To Distraction (40 page)

Gervase knocked on the study door, then opened it and walked in.

Seated in the chair before the wide desk, Dalziel turned to look at him. Tristan stood to one side, close to the wall,
arms folded; Christian stood in a similar position on the other side of the desk, at ease yet focused.

Lowther sat rigidly upright behind the desk, trying to hide incipient panic behind a belligerent scowl.

Closing the door, Gervase walked forward and answered the others’ unvoiced question. “We found her. She’s with Deverell.” Halting behind the chair Dalziel occupied, Gervase held Lowther’s gaze. “The room she was in was concealed.”

“Is that so?” Dalziel’s brows rose as he turned his dark gaze back on Lowther. “How very unwise.”

Lowther had paled. He tried for blustering anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re insinuating—”

“The time for insinuations is past.” Dalziel’s voice, although not raised, left no doubt that he, and not Lowther, was in charge of the interview. “Perhaps I should tell you what we already know.”

Calmly, succinctly, he outlined their case against Lowther, citing the evidence tying him to the kidnappings of eight separate women. Christian, Tristan, and Gervase stood not exactly unobtrusively around the room, their gazes resting on Lowther, their condemnation explicit in their cold silence. Lowther glanced at them, read judgment in their eyes; his gaze drifted back to Dalziel.

He swallowed.

There was no hope; he saw that. His face—he—seemed to age before their eyes.

Reaching the end of his recitation, Dalziel asked, “Who was your contact among the white slavers?”

Lowther blinked, twice, then with peevish arrogance stated, “I don’t know—I don’t consort with such people.”

“A nice distinction—you simply take their money. So how was the information relayed from you to the gang who organized the abductions, and how were the resultant payments delivered to you?”

Lowther hesitated. After a moment, he said, “My ward—Malcolm Sinclair.”

A curious stillness descended on Dalziel. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, lighter—and wholly frightening. “Your ward. Correct me if I’m wrong—Sinclair’s been your ward from the time he was a child.”

Curtly, Lowther nodded.

“And you’ve involved him in this business? Or did he involve himself?”

Lowther snorted. “Malcolm’s nothing but a pawn. He does what I tell him. Under my direction, he made the contacts and acted as courier, ferrying information and money back and forth.”

“And that’s the full extent of his involvement?”

Lowther compressed his lips, then conceded, “He has friends from his Eton and Oxford days—I encouraged him to cultivate them. They proved excellent sources of information about pretty maids and the like—the usual young men’s gossip. Malcolm would bring the information to me and I would decide what was useful, what not.”

“So Sinclair’s role was entirely of your making?”

Lowther’s lip curled. “Malcolm’s weak—he lacks backbone. He’s bright enough but totally indecisive, inclined to be overcautious to the point of doing nothing. He might think of schemes, but he would never actually
do
anything about them.”

After a moment’s silence, Dalziel murmured, “A pity, perhaps, that you didn’t follow his lead.”

A deep coldness threaded through his voice, one that chilled to the marrow. Already pasty-faced, Lowther blanched even more.

The silence stretched; none of them moved.

Lowther, increasingly ashen, sat frozen, immobilized as the full weight of all that had been said—and not said—sank
into his brain. Eventually he blinked, and the belligerent but brittle defiance that had held him upright until that moment started to fade.

Dalziel glanced at the others. “Perhaps you would give me a few minutes with his lordship. I’ll join you in the drawing room.”

All three recognized an order when they heard one, especially one delivered in that quiet, deadly, almost disembodied voice. They exchanged glances as they went to the door. Each cast one last glance at Lowther—sitting behind his desk, his pallor ghastly, his eyes fixed straight ahead, the wall behind him sporting six fabulous examples of his obsession, the obsession he’d sold women into slavery to satisfy—then they quietly quit the room and closed the door, and left Lowther staring at his fate.

For long moments, a clock ticking was the only sound to break the silence.

Then Dalziel spoke, his tone colder, icier than the grave. “Well, my lord?”

Slowly, Lowther refocused and met Dalziel’s dark gaze.

There was only one answer he could make.

Deverell cocked his head as he heard the study door open.

He and Phoebe were waiting in the now fully lit drawing room, she occupying an armchair while he paced.

On one level, he wanted to face Lowther and exact vengeance in blood, but aside from him having no intention of leaving Phoebe’s side, given the depth of his cold fury it was perhaps as well that he left Lowther’s punishment to others. Luckily, if there were any man alive he trusted to see justice served, it was Dalziel; he had to be content with leaving the matter in his ex-commander’s experienced hands.

“Lowther!” Phoebe shook her head and sipped the tea the
butler had hurried to bring her—after she’d leveled a strait glance his way.

Deverell had noticed and questioned her; she’d confirmed the butler’s involvement and complicity in her imprisonment. Quelling his initial impulse to rend the man limb from limb after he’d delivered the tea, by the time the butler reappeared with the tray, he’d decided on a more fitting course.

Courtesy of the time he’d spent at the agency, he now had a much finer understanding of life belowstairs; he’d suggested and Phoebe had agreed that they should simply mention the man’s behavior to Scatcher and Birtles, and leave them to arrange his fate.

“I still find it mindboggling.” Phoebe set her cup on her saucer. “A
law lord,
and if your recollection is correct, one specifically involved in drafting the laws on slavery.”

The study door shut; Deverell heard the others’ footsteps nearing.

Halting, he grasped their last moment alone to look at Phoebe—to drink in the sight of her, calm and in large measure composed, safe and unharmed, to let the knowledge wash through him…. He turned as the others filed in.

“No doubt about his guilt,” Christian growled. “It was written all over his face.” He saw Phoebe, smiled charmingly, and sat on the chaise opposite her. “Where was this room he’d locked you in?”

Between them, Deverell, Gervase, and Phoebe explained what had happened regarding Phoebe’s capture and subsequent rescue, then Tristan and Christian described what had transpired in the study.

“Lowther knew what was coming before he’d even sat down,” Christian said, “what with me and Tristan standing there, two peers whose word would be beyond question as witnesses.”

“I’ve never sat through an interview like that.” Tristan shook his head. “When Lowther began, he was convinced he could bluster his way out of any net Dalziel might construct, but even before Gervase joined us he’d tripped himself up twice by reacting to information he shouldn’t have known. Dalziel’s frighteningly acute—he seizes on tiny reactions, and from that seems to know just where to slip in the knife and pry….”

Tristan paused, then went on, “Then Gervase came in, the kid gloves came off, and it was all over.”

Deverell asked about the contact with the slavers; the others had just finished explaining about Lowther’s ward when they all heard the door of the study open, then almost immediately shut.

All fell silent and listened.

Strolling, prowling footsteps sounded on the tiles, then Dalziel appeared in the open doorway.

He scanned the room; his gaze found Phoebe, and he inclined his head.

She nodded back, not quite smiling. Unsure.

Everyone watched Dalziel. There was a tension in him, one all the other men recognized, one that pricked their instincts and brought them alert in expectation of some greater danger, as if seeing in him a fleeting glimpse of a lethal edge finely honed.

A shot rang out, echoing and crashing in the confines of the house. In the study; there was no doubt in anyone’s mind where the sound came from or what it meant.

No one moved, then shouts and running footsteps rolled up from the rear of the house, spilling into the hall. Dalziel turned his head, looked, then he turned back and met Phoebe’s wide eyes. “My apologies.” The deep voice was even, undisturbed. “But it had to be done.”

Shocked, but puzzled, too, Phoebe held his dark gaze.
“You suggested he take his life.” Her tone held no condemnation, only honest curiosity.

He looked at her for a moment, then quietly said, “There are some men we simply do not need in this world.”

The butler hove in sight, all but babbling in consternation. Dalziel turned to deal with him. Christian rose and went to assist.

Tristan and Gervase got to their feet.

Phoebe set down her cup and looked at Deverell.

He met her eyes and held out his hand. “Come—I’ll take you home.”

They traveled the short distance in a hackney, not a suitable venue in which to broach the subject of Phoebe’s vow. As soon as they were alone, in suitable surroundings—she was determined on that.

They walked into the Park Street house to discover Edith, Audrey, and Loftus in the drawing room, all waiting, agog, to hear that she was safe. Of course, once assured that was indeed so, they demanded to know all the rest.

Deverell suggested, and Phoebe concurred, that Skinner, Fergus, and Grainger, who Deverell had sent earlier from the club to reassure Edith, be summoned so all involved could hear their tale.

They told it as concisely as they could, but Edith, Audrey, and even Loftus had questions, wanting to know every little detail. Phoebe inwardly railed at the delay but accepted that they needed to be reassured. She and Deverell held nothing back; quite aside from all those present having a right to know, the scandal of Lord Lowther’s suicide would be all over town come morning.

But at last they reached the end of the story. While Audrey and Edith exclaimed over Lowther, Deverell moved to Phoebe’s side and took her arm. Bending his head, he
murmured, “You’re flagging—exhausted. You need to retire.”

She blinked up at him, then realized. “Oh—yes.” Turning to the others, she repeated his words, adding her own emphasis and letting her shoulders droop.

“Of course, dear—you must go up and rest. Don’t let us keep you.” Edith beamed at her—at them.

Audrey waved a dismissal. “We’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you to the stairs.” To the others, Deverell said, “I need to get on.” To where he didn’t say.

Phoebe turned to Skinner and Fergus. “Please take word to Emmeline and Birtles. I don’t want them worrying unnecessarily.”

“Aye.” Fergus glanced at Skinner. “We’ll get around there right away.”

“And you”—Deverell looked at Grainger—“can hie back to the club and tell Gasthorpe what’s happened. I have no idea when Crowhurst will get back tonight—it might be late.” He said nothing about his own return.

Grainger beamed and snapped a jaunty salute. “Yes, sir.” He turned and followed Skinner and Fergus through the door.

Phoebe followed more slowly, Deverell by her side. They paused in the hall. Deverell closed the drawing room door, waited until the other three had disappeared behind the green baize door, then he reached for Phoebe’s hand; she gripped his. “Come on.”

Hand in hand, they slipped up the stairs.

To her room.

At last!
Phoebe led the way in, sweeping through the door Deverell set wide and on to the clear area before one window. Skinner had left a lamp burning, shedding sufficient
light for her purpose. Marshaling her thoughts, she swung around to pace—and found he’d shut the door and was halfway across the room, advancing on her.

Her wits leapt to attention. Halting, she pointed at him. “Stop!”

He blinked, slowed, and did, leaving five feet of space between them. The look on his face as he searched hers plainly stated he had no idea what was going on. What she was thinking. If she was thinking or if she was panicking…

She waved her hands as if to erase his thoughts. “I need to talk to you—and I can’t even
think
if you’re too close.” His wary tension evaporated; she glimpsed a fleeting quirk of his lips before he schooled his expression to attentive interest. She frowned at him. “Just stay where you are, and listen.”

His lips set; his wariness hadn’t entirely left him.

She drew breath, clasped her hands before her, and faced him squarely. “I know that when we first met, all those weeks ago at Cranbrook Manor, you had it in mind that I might make a suitable bride for you. You need to marry—that is beyond question—not just for an heir, but because of the many social obligations that now fall to you as Paignton, obligations no bachelor could easily fulfill.”

She paused, then inclined her head. “So you have good reasons to hunt for a wife—indeed, it’s incumbent on you to do so.” She hesitated, searching his eyes, wondering if she dared put her suppositions into words…his steady, unwavering green gaze as always reassured her. Gave her the strength to say, “I…got the impression, all those weeks ago, that you seriously considered making me an offer, that you might well have done so if I hadn’t made it plain that I was uninterested in marriage.” Hesitating for only a heartbeat, she clasped her hands more tightly and lifted her chin. “Was that so?’

A moment passed while he searched her eyes, then he nodded. Briefly. “Yes.”

Relief of the sweetest kind washed through her. “Good. Because what I wanted to tell you is that I’ve changed my mind.” She held his gaze. “I’m no longer uninterested in marriage.”

He stared at her for a strangely dizzying moment, then something changed. Some shift in the atmosphere, some cosmic realignment—some sudden and glorious upwelling of joy.

His features eased; he stepped forward.

“No—
wait!
” She held up a hand. “You have to hear me out. It’s important—I’m not the sort of lady who changes her mind, not about things like that.”