To Distraction (38 page)

He studied her; a touch of derision crept into his expression. “Two hours,” he snapped. “I have business to attend to.” He turned to the door. “I’ll return once that’s complete.” Halting with his hand on the latch, he glanced back at her. “But I’ll expect to have that name from you when I do—no more prevarication. You will not find me inclined to indulgence then.”

His gaze grew colder, his voice harder. “And if you think to deny me, my dear, I’m afraid your circumstances will become most unpleasant. As you no doubt know, white slavers are not in the least fussy over the station of their goods, only that they are handsome—and in that respect, my dear, do remember that you qualify.”

He watched her for a moment, as if waiting for some sign she appreciated the full portent of his words. When she remained perfectly still, he swung on his heel, pulled open the door, and went out.

Phoebe didn’t breathe until she heard the lock click, followed by the telltale creak of the stairs as he went down.

Then she exhaled, dragged in another breath, and gave mute thanks she’d managed thus far.

But what now? She had two hours; she had no illusion that he wouldn’t return, that he wouldn’t insist on having a name.

She wasn’t going to lie there and wait for him to come back.

Getting free of her bonds was her first task. The cords lashing her arms to her sides passed just above her elbows; wriggling, she bent her arms up, raising her hands to where she could examine the cords securing them. Unfortunately, with her elbows trapped at her sides, she couldn’t raise her hands to her face, couldn’t use her teeth to attack the cords about her wrists.

Temporarily defeated, she decided to see if she could get the hood off; after much wriggling and shifting of shoulders and head, she managed to work the hood back and back, until the front edge lay over her brow.

She huffed out a free breath; at least she could see. She took a moment to study her surroundings. It was a strange room—not large but reasonably comfortable with a perfectly adequate bed. While not luxurious, it was certainly no dungeon. In addition to the bed—a four-poster as she’d imagined, but with no canopy above—a small chest of drawers sat beside the door, with a taller chest against one side wall with a porcelain basin and pitcher atop it.

Phoebe wondered whether there would be any water in the pitcher but doubted it. She looked up and around,
studying the strangest aspect of the room—it had no windows. There was a large skylight in the ceiling, but it was far too high for anyone to reach, even standing on the bed or the taller chest.

With a sigh, she returned her gaze to her hands and the cords binding them. No matter how she contorted hands and wrists, she couldn’t reach the knots with her straining fingers. Squinting down, desperation rising, she saw the heavy pearl brooch pinned between her breasts.

She had it free in an instant; holding it up, she examined the pin. The brooch was heavy, the pin long and sturdy. Carefully maneuvering it between her fingers, she got to work—painstakingly unpicking and unraveling the cords lashing her wrists.

It was a long, slow, laborious process, but she could see she was making headway. She was determined not to be lying on the bed helpless when that dreadful man returned; while working on the cords, she went over in her mind all Deverell had taught her. The knowledge that there were things she could do to protect herself calmed her, gave her determination a focus.

An hour might have passed, but finally the cords fell and her hands were free! Resisting an urge to cheer—she had no idea if anyone was beyond the door—she lay back, smiling up at the ceiling as she massaged her wrists, then she pushed herself upright and set to work on her other bonds.

Within minutes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her arms, swinging her legs. Carefully, she stood. She crept to the door and put her ear to it. It was a thinnish panel, yet she could hear nothing, sense no one close on the stairs. Recalling how cramped and narrow they were, and that there was another door at their foot, she assumed that if there were any guard, they’d be beyond the second door in the corridor below.

She felt safe enough to walk to free up her limbs.

Eventually, however, she returned to sit once again on the side of the bed. Clasping her hands in her lap, she forced herself to face what had to be faced.

What if Deverell didn’t learn the identity of the procurer that day?

“There’s a ship standing out in the Thames—the
Maire Jeune
, out of The Hague.”

The clock on the mantelpiece of the Bastion Club library chimed six times; the five men gathered in the armchairs paid it no heed as Tristan continued, “They put off their cargo of fleeces yesterday and say they’re waiting to take on a new cargo. But there’s no cargo registered by any merchant or shipping line for that ship. The captain claimed his agent is negotiating for one, but no one’s sighted any agent. The water police are keeping a close watch on the ship from afar—they were careful not to raise any suspicions with their ‘customary inquiries.’”

“So we have the ship,” Deverell said. “Now we need to be sure of catching them before they slip the girls on board and hoist anchor late one night.”

In the depths of one armchair, Dalziel stirred. He drew out a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. “What’s the ship’s description? I’ll send an alert to the naval captain in Falmouth, just in case she slips our net. No sense not being thorough.”

There were very few people who could be that thorough. Deverell held his tongue and waited while Tristan gave Dalziel the information and he jotted it down.

“Send your alert via Charles.” Gervase caught Dalziel’s eye when he looked up. “That’s the sort of message he would love to deliver. It’ll make him feel included.”

Dalziel’s lips twitched, but he inclined his head. “Indeed.
St. Austell will be the perfect messenger.” He looked around the group. “So what else have we gathered?”

They each reported, but other than the news of the ship, there was little real advance beyond what they’d known days before.

“So,” Deverell concluded, “tracing the money is still our surest route to the procurer.”

“Is there anything more we can do on that front?” Christian asked.

“I doubt it.” It was Dalziel who answered. “I can vouch that Montague is thorough and uncommonly tenacious over such matters. He has contacts I’d give my right arm to learn of.” His long lips twisted. “But he’s the soul of discretion—which is presumably why he has such astonishing connections.”

Which, Deverell surmised, was a subtle hint that although Montague might know of Dalziel, there was no point pursing his identity through that most upright man of business. Deverell had to admit the idea had crossed his mind; Montague managed the affairs of some of the most wealthy and influential families in the land.

He recalled he hadn’t mentioned Montague’s last message. “Montague might have turned up something by now. He was spending today checking. I told him about this meeting—I was hoping he’d have learned something definite by the end of the day.”

They all looked at the clock; it was nearly six-thirty.

Christian rose and fetched the decanter; Dalziel asked after Christian’s underworld contacts, whether they might be inclined to assist in bringing down the slavers.

They were discussing that possibility when the knocker on the club’s front door was plied with uncommon force. Repeatedly.

From downstairs came the clatter of Gasthorpe’s and the footman’s footsteps as they ran to open it.

In the library, eyes met. They all sat up, sat forward, set glasses down.

Voices reached them, all male, agitated. Then numerous feet came pounding up the stairs.

As one, the five rose and turned to the door as it burst open.

Fergus stumbled in, Grainger on his heels, Gasthorpe a step behind.

Fergus fixed his gaze on Deverell, literally wringing the cap he held between his huge hands. “They’ve got her, m’lord—the blackguards have kidnapped Miss Phoebe.”

Deverell’s world tilted. A cold wave washed through him, leaching out all warmth; ice crept behind it, desolate and bleak. His heart stopped, his body felt like stone—locking him in place despite the overwhelming impulse to race to Park Street, to look for clues, tear London apart if need be….

He managed a step forward.

Beside him, Dalziel put out a hand and halted him. “No.” There was a quality in that steely voice that even now commanded.

That dragged Deverell, all but quivering under the restraint, back to the real world. He hauled in a breath, held it.

“Find out all you can first,” Dalziel quietly continued, “then we’ll all be able to help.”

The sense in that was undeniable. Deverell expelled the breath locked in his lungs and nodded. Motioning Fergus to a chair, he sank slowly back into his, breathing deeply, desperately searching for a calm that had been destroyed.

He fought to curb the black panic roiling through him. He’d never felt its like before—it was so difficult to breathe—but Dalziel was right; Deverell forced his mind to focus.
Fergus slumped onto the straight-backed chair Gervase set for him. Deverell met the Scotsman’s anguished gaze and realized Fergus was flaying himself; she’d been in his care.

He kept his tone even. “What happened? Start from when you last saw her, but quickly.”

Fergus nodded and dragged in a breath. “She was walking in the rear garden like she always does late afternoon. They—Miss Audrey, Mrs. Edith, and Miss Phoebe—had come back from their afternoon rounds. The two ladies laid down in the drawing room and Miss Phoebe went for her constitutional.”

Christian leaned forward. “She walks every day at that time?”

“Aye.”

“It’s a walled garden,” Deverell put in. He nodded to Fergus. “Go on.”

“Milligan—the housekeeper—called to Miss Phoebe that Miss Edith had rung for the tea tray. Miss Phoebe was down the back corner of the garden. She said she was coming and started back, and then Milligan called me in. I went.” Fergus looked shattered. “But she was halfway back to the morning room—no more than twenty yards—and the back gate was locked, I’d checked it, and there’s shards along the top of that wall. How did they get in and grab her?”

“Was the gate still locked?”

“No.” Grainger had come to stand beside Fergus. “I’d gone past earlier—the key was on the nail and the gate was locked, but when we checked after she’d gone, the key was in the lock and the gate was shut but unlocked.”

“No one heard anything?” Tristan asked.

Fergus shook his head. “Nor saw anything, either. We asked everyone.”

“She opened the gate.” Deverell frowned. “Why? She’s not witless, and she knew she was in danger.” After a
moment, he answered, “Someone must have lured her out with something she assumed was safe.”

No one commented.

“Time.” Dalziel fixed Fergus with his dark gaze. “How long was it before you realized she was gone?”

Fergus grimaced. “Half an hour or so. We thought she was with Mrs. Edith and Miss Audrey, but then Mrs. Edith sent the maid down to ask where Miss Phoebe was as her tea was getting cold.”

“So.” Dalziel steepled his fingers. “Half an hour, then time to ask about, then your journey here.” He glanced at the clock. “An hour, at least, but not much more.”

Fergus nodded.

Deverell opened his mouth—before he could speak another knock fell on the front door. A polite knock.

Gasthorpe had gone downstairs a few minutes before, presumably to summon all the footmen and boys who ran messages for the club members. A murmur of voices rose from the front hall, then footsteps, steady and sure, climbed the stairs.

“My lords.” Gasthorpe stood back and waved the visitor in.

Montague appeared in the doorway. He glanced around at the tense assembly. His gaze touched each face; most he didn’t know, but his lids flickered in surprise when he saw Dalziel. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his gaze traveled on to Deverell’s face. “I do hope I haven’t called at an inopportune time, my lord.”

“Not at all.” Deverell felt hope bloom; setting his jaw, he waved Montague to a chair. “You’ve found a name?”

Looking unusually grim, Montague sat. “I have.” He glanced again at the others, all except Dalziel. “My news, however, is of a highly sensitive nature….”

“In the circumstances, I’ll ask you to speak freely before all here—Miss Malleson was kidnapped an hour ago and
we’ve no time to lose. We all need to know the identity of the gentleman who’s been assisting the white slavers.”

Montague’s round countenance registered his shock, but he quickly set it aside. He glanced at Dalziel, then looked back at Deverell. “In that case…” He drew a deep breath and stated, “There are only two accounts in all the city’s banks that show sizeable deposits consistently made at or about the time each missing girl vanished.”

Deverell opened his mouth to demand just the name—Montague stayed him with an upraised hand. “You need to hear this. I’ll keep it brief, but you will need to judge the validity of what I’ve learned.”

Puzzled, Deverell frowned, but reluctantly nodded.

“One account is an investment account belonging to a Mr. Thomas Glendower, a young man of good family with a knack for investing. However, the payments made into that account are not as consistent in amount and timing as the deposits to one other account.”

“Whose?” It was Dalziel who demanded.

Montague looked at him. “Henry Hubert Lowther, Lord Lowther. He’s one of the law lords.”

A stunned silence followed, then Christian said, “I can see why you were so hesitant to name him.”

“And why,” Dalziel said, “you wanted us to hear the proof.”

“Indeed.” Montague’s lips tightened. “But there’s more.”

It was Dalziel’s turn to hold up a hand. “Does anyone know where Lowther lives?”

No one did. Deverell looked at Grainger. “Go and ask Gasthorpe.”

Wide-eyed, Grainger rushed off.

All those remaining returned their gazes to Montague.

Who looked more than grim. “Be Lowther who he may, the facts are inescapable—indeed, they are otherwise
impossible to explain. I didn’t trust to anyone else’s interpretation—I went and looked at the records myself. All highly irregular, of course, but I trust you’ll overlook that. What I found…every time one of those girls went missing, Lowther deposited two hundred and fifty pounds into his account.
Every
time. I traced his estate income, which is pitifully little but is his only other income. Against that, he’s withdrawn large sums. Those sums pertain to purchases of notable pistols—he’s an avid collector apparently well known as having all but bottomless pockets.”