, courtesy of recognizing, first with Emmeline and then all the others, that women of any station were subject to the same threats, the same fears. The same emotions as they progressed through life. That regardless of the quality of their gowns, their cultured speech or their knowledge of ladylike accomplishments, they were the same and equally worthy of help.

Of respect.

That wasn’t something Deverell had had to learn; it was a tenet he’d absorbed long ago. So long ago it was a part of his character; he was as open-minded and unconventional as Audrey, and equally likely to protect a maid as he was a lady.

And that, Phoebe realized, as she watched him lean forward and deflect Audrey’s attention from Loftus—so that Loftus could catch his breath—was quite an amazing find in a gentleman like Deverell, in a man of his class.

Five nights later, Phoebe lay warm and sated in the billows of her bed, sleepy but not yet ready for sleep; eyes closed, she drifted in the dark and marveled at the turn her life had taken.

Turns. It wasn’t simply the presence of the heavy male body sprawled beside her, one muscled arm slung over her waist, holding her protectively even in sleep, that was different. He’d made a place for himself there, in her private world, but he’d been equally assiduous in carving out a place in the agency and claiming it.

What she found so amazing was that, even there, be it in Kensington Church Street or in the lanes and alleys where they waited to whisk away the frightened women they rescued, that place he’d claimed was by her side—not in front of her, not instead of her, but with her. Alongside her.

He’d cast himself as her partner.

Through the darkness she glanced at him, at the slice of his face she could see—he was sleeping slumped on his side, his face burrowed into the pillow—and she was still astonished, irredeemably fascinated that a man such as he, a man such as she knew him to be, could be so…amenable. So willing to adjust, to mute what none knew better than she was his natural inclination to command, to instead defer to a woman—worse,
a lady!

The only times he’d shown any tendency to take the reins had been during their rescues; he hovered, not liking the locations, the surroundings—the danger to her. She knew without words that he didn’t like her being part of the group who went out at night to rescue the women, but he’d accepted, reluctantly, that no woman hoping for rescue was likely to willingly go with him or Birtles—or indeed any man. It had to be Phoebe; she could reassure the girls as no
one else could. So he chafed, but when all went according to plan, he drew back and let matters proceed as she directed.

He’d managed to not just allay her fears on that score but open her eyes to a raft of possibilities that, prior to his advent into her life, she would have sworn were
im
possibilities.

Indeed, that day had brought a fresh round of observations and revelations. For some time she’d wanted to visit two of their resettled “special clients” to see how both girls were faring. Hearing of her wish, he’d offered to drive her into Surrey, to the two villages serving the country estates at which the girls now worked. Emmeline had written and made arrangements for the girls to meet Phoebe at the local inns.

That morning Deverell had driven her into the country, to the meetings. He’d sat a little apart, keeping watch over her and the girls while she and they had chatted, but when it had come time to leave, in both cases he’d risen and approached, and with his easy smile and a few charming words had eased each girl’s instinctive fear. He’d spoken with her in the girls’ presence, openly acknowledging his commitment to the agency, and more subtly to Phoebe herself. Each girl had blinked, startled that he—a gentleman of the very sort they had such bad memories of—would think and behave as he did.

Each had readily accepted his offer of a lift back to the gates of their place of employment; both had departed reassured and, Phoebe had no doubt, a trifle less inclined to paint all powerful gentlemen as blackguards.

The journey back had been another revelation; he’d questioned her as to the girls’ attitudes after rescue, their needs—emotional as well as physical—to best enable them to recover from their ordeal. To best eradicate the resultant fears.

Remembering, she let her lids fall; he’d been totally focused, completely absorbed, not just interested but…again,
the word that fell into her mind was committed. He had some plan evolving in his head, on that she would wager, but he hadn’t yet mentioned it, hadn’t yet proposed it.

She’d intended to interrogate him that evening at Lady Hubert’s rout; instead, she’d spent much of the evening acting as
his
protector. Most of the balls and parties they’d previously attended—that she and Edith habitually graced—hadn’t been those at which the matchmaking mamas predominated, but her ladyship’s rout was one of the premier events of the Season, which was now in full swing. Despite Deverell’s clear preference for her company, they’d been approached by a steady stream of ladies keen to try their hands, as well as those of their charges at detaching him from her skirts.

He’d clung tight, and more than once she’d felt the need to employ her wits and her tongue to shield him. Really, some of the more brazen suggestions had made her blush for her sex.

She shifted in the bed, letting her leg brush his. If she were truthful, she’d startled herself by recognizing in herself a reaction she’d seen in him when other eligible gentlemen had tried to capture her interest.

In him, she’d labeled it possessiveness; in her…was it any different?

And if she had the right to feel so, didn’t he?

Numerous incidents during the rout had brought one point home: He needed a bride, a wife of the right caliber to help him, to assist him with the social round he’d inherited along with his title. She’d learned more of his circumstances from comments let fall by various ladies during the evening—and also from Audrey, now she’d taken to frequently looking in at the agency—enough to understand that his need was real.

Partnership.

The word revolved in her mind, as if she were mentally tasting it.

He’d become her partner in her enterprise, but what of his? He had a calling he needed to follow, just as she had. But was that any of her business?

The answer depended on what lay between them.

If what they now shared was in truth the liaison she’d assumed it would be, then it should be on the wane, attraction and desire fading, both of them starting to turn aside, their attention drifting. Yet if anything, the opposite was happening; they were growing more connected, their lives, hopes, and aspirations more intertwined by the day—and on his part that was unquestionably deliberate.

So if this wasn’t a liaison, what was it? A partnership, yes, but where did that end?

When she’d insisted on a liaison, she hadn’t known, hadn’t imagined a relationship like what was developing between them could exist—could possibly be.

But if it could…?

He’d changed his mind once and accepted a liaison. What if she now changed hers?

Would he, could she persuade him to, change his back?

Did she want him to?

The concept and the question wreathed through her mind, and followed her into her dreams.

“T
here you are, dear.” Audrey dropped a neatly written reference on the agency’s kitchen table before Phoebe. “Do you need any more?”

Phoebe picked up the letter, read it, then looked up and smiled. “Not at present. But thank you—this will be perfect.”

“Of course. Do let me know when you require another.” With a wave, Audrey drifted back up the corridor; they heard her taking her leave of Emmeline, behind the front counter, then the front door opened and shut.

Deverell glanced at Phoebe; they shared a smile, then he returned his attention to the account books. When appealed to over a forged reference for Miss Spry, Audrey had been delighted to oblige. She and Edith had seized on the provision of such references as one way they could contribute to the agency’s work; he suspected Audrey took great delight in inventing households, and with her artistic bent she had
no difficulty disguising her hand so she could create references from multiple imaginary ladies.

“With this,” Phoebe murmured, setting aside the reference, “Dulcie should be able to secure that post with Lady Huntwell.”

And yet another of their “special clients” would be settled. But Phoebe had been speaking the unvarnished truth when she’d warned this was their busy time; they had three more rescues pending.

The front door opened and shut once more; Deverell lifted his head. With Phoebe, he listened to the voices in the front room; it was a woman who’d come in—her voice and Emmeline’s were too soft for him to make out their words.

The woman didn’t remain long; as soon as the front door shut again, Emmeline came down the corridor.

Halting in the archway, from where she could retreat to the front if anyone entered, she showed them a puzzled, frowning face. “Well—that’s a strange thing, to be sure.”

“What is?” Birtles came in from the lane, a sack of potatoes in his arms. “Where’d you want these?”

Emmeline pointed to the pantry, then answered his first question. “That was my sister, Rose. She popped in to tell me that that girl she’d mentioned, from her friend Mrs. Camber’s household that she and Camber thought needed our services—well, it seems the girl’s up and gone of her own accord.”

Deverell frowned.

“Run away?” Phoebe asked.

Emmeline nodded. “That’s what Camber said. She’d spoken to the girl—she was being pursued by her master’s nephew—and she, the girl, had seemed keen to have us help her, but this morning the girl was gone. Camber thought as perhaps she grew so desperate she didn’t want to wait and simply fled.”

They all thought of a young maid fleeing into the streets of London.

“Well,” Phoebe said, her expression grim but resigned, “we can only help those who come our way.”

Emmeline nodded and headed back to the front counter. Birtles humphed and went out to fetch the rest of his purchases.

Phoebe returned to sorting her lists; Deverell eyed her bent head and wondered. Had the maid run away or…?

Try as he might, he couldn’t guess what it was he sensed hovering just beyond perception’s reach.

On the opposite side of London, Malcolm Sinclair climbed the three steps to the recessed door of a tall, narrow building located off Threadneedle Street in the bustling heart of the city. Pushing open the outer door, he entered; without looking to right or left, he ascended to the first floor. The rooms at the end of the corridor overlooking the street housed the offices of Drayton and Company, Mr. Thomas Glendower’s business agent.

Malcolm tapped peremptorily on the office door and entered.

Less than a minute later, he was shown into Drayton’s sanctum. Drayton, average in every physical way, mild-mannered but yet a skilled and exceedingly thorough man-of-business, was already on his feet behind the desk, a smile wreathing his countenance. “Mr. Glendower—a pleasure as always, sir.”

Smiling faintly, aloof and distant, Malcolm shook Drayton’s hand. “I trust all goes well?”

“Indeed, sir.” Drayton waved Malcolm to the chair before the desk; he waited until Malcolm elegantly sat before sinking back into his own chair. “You’ll be pleased to know that
the position we took in Bonnington and Company has already paid a substantial dividend.”

Drayton continued, giving Malcolm—Thomas Glendower—a detailed report on his considerable portfolio.

Malcolm listened intently, but while one part of his mind registered facts and figures, another part circled, as always, as ever, checking, considering, assessing and evaluating his options and his decisions, his moves in the game, on the chessboard of life, of which Drayton and Thomas Glendower were one.

Potentially a vital one.

Henry knew nothing of Thomas Glendower, and even less of Malcolm’s facility with finance, with business and the raising and profitable management of capital.

On coming up to town, moved by a distantly perceived, possible, but vague need, Malcolm had amused himself by setting up his alias and his accounts with Drayton, initially as a means of concealing, and at the same time doing something useful with, the sizeable sum he’d amassed through his years at Oxford.

Young gentlemen liked to wager, to play cards for exorbitant sums, sums those who gambled with Malcolm usually lost. Honorably, legitimately—he never resorted to cheating. That was the thrill, the test, the challenge. Over the years, he’d come to view his role in the light of teaching his colleagues a valuable lesson—one sadly few took to heart. Unless one was a whiz with figures, it was unwise to play with one who was.

But what had started as an amusement had grown to an absorbing interest. Malcolm now knew that finance and making money was the area in which he excelled, and which gave him the greatest satisfaction.

Well and good. As a consequence, however, Thomas Glendower and his portfolio now meant a great deal to Malcolm; they were creations of his he would fight to protect.

His more superficial mind reported that Drayton had been his usual hardworking, indeed inspired, self. That was what had drawn him to the man—like Malcolm, he was motivated as much by the thrill of successful investment as the money. As he invariably did while sitting in Drayton’s chair listening to his enthusiastic report, Malcolm congratulated himself for his foresight in choosing Drayton—and in setting up such an excellent way of quietly salting away large sums of cash.

Drayton came to an end. “Excellent!” Malcolm smiled, still aloof but showing his approval. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a wad of notes—the cut he’d skimmed from the payment for the last two women passed to the white slaver traders.

Despite his perennial desire for cash, Henry was exceedingly lax about keeping a close eye on what should have been his; he’d made no attempt to check the amount Malcolm had stated they received in return for handing over the prettiest maids in London, snatched from the households of lords and dukes. As always arrogantly certain—forever arrogantly blind—Henry blithely believed Malcolm handed over the full sum.

Such naïveté had Malcolm inwardly shaking his head every time he thought of it. In reality, fifty percent of the cash handed over had from the first made its way into Mr. Thomas Glendower’s accounts.

Nonchalantly dropping the notes on Drayton’s desk, Malcolm stated, “Add that to my account. Invest it as seems fit. That opportunity with the Northern Canal, for example, might suit.”

Drayton’s eyes had lit. He reached for the money. “Indeed, sir—an excellent choice.”

While Drayton counted the notes and directed his clerks to enter the sum into various ledgers, Malcolm let his mind return to the aspect of his current enterprise that, increasingly, was preying on his mind.

Henry, arrogant and blind, was a potential liability. When, with becoming meekness, Malcolm had speculated on the dangers of depositing sums of cash received from crime into one’s own bank account, Henry had laughed contemptuously; his reputation and position, he claimed, would forever protect him from any investigation.

Perhaps in the past that had been so, but Malcolm had heard enough whispers to suggest that the authorities were becoming more vigilant, certainly less
laissez-faire
. But while Malcolm could and would quite happily turn his back on the white slavers and walk away—he didn’t need their money; he preferred to make his by safer means—Henry was another matter. He was now addicted to the funds their association with the trade brought in—or more specifically, addicted to the pistols that money allowed him to buy.

Unfortunately, he was also being a pig-headed fool and refusing to take the obvious precautions.

Malcolm abhorred fools, and pig-headed ones were the worst. But what he really didn’t like—what preyed on his mind—was the potential weakness in his own defenses that Henry now represented.

So…

Drayton spoke; Malcolm looked at him, smiled, and rose. Their business concluded, he allowed Drayton to show him out. The instant the office door shut behind him, he let his mind refocus on the problem he could see looming.

Henry would run his own race, and there was nothing Malcolm could do, nor felt compelled to do, in that regard. He and Henry had managed to rub along for nearly fifteen years; it was time to move on. As soon as he turned twenty-one, in just
a few short weeks, and assumed control of the fortune his father had left in Henry’s charge, he would act, and step out from Henry’s shadow—sever the umbilical cord that had until now kept him tied.

Meanwhile, however…descending the stairs to the ground floor, Malcolm narrowed his eyes. It would be wise to give some thought to shoring up his own position in the event that Henry was caught.

Tricky, but there were ways and means, and in the circumstances he wasn’t at all averse to using them to ensure he didn’t get caught, too. Considering his options, he pushed open the front door and strolled out into the street.

“Three rescues in one week—that’s a record!”

Phoebe clinked her glass with Deverell’s; smiling delightedly, she beamed at their small band gathered around the agency’s kitchen. “Thanks to our excellent team—Birtles, Fergus, Scatcher, Grainger, and Deverell”—she inclined her head to each in turn—“all three went off smoothly. And thanks to Emmeline, Loftus, Audrey, Edith, and myself, we already have one of our special clients placed, and potential positions to pursue for the other two.”

Birtles raised his tankard high. “To the Athena Agency!”

Everyone cheered and drank.

Lowering his mug, Deverell looked around at their unlikely crew. Goodwill and high spirits overflowed on all sides; three rescues in such a short period was indeed an achievement.

Scatcher, the owner of the shop to the left, a clearing house for antiques and antiquities of dubious provenance, was an unprepossessing rogue whose rather grubby exterior hid a heart of considerable warmth. He’d been highly wary of Deverell but had accepted him on Phoebe’s word; for his part, Deverell was willing to admit that despite Scatcher’s
questionable business practices, his sharp eyes, quick wits, and well-honed instinct for self-preservation were of excellent value in a lookout.

On their last rescue, Scatcher had spotted the watch in good time to prevent them being discovered.

The notion of Scatcher and Audrey, let alone Edith, rubbing shoulders was a flight of fancy Deverell had never imagined he’d see, but there they were, all three earnestly debating the positions they were lining up for the girls they’d rescued.

Loftus stood beside Audrey—or rather she stood beside him. His aunt invariably gravitated to Loftus’s side, but no matter how carefully he watched, Deverell couldn’t tell whether her interest was driven purely by curiosity or…something else. Regardless, he’d never seen Audrey’s usually peripatetic attention so consistently focused on one object.

Turning from Emmeline and Birtles, Phoebe tucked her hand in Deverell’s arm and nudged him toward Loftus at the end of the room. “You know, the only thought dimming my enjoyment in our week’s work is that there existed three situations from which we had to rescue those girls.”

He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve and gently squeezed. “True.” He’d thought of that himself. “But as you once so sapiently remarked, we can only do what we can, and trust in God to take care of the rest.”

“Hmm…I don’t recall saying all that—not the last bit, anyway—but you’re right.” Phoebe met his eyes. “I wanted to thank you not only for not being difficult over the agency, but for joining us. We couldn’t have managed all three in one week, not before, not without you and Grainger to help.”

“Grainger and I are enjoying ourselves,” Deverell dryly returned. “Never doubt it.”

“Nevertheless.” Phoebe looked ahead to the small group before them. “You know,” she murmured, lowering her
voice, “I’ve rarely seen Edith so animated—so involved. Actively helping us has been good for her.”

Deverell grinned. “It’s the slightly scandalous nature of the enterprise that so thrills her. Audrey’s been corrupting her.”

Phoebe laughed and they joined the others, and the celebration continued for some time.

Later that night, as he let himself in through the French doors of Edith’s morning room and silently went upstairs, Deverell came to a decision, one he’d been hoping not to have to make.

That evening they’d attended Lady Carnaby’s ball, not so much a crush as a highly select gathering. There’d been a number of eligible gentlemen present, dropping by more to be seen among that circle than to cast their eyes over any young lady.

At one stage, he’d been dispatched to fetch Audrey and Edith refreshments. He’d been waylaid, caught by Lord Grimsby and then Lady Hendricks; by the time he’d reached the small salon where the refreshment table was located, Phoebe had been standing alone beside Edith for some time. On his way back, a glass of orgeat in each hand, he’d paused just inside the ballroom to check—to verify that no gentleman had taken advantage of his absence to approach Phoebe.

None had, or if they had, they’d already left; she’d still been standing beside Edith, chatting to Audrey.

The sight had brought home an anomaly he’d noted but hadn’t fully analyzed; Phoebe was unquestionably attractive, yet although gentlemen looked, and certainly noticed, few ever approached her.