He’d clung tight, and more than once she’d felt the need to employ her wits and her tongue to shield him. Really, some of the more brazen suggestions had made her blush for her sex.
She shifted in the bed, letting her leg brush his. If she were truthful, she’d startled herself by recognizing in herself a reaction she’d seen in him when other eligible gentlemen had tried to capture her interest.
In him, she’d labeled it possessiveness; in her…was it any different?
And if she had the right to feel so, didn’t he?
Numerous incidents during the rout had brought one point home: He needed a bride, a wife of the right caliber to help him, to assist him with the social round he’d inherited along with his title. She’d learned more of his circumstances from comments let fall by various ladies during the evening—and also from Audrey, now she’d taken to frequently looking in at the agency—enough to understand that his need was real.
Partnership.
The word revolved in her mind, as if she were mentally tasting it.
He’d become her partner in her enterprise, but what of his? He had a calling he needed to follow, just as she had. But was that any of her business?
The answer depended on what lay between them.
If what they now shared was in truth the liaison she’d assumed it would be, then it should be on the wane, attraction and desire fading, both of them starting to turn aside, their attention drifting. Yet if anything, the opposite was happening; they were growing more connected, their lives, hopes, and aspirations more intertwined by the day—and on his part that was unquestionably deliberate.
So if this wasn’t a liaison, what was it? A partnership, yes, but where did that end?
When she’d insisted on a liaison, she hadn’t known, hadn’t imagined a relationship like what was developing between them could exist—could possibly be.
But if it could…?
He’d changed his mind once and accepted a liaison. What if she now changed hers?
Would he, could she persuade him to, change his back?
Did she want him to?
The concept and the question wreathed through her mind, and followed her into her dreams.
Chapter 17
“There you are, dear.” Audrey dropped a neatly written reference on the agency’s kitchen table before Phoebe. “Do you need any more?”
Phoebe picked up the letter, read it, then looked up and smiled. “Not at present. But thank you—this will be perfect.”
“Of course. Do let me know when you require another.” With a wave, Audrey drifted back up the corridor; they heard her taking her leave of Emmeline, behind the front counter, then the front door opened and shut.
Deverell glanced at Phoebe; they shared a smile, then he returned his attention to the account books. When appealed to over a forged reference for Miss Spry, Audrey had been delighted to oblige. She and Edith had seized on the provision of such references as one way they could contribute to the agency’s work; he suspected Audrey took great delight in inventing households, and with her artistic bent she had no difficulty disguising her hand so she could create references from multiple imaginary ladies.
“With this,” Phoebe murmured, setting aside the reference, “Dulcie should be able to secure that post with Lady Huntwell.”
And yet another of their “special clients” would be settled. But Phoebe had been speaking the unvarnished truth when she’d warned this was their busy time; they had three more rescues pending.
The front door opened and shut once more; Deverell lifted his head. With Phoebe, he listened to the voices in the front room; it was a woman who’d come in—her voice and Emmeline’s were too soft for him to make out their words.
The woman didn’t remain long; as soon as the front door shut again, Emmeline came down the corridor.
Halting in the archway, from where she could retreat to the front if anyone entered, she showed them a puzzled, frowning face. “Well—that’s a strange thing, to be sure.”
“What is?” Birtles came in from the lane, a sack of potatoes in his arms. “Where’d you want these?”
Emmeline pointed to the pantry, then answered his first question. “That was my sister, Rose. She popped in to tell me that that girl she’d mentioned, from her friend Mrs. Camber’s household that she and Camber thought needed our services—well, it seems the girl’s up and gone of her own accord.”
Deverell frowned.
“Run away?” Phoebe asked.
Emmeline nodded. “That’s what Camber said. She’d spoken to the girl—she was being pursued by her master’s nephew—and she, the girl, had seemed keen to have us help her, but this morning the girl was gone. Camber thought as perhaps she grew so desperate she didn’t want to wait and simply fled.”
They all thought of a young maid fleeing into the streets of London.
“Well,” Phoebe said, her expression grim but resigned, “we can only help those who come our way.”
Emmeline nodded and headed back to the front counter. Birtles humphed and went out to fetch the rest of his purchases.
Phoebe returned to sorting her lists; Deverell eyed her bent head and wondered. Had the maid run away or…?
Try as he might, he couldn’t guess what it was he sensed hovering just beyond perception’s reach.
On the opposite side of London, Malcolm Sinclair climbed the three steps to the recessed door of a tall, narrow building located off Threadneedle Street in the bustling heart of the city. Pushing open the outer door, he entered; without looking to right or left, he ascended to the first floor. The rooms at the end of the corridor overlooking the street housed the offices of Drayton and Company, Mr. Thomas Glendower’s business agent.
Malcolm tapped peremptorily on the office door and entered.
Less than a minute later, he was shown into Drayton’s sanctum. Drayton, average in every physical way, mild-mannered but yet a skilled and exceedingly thorough man-of-business, was already on his feet behind the desk, a smile wreathing his countenance. “Mr. Glendower—a pleasure as always, sir.”
Smiling faintly, aloof and distant, Malcolm shook Drayton’s hand. “I trust all goes well?”
“Indeed, sir.” Drayton waved Malcolm to the chair before the desk; he waited until Malcolm elegantly sat before sinking back into his own chair. “You’ll be pleased to know that the position we took in Bonnington and Company has already paid a substantial dividend.”
Drayton continued, giving Malcolm—Thomas Glendower—a detailed report on his considerable portfolio.
Malcolm listened intently, but while one part of his mind registered facts and figures, another part circled, as always, as ever, checking, considering, assessing and evaluating his options and his decisions, his moves in the game, on the chessboard of life, of which Drayton and Thomas Glendower were one.
Potentially a vital one.
Henry knew nothing of Thomas Glendower, and even less of Malcolm’s facility with finance, with business and the raising and profitable management of capital.
On coming up to town, moved by a distantly perceived, possible, but vague need, Malcolm had amused himself by setting up his alias and his accounts with Drayton, initially as a means of concealing, and at the same time doing something useful with, the sizeable sum he’d amassed through his years at Oxford.
Young gentlemen liked to wager, to play cards for exorbitant sums, sums those who gambled with Malcolm usually lost. Honorably, legitimately—he never resorted to cheating. That was the thrill, the test, the challenge. Over the years, he’d come to view his role in the light of teaching his colleagues a valuable lesson—one sadly few took to heart. Unless one was a whiz with figures, it was unwise to play with one who was.
But what had started as an amusement had grown to an absorbing interest. Malcolm now knew that finance and making money was the area in which he excelled, and which gave him the greatest satisfaction.
Well and good. As a consequence, however, Thomas Glendow
er and his portfolio now meant a great deal to Malcolm; they were creations of his he would fight to protect.
His more superficial mind reported that Drayton had been his usual hardworking, indeed inspired, self. That was what had drawn him to the man—like Malcolm, he was motivated as much by the thrill of successful investment as the money. As he invariably did while sitting in Drayton’s chair listening to his enthusiastic report, Malcolm congratulated himself for his foresight in choosing Drayton—and in setting up such an excellent way of quietly salting away large sums of cash.
Drayton came to an end. “Excellent!” Malcolm smiled, still aloof but showing his approval. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a wad of notes—the cut he’d skimmed from the payment for the last two women passed to the white slaver traders.
Despite his perennial desire for cash, Henry was exceedingly lax about keeping a close eye on what should have been his; he’d made no attempt to check the amount Malcolm had stated they received in return for handing over the prettiest maids in London, snatched from the households of lords and dukes. As always arrogantly certain—forever arrogantly blind—Henry blithely believed Malcolm handed over the full sum.
Such naïveté had Malcolm inwardly shaking his head every time he thought of it. In reality, fifty percent of the cash handed over had from the first made its way into Mr. Thomas Glendower’s accounts.
Nonchalantly dropping the notes on Drayton’s desk, Malcolm stated, “Add that to my account. Invest it as seems fit. That opportunity with the Northern Canal, for example, might suit.”
Drayton’s eyes had lit. He reached for the money. “Indeed, sir—an excellent choice.”
While Drayton counted the notes and directed his clerks to enter the sum into various ledgers, Malcolm let his mind return to the aspect of his current enterprise that, increasingly, was preying on his mind.
Henry, arrogant and blind, was a potential liability. When, with becoming meekness, Malcolm had speculated on the dangers of depositing sums of cash received from crime into one’s own bank account, Henry had laughed contemptuously; his reputation and position, he claimed, would forever protect him from any investigation.
Perhaps in the past that had been so, but Malcolm had heard enough whispers to suggest that the authorities were becoming more vigilant, certainly less laissez-faire. But while Malcolm could and would quite happily turn his back on the white slavers and walk away—he didn’t need their money; he preferred to make his by safer means—Henry was another matter. He was now addicted to the funds their association with the trade brought in—or more specifically, addicted to the pistols that money allowed him to buy.
Unfortunately, he was also being a pig-headed fool and refusing to take the obvious precautions.
Malcolm abhorred fools, and pig-headed ones were the worst. But what he really didn’t like—what preyed on his mind—was the potential weakness in his own defenses that Henry now represented.
So…
Drayton spoke; Malcolm looked at him, smiled, and rose. Their business concluded, he allowed Drayton to show him out. The instant the office door shut behind him, he let his mind refocus on the problem he could see looming.
Henry would run his own race, and there was nothing Malcolm could do, nor felt compelled to do, in that regard. He and Henry had managed to rub along for nearly fifteen years; it was time to move on. As soon as he turned twenty-one, in just a few short weeks, and assumed control of the fortune his father had left in Henry’s charge, he would act, and step out from Henry’s shadow—sever the umbilical cord that had until now kept him tied.
Meanwhile, however…descending the stairs to the ground floor, Malcolm narrowed his eyes. It would be wise to give some thought to shoring up his own position in the event that Henry was caught.
Tricky, but there were ways and means, and in the circumstances he wasn’t at all averse to using them to ensure he didn’t get caught, too. Considering his options, he pushed open the front door and strolled out into the street.
“Three rescues in one week—that’s a record!”
Phoebe clinked her glass with Deverell’s; smiling delightedly, she beamed at their small band gathered around the agency’s kitchen. “Thanks to our excellent team—Birtles, Fergus, Scatcher, Grainger, and Deverell”—she inclined her head to each in turn—“all three went off smoothly. And thanks to Emmeline, Loftus, Audrey, Edith, and myself, we already have one of our special clients placed, and potential positions to pursue for the other two.”
Birtles raised his tankard high. “To the Athena Agency!”
Everyone cheered and drank.
Lowering his mug, Deverell looked around at their unlikely crew. Goodwill and high spirits overflowed on all sides; three rescues in such a short period was indeed an achievement.
Scatcher, the owner of the shop to the left, a clearing house for antiques and antiquities of dubious provenance, was an unprepossessing rogue whose rather grubby exterior hid a heart of considerable warmth. He’d been highly wary of Deverell but had accepted him on Phoebe’s word; for his part, Deverell was willing to admit that despite Scatcher’s questionable business practices, his sharp eyes, quick wits, and well-honed instinct for self-preservation were of excellent value in a lookout.
On their last rescue, Scatcher had spotted the watch in good time to prevent them being discovered.
The notion of Scatcher and Audrey, let alone Edith, rubbing shoulders was a flight of fancy Deverell had never imagined he’d see, but there they were, all three earnestly debating the positions they were lining up for the girls they’d rescued.
Loftus stood beside Audrey—or rather she stood beside him. His aunt invariably gravitated to Loftus’s side, but no matter how carefully he watched, Deverell couldn’t tell whether her interest was driven purely by curiosity or…something else. Regardless, he’d never seen Audrey’s usually peripatetic attention so consistently focused on one object.
Turning from Emmeline and Birtles, Phoebe tucked her hand in Deverell’s arm and nudged him toward Loftus at the end of the room. “You know, the only thought dimming my enjoyment in our week’s work is that there existed three situations from which we had to rescue those girls.”
He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve and gently squeezed. “True.” He’d thought of that himself. “But as you once so sapiently remarked, we can only do what we can, and trust in God to take care of the rest.”
“Hmm…I don’t recall saying all that—not the last bit, anyway—but you’re right.” Phoebe met his eyes. “I wanted to thank you not only for not being difficult over the agency, but for joining us. We couldn’t have managed all three in one week, not before, not without you and Grainger to help.”
“Grainger and I are enjoying ourselves,” Deverell dryly returned. “Never doubt it.”
“Nevertheless.” Phoebe looked ahead to the small group before them. “You know,” she murmured, lowering her voice, “I’ve rarely seen Edith so animated—so involved. Actively helping us has been good for her.”
Deverell grinned. “It’s the slightly scandalous nature of the enterprise that so thrills her. Audrey’s been corrupting her.”
Phoebe laughed and they joined the others, and the celebration continued for some time.
Later that night, as he let himself in through the French doors of Edith’s morning room and silently went upstairs, Deverell came to a decision, one he’d been hoping not to have to make.
That evening they’d attended Lady Carnaby’s ball, not so much a crush as a highly select gathering. There’d been a number of eligible gentlemen present, dropping by more to be seen among that circle than to cast their eyes over any young lady.
At one stage, he’d been dispatched to fetch Audrey and Edith refreshments. He’d been waylaid, caught by Lord Grimsby and then Lady Hendricks; by the time he’d reached the small salon where the refreshment table was located, Phoebe had been standing alone beside Edith for some time. On his way back, a glass of orgeat in each hand, he�
�d paused just inside the ballroom to check—to verify that no gentleman had taken advantage of his absence to approach Phoebe.
None had, or if they had, they’d already left; she’d still been standing beside Edith, chatting to Audrey.
The sight had brought home an anomaly he’d noted but hadn’t fully analyzed; Phoebe was unquestionably attractive, yet although gentlemen looked, and certainly noticed, few ever approached her.
He’d originally thought that had been due to his attentive and openly possessive presence; now…
A gentleman had ranged alongside him, his gaze fixed in the same direction. Handsome, a blood of the ton a few years Deverell’s junior, the man had clearly been studying—assessing—Phoebe. Turning his head, Deverell had studied the newcomer, until the man had noticed, met his eyes, and smiled—somewhat sheepishly.
“I was just thinking…” With his head, the man had indicated Phoebe on the other side of the room, considering her once more. “Dashed attractive, don’t you think? Pity, really.”
He’d blinked. “Pity?”
“Well, yes.” The man had glanced at Deverell. “You must have been in the wars if you don’t know.”
He’d nodded, acknowledging the supposition. “What don’t I know?”
“That Miss Malleson over there—the lady we’ve been studying—is one to avoid. At least if you prefer your hide whole. The edge of her tongue can slice like a saber. She ought to come with a warning: Deadly, approach at your peril.”
“Is that so?” He’d struggled to hide a grin, but then he’d looked again at Phoebe…and sobered. “Why? Do you know?”
The gentleman had shaken his head. “No clue. As far as I know, she’s been that way ever since she came up to town. Any number have tried, but all have ended up slinking away to lick their wounds.” After a moment, he’d added, “Mind you, I did hear that some brave soul has tamed the dragon, but as he doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight, no doubt she’s put him to rout, too.”
To Distraction Page 31
