When he’d made that point, Phoebe had looked at him then waved the matter aside. Not lightly—she’d seen the danger—but without hesitation.
Quite apart from all else, all he now felt for her, for that alone he would stand by her forever.
She had a well-honed grasp of right and wrong, of which rules could be broken, which bent, and which were inviolable. And a feel for those risks one sometimes had to take. For one of his background, his past history, he couldn’t wish for better in a wife—for an understanding and a pragmatism that augered better for their future.
Walking into the library, he headed for the writing desk set in one corner.
Half an hour later, he summoned Gasthorpe. “Have these delivered as soon as possible.” He handed the majordomo letters addressed to Viscount Trentham and to the Marquess of Dearne at their London residences. “And give this”—he added a folded note to the pile—“to Crowhurst when he wakes.”
Gasthorpe had informed him over breakfast that Gervase Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst, had arrived late last night, having driven up from his estates in deepest Cornwall. From Deverell’s point of view—and, he suspected, Gervase’s as well—that was perfect timing.
Gasthorpe eyed the missives with interest. “Is something afoot, my lord?”
Gasthorpe had been a sergeant major throughout the wars; he could scent imminent action.
“Indeed.” Deverell rose. “I’m convening a meeting here this afternoon.” He hesitated, then added, “Miss Malleson will be attending, which will shock the others but can’t be helped. Given our numbers, we’ll need to use the library.”
“Indeed, my lord. Rules are all very well, but we need to be flexible. What time, my lord?”
“I’ve nominated four o’clock, but it might be later. I’m sure Trentham, Dearne, and Crowhurst, as well as Miss Malleson and I, will be here at that time, but I’m not sure at what hour the last of those I’m summoning will be able to join us.”
Gasthorpe looked his question.
Lips twisting, Deverell clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door. “Wish me luck—I’m off to Whitehall to beard a lion.”
A hungry, frustrated, disaffected lion who seemed perfectly ready to savage something that deserved it.
Sitting in front of Dalziel’s desk, watching the elegant gentleman who for ten and more years had been his commander mentally sift the information Deverell had just finished laying before him—the evidence of missing maids, the “rescue” that had been disrupted, the nature of the men involved—Deverell wondered how much longer Dalziel—Royce whoever-he-was—would continue to search for his last traitor.
They’d been close to success last month when Jack Warnefleet had been in town, but at the last moment Dalziel’s “last traitor”—the one he’d hypothesized must exist and who they now knew was flesh and blood—had slipped from their net. He’d killed his henchman to do it, but that only bore witness to the man’s ruthlessness.
Dalziel’s ruthlessness had never been in question. Although his expression remained as enigmatic as ever, his dark brown eyes held enough frustration for Deverell to read.
Just what that augered Deverell wasn’t sure; he’d come hoping for Dalziel’s support in an administrative sense—he could open doors with just a message, get attention from any branch of the authorities, insist on things no one else could. Regardless of his failure over his last traitor, he still wielded significant power. But…there was a restless tension in Dalziel Deverell recognized—the need to act, to do, to accomplish something even if the most desired goal remained out of reach.
Battle nerves, they’d called it. The impulse to act that one often had to fight against in the hour prior to the first charge. That those who’d served in the same secret arena as Deverell had had to learn to suppress, to not act precipitously and bring disaster down on their heads. Yet in Dalziel’s case it wasn’t so much a matter of timing as of release—of having no outlet for the frustrations his pursuit of the last traitor had generated.
Failure was something Dalziel’s temperament was not well suited to absorb.
Abruptly Dalziel’s gaze refocused on his face. “Slavers.”
Just the word, uttered in that deep, ineffably cultured voice, with an inflection dripping so much more than disgust told Deverell that administrative assistance was the most minor of the support he was going to get.
“This agency—how safe are they?”
“For the moment, safe enough. There’s no information the slavers are likely to find that will lead them to it.”
Dalziel nodded. Decisively. “Very well—you can count me in. Slaving in any form is bad enough, but to have a gang operating on London streets, seizing women—women they pick and choose assisted by someone in the ton—is anathema, beyond condemnation. That they made a mistake and nearly grabbed Miss Malleson only illustrates that the danger is not confined to the lower classes.
“And you’re perfectly right—we can’t leave this to the overworked watch. Besides”—Dalziel’s dark eyes glinted with the predatory inclinations of a born marauder—“as some of the culprits are likely to be members of the ton, the watch will be hampered where we will not.”
We, Deverell noted.
“So—how are you proposing we go about this?” Dalziel’s gaze was now deceptively mild.
Deverell wasn’t fooled; his ex-commander was spoiling for a fight—he was just glad they were on the same side. “I’ve called a meeting at the club for four o’clock this afternoon. Crowhurst will be there, and most likely Trentham and Dearne. St. Austell, Torrington, and Warnefleet are all on their estates—by the time a message reaches them and they return to town, it’ll all be over.”
“Indeed. And I daresay, recently married as they are, they might have other calls on their time.” Dalziel had looked down, consulting a diary; Deverell couldn’t tell if that last comment was uttered tongue-in-cheek or as a statement of fact.
“Four o’clock at the Bastion Club.” Dalziel looked up and met Deverell’s eyes. “I’ll be there.”
Early that afternoon Malcolm again braved his guardian’s study to sit elegantly at ease in the chair before Henry’s desk. And possess his soul with saintly patience.
Eventually Henry looked up, narrow-eyed, from the dispatch box through which he’d been leafing. Stony-faced, he regarded Malcolm. “Well?”
With diffidence perfected to an art, Malcolm flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “We caused them some grief, but…”
Henry scowled. “But what?” He dumped the red dispatch box down on the desk. “They were supposed to be taught a lesson.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure they got the point.” Malcolm frowned slightly, the gesture for once entirely genuine; he was puzzled, his instincts for self-preservation stirring uneasily. “I was watching the action from a doorway nearby. They didn’t see me—but I have to admit I didn’t like what I saw.”
Henry’s scowl grew blacker. “What the devil do you mean?”
Malcolm hesitated, replaying the scene again in his mind. “One of the other crew…he could fight. And no, I don’t mean he was a brawler or a pugilist or anything of that nature. Not even a devotee of Gentleman Jackson—he was far more effective than that.”
In his mind he saw again the tall, lean, menacing figure—saw again how he moved, the controlled strength, the incisive, decisive application of same. “He was…something quite different, and definitely dangerous. I didn’t get a good look at him, but if I had to describe him, I’d say he had the build of a guardsman.”
“Hmm.” Henry shut the red box and pushed it aside. “It sounds like they—whoever they are—have recruited some talent.”
“There was something else.” Malcolm met Henry’s eyes. “There was a woman there—one of them, helping to get the girl away.”
“A woman?” Henry raised his brows, then snorted. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Probably your ‘guardsman’s’ doxy.”
Malcolm inclined his head n
oncommittally. “Chifley also babbled about some woman being in the lane when he rushed out—he, too, assumed she was some doxy assisting the other gang. However”—he waited until his tone brought Henry’s cold gaze back to his face—“if it was the same woman I saw last night, she’s no doxy. She’s of the ton. I can’t put a name to her, but I’ve definitely seen her about this Season.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed; Malcolm could almost hear the thoughts chasing themselves through his brain.
Then Henry’s jaw set. “Go out into the ton—it’s the height of the Season, balls and parties aplenty, and you have the entrée everywhere. Find out who this lady is.” Henry’s eyes grew colder; they gleamed like ice. “Don’t approach her—not in any ballroom. Learn her name, and then we can arrange a private meeting to ask her who she’s working with. I’m sure we’ll be able to convince her to tell us all.”
Henry was clearly relishing the prospect. Malcolm was rather less sure of tangling in any way with the man he’d glimpsed in the alley.
He waited. When Henry said no more, absorbed in considering some scene Malcolm had no real wish to see, he dutifully inclined his head. “I’ll start quartering the ton tonight.”
Henry came to himself, glowered, then nodded curtly and reopened the dispatch box. “Tell me the instant you learn who she is.”
“He’s coming here?” Tristan raised his brows high. “Well, well—he is keen.”
Phoebe considered the look on Tristan’s face, then Christian’s; guessing what she was thinking, Deverell explained, “Our ex-commander is very much a law unto himself.”
“Whoever his self may be.” Gervase caught Phoebe’s eye. “He goes by the name of Dalziel, but that isn’t his true name. What his real name is and why he’s kept it a secret is a mystery we’re collectively determined to solve.”
Christian and Tristan had arrived early; Gervase hadn’t bothered going out. The three had been waiting in the library, relaxed in armchairs with glasses of brandy in hand, when Deverell had ushered Phoebe into the room.
The others had come to their feet with alacrity; they’d beamed and lined up to be introduced. No hint of censure regarding Deverell’s cavalier dismissal of their no-female-except-in-the-front-parlor rule had surfaced, not even via a look. Once they’d all settled again, Phoebe in the armchair at the focal point of the room with a glass of the finest amontillado in her hand, the others flanking her in a rough circle, Deverell had found himself glad that there were still ten minutes to the hour, leaving him time to reassure Phoebe over Dalziel.
“Some weeks ago, we learned his real first name was Royce,” Christian said, “but unfortunately that doesn’t get us far. We’re not sure if it’s his first first name, or his third or even fourth—or even a formal given name at all, come to that.”
“We did learn that Lady Osbaldestone and at least two of the other grande dames know him in his real guise.” Deverell picked up the tale. “But although we tried our best to interrogate—and when that didn’t work, wheedle, trap, or in any other way coerce the information from—said ladies, we learned nothing beyond that they also know the reason he keeps his identity a secret.”
“So,” Tristan said, “beyond the name he actually goes by, he remains as big a mystery as ever.”
Phoebe smiled. “I imagine that’s one mystery none of you can let be.”
They all paused, considered, then shook their heads.
“He knows all our secrets,” Gervase said. “Only fair we should know his. Apropos of that”—he looked at Deverell—“is there any specific connection between your game and his obsession? Is that why he’s so eager?”
“Highly unlikely,” Deverell said. He’d already given Phoebe a potted history of Dalziel’s last traitor. “I think the reason for his interest is more that he’s frustrated and restless with no enemy to sink his teeth into, so he’s perfectly happy to turn his attention to my game, and sink his teeth into my enemy instead.”
The others chuckled.
Christian nodded. “Yes, I can imagine that.”
“One thing that did occur to me,” Deverell said, “was that if we needed further proof that whatever he did during the war he didn’t spend the entire time behind his desk, his present reaction provides it. If he’d been nothing more than a pen-pusher, he wouldn’t be feeling inactivity pinching now.”
The other three nodded sagely.
In the distance, they heard a peremptory knock fall on the front door.
At the same instant, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour.
Phoebe waited, eyes on the door. When it opened, and the club’s majordomo bowed the visitor in, she fully expected to be somewhat disappointed; after all the talk of mystery and menace, she didn’t truly believe their ex-commander could live up to the picture they’d painted.
One glance told her she’d been wrong.
He was more—much more—than they’d led her to believe.
She watched the other four rise and go forward to meet him, to shake his hand and exchange greetings. She didn’t bother listening to their words beyond registering that although his voice was like theirs, deep and well-modulated, his tone always held an edge—a warning that words and tone could slice; more than the others, he used his voice as a weapon.
Outwardly, he was superficially one with the others—immaculately turned out in coat, waistcoat, breeches and boots, with a perfectly tied cravat; his hair was dark—sable brown—while his features bore the unmistakable stamp of their shared Norman ancestors.
She took all that in in one comprehensive glance, then concentrated on what they hadn’t told her—all else that she could see as he moved among them.
Deverell was graceful, elegant, and strong, as were the other three club members. Their ex-commander, however, took all three qualities to the extreme. Phoebe had lived all her life in the ton, but she’d never, ever, set eyes on a man like this one.
There was something that lived just beneath his surface, something that prowled. Something infinitely more dangerous—something that frankly shouldn’t be permitted in any well-bred drawing room.
And then he was moving toward her, his dark gaze fixed on her, Deverell bringing him to her to introduce.
She rose, feeling trapped in that predatory gaze. Deverell and the others were dominant men, but they weren’t like this.
This man was too much—definitely too much. Too dangerous, too powerful—too male.
All her reservations over large and powerful men returned in a rush. She glanced at Deverell. He caught her wide-eyed look, arched a quizzical brow, then he was by her side, his hand under her elbow.
Just as well; it stopped her from curtsying.
His touch reassured and anchored her. She heard him introduce her and remembered just in time to offer her hand.
Dalziel took it in his; his fingers were cool, their pressure undisturbing as he bowed over hers.
She drew breath and managed a passable smile.
Releasing her hand, he smiled in return—effortlessly charming, just like Deverell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Malleson.”
She uttered the prescribed reply and they parted; he moved away to accept a glass of brandy from Tristan. She sank back into her chair, able to breathe again. As the others all sat, she realized why she’d instinctively started to curtsy. Deeply.
She’d seen Dalziel before—not met him, only seen him. At some party one of her aunts had given long ago. The memory was hazy. Deverell started to speak, and she put it aside to tease out later.
Deverell had told the others little beyond the fact that he’d stumbled on a slaving gang operating in Mayfair. Early this morning, he’d spoken to her of the need to reveal to his ex-colleagues, as well as Dalziel, the full scope of the agency’s operations. If they wanted their help, they needed to trust them with the whole truth. She’d agreed, and now she’d met them she had no doubt that had been the right decision.
But as she listened to Deverell explain the agency, ho
w they learned of their “special clients’” needs and then arranged to whisk the girls away and resettle them, she wondered how such behavior sounded to them—whether they would be shocked that a lady of her station, unmarried, should be not just involved in but the instigator of such an enterprise, correcting a wrong ladies such as she weren’t supposed to know of, or at least were supposed to hide any awareness of. Would they view her as vulgar?
While Deverell was speaking, she kept her gaze on the glass of sherry in her hand. When he came to the end of his description of the agency and paused, she drew breath and looked up, swiftly scanning the circle of faces.
Tristan was the easiest to read; his eyes were wide in patent amazement heavily tinged with approval. “What an extremely laudable goal.”
“Indeed.” Gervase raised his glass to her. “A commendable endeavor.”
“Felicitations on your courage, Miss Malleson.” Dalziel inclined his head to her, his dark eyes trapping hers. “The only element I find disturbing about your enterprise is that it has reason to exist.” His face hardened and he lowered his eyes. “Would that it didn’t.”
“True,” Christian said. “However, as we’re dealing with reality—indeed, must deal with it—your endeavor is worthy of the highest respect. Would that more ladies looked to such activities rather than their usual often ineffective charities.”
“Speaking of which, would you mind, Miss Malleson, if I told my wife of your agency?” Tristan asked. “It’s the sort of enterprise in which I know she’d love to be involved.”
Blushing under their fulsome praise, Phoebe admitted that she’d already met Leonora and they were meeting again. She gave Tristan permission to explain about the agency; rather surprised, she found herself promising to allow Leonora to assist.
“So that’s the agency as is,” Deverell resumed. “What happened…”
While he described the recent events—the girls who’d disappeared before they’d been rescued and the latest fracas—Phoebe surreptitously studied the others, considering not just their words but all she could see of their reactions.
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