To Distraction (41 page)

“Phoebe—”

“No!” She folded her arms, held his gaze. “I’m determined to say this—you have to listen.”

Her chin had set in that determinedly stubborn way Deverell now knew very well. He was too relieved, too overjoyed to deny her anything—even an unnecessary delay at a moment like this. Although it was difficult to remain three feet from her and not close the distance, inclining his head, he acquiesced, inviting her to continue.

With something very like a warning frown, she went on, “I didn’t know before, when I decided against marriage, what a marriage between people like us, you and me, might be like. I didn’t even know men like you existed—there aren’t that many of you around, you know. My views had been formed from what I knew then, what I knew of gentlemen then, and as you know that wasn’t favorable.”

She paused, her eyes on his, then simply said, “You changed my perceptions. You opened my eyes.”

He nearly moved, but her eyes—violet blue and intense, colored by her emotions—held him.

“Not because of who you are, but because of
what
you are—the sort of man you are.” Frowning, she tilted her head. “You’re different, unconventional—you don’t react as others would, as they do. Working with you, alongside you on the agency’s business, I saw that every day. More than anything else it was what you did, your actions, that simply wouldn’t let my preconceived notions stand. You forced me to rethink, to reform my views—so that you would fit, so that I could understand you.” Her lips quirked as she straightened her head. “There aren’t many who could have accomplished that.”

She glanced past him, around, then brought her gaze, direct, open and serious, back to his face. “We’re well matched here, in the bedchamber, but that alone would never have induced me to change my mind. But you and I, we’re well matched in
all
spheres—in our interest in the agency, in going about in the ton, in the way we deal with society in general. It’s as if our lives were created to be complementary—as if they were meant to interlock into one.

“But”
—she drew in a long breath and raised her head—“there’s one truth that has to be stated, that’s at the heart of this, of me and you and what might be. What changed my mind about marriage—with you and only you—was that you always, in whatever sphere, allowed me to be me. Allowed me the freedom to be me. When I think of you, I don’t think ‘husband’—I think ‘partner.’ Our relationship isn’t, and could never be, that of a conventional husband and wife of our class—it’s been, from inception to now, something more akin to the notion of helpmates, a working partnership.”

Her eyes locked on his. “And that’s what I want—a partnership with you. For life. I believe it would be in both our best interests to marry, but I could never be a conventional wife—I know myself well enough to know that as truth and accept it. In the normal way of things, that would bar me
from marriage—the usual sort of marriage among our class. However, with you…you’re strong enough, unconventional and different enough to accept a different role, a different relationship, to live it, make it work so that I can be your wife.”

She paused, then simply said, “The question is: Will you? Will you take my hand and be my partner in life?”

He held her gaze, saw the tension that held her, the emotion glinting in her eyes. Understood, now, why she’d insisted on speaking.

He stepped closer. “Give me your hand.”

She did. He closed his fingers around hers and drew in a deep breath. In that instant knew that all he wanted and needed in life would be his.

When he hesitated, she shifted, with a hint of waspishness combined with uncertainty prodded, “Well?”

He smiled. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers. And spoke equally honestly. “I love you.”

She hadn’t said those words, but he didn’t care. She could dress her feelings in whatever guise she chose, whatever logical arguments, but he could see the truth shining in her eyes. Holding her gaze, he kissed her fingers again. “Beyond all recall, beyond distraction.”

He drew her nearer, bent his head, found her lips and covered them—drew her slowly, savoring every long-drawn second, into his arms, into a kiss that deepened and broadened and drew them both under.

She followed freely as always, without reservation. It would be so easy to accept all she offered and in return give her the simple “yes” she’d asked for…he drew her deeper into his arms, deeper into the kiss, for long moments let desire whirl while passion hovered in the wings…then with a sigh he drew back.

Breaking the kiss, he lifted his head. Looked down at her face as she blinked and struggled to refocus her eyes and her wits. Unwilling to release her, to forgo the feeling of her body supple and giving in his arms, the warmth of her against him, he waited patiently until she did, until he could hold her gaze and her attention.

“You have no idea,” he said, “how much I would prefer to simply say, ‘Yes, I’ll be your partner, in anything and everything ’til death us do part,’ to leave it at that and sweep you into my arms, into your bed and make love to you for the rest of the night—and thereafter for the rest of my life. I’d expected to have to convince
you
—it would be so easy to say yes and have done.
But
…” Holding her gaze, he drew in a breath. “That wouldn’t be fair—not to you, not to me, and most especially not to what’s come to be, to what’s grown between us.”

He paused, then went on, “You’re correct in saying that that isn’t the norm, the customary mild affection between husband and wife. That it’s something deeper and stronger, infinitely more demanding, commensurately more rewarding. That it’s something more, not less, and that we should embrace it, shield and honor it. In that vein…you spoke of the reasons why I need to wed, and you were right. But there’s another reason—the reason I have to marry you, and only you.”

Her eyes shone as if stars swam in them as she searched his face. “What?”

“I didn’t even realize, not until I met you—not until you focused my attention and drew me into your life—that what I was missing, had been missing since I resigned my commission, was a purpose in life, put simply, a reason for living.”

She frowned, trying to see. “What of your position, your estates?”

Smiling a touch ruefully, he shook his head. “My fortune and estates I manage with ease—too easily. They’re no challenge. The social obligations that I struggle to meet I see as an imposition—they’ll never engage me, never excite me.” He paused, then admitted, “Before I met you, I was restless, disengaged. In the way that matters most to a man like me, I had nothing to do. Nothing to engage my wits, nothing to challenge me. Nothing to build my life around, no commitment to set at its center.”

Raising a hand, he brushed a heavy lock back from her cheek, let his fingers lightly caress. “You’ve just offered me everything I need for a fulfilling life—a partnership with you. Yes, it’ll be different—novel, challenging, never dull. Just the agency itself holds boundless possibilities—combining our forces, we’ll be able to do much more while still keeping to your original, necessary, and wise charter. And that’s not even the half of what you’ve offered me. A family, a partnership, a marriage with a difference, an intriguing future. A new, challenging, unconventional commission I can accept and commit the rest of my life to.”

He looked into her eyes, violet-blue, shimmering. And quietly said, “If I understand anything, I understand that now—I need a purpose, and for that I need you.

“I need to be your husband, I need you as my wife—I need to have you at the center of my life. So yes, I accept your offer—I’ll be your partner in life. We’ll marry and make of our lives what we choose—husband and wife, partners and lovers.”

The words had come readily, although they felt like a surrender, not to her but to what held them, to what had grown and twined about them and now linked them beyond parting. What would always be there, in every glance, every touch.

She felt it, too, valued it as he did; that truth shone clear in her lustrous eyes. She smiled, joy and more blossoming—along with a hint of his own ruefulness. “You are in so many ways what I thought I would never want—too strong, too powerful, dangerous, forceful, ruthless—the list goes on and on. But you’ve convinced me that instead you’re
precisely
what I want, that to be your wife will be all and everything I’ll ever want.”

Smiling mistily, she shook her head. “I don’t understand that, I’ll admit. All I know is that I’ll never be happy—never be as happy as I might be—unless I’m with you. Unless I’m yours.”

Pushing her hands up over his shoulders, she wound her arms about his neck. His arms closing around her, he let her draw his head down, let her kiss him—let her take the lead and take him to her bed.

Let her take him into her arms, into her body.

Phoebe felt her heart swell, fuller, more joyous than it had ever been as he rose above her, her dark and dangerous lover, steely muscles gilded by candelight as they shifted and flexed as he loved her.

As she loved him. Closing her eyes, she twined her fingers with his, clutched tight as the fiery tide rose and caught them. Whirled them from this world and consumed them.

They’d said all they needed to say, opened their hearts, confessed all their hopes and dreams, and found themselves in agreement, in complete and utterly blissful accord. As the night closed around them, they explored and discovered that with admission, acceptance, and commitment new landscapes appeared, walls they hadn’t known existed dissolving to reveal a prize beyond price.

The ultimate reward.

The freedom to be themselves without restriction, to
know and share without reservation. To take their partnership to new heights.

To love and be loved.

To complete and utter distraction.

To complete and absolute satisfaction.

Park Street, London
Five days later

“T
here you are, my boy!” Edith Balmain smiled at Malcolm Sinclair as he followed Deverell into Edith’s drawing room.

Deverell watched Sinclair return Edith’s greeting with a gentle smile. He bowed over her hand, then she waved him to sit in the armchair facing hers.

Edith looked at Deverell; he nodded and, as arranged, retreated to the other end of the room, to lounge against the wall beside a window. And watch.

He’d agreed to fetch Sinclair, whom Edith apparently knew. She’d refused to tell him, or Phoebe, Audrey, or anyone else why she needed to speak with the young man, only saying it was a personal matter and avoiding all discussion.

None of them—except perhaps Edith—knew what to
make of Sinclair. On the night Lowther had taken Dalziel’s advice and put one of his precious pistols to his head, Christian had eventually run Sinclair to earth in White’s. When informed of his guardian’s demise, Sinclair had blinked, then commented rather vaguely that he supposed that was the end of it.

When questioned as to his meaning, he’d claimed he’d been referring to his wardship, to being under Lowther’s thumb, but Christian hadn’t been convinced.

That morning had been the first time Deverell had met Sinclair. His reading of the young man tallied with Christian’s. Lowther had said he was “bright enough,” but that was far short of the mark. Sinclair was sharply intelligent, yet it was a detached, strangely disconnected intelligence the like of which Deverell hadn’t encountered before. It, and Sinclair, seemed to have no focus, or none that Deverell could discern.

Sinclair seemed harmless enough; certainly he gave not the slightest sign of any leaning toward violence. Although well set-up, handsome in a still developing way, fashionably if rather somberly dressed, he projected very little physical presence. Tallish, with a lean figure still filling out, light hazel eyes, pleasing features, and shiny, fairish-brown hair, he would doubtless be a target in the coming years for the matchmakers. Especially now he’d come into his inheritance.

It seemed odd that Lowther hadn’t pilfered the boy’s money, but other than a few hundred pounds, the estate had been intact when, two days earlier, on his twenty-first birthday, Sinclair had taken possession under the terms of his father’s will.

Lowther had had no heirs, and although little would be left after his creditors were paid, what little there was would also pass to Sinclair. He was now a very wealthy young man.

Deverell shifted and fixed his eyes on Edith’s lips, tuned his ears to her words. He hadn’t made any commitment not to eavesdrop; although he knew Edith had assumed the distance would mean he couldn’t hear, his hearing was acute, especially when coupled with his eyesight, and given his and Christian’s uneasiness about Sinclair, he felt justified in listening.

Sinclair was facing Edith; Deverell couldn’t make out his words. But he could follow Edith as she came to the end of the usual platitudes and observances, and got down to business.

Dressed in various shades of soft pink, she appeared utterly harmless and inconsequential, something she definitely was not. He remembered that the first time he’d seen her, he’d recognized an observant nature he wouldn’t have willingly challenged. Meeting an observer like her in a French salon had at one time been his worst nightmare.

Edith’s bird-bright gaze was now resting on Sinclair.

“I’ve heard, of course, that you were involved in Lowther’s dastardly scheme, but that the authorities have accepted that you acted solely under Lowther’s orders and as his ward are therefore materially absolved of blame.” She paused, then went on, “Of course, the authorities didn’t know Lowther well, nor do they know you well. I, on the other hand, knew Lowther quite well at one time, and while I wouldn’t claim to know you, yourself, I knew your parents, not just your mother but your father, too, very well indeed.”

Edith paused, her gaze steady on Sinclair. “So I thought, my boy, that it’s time we had a talk.”

Edith waited, but Sinclair made no response. Lifting her teacup, she sipped. Sinclair had taken a cup but hadn’t drunk; as Deverell watched, he slowly laid the cup and saucer aside on a table to his right.

The movement caught Deverell’s attention, set his
instincts quivering. It was not just graceful but controlled—too controlled. Oh, yes, Sinclair was far more than he seemed. Had he forgotten Deverell was watching? Or had he not realized how revealing such minor honest gestures could be?

Given Sinclair’s age, Deverell suspected the latter. Given Sinclair’s intelligence, he felt sure of it.

Balancing her cup on her saucer, Edith continued. She was no longer looking at Sinclair. “Lowther was always a weak man. His weakness—his coldness, his lack of proper feeling—was what he had in common with your father. It was what made them such close friends. But while Lowther was clever enough, your father was brilliant.” She glanced at Sinclair. “Everyone who met him knew it—the depth and breadth of his mind was undeniable.

“Unfortunately, however, he had no real ability to connect with the world beyond his intellect. He had no notion of other people, or society in general, no empathy whatever. He was the third son of a viscount yet had not the faintest concept of morals, ethics, or even propriety. He could speak nine languages fluently but couldn’t comprehend that the world was real and did not revolve about him. Lowther, as I said, was similar, although he hid it far better. Your father, however—for him his salvation came in the form of your mother.

“She was his anchor, his link with the world. He would listen to her, and because he truly loved her—and for no other reason at all—he would do what she asked, to please her. Despite his flaws, he was generous in his love and totally committed to her. Together, with her acting as his conscience, he became for a brief time the brilliant scholar and philosopher he should have been.”

Edith paused; her voice lowered and Deverell had to strain his ears. “There was, of course, a price, and in some ways
that price was your isolation. Your mother never meant to neglect you, but your father’s demands on her time and attention were constant and unceasing, so you were—in hindsight most unwisely—left much to yourself. And then they were gone—the brief flash ended with a carriage accident, and unhappily you were left to Lowther’s care.”

She looked directly at Sinclair. “Many of us tried to look in on you at first, but with your father’s death Lowther became even more cold and distant, and less amenable to society’s pressures. So you grew up alone with him your only guide. Looking back, that was something we—those of us who knew your parents—never should have allowed. But we never saw you, not since you were six, so didn’t realize…”

Edith paused, then set aside cup and saucer and faced Sinclair. “I’m one of the few still alive who knew both your parents well. You’re brilliant like your father—oh, you needn’t try to hide it, and it’s far too late to deny it—it shines in your eyes for any who know the signs to see. Knowing that, knowing Lowther and his limitations…well, my boy, it’s hard to imagine he was the one who thought up the recent scheme, and not you. Regardless, I’m quite sure you have enough of your mother in you that it wasn’t you who set the scheme in motion—that
was
Lowther—but the scheme I’ve heard described has the stamp of your mind on it, not his.”

There was not a sound in the room; at the other end, Deverell stood transfixed.

“As matters stand,” Edith continued, “the authorities have been lenient over your involvement. They’ve given you a chance—one I hope you see for what it is. Listen to me, Malcolm, for I’ve seen your kind before and few others ever have. You need to control the products of your intellect. You will always see opportunity and possibility where others see none, but too often your schemes will ride roughshod over the rights and indeed the lives of others. Unlike your father, you will see
that—but like him, you won’t really care. You will very likely not indulge in such schemes yourself—you have no pressing reason to—but you will be tempted, as you were with Lowther, to let others try them, if for no other reason than to see if they work.”

Sinclair’s stillness, complete and absolute, his attention locked on Edith, proved beyond doubt the acuity of Edith’s words.

Studying Sinclair’s face, Edith nodded. “Yes, I can see that in you, too. So consider this a warning—in all likelihood it will be the only one you’ll ever receive. Stay on the straight and narrow. You’re stronger than your father—you recognize right from wrong. Don’t let your brilliance seduce you into letting the schemes your brain devises become reality, thus harming others, albeit at arm’s length. Just because blame can never be sheeted home to you does
not
absolve you of it.”

Edith sat back, eyes on Sinclair’s face. After a moment, she said, “There’s nothing more I can say, for you understand me perfectly. When next temptation comes your way, let it pass by.”

A long moment passed in which neither Sinclair nor Edith moved, then she said, “Thank you for coming. Paignton will see you out.”

Sinclair rose, as did Edith.

To Deverell’s surprise, Sinclair hesitated, then bowed—gracefully, without the assumed awkwardness of youth. “Ma’am.”

He turned and started toward Deverell, who strolled to wait by the door.

Deverell watched Sinclair draw nearer, saw the softening of his face as his youthful, vague, rather diffident mask slid back into place. His stride changed, too, less confident, more hesitant.

By the time Sinclair reached him, there was no hint of the dangerous man he knew Edith had faced.

Before the door, Sinclair paused and glanced back. Edith had risen and walked to her writing desk before the window; as they watched, she picked up her diary—a slim volume clasped between engraved silver plates with a large cabuchon amethyst adorning the front cover—then sat and, opening the diary, holding back a page, she reached for her pen.

Turning, Sinclair nodded vaguely in Deverell’s direction. Without meeting his eyes, he allowed Deverell to show him out of the house.

Deverell spoke with Christian, then consulted with Dalziel, but they concluded that the official stance on Malcolm Sinclair was correct. Edith’s conjecture that the scheme was the fruit of Sinclair’s brain was hardly proof, and even she felt certain it had been Lowther, and not Sinclair, who had put it into action. Indeed, Lowther himself had confirmed Sinclair’s lackey status.

“The man may have criminal ideas,” Dalziel said, “but that’s no crime.”

“Just as long as he does nothing to convert theory into practice.” Deverell met Dalziel’s, then Christian’s, eyes. They needed no words to know what each of them was thinking.

Malcolm Sinclair would bear watching.

Paignton Hall, Devon
Three weeks later

T
hey were married in the chapel of his castle—an ancient place encapsulated within a much more modern structure.

Phoebe was thrilled and fascinated with her new and
fancifully different home, with the surrounding countryside, so lush and verdant, with the seas that sometimes thundered and at other times shushed so peacefully into the cove beneath her window.

Today the seas were peaceful, the sun beaming down as she and Deverell, arm in arm, wended their way through the huge crowd gathered to celebrate their wedding.

Everyone was there; she and Deverell had agreed to have their banns read and give everyone the three weeks to prepare and journey down to the hall. She’d convinced Emmeline and Birtles to close the agency for a few days and enjoy the castle’s hospitality. They’d managed to bring Scatcher with them; he was wandering the old bailey, now an expanse of lawn on which they were all gathered, gazing in amazement at the surrounding castle walls.

Phoebe glanced around, too, but at the crowd, noting the many large gentlemen—the Bastion Club members and various others—present. Many were powerful, forceful men, ruthless when necessary, dangerous when crossed, and not one of them would she not trust with her honor, with her life.

For years she’d imagined such gentlemen didn’t exist; now they surrounded her. Glancing at the one on whose arm she was strolling, she smiled to herself and leaned lightly, fleetingly, against him.

He looked at her but only smiled.

They stopped beside Jack, Lord Hendon, another of those large and powerful gentlemen. Kit, his beautiful wife, beside him, smiled delightedly and touched cheeks with Phoebe. Although older than Phoebe, she was of like mind in many ways and, as Phoebe now was, was included in that highly select group, the wives of the gentlemen of the Bastion Club, Jack being an unofficial club member.

Jack shook hands with Deverell.

When he turned to Phoebe, she stretched up and bussed his cheek. “Thank you for your help.”

Jack grinned. “My pleasure.” He glanced at Deverell. “Any time you want to stop a slaving ship, I’m your man.”

Two days after Lowther had shot himself, they’d trapped the white slavers on the docks and rescued all the abducted girls. The men on the ship had hoisted sail and tried to slip away, but had found their way blockaded, not just by the water police in their rowing boats but by two large ships of the Hendon line, fully manned with cannons deployed.

“Have you settled all the girls yet?” Kit asked. “I sent Emmeline two more names I think would be suitable for some of your clients.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe pressed Kit’s hand. “With all of you—and your friends, too—assisting, we’ve been able to place all the kidnapped girls, as well as a number who wanted to change households.”

Her “little crusade” had grown; Deverell had remarked it was well on the way to becoming a secret cause célèbre, at least among a certain section of the ton.

“Indeed.” Kit’s eyes twinkled as she reclaimed her husband’s arm. “And with the continued success of the gentlemen of the Bastion Club in finding suitable brides, there’ll be positions aplenty for nannies and children’s maids all too soon.”

Phoebe blushed. She was grateful when Deverell excused them and guided her on; she hadn’t told anyone their news yet—only him. “Do you think she guessed?”