Deverell shut the front door behind him and comprehensively swore.
Whisking maids away, objectionable sons. It wasn’t difficult to guess what Phoebe and her agency—he was perfectly sure it was hers—were up to. Or why.
But this…unless managed carefully, “abducting” maids from the center of London was an action guaranteed to be fraught with dangers—plural, not singular.
Mentally kicking himself for not asking Edith the obvious pertinent question, he refocused on Gasthorpe, standing before him, waiting to assist. “Where’s Chifley House?”
A narrow alleyway ran along the backs of the large houses on Dover Street; Deverell found Phoebe, cloaked and hooded, a slighter shadow picking her way down it alongside a bulky, heavier shadow moving with a ponderous, lumbering gait.
A few yards wide, the alley was bounded by the high stone walls along the rear of each property. Sliding into the dense shadows about its mouth, Deverell followed Phoebe and her guard, a good fifty yards behind. He wanted to see what happened, how their “abduction” was orchestrated, before he made his presence known. He’d already identified one major strategic error on their parts and capitalized on it; their carriage was pulled up to the curb on Hay Hill, just past the alley mouth. Their driver sat alert on the box, reins in his hands, ready to drive off, meanwhile keeping watch on the carriages and passersby traveling up and down Berkeley Street across the end of short Hay Hill.
The carriage should have been positioned before the alley mouth, not beyond it. To the inexperienced, beyond seemed safer—easier to leap in and drive off, escaping any pursuers racing up the alley. If the carriage were before the alley mouth, the pursuers might intercept it—that was how that reasoning went. However, with the driver facing away from the alley mouth, he hadn’t seen Deverell approach from the rear and slide into the shadows, hadn’t noticed him gliding in the wake of Phoebe and her guard.
The lumbering giant, too, although clearly alert and watchful, was searching every shadow except those behind him.
Phoebe slowed, looking up at the backs of the houses. Deverell guessed she was counting; Chifley House was in the middle of the block, halfway down the alley. As she swung to walk on, he noticed she was carrying a small shielded lantern, presently fully shielded. The night was dark, overcast, with no real moonlight; with the tall town houses rising on either side, the alley was one small step from pitch black, yet she made no attempt to use the lantern to light her way.
The damned woman knew what she was doing was dangerous. That she should do everything possible not to draw attention to her presence in the alley.
Lips grimly set, Deverell hugged the darkest, densest shadows along the opposite wall and steadily closed the distance between them.
The giant reached out and touched Phoebe’s shoulder. When she halted and looked his way, he gestured to a door set in the grimy alley wall.
Again, Phoebe looked back along the alley, scanning the houses; her gaze didn’t swing far enough to detect Deverell, now twenty yards away.
Phoebe nodded. Deverell strained his ears, but neither she nor her guard spoke. The giant reached for the door latch and lifted it, but it was locked. Phoebe stepped closer; partially unshielding her lantern, she shone a narrow beam on the old, heavy lock as the giant crouched down and went to work on it.
Deverell could have had it open in seconds; the giant took two minutes, but eventually he rose and nodded to Phoebe. He lifted the latch and eased the door open just enough to confirm that it was no longer barred. Then he glanced at Phoebe.
She looked down, fiddling with the lantern, then looked up and nodded to the giant.
He swung the door open, held it wide with one huge paw, stepping across Phoebe, shielding her with his bulk. Phoebe ducked and angled the lantern beneath his brawny arm, then unshielded it.
The light beamed out, then was shuttered. Once, twice. Then came a pause, a count of seven, followed by one last flash of light, then Phoebe stepped back, reshielding the lantern. The giant pulled back, swinging the door almost closed—then they waited.
Seconds ticked by, then the quiet was broken by a distant shout, muffled within walls. Before the sound faded, pattering footsteps, faint, then growing louder, reached Deverell’s ears.
He saw the startled glance Phoebe shot the giant, then another muted bellow reached them, this time more definitely from within Chifley House.
The footsteps reached a frantic crescendo. The garden door was wrenched open; the giant stepped back as another female figure, hooded and wrapped in a cloak with a small traveling bag clutched to her chest, shot out into the alley.
It was instantly apparent that something was wrong. Babbling hysterically, the maid pointed frantically back at the house.
Phoebe and the giant looked.
From the house, a furious male voice rang out, then pounding footsteps rattled like gunfire in the night, racing closer.
Phobe swooped, putting her arm around the maid, urging her to flee.
The giant swore, hauled the door shut and turned, sweeping his arms, protectively herding Phoebe and the maid on.
The door at his back flew open.
A young man appeared, lips drawn back in a vicious snarl. He took in the figures before him in a blink; before the giant could turn, he raised his arm high. Deverell heard the blow rather than saw it—deduced the cosh the young man had used on the giant before he saw it dangling from the man’s hand.
The giant crumpled and went down.
Poised in the shadows, every muscle tensed to act, Deverell waited, willing Phoebe to travel the few yards more to take her past him, so neither she nor the maid would be between him and their attacker.
But Phoebe had heard the giant’s grunt; she glanced back and saw him hit the ground. With a stifled cry, she pushed the maid on. Completely disregarding the vicious gentleman clambering over the giant’s fallen bulk, she rushed back, her attention fixed solely on the giant.
Deverell bit back an oath and glided forward, still concealed by the dense shadows.
To his surprise, the gentleman didn’t spare Phoebe so much as a glance but, swearing like a trooper, started after the fleeing maid. He still carried the cosh in one hand and hefted a suspiciously thin walking stick in the other.
The maid glanced back, saw; with a smothered sob, she came stumbling along. Deverell stepped out of the deeper shadows into the middle of the lane—into her path. She shrieked as he materialized in front of her. His gaze beyond her, fixed on the gentleman—presumably the eldest Chifley scion—he caught the woman by her shoulders, in a few efficient moves divested her of her cloak, then pushed her on. “Go! There’s a carriage waiting at the end.”
He’d kept his voice low, but his tone wasn’t one any sane person questioned. Terrified, the maid gulped and fled.
As he’d expected, Chifley took him—a tall, large male shielding his fleeing quarry—for another lumbering guard. Spewing profanity, Chifley tossed aside the cosh and ripped the scabbard from his swordstick.
Brandishing the lethal blade, he came at Deverell.
Balanced on the balls of his feet, Deverell waited, still helpfully cloaked in shadows…until just the right moment to whip the cloak up, entangling the slim blade. Then he twisted and wrenched.
Chifley made a gurgling sound of surprise as the rapier was hauled from his grasp.
Deverell flung both blade and cloak aside, unbalancing Chifley. It was so easy after that. One powerful punch driven from the shoulder connected perfectly with Chifley’s outthrust jaw and the bastard’s eyes rolled up, then silently, like a limp rag, he sank to the ground.
A panicked sound from behind him had Deverell glancing back. Contrary to all wisdom, the maid had stopped, perhaps paralyzed by fear. Her back to the stone wall, one fist pressed to her mouth, she was battling to hold back hysterical sobs. She was quivering uncontrollably.
He held up a hand, palm out. “Stay there.”
Eyes huge, she managed a shaky nod.
A few quick strides brought him to Phoebe and the giant. She’d managed to wrestle the huge man into a sitting position against the wall. Ignoring her and her utterly shocked gaze, he bent and spoke to the giant. “How bad is it?”
One hand to his head, the man glanced up at him, then winced. “Near to cracked m’skull.” He sucked in a breath, then added weakly, “Luckily, it’s thick.”
Deverell managed to make out the words through the giant’s heavy Scots accent. He nodded, then reached for Phoebe; closing his hands about her shoulders, he physically lifted her and set her on her feet. “Get the maid, and get into the carriage.”
His tone brooked no argument, no dissension; when she hesitated, looking down at the giant, Deverell gritted his teeth and tersely added, “Now!”
Even she heard the warning. With a wary glance at him, she went.
Deverell shifted to the giant’s side; as the man struggled to his feet, Deverell grasped one huge arm, ducked, and, pulling the arm over his shoulder, hauled the man upright.
He was unsteady on his feet; clamping one arm across the man’s back, Deverell guided him up the alley. Glancing ahead, he saw Phoebe shaking out the cloak she’d disentangled from the rapier, then she swung it about the maid’s shoulders and solicitously urged her on.
“Thank ye.” The giant staggered forward as fast as he could; he’d accepted Deverell and his help without hesitation. “Someone musta heard that rooster. I’m thinking we need out of here right quick, afore they gather their courage and come looking.”
“I’m glad to hear one of your little band has some sense.” Ahead, Phoebe and the maid reached the mouth of the alley and turned toward the carriage.
“Aye, well. It’s the first time anything’s gone wrong.” As they lurched toward the alley mouth, the giant added, “I keep telling her it ain’t safe, specially fer the likes of her, but will she listen?”
Deeming the question rhetorical, Deverell made no answer. He was, however, determined that when he spoke to her, Phoebe would definitely listen—and learn.
Fifteen minutes later, he looked out of the carriage window as the huge trees of Hyde Park slipped past.
They’d escaped the alley and Hay Hill without anyone seeing them. Reaching the alley mouth, he’d seen Phoebe hovering before the open carriage door, watching. She’d caught his eye, and even over the distance she’d sensed his displeasure. Turning, she’d quickly clambered into the carriage.
He’d bundled the giant in, then followed, creating a crisis. With both him and the giant inside, space was tight; he’d ended sitting alongside Phoebe, with the still shivering maid opposite and the giant, whom he’d recognized as Phoebe’s groom, wedged into the corner opposite Phoebe.
She was worried about the giant. In light of that, he’d held his tongue, biding his time. He would much rather have been across from Phoebe, able to see her face; as it was, in between quick, concerned glances at the giant, she kept it studiously averted.
Regardless of what she thought, what he could imagine she might fondly wish, she wasn’t going to be able to fob him off, not after this evening’s work.
And once he’d learned the whole of her secret, again no matter what she might fondly wish, she would not—not ever again—embark on any similarly dangerous enterprise such as he’d stumbled on—and rescued her from—tonight.
Just the thought of what might have happened had he not followed her…
Jaw setting, he kept his gaze on the park and continued to keep his thoughts to himself. For the moment.
The maid’s hysteria had abated somewhat by the time the carriage turned off the cobbled street, maneuvering to enter, then rolling down a narrow lane running along the back of a long row of shops. Eventually, the horses slowed and the carriage was brought to a rocking halt.
Deverell glanced out at the rear of the narrow building behind which they’d stopped. “The Athena Agency, I presume?”
He looked at Phoebe, met her startled gaze.
When she said nothing, he reached for the carriage door, swung it open, and stepped down into the lane.
The driver was scambling down, concern on his round face. He, too, was a large man; Deverell had seen him before—in the lane by Cranbrook Manor wood.
Dropping to the ground, the driver eyed Deverell as he straightened. “Here, Fergus? You all right?”
“Aye,” came from within the carriage. “We’d best get this lot inside—just make sure you tie m’horses up good and tight.”
Deverell said nothing. Reaching into the carriage, he took Phoebe’s hand and assisted her down, then did the same for the maid, who looked uncertain and faintly shocked by his courtesy.
Phoebe looked on, a frown in her eyes. She’d halted a few feet away, making no move to go inside. He knew without thinking that she was debating whether or not it lay within her power to dismiss him, to somehow send him away.
The driver went to the carriage door, leaning in to assist the giant. Leaving him to it, Deverell moved to Phoebe’s side; gripping her arm above the elbow, he quietly murmured, “Don’t bother even thinking it.”
He didn’t meet the sharp look she threw him. Lifting his head, he called, “Grainger?”
There was a rustle behind some barrels nearby, then Grainger stepped into view. “Yes, guv?”
“Keep an eye on the horses. We won’t be long.”
“Aye, guv.”
Rather more than a trifle shaken, Phoebe watched Fergus, now out of the carriage but leaning heavily on Birtles, pause to have a word with the lanky lad, who had clearly been keeping watch on their premises.
How had Deverell found out? How long had he known?
How much had he learned?
Most importantly, what would he do with his newfound knowledge?
His fingers tightened about her arm. Head rising, she allowed him to steer her toward the back door. Miss Constance Spry, the Chifley’s ex-governess, a quiet, rather timid but sensible young woman with excellent references and unimpeachable background, meekly followed; regardless of what had transpired, Phoebe felt entirely justified in having embarked on their precipitous rescue, inadequately planned though it had been.
Miss Spry’s situation had been desperate. That had been apparent when, that afternoon at Chifley House, leaving Edith with Lady Chifley and the two other matrons who’d called, Phoebe had stepped out onto the terrace and seen, on a path to the side of the small garden, the petite governess struggling in the arms of Chifley, valiantly fighting to avoid being kissed. Phoebe had deliberately scuffed her shoe, causing both to look up; Miss Spry had grasped the moment, wrenched free, and run.
Chifley had looked at Phoebe, then looked after Miss Spry and laughed. Cruelly. It had been clear he would be after her, with even greater determination, at the first opportunity. Nothing was going to stop him until he’d ruined her; the fact that she was a vicar’s daughter probably only incited him more.
Letting Miss Spry escape, with a sneer on his face, Chifley had started, deliberately, toward Phoebe. She’d turned and stepped back into the drawing room, feeling physically ill.
To her relief, within minutes of Chifley joining his doting mama and her cronies, Edith, clearly struggling not to curl her lip, had declared that they had to leave.
Across the room, Chifley had bent an openly lascivious look on Phoebe; he’d certainly seen her well enough to recognize her. In the alley, however, in the dark, his attention had been fixed on poor Miss Spry. If he had recognized Phoebe, shock would have brought him up short; she felt reasonably confident he hadn’t, that at least in that respect her secret was still safe.
Nearing the agency’s door, she glanced back. Fergus was coming on slowly. She briefly scanned his face and inwardly winced at the pain she saw there. That was the only real regret she had over the night’s events.
Des
pite the obvious drawbacks, even having Deverell find them had had its benefits; he’d rescued them, but more importantly he’d meted out some degree of punishment to Chifley, which was more than she would have been able to do.
For that, and his help with Fergus, she was willing to at least treat him civilly, even though he’d clearly been spying on her.
Reaching past her, he opened the back door; turning, head high, she led him inside.
The door gave onto a small dark hall; a few paces brought them into the large spacious kitchen at the rear of the shop.
Emmeline had been sitting knitting by the fire, with Jessica at the table nearby, quietly chatting. Both looked up eagerly as the sounds of the group’s arrival filtered into the large room…then both women’s faces blanked as Phoebe came forward and they saw Deverell, prowling larger than life, behind her.
Emmeline and Jessica quickly came to their feet. An awkward silence fell as the others shuffled in. Phoebe walked to the hearth, bent to warm her hands at the cheery blaze; the instant everyone was in the room, she turned and waved at Deverell, who had come to stand alongside her. “This is Lord Paignton.”
She said nothing more. The difficult silence lengthened, then Fergus groaned. Shuffling to the table, he slumped into a chair. “Begging y’r pardon, Miss Phoebe, m’lord, but m’head’s fit to split.”
Emmeline gasped, blanched; dropping her knitting on her chair, she hurried around the table. “Good Lord—what happened?”
She didn’t wait for any explanation; she fretted and fussed, dispatching Birtles for clean rags and Jessica to fetch a bowl of warm water.
Phoebe stood by the fire and let the mild pandemonium reign; she knew it was Emmeline’s way of coping, not just with the shock of Fergus’s injury but with the even bigger shock of having a man like Deverell in her kitchen.
He was the epitome, outwardly at least, of the type of gentleman Emmeline had had good cause to flee years before. Phoebe glanced sideways at him, wondering if perhaps he might feel, or be made to feel, awkward enough to leave. He was frowning—at first she thought at Emmeline, but then she realized he was looking at Fergus. More specifically, at Fergus’s cracked head.
To Distraction Page 22
