To Distraction (34 page)

One glance told her she’d been wrong.

He was more—much more—than they’d led her to believe.

She watched the other four rise and go forward to meet him, to shake his hand and exchange greetings. She didn’t bother listening to their words beyond registering that although his voice was like theirs, deep and well-modulated, his tone always held an edge—a warning that words and tone could slice; more than the others, he used his voice as a weapon.

Outwardly, he was superficially one with the others—immaculately turned out in coat, waistcoat, breeches and boots, with a perfectly tied cravat; his hair was dark—sable brown—while his features bore the unmistakable stamp of their shared Norman ancestors.

She took all that in in one comprehensive glance, then concentrated on what they hadn’t told her—all else that she could see as he moved among them.

Deverell was graceful, elegant, and strong, as were the other three club members. Their ex-commander, however, took all three qualities to the extreme. Phoebe had lived all her life in the ton, but she’d never, ever, set eyes on a man like this one.

There was something that lived just beneath his surface, something that prowled. Something infinitely more dangerous—something that frankly shouldn’t be permitted in any well-bred drawing room.

And then he was moving toward her, his dark gaze fixed on her, Deverell bringing him to her to introduce.

She rose, feeling trapped in that predatory gaze. Deverell and the others were dominant men, but they weren’t like this.

This man was too much—definitely too much. Too dangerous, too powerful—too male.

All her reservations over large and powerful men returned
in a rush. She glanced at Deverell. He caught her wide-eyed look, arched a quizzical brow, then he was by her side, his hand under her elbow.

Just as well; it stopped her from curtsying.

His touch reassured and anchored her. She heard him introduce her and remembered just in time to offer her hand.

Dalziel took it in his; his fingers were cool, their pressure undisturbing as he bowed over hers.

She drew breath and managed a passable smile.

Releasing her hand, he smiled in return—effortlessly charming, just like Deverell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Malleson.”

She uttered the prescribed reply and they parted; he moved away to accept a glass of brandy from Tristan. She sank back into her chair, able to breathe again. As the others all sat, she realized why she’d instinctively started to curtsy. Deeply.

She’d seen Dalziel before—not met him, only seen him. At some party one of her aunts had given long ago. The memory was hazy. Deverell started to speak, and she put it aside to tease out later.

Deverell had told the others little beyond the fact that he’d stumbled on a slaving gang operating in Mayfair. Early this morning, he’d spoken to her of the need to reveal to his ex-colleagues, as well as Dalziel, the full scope of the agency’s operations. If they wanted their help, they needed to trust them with the whole truth. She’d agreed, and now she’d met them she had no doubt that had been the right decision.

But as she listened to Deverell explain the agency, how they learned of their “special clients’” needs and then arranged to whisk the girls away and resettle them, she wondered how such behavior sounded to them—whether they would be shocked that a lady of her station, unmarried, should be not just involved in but the instigator of such an
enterprise, correcting a wrong ladies such as she weren’t supposed to know of, or at least were supposed to hide any awareness of. Would they view her as vulgar?

While Deverell was speaking, she kept her gaze on the glass of sherry in her hand. When he came to the end of his description of the agency and paused, she drew breath and looked up, swiftly scanning the circle of faces.

Tristan was the easiest to read; his eyes were wide in patent amazement heavily tinged with approval. “What an extremely
laudable
goal.”

“Indeed.” Gervase raised his glass to her. “A commendable endeavor.”

“Felicitations on your courage, Miss Malleson.” Dalziel inclined his head to her, his dark eyes trapping hers. “The only element I find disturbing about your enterprise is that it has reason to exist.” His face hardened and he lowered his eyes. “Would that it didn’t.”

“True,” Christian said. “However, as we’re dealing with reality—indeed, must deal with it—your endeavor is worthy of the highest respect. Would that more ladies looked to such activities rather than their usual often ineffective charities.”

“Speaking of which, would you mind, Miss Malleson, if I told my wife of your agency?” Tristan asked. “It’s the sort of enterprise in which I know she’d love to be involved.”

Blushing under their fulsome praise, Phoebe admitted that she’d already met Leonora and they were meeting again. She gave Tristan permission to explain about the agency; rather surprised, she found herself promising to allow Leonora to assist.

“So that’s the agency as is,” Deverell resumed. “What happened…”

While he described the recent events—the girls who’d disappeared before they’d been rescued and the latest fracas—Phoebe surreptitously studied the others, considering
not just their words but all she could see of their reactions.

They were like Deverell in multiple ways—strong, large, inherently sensually charismatic, powerful, arrogant, dominant and wealthy gentlemen who, although warriors at heart, were driven not by the urge to dominate and own, to capture and exploit, but by a need to protect and defend.

Although the least easy to outwardly read, Dalziel was in that respect the clearest example; although all of them felt it, his anger at those who gave the agency reason to exist was more hard-edged, more potent, more clearly sensed.

Raising her head, she gazed around the circle; all were focused on Deverell and his words. She no longer had the slightest doubt that enlisting the aid of these gentlemen was the right thing to do. She felt perfectly safe trusting them with the agency’s secrets, and hers. In entrusting the agency’s defense to them.

As had happened with Deverell, as she looked around the circle she felt not a little amazement, a small voice in her head noting that it wasn’t only Deverell who was like this—large, powerful, sensual—and
safe
.

Reaching the end of their evidence, Deverell paused, then stated the inescapable conclusion. “These kidnappings are specific. They’re targeted. Not just any maid who happens to walk by, good-looking or not, but specific girls of a certain age, a certain high standard of beauty.”

“Which means”—Christian narrowed his eyes; normally a gentle gray, they’d turned as hard as stone—“
someone
, almost certainly someone of the ton, is, for want of a better term, identifying the targets.”

Deverell nodded. “Indeed. It can’t be any butler or other member of anyone’s staff.”

Gervase humphed. “They don’t see enough other staff to be useful in that regard, not given the fussiness of white slavers.”

“So,” Tristan said, his tone full of disgust, “it’s one of us.” He glanced at the others. “So to speak.”

“Indeed.” Dalziel’s drawl promised the darkest retribution. “Which is why it’s so fitting
we
should hunt him down and ensure appropriate justice is dispensed.”

Phoebe blinked and glanced around. Far from looking startled, the others were all nodding, perfectly serious, grimly so.

“Which brings us to our first question,” Deverell said. “How?”

Phoebe sat back and listened as they threw suggestions and observations back and forth. It was rather unsettling to sense—to have demonstrated so clearly—this other side of them, the ruthless, implacable side. In their pursuit of whoever was aiding the slavers, and the slavers themselves, they acknowledged no such things as limitations, only hurdles to be overcome.

In this guise, they were as frightening, as scarifying as any other man she’d ever met, yet Deverell was one of them…and listening, she could see what drove them, what fueled their driving passion in this—what ultimately would drive them to victory in this. They saw it as their right and proper place to defend the weak and the helpless against those who would harm and exploit.

That was their role, what they’d been born to do—their birthright, one they’d each long since claimed. They knew that, lived that, understood that—and now she did, too. She would never be wary of men like them again.

Gervase sat forward, his glass cradled between his hands. “If one of the ton is involved, and we know that’s so, then it’s money that’s behind it.”

Dalziel nodded. “Agreed. I can think of some rather less savory motives, but regardless, money will be the major attraction.”

“So,” Christian said, “what can we surmise about this someone? I can’t imagine they’re female.”

Tristan grimaced. “It’s possible, but is it likely? There would have to be some connection with the slavers—some agreement—and I can’t see any female regardless of her need of funds being able to pull that off. Too dangerous, too likely she’ll end up as part of the goods.”

“So our quarry is a man,” Deverell said. “One who lives in London, very possibly for most of the year, most likely in Mayfair, and given the households from which maids have disappeared, he moves in the best circles.”

Christian added, “He may not be
known
to be in need of funds.”

Dalziel inclined his head. “That would be too easy.”

“However,” Deverell said, “there are ways to inquire, people who would know.”

Christian grinned. “I assume you haven’t retired from the business world. How far can your contacts reach?”

Deverell narrowed his eyes. “Quite possibly far enough. I’ll have them put the word out tomorrow and see what we can learn.”

Dalziel was turning his glass between his long fingers. “I’ll see what I can ferret out by less direct means. We’re looking for someone with a hidden need of cash—there are always whispers.”

Deverell met Christian’s eyes; all of them wanted to know what “less direct means” their ex-commander had at his disposal, but none were game to ask.

“Meanwhile,” Dalziel went on, “the rest of you can see what you can learn from the watchhouses. Concentrate on those surrounding Mayfair. See what you can learn about missing maids—from there and any other sources you have to hand. We should try to get dates for all the disappearances we can find.” He met Deverell’s eyes. “With luck, if
either you or I can identify a likely villain, we can check to see if he was the recipient of unexplained largesse on or around those dates.”

Deverell nodded. “Even more, it might be possible to track him through such payments. Difficult, but the more dates we can identify, the more one account will stand out—regardless of whether he’s using another name to conceal the payments.”

“True,” Christian said. “And then there’s the slavers themselves.” He grinned, but it wasn’t a humorous gesture. “I’ll ask around my underworld contacts and see what they’ve heard, but white slavers by their nature tend to be criminal nomads without strong connections to the local scene. I’ll check nevertheless—no telling where we might have some luck.”

“And then there’s the docks.” Gervase nodded to Tristan. “Between you and me, we should have that covered. And Jack Hendon’s in town, too. Whoever our villains are, there have to be ships involved, and of that someone’s bound to know.”

“On top of that,” Dalziel put in, “I’ll officially alert the water police. My understanding is that white slavers generally gather their goods on shore, then call a ship in—too suspicious to have a ship with no specified cargo simply standing out from shore. The dock and port authorities have been much more vigilant in recent years.”

Dalziel glanced around; all the others were nodding, thinking, but there were no further suggestions. He met Phoebe’s eyes. “It’s enough to start with,” he said, “but I would also suggest that keeping a covert watch on the Athena Agency premises would be wise, at least until we know who our tonnish villain is. We have no idea what insights he might be privy to, so making sure the slavers don’t call around to put the agency permanently out of business seems a sensible precaution.”

The other four readily agreed. Dalziel smiled faintly at Phoebe; she smiled, rather tightly, back. The unnerving man no doubt thought he’d done her a favor—and quite possibly he had. But all she could think of as the meeting broke up was how she was to explain to Emmeline and the still frightened Molly, let alone the other women who dropped by at the agency, that there would be an assortment of large, dangerous, powerful—but
safe
—gentlemen hovering, flitting back and forth, keeping a protective watch on them all.

L
ater that night, Phoebe sat at her dressing table brushing out her hair and thinking over the events of the day.

Meeting Deverell’s colleagues, learning what they planned to do, how they planned to catch the white slavers, had been intriguing, but looking back on the episode, what truly amazed her was that she had been invited to attend. And accepted as a necessary presence. She’d said little but hadn’t felt excluded. Time and again they’d glanced at her for confirmation; if there’d been anything with which she’d disagreed, she’d been given ample opportunity to say so. And any comment she might have made would have been listened to and addressed, of that she felt sure.

It had felt strange to be treated so…much like an equal. As Deverell treated her, true. Perhaps men like him, like the others, saw partnerships with ladies as the norm, or at least mundane enough to be accepted without a blink.

That, she well knew, was certainly not the common thinking among fashionable gentlemen.

Uttering a soft snort, she laid aside her brush and reached around her neck to unhook her pearl necklace. She’d told Skinner she wouldn’t need her tonight; she hadn’t yet undressed, because she wanted to talk to Deverell.

First
. For that, clothes would help.

After leaving his club, they’d gone to the agency to tell the others their news. Emmeline had blinked, expression blanking on hearing that there would be four other gentlemen—all large ex-guardsmen like Deverell—haunting her kitchen over the next few weeks; she’d gone very quiet.

She’d taken Emmeline aside and they’d gone up to see Molly; there, she’d explained that the other four were
just
like Deverell, that there was absolutely nothing to fear from them—that indeed, both Emmeline and Molly could rely on them if they had any need.

Somewhat to her surprise, Emmeline had blinked again, thought a moment, then smiled and assured her all would be well. If they were
just
like Deverell, then, or so it seemed, both Emmeline and Molly were quite looking forward to meeting them.

She didn’t hear so much as a footstep before her door opened; she glanced around and saw Deverell already inside, shutting it behind him.

Noting her state of dress, he arched a brow as he approached.

Rising, she gave him her hands.

“Excellent!” He took her hands in his. “I was going to warn you not to undress.”

“Oh?” She was surprised; he tended to want her out of her clothes as soon as possible. “Why?”

His lips twisted. “Because, as I seriously doubt I can persuade you to spend the next few weeks—until we catch the
slavers and their supporting cast—locked up safe and secure in this room, I want to teach you a few tricks to defend yourself in the event a man grabs you like that blackguard did last night.”

“Oh.” Intrigued, she asked, “Should I punch him?”

He gave her a long-suffering look and lifted one of her hands. “Make a fist. Tight.”

She did. Then he did the same, holding his fist alongside hers.

“See the difference?”

She grimaced. “Yours is nearly three times the size of mine.”

“True. My wrist is also at least double the size of yours. If you try to punch a man you’re liable to hurt yourself more than him. But we’ll come to what you can do in a moment. First”—he recaptured her hands by locking his fingers around her wrists—“you need to break free.”

She studied their hands, held between them. The man who had grabbed her last night had had hold of just one of her wrists and she hadn’t been able to pull free; Deverell had shackled both and he was larger and stronger. “Can I?” She glanced at his face. “Is it possible?”

He smiled. “Oh, yes. Rotate your arms upward and outward.”

She blinked, then looked at their hands and did—and his hands were forced from hers. “Oh!”

“You have to do it much faster than that, or he’ll realize and resist, but if you do, it’s almost impossible for anyone to hold onto you like that.” He recaptured her wrists. “Try it again—quickly this time.”

She did. They repeated the exercise a number of times; each time she sensed him using more of his strength, yet she always managed to break his hold. “Well!” she said when they stopped. “I had no idea it was that simple.”

He grinned. “It’s not—that just stops him from holding you by the wrists. Wrists are the easiest way to hold a woman, but once you’ve broken his hold, any determined attacker is going to grab you—your body—next.”

He demonstrated, seizing her about the waist before she could leap back. He held her before him. “Now what do you do?”

She looked at where her hands had come to rest against his upper sleeves. They looked ridiculously tiny. “Not a fist.”

He laughed. “No. Unless you have no alternative, don’t resort to your hands. If a man’s holding you like this, face-to-face, you have a much better weapon.”

She frowned. “What?”

Lifting a hand, he tapped her forehead. “That’s the thickest bone in your body. Use it—butt him with it. If his nose is in reach, aim for that. If not, even the chin can hurt—”

She tried it.

He broke off and staggered back a step, blinking. “Yes.” He blinked again, lifting a hand to his chin. “Just like that. Very good…”

“Oh, heavens! Did I hurt you?” Hands outstretched, she closed the distance between them.

He frowned at her. “I’ll recover. But it occurs to me that the first rule you in particular need to learn is: Don’t let the villain catch you in the first place. When that ruffian grabbed you last night, he spent a good few seconds deciding which of the two of you to grab, and both of you just stood there and waited for him to make up his mind.” He put her away from him—a good yard away. Lowering his head, catching her eye, he forcefully stated, “If a man comes for you intending to catch you—
run!
”

He took one step toward her. She swallowed a shriek and bolted behind the armchair.

“Good.” He pushed the armchair, sending it careening away. He came for her again.

She turned and fled toward the bed, but he was on her. Wrapping one steely arm around her waist, he locked her to him, bent his head and said, “Don’t rely on being able to break his hold, or on butting him”—he moved his head aside as she tried it in reverse, but the difference in their heights meant her head hit his shoulder—“just run like the devil, because if he catches you he’s going to lift you.” He demonstrated, swinging her off her feet, half tucked under his arm. “And then you’re quite helpless.”

She gasped, struggling to right herself and discovering he was correct; she was indeed helpless.

“Actually, there’s two things you can do if he grabs you like that—
before
he lifts you.” Deverell swung her back up and set her on her feet again. He nudged the heel of her pump with the toe of his boot. “Don’t try this on me because it hurts like the devil, but if you’re wearing heels like these, you can smash one down on his instep. With luck, he’ll let go of you, and then you can—”

“Run.” She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “What else?”

“The other thing you can do—not a good option but a last resort—is to collapse in his arms. Just let yourself fall. It’s very hard to hold onto anyone who’s gone boneless.”

She tried it and saw what he meant.

“But,” he said, deftly readjusting his hold, “if you do that, you have to be ready to break away immediately his hold on you loosens, because as soon as he realizes, he’ll grab you more securely, as I’ve just done.”

He hauled her up. “So, you see, running and not getting caught is the first and best option, because once he has hold of you, he’s going to lift you, and throw you—”

He tossed her on the bed.

She bounced, then swallowed a shriek as he followed her, trapping her beneath him. She caught her breath and looked into his eyes, then smiled like a cat and lifted her arms, winding them about his neck. “I take it that’s the end of my lesson?”

She knew perfectly well where his attention had veered. “Yes.” He looked down at her, at her lips. “For tonight.”

Artfully she shifted beneath him. “So what now?”

“Now”—he reached for her laces—“we concentrate on getting you undressed.”

So he could soothe the other set of clamoring impulses that had beset him. He’d done everything he could to protect her, put in place every guard, every sentry he could, but he couldn’t forever be by her side. The knowledge irked; the fact that in this day and age he couldn’t lock her in some tower until all danger was past abraded nerves and feelings he hadn’t known he possessed.

The only relief, the only succor, the only balm that seemed to soothe his primitive self was to possess her. To remind himself he could, that she was his, willingly and completely.

As he spread her thighs and eased his aching erection into her slick, scalding heat, some part of him sighed, let go, and embraced paradise, and her.

“If you’ll excuse us, Lady Harting, my aunt is beckoning.” Phoebe smiled sweetly at her ladyship, a harridan if ever there was one, less sweetly at her niece, who was staring most unbecomingly at Deverell, and smoothly steered him away.

He leaned closer as they maneuvered through the crowd. “Is Edith waving? I thought she was at the other end of the room.”

“She is, but another of my aunts might be here somewhere—who knows?” They were at Lady Gifford’s ball, a major event. Five days had passed since Deverell had
called in his friends to search for the slavers; for the past five nights they’d circulated through the ton, alert to any whispers, although as yet they’d heard none. But at every ball, every party, she’d had to exercise herself on his behalf—in his defense. She glanced at him critically. “I cannot believe how many matchmaking mamas seem to think you’re fair game. Are you carrying a sign I can’t see that declares Open Season?”

Deverell grinned; looking ahead, he patted her hand where it lay, possessively gripping his sleeve. “It’s just one of those crosses men such as I have to bear. Within these halls we’re the hunted, not the hunter. It’s a sad, sad reflection on our times.”

Phoebe looked at him, then snorted and faced forward. After a moment, she said, “You might try to be a little more dismissive.”

He could, but he was deriving far too much satisfaction from having her wield her tongue and her wits in his defense. She was surprisingly good at it. “You need to polish your skills. This is clearly not a type of action you’ve engaged in much before—protecting gentlemen from the importunings of gorgons and their charges—and who knows? You might find you need such talents in the years to come.”

For instance, when she was his wife.

Phoebe merely humphed and turned him toward the refreshment room. “After dealing with Lady Harting—was she the
fourth?
—I’m parched.”

He dutifully steered them through the milling throng. The ton was galloping toward the Season’s zenith with its customary hedonistic fervor, and to cap it all, last week Princess Charlotte, the Princess Royal, had married, casting those females with matrimonial intentions into a heightened frenzy. Every ball was packed, every entertainment an unmitigated crush, with matchmaking mamas lurking at every
turn. He would much prefer to retreat and avoid such events, but Phoebe still needed to circulate, to keep her ear to the ground over households, potential problems, and most importantly suitable placements for the women on the agency’s books, both those from its conventional activities as well as their special clients.

Reaching the refreshment room, a side salon thankfully less crowded, he procured two glasses of champagne.

Phoebe lifted one from his fingers. “There’s an alcove of sorts where that window’s screened by those palms. Let’s go over there.”

He nodded and trailed her across the salon to where the positioning of the palms and the window created a nook—in public view, indeed giving a view of the ballroom, yet affording a degree of privacy.

Phoebe stepped into the alcove and with a small sigh of relief turned to face him. Her gaze went beyond him, idly scanning the guests swanning about the ballroom. He sipped and looked at her face, studied it—saw and savored the subtle dropping of her veils now she was alone with him.

It was moments like this when they were alone, two together yet in some indefinable way as one, that he felt the urge to mention marriage most strongly, when he felt their complementarity—their ability to work together for the agency and more widely in society itself—showed so strongly that it couldn’t be denied, and he couldn’t believe she wasn’t aware of it, that she didn’t see it as clearly as he.

Ever since she’d admitted him to the select circle who knew about the agency, they’d steadily grown closer. Although he’d intended that to happen, and done all he could to promote it, he was nevertheless amazed at how readily and how deeply their lives had intertwined. She had to see, to know by now that their marriage was meant to be.

To him there was no question, none at all. The only ques
tion remaining was when to broach the subject, and for his money the answer was as soon as possible, which realistically meant as soon as they’d successfully dealt with the white slavers and the associated threat to the agency.

He took a sip of champagne and inwardly vowed that the instant all danger was past, he’d ask Phoebe to officially be his.

As if following his thoughts, she stirred and glanced at him. “I’m dying to hear what came of your meeting today. There’s no one near enough to hear, so tell me—what have the others found?”

Phoebe knew he and his colleagues had met that morning to pool all they’d thus far learned and decide which avenues to further pursue. Deverell had, without her prompting, kept her apprised of all he heard, but they usually had to wait until they were alone in her bedchamber. But her impatience was building; with the threat of the white slavers hanging over the agency, she found it difficult to concentrate on the mundane.

He shifted, glancing around, confirming no one was within earshot. “Regarding the females who’ve gone missing over recent weeks, through the watchhouses we’ve now got information on eight. Six were from Mayfair, or near to it, all working in households of the ton, not just wealthy but of a certain social standing. The other two were merchants’ daughters, both very beautiful, and in both cases they personally interacted with gentlemen of the haut ton coming to buy their fathers’ wares.”