To Distraction Page 24

She tried desperately to think, but her brain felt literally torn, wrenched and shaken, racked with worry for Fergus, laced with guilty regret that her rush to save Miss Spry had led to his injury, and simultaneously rocked by the realization that Deverell now had it in his power to completely overset all her careful work.

  If he told anyone—Edith, even though she supported her without knowing the details, even Audrey, who was so eccentric yet would surely draw the line over a lady of the haut ton owning and actively operating an employment agency, let alone consorting with servants and members of the lower orders as she necessarily did—the entire enterprise she’d worked so hard and so long to establish would come tumbling down about her ears.

  The man who sat in the armchair opposite quietly watching her was beyond doubt the most potent threat to her—on all levels—that she’d ever even imagined, let alone faced.

  Eyes locked on his, green and unwavering, she assimilated that. Along with the fact that he’d made no threats, no decrees, no statements of intent. That he was waiting.

  She thought back, reviewing their exchange…realized. Drawing in a slow breath, she shifted, easing her tense back. “What do you wish to know?”

  He heard the question for the capitulation it was but gave no sign of gloating. “How do you know which females need rescuing?”

  She drained her teacup, set it down, then told him of the network that operated throughout Mayfair and the major country houses, the housekeepers and butlers who knew each other, the interconnecting mesh of family and relatives who worked here or there, in this lord’s employ or that lady’s. “It’s not hard to hear of the problem households if you’re listening in the right quarters. Emmeline worked in a number of establishments, and she has seven sisters and two brothers, similiarly employed. Through them and her, word gets passed back to the agency.”

  “And then?”

  “And then…” She drew breath and went on, “If we need to rescue someone from an actual residence, as is usually the case with a governess, I visit with Edith or one of my other aunts. It’s not that difficult to arrange. I don’t make direct contact with the young woman involved—that’s always done through the housekeeper or whoever in the household alerted us in the first place.”

  “You go there to reconnoiter, to study the house and the approaches to work out how to mount your rescue?”

  She could read nothing—neither was there disgust nor condemnation—in his tone. “Yes.” She rose and started pacing before the hearth, rubbing the fingers of one hand, remembering various rescues they’d staged. “If, on the other hand, the girl’s a lady’s maid, dresser, or companion, and therefore likely to travel, it’s often easier to rescue them from other houses.”

  “Such as the maid you rescued from Cranbrook Manor—Lady Moffat’s lady’s maid. I take it that was Jessica?”

  She cast him a glance, then nodded. “Lord Moffat has a roving eye, and roving appetites as well.”

  She sensed a reaction then, a clear response, a tightening of muscles, a swift, involuntary flexing of steel instantly suppressed—but she had no notion what it meant. She didn’t feel it was directed at her, but he remained so calm, so outwardly contained, that even though she could sense he was reining his reactions back, holding them in, even though she could see in his darkened eyes that he wasn’t as unengaged as he was taking care to appear, she still couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  What he might be considering doing with the secrets she was revealing.

  She paced back and forth, casting quick glances his way; he’d fallen silent, thinking, eyes narrowed, face set, the angles unforgivingly harsh.

  There was no sense in beating about the bush. Halting before the chair she’d vacated, she drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, trying not to clench her fingers in too obvious trepidation, and faced him. “What are you going to do?”

  He blinked, looked up, and focused on her face. Frowned. “Do?”

  The incomprehension in his face—as if he had no idea that he held the fate of something she’d worked for years to achieve in his hand, that it was his to smash at his whim—ignited her temper. It flared, infusing her with an almost frenzied fury, lighting her eyes. “Yes,” she hissed. “Do!”

  Flinging her hands in the air, she abandoned her supplicant’s stance and fell to pacing again—a great deal more vigorously. “I’m perfectly well aware that the ton would be horrified to learn of my ‘enterprise.’ That one word from you to almost anyone, but especially to my father, would bring the whole to a crashing halt!”

  Agitated, she wrapped her arms about her, swung to face him, and again demanded, “So what are you going to do?”

  “Ah.” Deverell nodded to indicate he understood her question. What he didn’t understand was how he should answer.

  Being able to rapidly assess any situation was an ability he’d taken for granted for years—until now. Now he couldn’t decide—didn’t know what he felt, didn’t even have clear instincts to guide him. A species of horror over what he could imagine she’d been doing warred with admiration, even pride, at her novel tack and the courage and commitment she’d displayed in getting such an “enterprise” underway, let alone keeping it active.

  He kept his eyes locked with hers and drew a long, deep breath—more than anything else to give his head a moment to clear. She was keyed up, tense, on edge; the last thing he wanted to do at this point was to take a wrong and potentially seriously damaging step with her. One rather less civilized part of him was seriously irritated that she’d think he would harm her in any way whatever. Against that, the same primitive side wanted to roar at her over the danger she’d been courting, as exemplified by the evening’s events…but roaring at her wouldn’t help—him or her—especially as he had no intention of disrupting her enterprise.

  “Who’s Loftus?” That was one thing he hadn’t yet learned. It was a point that might prove decisive.

  She narrowed her eyes until the blue-violet seemed purple; her jaw had set long ago. “Tell me what you’re going to do first. I don’t want him damaged by anything that happens—he doesn’t deserve that.”

  He frowned at her, but his heart wasn’t in it. Her tone painted Coates as another of her people, someone she felt obligated to protect. There was none of the heightened trepidation that would signal Coates meant more to her than, for instance, McKenna.

  “What I’m going to do….” His mind grasped a situation it recognized—negotiation—and finally got to work, seeking the right words, the phrases, the best approach to achieve his objective. An objective that hadn’t, of itself, at any stage been in doubt. The instant he’d learned of her “enterprise,” he’d known without thinking what he wanted.

  But she had to agree.

  He had to persuade her.

  To cede him what he now had to have.

  “Very well.” Holding her gaze, he evenly said, “Consider my position. I now know you regularly put yourself into situations that are utterly and unquestionably beyond acceptable for a tonnish lady—both in terms of your reputation and even more in terms of your personal safety.”

  She frowned, irritated. “It’s not usually dangerous.”

  He arched a brow. “Tell me…what would you have done if I hadn’t been there tonight? You and little Miss Spry would have been left facing an enraged man, one who’d come chasing a small and helpless female with a cosh in one hand and a swordstick in the other. Allow me to inform you rational argument wouldn’t have worked.”

  She had the grace to blush; he suspected she also quelled a shiver. “That was the first time any such trouble has occurred.”

  “Indeed. It did however occur, and it occurs to me that you owe me a debt in that regard.”

  Lips compressed, she studied him, then asked, “Where are you headed with this?”

  His lips eased, but his smile was intent. He kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Knowing what I now know, the ton at large would consider me unquestionably obliged to inform your fathe
r.” Her eyes flared; he held up a staying hand. “However, there is an alternative—one that would be acceptable to me and to the ton should they ever learn of the matter. That alternative requires me to make myself responsible for your protection, both in terms of your reputation and your physical safety.”

  Her eyes narrowed, darkened. She held herself very still, then quietly stated, “That’s the definition of a husband.”

  He shrugged lightly, still holding her gaze. “Husband, protector…lover. Call the position what you will, it’s one I and the ton recognize. Either one of the three could apply in this situation.”

  He intended to claim all three positions, simultaneously, eventually, but saw no reason to push the point. Not yet; now was not the time.

  Phoebe studied him for a long moment, then swung and slowly paced. A minute ticked by, then she halted and looked at him. “What would this—being my protector in this case—entail?”

  “You would have to include me in any action to do with your enterprise that could in any way harm your reputation or even remotely put you in danger.” He tilted his head, considering, his eyes on her. “Or, indeed, brought your enterprise into danger. Protecting it would be a necessary part of protecting you.”

  She frowned. “And if I agree, you’ll allow me to continue—the agency to continue—as it has to this point, unchanged? Without interference?”

  That last was the part she couldn’t bring herself to believe.

  But he nodded without hesitation, his green gaze unwavering. “Provided you abide by my stipulations, then you and your people will be free to proceed as you always have, with the one proviso that if there’s any danger, I will step in and do whatever is necessary to ensure your safety—and that of your people and your enterprise as well.”

  She was confused—not by his offer but by the fact that he’d made it. She couldn’t make him out; she didn’t understand him or his motives.

  Watching her, Deverell felt that for the first time that night, some control over events was returning to him. He gave her a moment more, then arched his brows. “Well?”

  He knew very well that she had no real choice. She knew it, too.

  She continued frowning at him, but then, in clear capitulation, she drew a long breath and nodded. “Very well. On the basis of what you just said, I accept your proposition.”

  “Good. Now who’s Loftus?” It was a point that bothered him, this unknown male.

  To his relief, his concern was misplaced. Loftus proved to be a reclusive middle-aged philanthropist who’d learned of the agency’s work through his housekeeper, when she’d hired a girl from the agency and he’d questioned the forged references the agency had provided. Since learning of them and their enterprise some three years before, Loftus had supported them in myriad ways, both financial and practical.

  “He’s one of our best sources for new positions for the girls we help. Despite his restricted lifestyle, he hears of things in his circles—wealthy merchants who are looking for a well-trained governess, or who need a lady’s maid for their daughter. That sort of thing.”

  Loftus was clearly not an enemy; indeed, be might well prove to be an ally.

  A knock on the door had them both looking that way. When he called, “Come,” Pringle walked in.

  Deverell rose and greeted him. He introduced Phoebe as McKenna’s employer.

  Pringle bowed; straightening, he stepped back as Gasthorpe slipped past to remove the tea tray. “I’ve checked the wound, cleaned and treated it. McKenna’s lucky he has a thick head—beyond a headache that might last a few days, I doubt he’ll suffer any lasting injury. The wound itself should heal well enough, and give him no further trouble.”

  Deverell thanked the dapper surgeon; Phoebe smiled, added her thanks, and gave him her hand. After bowing over it, Pringle withdrew; Gasthorpe had already left with the tray.

  One glance was all it took to tell Deverell that Phoebe’s mind had refocused on McKenna. He’d got the vital agreement he’d wanted from her; it seemed an opportune moment to move on and let that point rest.

  “Come.” He waved her to the door. “Let’s see how McKenna feels, and if he’s up to it, I’ll see you both home.”

  She nodded and headed for the door; opening it for her, he followed a step behind her as she went down the stairs. “McKenna—he’s your groom as well as your coachman?”

  “My father hired him to be my groom when I was eight. Whenever I stayed with my aunts, which was most of the time, he took on the role of coachman as well. He doesn’t like to be idle.”

  Deverell said nothing, but the suspicion that Lord Martindale had hired McKenna to be rather more than a groom—that Fergus had become her coachman to ensure he would be able to watch over her when she was out of the house—solidified. McKenna considered himself her guard; that was why he’d accepted Deverell’s assistance so readily.

  Why, when Deverell followed Phoebe into the small parlor and Fergus looked up, he studied Deverell for only an instant before giving his attention to Phoebe. Fergus knew Deverell posed no threat to her.

  Deverell stood back and let Phoebe fuss, then stepped in and rescued Fergus. McKenna assured Phoebe he was perfectly well able to withstand the journey to Park Street.

  “Grainger will drive us,” Deverell said. “You can travel in the carriage, then Grainger can stable the horses—all you need do is watch and tell him where.”

  Fergus grunted, but assented.

  Grainger had been waiting by the door, still eager over being a part of what he viewed as an adventure. In short order, Deverell had them all organized; he guided Phoebe, once again cloaked and hooded, down the path behind Fergus, Grainger, and a now largely redundant footman to the waiting carriage.

  Minutes later, they were rolling, slowly and ponderously, through deserted streets. The ton’s entertainments were long over; while gentlemen might while away the rest of the night at their clubs in St. James, in Mayfair all was quiet and largely still. Lights had been doused, doors locked and bolted. There were few people of any sort out upon the streets.

  Fergus had insisted he was recovered enough to ride up top, alongside Grainger, leaving Deverell alone with Phoebe in the dark confines of the carriage.

  Through the heavy shadows, he felt her gaze on his face, not exactly suspicious but wary. He didn’t react, made no move to reengage her in discussion of her enterprise or anything else.

  There was, as he’d told her, a correct time, a correct place, for everything. Their right time and place was nigh; he didn’t need to do anything but wait.

  Under Fergus’s direction, Grainger guided the carriage into the narrow lane that ran alongside Edith’s Park Street town house, leading to the mews backing onto the end of the long garden.

  Grainger halted the carriage in the mews. They all climbed down quietly. His hand beneath Phoebe’s elbow, Deverell arranged with Fergus that after helping him unharness and stable the horses, Grainger would help him up the stairs to his room above the carriage house.

  “I’ll see Miss Malleson inside.” Deverell glanced at Grainger. “When you’re finished here, head back to Montrose Place.”

  “Aye, sir.” Grainger snapped off a salute, then crooned to the horses, urging them to pull the carriage to the stable.

  Fergus nodded his thanks and followed.

  Grasping Phoebe’s arm, Deverell turned her; the garden gate, a thick wooden door set in the high wall along the side of the garden, faced the lane.

  After one last glance back, she let him lead her around the corner to the gate. “Thank you for helping with Fergus. He’s not as young as he used to be.”

  “None of us are.” The gate was unlocked; swinging it wide, he steered her through.

  Other than a sharp glance, she said nothing more regarding Fergus, but pointed to a key hanging on the wall by the gate. “You should lock the gate after you when you leave—toss the key back over the wall and I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

  He’d simply lock t
he gate without the key but saw no reason to mention that. She led him along the path toward the kitchen door, then diverged onto a connecting path that skirted the back of the house.

  He’d wondered how she came and went; the answer was the French door to what he guessed was the morning room. It, too, was unlocked; opening it, she led the way inside.

  Phoebe wasn’t surprised when he followed her into the darkened room. She never left lights burning; she knew the house more than well enough to find her way to her chamber in the dark.

  What did surprise her—what brought her up short before she’d reached the spot where she’d planned to turn, give him her hand, thank him, and bid him good night—was the sharp click of the lock on the French door.

  Halting, she started to turn—and discovered he’d followed much closer, much more swiftly and silently than she’d supposed.

  He was behind her, close.

  She stilled, and he moved closer yet, one large hand sliding about her waist, gently but definitely trapping her against him.

  He bent near; she felt his chest at her back, his thighs bracketing hers as he drew her against him. Felt his fingers brush aside the curls at her nape, then his lips touched, brushed. Closing her eyes, she fought to quell a too-revealing shudder and failed.

  Then his voice, deep and dark and sinfully dangerous, brushed over her ear, slid across her senses. “This night is not yet ended…for us.”

  He hadn’t forgotten; she’d thought he had.

  Every nerve in her body came alive, awoke on a rush of anticipation at the promise of long-desired gratification.

  She hesitated, not quite believing the moment had come. “Here?”

  Even to her ears the question was purely curious.

  His lips cruised her nape. “I’m staying at the club—I can’t take you to my bed there. So…”

  He paused, and she waited, breath bated, wondering why she felt as if she’d been captured. Why she felt so deeply thrilled.

  His hand shifted across her waist, pressing more firmly; his strength flowed around her, indescribably male, primitively real in the dark.