To Distraction

by Stephanie Laurens

  Deverell leaned forward. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Higgins as is housekeeper for Major and Mrs. Wrigley on South Audley Street. Her parlor maid Bertha, handsome girl who’d been with her six years, suddenly up and vanished two weeks ago, just like Lizette.” Mrs. Stanley shook her head. “Higgins reported it to the watchhouse, like you said, but nothing came of it. And she hasn’t seen Bertha again.”

  Deverell debated but decided he had to know. “This Bertha—you said she was a handsome girl. And I assume Lizette was, too?”

  “Oh, aye. Right lookers, the pair of them. Well, have to be, don’t you, to be a parlor maid these days.”

  Deverell made no reply; he stood as Mrs. Stanley got to her feet. Other than repeating his advice that she report Lizette’s disappearance, he said nothing more; a minute later, the bell tinkled and the front door shut behind the housekeeper.

  Birtles, who had sat through the interview in the chair before the fire, looked at Deverell as he resumed his seat. “You think there’s something behind this—these maids who up and disappear after arranging to leave with us?”

  Deverell glanced at Phoebe, saw the same question in her eyes, and in Emmeline’s as she came back from seeing Mrs. Stanley out.

  “I think,” he said, choosing his words, “that these disappearances are becoming too frequent to overlook. Three, all in the space of two weeks, all attractive girls—the sort who work in the mansions of Mayfair.” He definitely didn’t like what he was thinking.

  “The same area we mostly work in,” Birtles observed.

  “Indeed.” Deverell kept his reaction from his face. “Be that as it may, I can’t see any way we can pursue this—other than via the watch.”

  Not unless they had something more to work with. He turned that conclusion over and around in his mind, examining it from every angle, and couldn’t fault it. He knew too little to alert anyone—even those who would back his instinct that something nefarious was going on.

  He glanced at Birtles, who was as sober as he. “Until we clear up this mystery of the missing maids, we’ll take every precaution.”

  Phoebe grimaced. “Well, we won’t have to worry tonight—we no longer have anyone to rescue.”

  Chapter 18

  “Here she comes.” Phoebe pointed to a slight, cloaked figure creeping up the area steps at the rear of one of the town houses fronting Curzon Street.

  Deverell spared the hesitant figure no more than a glance before returning his gaze to the dense shadows shrouding the narrow alley in which he and Phoebe stood waiting, partially concealed in the lee of their carriage.

  This was the sixth rescue he’d helped organize, and the one he liked the least. Although only yards from the wide thoroughfares of Mayfair, they stood in a maze of alleys, lanes, and interconnecting mews; there were too many entrances onto the scene, all draped in darkness—too many approaches from which others could come at them largely unseen.

  He kept telling himself that this wasn’t a battle, that Phoebe and her people weren’t troops he was positioning to repel an attack, yet that’s how his mind kept seeing the moment—how his instincts kept prodding him to react.

  Phoebe shifted beside him, her attention on the maid creeping out into the alley, her gaze locked on the dark carriage. One hand on Phoebe’s arm, restraining her, Deverell gripped, then released his hold. “Go to her.”

  He didn’t need to whisper twice; Phoebe swept forward, walking quickly, decisively. Cloaked and hooded, she was nevertheless clearly female; the frightened maid, also cloaked, drew herself up, clutching her bag to her chest defensively, but she didn’t bolt.

  Deverell scanned the area again; his thumbs were pricking. Fergus was on the box; Grainger was further down the alley watching their escape route, while Birtles was keeping watch at the head of one of the alleys to their rear. Scatcher was about, too, hugging the shadows a little ahead of the carriage.

  Every instinct Deverell possessed urged him to walk with Phoebe, to stick by her side, yet if the maid saw him there, large and menacing, she might panic and flee. Phoebe had a knack of reassuring with a few words, so that while they still eyed him, and to a lesser extent Birtles and Fergus, with wariness and suspicion, the girls would nevertheless trust Phoebe enough to leave with them.

  Phoebe reached the girl and spoke with her. Deverell saw some of the brittle tension in the maid’s figure ease. She peered toward the carriage. Phoebe turned and beckoned.

  He started forward—and a chill touched his nape.

  In that same instant he saw a shadow between him and Scatcher move, sliding out of a narrow gap between two houses. Blinking, he shifted into a run—there were more of them pouring out of the narrow gap. Behind him came the sound of an oath and scuffles.

  Followed by the unmistakable cacophony of a fight.

  He waved at Phoebe. “Get to the carriage!” She’d turned and was staring past the carriage at the altercation behind it.

  Two men erupted out of the area behind the maid—shoving her aside, they flung themselves on Deverell.

  He had to stop and deal with them. A flurry of quick, punishing blows, a kick to one knee and they were down, rolling and groaning on the rough paving.

  Deverell swung around, rapidly assessing. Scatcher had fallen on the rear of the group between him and Phoebe; despite his stature, he was giving a good account and Grainger was pounding to his relief.

  But one man had won through; he’d reached Phoebe. He was standing before her and the maid, looking from one to the other—it was ludicrously obvious he’d been told to “grab the woman” and didn’t know which one to seize.

  He seized Phoebe.

  Deverell saw red.

  The man started to drag her down the alley; she resisted, slapping at him with her free hand.

  The man cursed, stopped, lifted his arm to backhand her across her face—

  Deverell’s fist connected with the man’s face instead.

  He wrenched Phoebe free. “The carriage!” He pushed her toward the maid, then squared up to the bruiser, who’d staggered back, bellowing in rage. Regaining his balance, he lowered his head and charged Deverell.

  But the man hadn’t been taught to fight in the same arena Deverell had; with a few quick jabs followed by a satisfying roundhouse, Deverell felled him.

  He spared only a moment to confirm that Scatcher and Grainger were holding their own, then turned and raced back to the carriage. Dragging the nearly hysterical maid, Phoebe had just reached it and opened the door.

  “Get in!” She pushed the maid to the door.

  Deverell reached them, grasped the maid about the waist and hoisted her into the carriage, then grabbed Phoebe and bundled her in after her. He slammed the door shut. “Stay there!”

  There was no one on the box. The horses were shifting, restive, but not yet panicking.

  He ran to the rear of the carriage. Birtles had been overwhelmed by three men, but Fergus had jumped down and gone to his aid. Laying about with his whip, he’d dragged the bruised Birtles free, but the hyenas were still circling.

  The three attackers froze when Deverell appeared out of the night and ranged alongside Fergus and Birtles, now upright, albeit unsteadily.

  Eyeing him, swiftly calculating the odds and deciding they were no longer in their favor, the three exchanged glances, then turned and fled.

  Fergus swore and started after them. Deverell caught his arm and hauled him back. “No—let’s get out of here.”

  Recalled to their purpose, Fergus nodded and lumbered back to the carriage. Deverell supported Birtles as far as the carriage door. “Get inside.”

  Leaving the big man to clamber in, Deverell went to the horses’ heads and peered down the alley. The three who had tangled with him had staggered away; he glimpsed one of them disappearing down the narrow gap.

  Further down the alley, wreathed in shadows, Grainger and Scatcher were still standing—but so were two of their assailants.

  Deverell turned; in two
strides, he reached the coachman’s steps and swung up. “Go—we’ll pick them up on the way.”

  Fergus released the brake and eased the reins; eager to get away, the horses jerked and clattered forward.

  The two attackers facing Scatcher and Grainger heard; glancing around they saw the carriage lumbering down upon them.

  They turned and fled down another of the narrow alleys.

  “Get on!” Deverell waved Scatcher and Grainger to the carriage.

  Scatcher came running; Grainger hesitated, wanting to give chase, but then obeyed. Fergus slowed the carriage; both men scrambled up to the footmen’s positions over the boot.

  The instant they were aboard, Fergus whipped up his horses. He drove out of the dark alleys into the nearly deserted streets and headed toward the agency.

  Beside him, Deverell settled on the seat. “Take a roundabout route.”

  It wasn’t until she sat down at the table in the agency’s kitchen that Phoebe had a chance to analyze what had happened. Sinking onto a chair, she looked around—at her people, as Deverell referred to them.

  He was there, sitting alongside her, his hands wrapped about a steaming mug. He and Fergus had tended to Birtles’s bruises while she and Emmeline had soothed and reassured the panicked maid. The girl, Molly Doyle, was now huddled under the covers on one of the narrow cots upstairs, thanking her stars for salvation.

  A cup of tea appeared in front of Phoebe. She looked up and smiled her thanks as Emmeline took the chair beside her. Birtles sat slumped in the next chair, sipping what Phoebe suspected was an extra-strong hot toddy.

  Fergus rose from the fire he’d been stoking and took the chair at the end. The back door opened and Scatcher and Grainger, who’d been taking care of the horses, came in. Emmeline rose, helped them to tea, then resumed her seat.

  Deverell glanced around as Scatcher and lastly Grainger sat. “Good—we’re all here, more or less intact. We came out of that well, but…” His gaze traveled around the table, taking in the faces, finally coming to rest on Phoebe’s. “Who were they? Why did they attack us? And will they attack us again?”

  “Wasn’t any doing of the household—the nobs the girl was fleeing from,” Birtles said. “Wrong sort of bruisers. And they weren’t young bloods out for a lark, neither.”

  Scatcher nodded. “Lowlifes, they were—right rum customers.”

  “Did you recognize any of them?” Deverell asked.

  Scatcher shook his head. “Not from this side of town, nor yet, if you ask me, from the East End, neither.” He sipped, then said, “Southwark, most like.”

  “What’s most worrying me,” Fergus said, his Scots accent slow and lugubrious, “is the why of it.”

  That was worrying Phoebe, too.

  Fergus glanced at her, then looked at Deverell. “Could it be that last time, and perhaps one time before that, they got to the girls first, but this time, we did?”

  Deverell hesitated, then admitted, “It looks suspiciously like that. But what—” He broke off, looking down at the mug cradled between his hands, a frown drawing down his dark brows. “Bear with me—let’s talk this through. This other gang…if we assume they’re behind the other disappearances we’ve heard of, then it seems they’re targeting a specific sort of female.” He glanced around the table. “You all saw Molly Doyle?”

  Puzzled, Fergus, Scatcher, and Grainger shook their heads.

  “She’s Irish, another parlor maid, and strikingly pretty, if not beautiful. Mrs. Higgins described the other two girls—Lizette and Bertha—as ‘right lookers.’ It appears this gang is kidnapping beautiful parlor maids, and of course Mayfair has the best selection of those.”

  “But…why?” Emmeline gave voice to the obvious question.

  Deverell’s expression was grim. “I can think of only one reason. This other gang are procurers for white slave traders.”

  Emmeline sucked in a shocked breath; horrified, Phoebe held hers.

  Birtles blinked. “I didn’t think that happened anymore.”

  “It does,” Deverell said, “but it operates in cycles. They’ll plague London for a few months, maybe a year, then fade away—but then it’s Bristol’s turn, or Liverpool, or Southampton. Over the years, they’ve likely become more selective—beautiful, preferably untouched young women will give the best return in their dastardly trade.”

  He paused, then concluded, “It appears the blackguards have returned to London.”

  “So,” Phoebe said, “while we’re rescuing the same sort of girls—for of course it’s the most attractive female staff who are subjected to unwanted attentions—this other gang is trying to kidnap them.”

  “Exactly.” Deverell met her eyes when she looked at him. “And that’s why we’re going to have to do something about this, because short of halting the agency’s efforts with ‘special clients,’ it’s inevitable we’ll run across this gang again.” He paused, then added, “Or more specifically, they’ll come looking for us.”

  “In the night, in the narrow alleys.” Fergus nodded direfully. “While we’re rescuing the girls—they’ll know where to find us.”

  “Bad enough,” Deverell grimly returned, “but it’ll be even worse if they follow us back here. That we can’t have—it’s something we must never risk.”

  They all murmured agreement to that.

  Deverell waited a moment, allowing everyone time to assimilate the situation, then quietly said, “That leaves us facing a choice—a choice we have to make, more or less now, tonight.”

  Phoebe turned to him. “What choice?”

  He met her gaze. “We have two options, two paths we can take. One, we do nothing to stop the slaving gang—nothing to draw attention to the agency. We pull back and hide until the wolves finish prowling London’s streets and move on to their next field. That may be weeks, or it may be months. We’ll have to cease all rescues and leave threatened girls to fend for themselves until it’s safe for us to act again. We can’t even be a safe house, taking in girls if they can find their way here by themselves. Even that could lead the wolves to our door.”

  A deep murmur of resistance rippled around the table.

  He held up a staying hand. “Before you say no to that option, consider this. This agency has rescued a number of women over the years—and will rescue many more in the years to come if it remains in existence. If we refuse to temporarily call a halt, we’ll put the future of the agency—and the rescue of all those women in the years to come—at risk.”

  Everyone was grimly sober; all frowned, weighing his words.

  “How much risk?” Phoebe eventually asked, a clear bite to her tone. “What’s the other option—you said there were two?”

  “The second option is to stop the slavers.”

  Fergus looked worried. “How? We came out all right tonight, but next time there’ll be more of them, and there aren’t more of us.”

  Deverell felt his lips curve. “Yes, and no. I hadn’t imagined taking them on in the back streets at night. That would be foolhardy. However, I have contacts who’ll know exactly how to deal with them—indeed, I imagine they’ll be only too happy to deal with them once I inform them that such a gang is active. However, in doing that, and while they’re being dealt with, which may take a week or so, we’ll have to be more vigilant than ever—we must not draw attention to the agency’s ‘special clients.’ Not official attention—while the agency’s actions in helping ‘special clients’ is not of itself illegal, some of the methods employed would not meet with general approval. And we’ll still need to avoid the attention of the slavers.”

  He glanced around, meeting all the gazes, ending with Phoebe’s. “We can act against them—with luck the authorities will catch them, but at the very least they’ll be driven from London and the agency will be able to continue its work in safety. But in alerting the authorities there’s a risk that they’ll discover what the agency’s secret role is—it’s the reason we’ve stumbled on the gang. We can take care to keep
our heads down in any upcoming rescue over the next weeks while the authorities are dealing with the gang, but we can’t completely foresee—and therefore can’t completely manage—what might happen once we inform the authorities.”

  Frowning, Phoebe held his gaze, wondering why he was watching her so intently—why he was speaking more to her than anyone else.

  “So,” he concluded, “there are two options, two paths. Both will work. One is completely safe but lets the slavers be. The second is risky but, with luck, will mean the end of this gang at least.”

  His gaze remained steady on her face. Phoebe sensed he was waiting…then she realized. She cleared her throat and looked around the table. Everyone was waiting on her—on her decision.

  Her people, her agency…her decision.

  She looked back and found Deverell’s eyes, looked into the steady, unwavering green. Drew strength and certainty from his gaze. “I don’t think there’s any real choice—we can’t allow slavers to operate without trying to stop them. The agency’s reason for existence runs directly counter to theirs.” Drawing in a decisive breath, she glanced around the table. “I believe we should take the second path. We need to alert the authorities.”

  No one had argued. Deverell had accepted Phoebe’s commission to do whatever needed to be done to alert the authorities and set them on the trail of the slavers. In turn he’d impressed on everyone else the need to conceal the agency’s special operations from all those not already aware of them.

  Climbing the club’s stairs the next morning after breakfast, he recalled his and Phoebe’s later discussion, once they’d been alone in her bedchamber.

  Although he’d couched the risk as being to the agency, there was an equal risk to her—to her reputation. Should it ever become known she was the owner of an employment agency, let alone that that agency specialized in rescuing female servants from sexual exploitation, she would be ostracized. Such was the hypocrisy of the society in which they lived.