Frowning, Henry set down his pen. His expression darkened as he considered the possibilities, as Malcolm had already done. Pale eyes narrowing, Henry tapped a yellowed fingernail on the parchment before him, the final judgment on a man’s life, now forgotten. “That sounds like we have some other gang pursuing the same game as we—in our territory.”
Malcolm inclined his head. “There’s more. I’d heard rumors that female staff had gone missing while attending house parties with their mistresses. As that action wasn’t here, in Mayfair, it didn’t seem relevant, and indeed, the first two instances could have been mere coincidence. Now, however, another lady’s maid—Lady Moffat’s—has vanished from Cranbrook Manor. Together with this latest incident…” He gestured deferentially. “I think your deduction may well be correct.” He paused, then diffidently asked, “What are your orders?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed to shards of flint. “Find out more.” He paused, then his fist clenched and his voice took on a darker note. “If there’s a gang of interlopers operating around here, they’re poaching on our turf. Clearly we need to teach them a lesson. And exact retribution.”
Trust—it was all about trust. In wooing Phoebe, it was the most vital element he had to establish. And in that respect, Deverell felt he was progressing exceptionally well. All he had to do was capitalize on his success to date and further deepen her implicit trust in him.
His way forward was clear. Of necessity, women trusted the men they slept with; now Phoebe had allowed him into her bed, into her body, he’d cleared that hurdle and had gained that most fundamental of trusts, but it was unquestionably in his best interests to consolidate his position and allow that trust to deepen, as it naturally would over time, over more interludes.
Until eventually she was sufficiently enamored of him to happily entertain the notion of marriage.
He hadn’t lost sight of his ultimate goal, and now that she’d entrusted him with her secret life—her involvement with her agency—he had another facet of her trust to pursue.
Apropos of that, he presented himself at Edith’s town house at noon. The butler showed him into the morning room—the French door of which he’d locked on his way out seven hours before.
Phoebe was there, along with Edith. After exchanging greetings with her aunt, he turned to her. “I wondered if you’d care to take a drive in the park, Miss Malleson?” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “Or perhaps, as the day is so fine, we might venture a trifle further.”
To Kensington Church Street, for instance.
She blinked. “Oh. Yes. That is…” She drew breath and found a smile. “Thank you. A drive in the park would be pleasant. That is”—she turned to Edith—“if you’re sure you can manage without me, Aunt?”
“Oh, indeed, indeed.” Edith beamed at Deverell. “It’s only Lady Hardcastle’s this morning. I’ll do perfectly well on my own.”
“In that case, if you’ll wait, my lord, I’ll fetch my bonnet and cloak.” Phoebe rose and headed for the door, then paused and glanced back at Edith. “You will remember if you meet Lady Purcell…?”
Edith smiled and waved her on. “Of course, dear. If I see her I’ll drop a word in her ear.”
With a nod, Phoebe turned and left.
Once upstairs, she summoned Skinner; while she set her bonnet over her hair and tied the wide ribbons under her chin, she explained she was going to the agency to check on Miss Spry and Jessica, too. “She’ll be leaving with Lady Pelham tomorrow—I must check that she has everything she needs. How’s Fergus?”
“Still laid down upon his bed.” Skinner gave Phoebe’s cloak a sharp shake. “Luckily that lad of his viscountship’s has called around and offered his services—said as his viscountship said as he ought. Fergus said he helped him last night. Seems the old Scot’s willing to trust his horses to the lad, so he’ll drive Mrs. Edith to her engagements today. Fergus swears he’ll be better come evening.”
Phoebe glanced at Skinner’s tight expression; she was worried about Fergus, and about Phoebe, too. Phoebe had told her about the trouble at the Chifleys’ and how Deverell had helped them. Skinner’s opinion of “his viscountship” had noticeably mellowed.
Standing, she let Skinner swing the cloak about her shoulders, then, tugging on her gloves, she went downstairs.
Deverell stood waiting in the front hall. “Edith’s gone to get ready for her visit.” Taking Phoebe’s hand, he turned to the front door.
Phoebe shot him a sharp look as she walked beside him. She’d jumped at the chance to visit the agency; she hadn’t until that moment wondered why he was so keen. He appeared his usual, arrogantly confident self; going down the steps beside him, she told herself it was merely understandable curiosity on his part—a wish to know how the agency worked, given that he’d elected himself its protector as well as hers.
A niggling little voice murmured that men like him were wont to take charge, to insist on running any enterprise. Jaw setting, she let him hand her into his curricle; they would see about that—just let him try.
“How much does Edith know of your little enterprise?”
The question pulled her back to the present; picking up the reins, he set his grays trotting.
She took a moment to find the right words to answer. “She knows, yet she doesn’t.” She caught his eye as he glanced at her. “Edith’s one of those people you don’t have to explain things to—she’s terribly knowing. She sees and understands, and somehow just knows. And in this case, she and I have left matters like that—if she hasn’t been told, then if Papa asks, she can with a clear conscience say she’s heard nothing.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Deverell nodded, accepting her odd description. “But if you were to disappear, or she needed to contact you urgently, would she know where the agency is?”
“No, but everyone else in the household knows. And she knows they do. She’d simply ask Henderson to send a message to me.”
He nodded again. “So why is Edith having a word with Lady Purcell?”
She inwardly grimaced; she’d hoped he hadn’t picked that up. “Because although Edith knows no details, she does understand the thrust of the agency’s work. Lady Purcell is Lady Chifley’s sister, and a much more sensible sort of lady.”
His eyes narrowed. “Edith was with you when you met young Chifley yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, so she’s guessed enough to see the value in mentioning to Lady Purcell how troubling she found her nephew’s behavior when we called…and then Lady Purcell will no doubt hear of the governess who ran away, put two and two together, and being the sort of female she is, she’ll take her sister aside and have a stern word in her ear, and with any luck Lady Chifley will be much more careful over what sort of female staff she brings into her household.”
A moment passed, then he murmured, “Very neat.”
He tooled them through the busy thoroughfares around the park, then turned into Kensington Church Street, drove past the agency and around to the rear. Drawing rein in the lane, he deftly backed the curricle into the narrow space immediately before the agency’s back door, moving the horses out of the laneway before halting them and applying the brake.
As he stepped down—a distinctly strange sight in that locale, with his drab, many-caped greatcoat and glossy Hessian boots—two urchins, wide-eyed and wondering, came sidling down the lane to stare.
Deverell saw them; he beckoned. They edged closer, unsure, but then he spoke, asking them if they could keep an eye on his horses.
Phoebe couldn’t see what he passed them, but their faces lit, they nodded and pocketed his largesse, then took station at the horses’ heads. Deverell went with them, showing them how much rein to leave loose, then giving them the ribbons. Then he rounded the carriage and handed her down.
Phoebe eyed the large, powerful grays. “Are they safe?”
She glanced back at Deverell in time to see his lips twitch.
“I assume you mean the boys, but yes, my cattle
are excellently well behaved.”
She read the message in his amused green eyes: Excellently well behaved, just like their owner. She humphed and led the way inside.
Emmeline was in the kitchen, standing over the table kneading dough. Miss Spry stood beside her, grinding nuts. Birtles sat in the chair by the fire, keeping out of the way. He grinned and rose as Phoebe entered; he nodded to her, then rather more warily at Deverell as he appeared behind her. “M’lord.” His gaze returned to Phoebe. “How’s Fergus?”
“Improving but still under the weather. He swears he’ll be well by this evening.” With a smile for Birtles, Phoebe went to Emmeline. “Biscuits?”
Emmeline had frozen, her gaze on Deverell; she shook herself, looked down at her hands, then nodded and resumed working her dough. “I thought to send some with Jessica tomorrow—for the trip.” Emmeline glanced at Miss Spry beside her. “Constance kindly offered to help.”
Phoebe pulled a straightbacked chair to the table and sat. “I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal? It was certainly a shock, having him chase you like that.”
Constance Spry glanced up and met her eyes; a small smile curved her lips, then she looked back at the mortar in which she was grinding almonds and walnuts. “It helped seeing his lordship hit him. Now whenever I think of him, I see his eyes rolling back and him going down like a sack of onions.”
Phoebe grinned at the image; busy with Fergus, she hadn’t seen what Deverell had actually done, only the results. “Before I leave today, we must talk—you, Emmeline, and I—so that we have some idea of what sort of position will best suit you. But first, I must speak with Jessica.”
Emmeline nodded, her gaze fixed on her dough. “She’s upstairs packing.”
Behind her, Phoebe could hear Birtles and Deverell talking, something about horses. He seemed inoccuous—well-behaved—enough, and Birtles well knew his wife’s difficulty over large and powerful gentlemen; Birtles wouldn’t let anything upset Emmeline.
Reassured, Phoebe rose and headed for the stairs.
She found Jessica in the small room at the rear of the first floor, carefully folding her few belongings and setting them in her battered satchel. She looked up and beamed when she saw Phoebe, and quickly bobbed a curtsy. Phoebe smiled back, well-pleased; the panicked look had gone from Jessica’s eyes. Just a few days with Emmeline and Birtles, free of any hint of threat, and Jessica was once again the bright, cheerful lass she should have been.
“You’ll manage very well with Lady Pelham. Just remember…” Perching on the edge of the narrow cot, Phoebe described her ladyship’s eccentricities, and also gave Jessica a potted history of the family, so she would know what gentlemen she might expect to encounter, without making a point of it informing her that they were all rather old and staid, and therefore unlikely to pose any problem.
Downstairs, Phoebe heard a deep voice saying something, then the bell on the front door of the agency tinkled, and the door shut. She inwardly frowned. Had Deverell gone out?
Rising, she wagged a finger at Jessica. “One thing—if ever you do run into any difficulties of that nature again, do remember that you can always return to the agency. But in Lady Pelham’s household, you won’t need to worry—her housekeeper and butler are excellent people.”
Jessica blew out a breath. “It’ll be such a relief, miss, not having to guard against…well, you know, every minute of every day.” Jessica rushed on to thank her; Phoebe held up a hand, stemming the flow, and told her to enjoy her work with Lady Pelham, and that would be thanks enough.
Leaving Jessica reassured and firmly focused on taking up her new position, Phoebe returned downstairs. She turned right along the narrow corridor that linked the shop at the front with the kitchen. As she reached the kitchen’s threshold, she realized the voices she was hearing—Emmeline’s and an indistinguishable male rumble—were coming from the shop; when she glanced into the kichen, Constance was alone, neatly forming the dough into shapes on a baking tray.
“Just tell me where. Up here?”
Startled, Phoebe swung around. The cultured accents were Deverell’s. She walked quickly to the archway giving onto the shop, trepidation rising. Was Emmeline alone with him? Was she panicking…?
The sight that met her eyes brought her up short. Far from panicking, Emmeline was directing a viscount—a large, powerful, overwhelmingly male lord—as to precisely where she wished several big boxes containing various files to be placed on the high shelf running along one side wall.
Setting one box on the shelf, Deverell stepped back, dusted his hands, then turned to pick up the next. He saw Phoebe, met her eyes. He hesitated for a second, then hefted the box. “Seeing I was here to keep an eye on you all, Birtles stepped out to order some coal.”
He said it as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a viscount to be left at the beck and call of females running an employment agency.
“A little to the right, my lord, if you would.” Apparently subject to the same delusion, Emmeline stood back and pointed. “With a little bit of space between—that way Birtles will be able to grab each easily when we need it down again.”
Deverell followed her directions without a murmur, then turned to heft the next box.
Mentally shaking her head, Phoebe stood in the archway and struggled not to stare.
That was the start of a very odd week. If she’d paid more attention to the incident with the boxes, perhaps she would have been rather less surprised by, or at least better prepared for, the subsequent developments.
Over the following days, having gained an inch, Deverell steadily invaded her world. And not just her daytime world but that of her nights, too; having once found his way to her bedchamber, he had no difficulty retracing his steps on the following and subsequent nights, much to Phoebe’s confusion.
She wanted him there, in her bed, yet every night she felt she was falling deeper under his spell, deeper in thrall to the magic they wove, not independently but together. That was the most enthralling aspect—the give and take, the reciprocity of pleasure, of desire, of need.
There was so much she’d yet to learn, yet every night’s lessons only made her more eager, more curious, more involved.
A dangerous situation.
An unsettling portent.
The days proved even more confounding. Deverell had an amazing knack of reading people, and therefore knowing just how to smooth feathers, as he’d proved with Emmeline. And therefore Birtles. Within forty-eight hours, he’d become an accepted member of her little band, viewed by all the others as one of them. Even Skinner, who hadn’t actually met him but had only heard of his exploits from Fergus, jettisoned her heretofore prickly view of “his viscountship”; she still irreverently called him that, but her tone made it clear the title was no longer one of contemptuous dismissiveness.
Unlike her easily-won-over staff, Phoebe was significantly more suspicious, not of his good intentions or his trustworthiness but of the wisdom of allowing a gentleman like him too great an involvement in her domain.
She kept expecting him to take charge. Indeed, she was firmly convinced he wouldn’t be able to help himself, that he would at some point find the temptation simply too great and, with the best of intentions, usurp her position. Through those first days she remained constantly on guard, keyed up, ready to repel any encroachment on his part—and time after time he met her eyes, smiled, and waited for her decision.
It was thoroughly disconcerting, and not a little discomposing, to find herself constantly wrong-footed over him, albeit only in her mind, in her expectations. It was equally lowering to realize that he read her as well as, if not better than, he read all the others; he seemed to know just how far he could go without triggering her defenses, unerringly to know when stepping one inch further would bruise her toes.
And he’d stop. And defer to her.
After six days of constantly watching him, of constantly having him around, both at the agency and in the evenings at
her elbow in the ton, helping here, assisting there, protecting always, even she mentally threw up her hands and consented to be impressed. Consented to admit, if only to herself, that he was one of that exceedingly rare breed of gentleman who did not constitutionally require to be forever in charge.
Not that she told him; he needed no encouragement.
And then she discovered that, courtesy of his particular talent for business, he was perfectly happy to sit down with the agency’s ledgers and accounts and add, check, balance, and record—all with an ease that bespoke considerable experience—and her resistance crumbled.
As she’d remarked to Skinner that evening while primping to meet him at Lady Parkinson’s ball, any man willing to step in and spare her that ordeal was worth tolerating.
Skinner had humphed and cast a glance at her new gown. “Tolerating…is that what this is?”
She’d blushed and said nothing more.
A week after Jessica had happily left for her new life with Lady Pelham in the country, Phoebe sat in the agency’s kitchen with Emmeline by her side, going over their lists of female staff looking for positions, discussing possible matches with their list of households looking to hire.
Their “rescue work” comprised only a small part of the agency’s activities, a necessary condition to allow them to successfully and unobtrusively place their special clients. After four years of operation, the agency boasted a considerable list of female staff placed, had an enviable if select reputation among those seeking work in the capital, and a significant clientele among the households of the ton whose housekeepers returned again and again when looking for maids, dressers, governesses, or companions.
Deverell listened to Phoebe’s and Emmeline’s comments with half his mind; the other half was engaged in matching recent receipts with a list of projected costs. The agency didn’t have a budget; he’d decided it needed one, and as finance was one area in which Phoebe seemed happy to give him free rein, he was engaged in formulating one.
An activity that kept his mind sufficiently busy and his boots under the agency’s table—alongside Phoebe’s.
To Distraction Page 27