To Distraction

by Stephanie Laurens

  She didn’t take it well. Her chin firmed; she drew in a breath.

  The musicans set bows to strings.

  He glanced in their direction. “How useful. You will waltz with me, won’t you?”

  A rhetorical question; he already had hold of her hand.

  Was already leading her to the floor. Phoebe bit her tongue and went with him. This was not a good idea, but she needed to learn—

  He swung her into his arms and her thoughts shattered, scattered, fled. He whirled her down the room, and once again she was reduced to battling sensation, trying to subdue the effect he had on her nerves, on her unruly senses. On her wits; they seemed to deflect—defect—to considering him and his fascinating maleness rather than obeying her will.

  To focusing instead on savoring the power with which he danced, the exhilaration she found in matching his long stride, in whirling across the floor in his arms.

  It was worse, more difficult, than the last time they’d waltzed. Her nerves seemed to have grown more sensitized and the dance floor was crowded; he could and was holding her closer than propriety allowed—but who was there to see?

  Who was there to rescue her witless senses from his grasp?

  He looked down at her and arched one dark brow. “I don’t suppose you’d like to explain where you met those two men?”

  She bludgeoned her wits into order, reminded herself that when it came to him there was only one word she need remember. “No.”

  Stick to her plan—deny everything, volunteer nothing; that was all she could do, all she could hope to do.

  That, and pray he didn’t…she couldn’t even bring herself to think the words. Let alone imagine how she might react.

  That, of it all, was the most frightening prospect.

  Deverell saw trepidation dull her eyes, sensed in the sudden tensing of her spine the first stirrings of fear. He would have frowned and inwardly cursed, even brought their waltz to a premature halt, except…beneath the fear—no, along with the fear—he sensed something else.

  Something that stopped his breath in his chest, that scattered his thoughts and momentarily left him foundering.

  A flash of insight into her, into her peculiar fear, into her responses to him, even into her secret and how all might interact, how all might be part of the one whole.

  He searched her violet eyes, trained on his face; she was wary, watchful…and battling an unwilling fascination.

  By instinct he understood, but his mind couldn’t grapple with the revelation, not on such short notice. But his reaction—

  Looking up, he steered her to the edge of the floor. He halted them and smoothly stepped out of the stream of dancers, guiding her to the side of the room, stopping a little way from where Edith still chatted.

  His face like hewn granite, he swung Phoebe to face him. “Enough.” He paused to get his emotions under control. “Understand this: I won’t rest until I learn all that you’re hiding—your involvement with those men, and your reasons. Regardless, believe this—I will never, ever harm you in any way, and I won’t allow anyone else to even attempt it.”

  He held her wide-eyed gaze, stunned, faintly shocked, for a fraught second, then demanded, “Do you understand?”

  A frown formed in her eyes. “Yes—and no.”

  At least that was the truth. He hissed out a breath and glanced at the horde of guests before them, reminding himself of where they were. “I have to go.” Before he did something to truly shock her—and half the ton. He glanced at her and trapped her gaze. “If you come to your senses and wish to confide in me, send word to Number 12, Montrose Place. If not…”

  Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. He moved his thumb caressingly across the knuckles of the hand he still held. He lifted his gaze to her eyes in time to detect the sensual shiver she couldn’t suppress. Stifling a curse, he released her hand, stepped back, and gracefully bowed. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night and we can continue this discussion.”

  Turning, he left her, striding directly across the room and climbing the steps without glancing back.

  He’d unnerved her—more than she’d thought possible.

  Finally gaining the privacy of her bedchamber, Phoebe accepted Skinner’s help in undressing, all the while struggling to slow her whirling thoughts enough to focus on what she had to do.

  Skinner shot her a concerned look. “Off with the woolly ones, you are. Did something happen?”

  She grimaced. “Deverell. He was there.”

  “Ah.” Skinner said no more but busied herself rehanging Phoebe’s gown.

  Swathed in her nightgown, Phoebe sank onto her dressing stool and started pulling pins from her hair. “That night at Cranbrook Manor—he saw me take Jessica to the carriage.”

  “What?” Skinner stared at her, openmouthed. Then she snapped her lips shut. “You never said.”

  “No. I didn’t know what he would do, not even how much he knows, and I didn’t want any of you, Fergus for instance, doing anything to catch his eye. Regardless of anything else he might be, Deverell is not slow-witted.”

  “He didn’t strike me as such, and if that lad of his was even half right, his lordship’s not one to muck about with.”

  “Indeed.” Phoebe unraveled her hair, then picked up her brush. “This evening he told me he’d seen Scatcher and Birtles enough to identify them, and he knows they’re not part of this household. He wants to know where I met them.”

  Skinner frowned and folded Phoebe’s chemise. “Why’s he want to know that? He’s not…well, pressuring you, is he?”

  “No, not in the way you mean.” Phoebe dragged in a long breath, then admitted, “He told me he would never do anything to harm me, but he wants to know what’s going on.”

  Moving around the room tidying this and that, Skinner continued to frown. “You know, it’s not like what we do is anything to be ashamed of—not to any right-thinking person. Perhaps you should tell him? From what his lad let fall, he sounds like the sort that might help.”

  “No. I can’t take the risk. Gentlemen like him—worse, peers like him—have their own way of looking at our world. What seems right to us…he probably won’t agree.”

  Setting down her brush, Phoebe rose. “Tomorrow morning, slip out and take a message to Scatcher and Birtles. Tell them to lie low—to keep to the backs of the shops, and above all else not to come here. If they need to send a message, use a boy or send Emmeline. Deverell didn’t see her.”

  She climbed into bed, then looked across at Skinner, waiting by the door. “Go out via the mews—Deverell might be watching the house.”

  Skinner’s brows rose high, but she nodded. “I’ll do that. But I still say you should think about telling him.”

  With that, she left. Phoebe slumped back on the pillows and pulled the covers to her chin.

  And let her whirling thoughts fill her mind.

  The rational, logical part of her had firmly prayed he’d leave her alone, and was petulantly annoyed that he hadn’t. Regardless, his words had slayed any hope that he would disappear from her orbit anytime soon.

  That he wouldn’t pursue her.

  Her mind drifted back forty-eight hours. That night he’d uncovered far more than just Scatcher and Birtles and her association with fleeing maids. He’d seen her panic, and by some ungodly act of fate he might be intelligent enough to guess what it meant, experienced enough to see it for what it was.

  She sincerely hoped he hadn’t, that he didn’t.

  Lying on her back, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered if that was a lie.

  She wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell—and therein lay her biggest problem.

  He made her feel so much, even now. Even still. Even though she knew he had the strength to overwhelm her, subdue her, subjugate her. Even though he possessed every one of the physical and social attributes she’d spent the last eight years avoiding.

  He was a gentleman of her class, in his prime, infinitely stronger than she, and p
owerful—not just physically but socially. Able to do much as he pleased, with ladies as with all other things.

  She should avoid him, totally and completely, yet he clearly wasn’t going to allow that. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid what he made her feel—and that, beneath it all, was what scared her the most.

  That, and the change she’d sensed in him tonight. She didn’t know what he’d seen in her eyes that had turned his features so hard, his gaze so penetrating. For an instant, she’d felt as transparent as crystal, as if she hadn’t been hiding anything at all from him…and then he’d declared that he would learn her secret but would never harm her and abruptly left.

  What was she supposed to make of that? What did it portend—what did he intend it to presage?

  She wrestled with those questions for untold minutes; unresolved, they followed her into her dreams.

  The next morning, Deverell sat down before an array of breakfast platters in the club’s dining room and glanced at Gasthorpe. “Send Grainger in.”

  Gasthorpe bowed and withdrew.

  A few minutes later, Deverell heard Grainger’s jaunty footsteps coming along the corridor.

  “You wanted me, m’lord?” Grainger stood just inside the door, hair neat, boots polished.

  Deverell nodded. “I want you to watch a house in Park Street. Number 28. Mrs. Edith Balmain’s residence.”

  Grainger’s brow creased. “Balmain? She was at the manor, wasn’t she? She’s Miss Malleson’s aunt.”

  Deverell nodded and sipped his coffee. Over the rim of the cup, he met Grainger’s eager eyes. Lowering the cup, he said, “I want you to watch the house and take note of whoever goes in or out, and if Miss Malleson goes out, follow her.”

  Grainger straightened. “Right then—I follow her, but just watch everyone else.”

  “Precisely.” Deverell nodded a dismissal, and Grainger, happy as a clam, took himself off.

  Inwardly shaking his head in benign amusement, Deverell gave his attention to ham and eggs, and his mind to organizing his own investigations.

  “Phoebe’s financial state?” Audrey turned from her latest masterpiece to view him as he stood a few paces away. “Good heavens, Deverell dear, why ever do you need to know?”

  He smiled cynically. “Humor me, dear Audrey—and do remember that it was at your behest that I went looking for Phoebe.”

  “Hmm…yes. Well, I suppose, seeing your mind is, thank heaven, heading in the right direction, I should do all I can to encourage you.” Setting down her brush and palette, she swiveled to face him and happily told him all she knew.

  Early afternoon found Deverell in the city.

  “Miss Phoebe Malleson, Lord Martindale’s daughter, and his heiress, at least as far as any unentailed property.” Heath-cote Montague, as ever neat, precise, and unshakably calm, carefully transcribed the information onto a fresh sheet of paper. “Very good.”

  He looked up; across his desk, he met Deverell’s gaze. “You want to know all the usual, I take it—current income, such as it might be, expectations?”

  Sitting comfortably in the leather chair before the desk, Deverell nodded. “In the circumstances I’d like you to be as thorough as you can. You should remember I haven’t done this before.”

  Montague’s round face creased in a smile. “Of course, my lord. And might I say it’s a pleasure and indeed an honor to be called on to assist you in such a matter.”

  Deverell acknowledged Montague’s smile with his usual charm; like Audrey, Montague had assumed that his interest in Phoebe’s financial affairs stemmed from matrimonial intent. As part of arranging an appropriate marriage settlement, learning of his intended’s financial situation was a sensible move.

  As he did, indeed, ultimately intend to marry Phoebe, he felt no qualms in allowing Audrey and Montague, his and his family’s man-of-business, to believe that prospective marriage settlements were the reason behind his query. “I understand she’s already inherited significant wealth from a great-aunt.”

  Montague scribbled some more. “That would most likely be held in trust.”

  “No, I believe Miss Malleson’s great-aunt was a strong advocate of females taking responsibility for their own lives and, by extension, their own funds. As I understand it, Miss Malleson has been in control of her inheritance since the age of twenty-one. She’s now twenty-five.”

  “Hmm.” Montague frowned. “It’s possible there may not be much left in that account.” Over the pince-nez perched on his nose, he glanced at Deverell. “I gather she moves among the haut ton?”

  “She does, but…Miss Malleson is not the average tonnish young lady.” She certainly hadn’t spent a fortune on gowns or jewels, although from what Audrey had divulged, she could probably afford to. “Look closely at her expenditures as well as her income.”

  “Indeed, my lord.” Head down, taking notes, Montague nodded portentiously. “I could wish all my clients were as wise. It never does to be surprised by habits one might have learned of prior to an offer, simply by exercising due caution.”

  Deverell suppressed an unexpected urge to correct Montague’s misperception, to defend Phoebe’s financial honor. Regardless of what she might be involved in, she was certainly no profligate.

  Uncrossing his legs, he rose. “Send word to Montrose Place as soon as you have anything substantial to report.”

  “Indeed.” Setting down his pen, Montague rose. “I expect you’ll want to end the lease on the Mayfair house when it comes up for renewal?”

  Deverell raised his brows. “I haven’t considered.” The Paignton estate included a large house in Mayfair; he’d lived in it for a few weeks early in the year, but it was far too large for a single gentleman; he’d rented it out for the Season. “Alert me when the lease nears its end, and I’ll consult with Miss Malleson.”

  The thought of him and Phoebe rattling around the huge house wasn’t attractive, but the thought of him, Phoebe, and their children filling the space held considerable appeal.

  Imagining it, he shook hands with Montague and departed, leaving his man-of-business and his clerks in absolutely no doubt that wedding bells would shortly be ringing.

  He returned to the Bastion Club in time to spend a quiet half hour in the library sunk in an armchair reviewing all he knew, and all he’d set in train. And all he was starting to suspect.

  Grainger returned. He came to the library to report that Phoebe had attended various social engagements both before and after lunch, then returned to the Park Street town house. “I figure she’ll be dressing for dinner about now, so I thought I’d come back and see if you wanted me to watch during the night.”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Lying back in the armchair, Deverell instructed, “Get a good night’s sleep and you can watch again tomorrow—start at nine o’clock. She won’t venture out before that.”

  Living up to her role of matrimonial facilitator—she would be offended to be labeled a matchmaker—Audrey had supplied him with a list of the three balls Phoebe was expected to attend that evening. After meeting with him at the last, he doubted she would be up at dawn.

  With a jaunty nod, Grainger turned and left.

  Deverell let the pleasant silence wrap around him once more. He was glad he was presently the only member living at the club; as matters stood, he wouldn’t have wished to confide in even his colleagues. When the facts, his observations of Phoebe’s actions, were simply stated, the obvious explanations—the ones most minds would leap to—were distinctly unpleasant and nefarious.

  He knew, absolutely and without question, that in this case, given Phoebe’s involvement, the obvious didn’t apply. The notion of her being embroiled in schemes linked to prostitution or worse was simply untenable.

  Especially given her reaction to him in the wood.

  Especially given what was coloring their interaction still.

  When he combined everything he knew, he still had no clue what she was up to, not specifically. However, the one t
hing he felt confident in concluding was that she would never, ever, place another female in a position of fear.

  From what he already knew of her, such an act would go entirely against her grain. Whatever she was doing with the female staff he felt certain she and her helpers, whoever they were, had spirited away, she would be helping the women, not harming them.

  Phoebe was an agent for good, not evil.

  He’d dealt with enough of the other sort over the years to be absolutely sure.

  Unfortunately, being an agent for good could be a dangerous occupation, especially in the arena she’d chosen.

  He turned over the possibilities and his options for learning more while the mantelpiece clock ticked on. When it chimed the hour, he glanced up, drained his glass, then headed upstairs to dress for the evening.

  Chapter 8

  Deverell ran Phoebe to earth in Lady Camberley’s ballroom. Rather than standing near where Edith sat chatting with a group of older ladies, she was strolling through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange greetings and observations, but rarely lingering.

  As she quit Lady Fitzmartin’s side, she swiftly scanned her surroundings before deciding on her direction. Deverell hid a smile. He’d told her he’d see her tonight, and this was the last event on her evening’s schedule.

  She was watching for him—whether to avoid him or gird her loins before he got too near he didn’t know. But if he knew anything of her, by now she would have grown impatient. As he’d planned.

  Just as he planned his approach.

  She was skirting the edge of the crowd when he came up behind her. She didn’t sense him until he was too near, and then it was too late.

  Too late to prevent him placing a palm on her back, to one side of her waist, through two thin layers of silk, feeling the warmth of her skin.

  Letting her feel the weight of his hand.

  As he’d expected, she didn’t jump at his touch—she froze. Smoothly turning her at right angles to him, halting them both so her back was to the wall and no one could detect his impropriety, he met her wide eyes as they lifted to his.