The voice was harsh, hard, but very definitely cultured. Well-bred, well-educated—a man of the ton. Of her class, of her station.
He was also not young. Hearing Deverell’s strong, calm voice in her mind, Phoebe forced her panicky senses to her will and set them to glean every snippet of information she could about this man—her enemy. According to Deverell, you could never tell which little snippet might save you.
Over the increasingly loud thudding of her heart, she listened as he continued, pacing slowly back and forth between the door and the foot of the bed. “I want to assure you, my dear, that I fully comprehend your position. I realize you’ve discovered yourself in a bind, shall we say, and have accepted the only viable way out. Situated as you are, I can see that satisfying your lover—ex-lover, I assume—by assisting him in snatching maids for the slavers is a price many ladies in straits such as yours would willingly pay given that Deverell is now hovering so encouragingly.”
Under the hood, Phoebe frowned. What on earth…?
He halted; she sensed him studying her. “Handing over a few pretty maids is hardly to be counted in the scales against becoming Viscountess Paignton. And, of course, Deverell is exceedingly wealthy to boot.”
Phoebe blinked. He thought she was being blackmailed by an ex-lover into helping him snatch maids?
For one moment, indignation and affront rose and swept through her, swamping all fear. How dare he imagine…?!
But he did. Perhaps there was some chance of salvation there.
He spoke again, pacing once more; she listened avidly, noting every word, every nuance.
“All I wish from you, my dear, is the name of this man—your disreputable ex-lover. You need have no fear that in telling me his name, you will invite repercussions—I promise you I will take care of him. You will, quite literally, never see him again.”
There was a cadence to his speech, a heaviness, a weight carried in the harsh yet clearly enunicated, ponderously delivered periods that was both unusual and striking.
“Should you comply, I give you my word that you will suffer no injury from me or my associates.” She sensed him pause and glance at her. “You will note that I have no reason to fear you, or any knowledge you might glean from this encounter, as you will hardly be so foolish as to call anyone’s attention to your involvement—active involvement, I might add—in the white slave trade.”
Silence fell. He was standing at the foot of the bed, watching her.
Another moment ticked by, then he said, “Well?”
A wealth of arrogant demand infused the word; he was waiting for her response and wasn’t used to being kept waiting.
Idiot! Phoebe’s temper sparked. She mumbled from behind the strip of material still gagging her.
“Ah! Your pardon, my dear. How remiss of me.”
He moved to round the bed; Phoebe prayed he’d remove the hood from her head.
Then he was by the side of the bed and leaning over her—panic again bloomed. She fought to subdue it, to not cringe and press away from his hands as he reached about her head. She had to hold her breath and grit her teeth as he searched, all but physically holding back her reaction as he felt about her head—then he found the knot, jerked and untied the strip of material. She forced herself to raise her head so he could unwind the strip. Then he pulled it away.
The hood, the hood!
But no—he stepped back from the bed and left the hood in place. Her heart thudding uncomfortably, Phoebe huffed out a disgusted breath—the hood moved, lifting briefly off her face, then settling down again…but now she could see.
If she squinted straight down on either side of her nose, she could see a sliver of room beyond her tied feet, beyond the end of the bed.
“Right then, my dear. Now what is your answer? Speak up—what is this man’s name?”
Beneath the hood, she moistened her lips and dragooned her wits into order. “Umm…” Not for one minute did she trust his assurance that he wouldn’t harm her; if she told him a name—any name, given she had no disreputable blackmailing ex-lover—there was nothing to stop him killing her…or worse.
He was of the ton; he would consider her ruined goods at best—a female with no status and no rights. If he was, as seemed all but certain, the procurer they’d been searching for, then he had no honor, nothing she could place the slightest faith in.
“I…ah.” She dragged in a huge breath, felt her whirling thoughts steady. “I need to consider…”—on an afterthought she tacked on—“my lord. I need to think carefully of my situation. It’s not as…as simple and clear-cut as you suppose.”
There was a second’s hesitation, then came, “Indeed?”
His voice had grown horridly cold. She battled to quell a shiver and not shrink from where he stood by the bed.
After a moment’s fraught silence, he moved; he started to pace again. He rounded the corner of the bed and fell to pacing back and forth across its end—and she could see him!
Phoebe swallowed a gasp. She knew him! Or at least she had seen him before. His name escaped her, but he wasn’t a total stranger. Just one glance at his heavy frame, at his fastidious attire, confirmed he was of the haut ton. Her “my lord” hadn’t been amiss. Who the devil was he?
She peered at his face, what she could glimpse of it as, head bowed, hands locked behind his back, he slowly paced. He was older, in his fifties, she imagined; his hair was gray-white, a pewterish shade. He was of average height, heavily built, pigeon-chested; every movement shrieked of the reserved, stiff-rumped arrogance too often found in men of his age and class. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his features were unremittingly harsh; he was scowling ferociously.
What she saw gave her some clue to his character. She cleared her throat. “Please…I realize it’s an…an imposition, but if I could have a little time to gather my wits and recover—the jolting in the carriage was dreadful—they left me on the floor, you know. And then being carried upstairs I nearly swooned.” It wasn’t too hard to make her voice quaver, to instill a suggestion of tears in her tone. She sounded like the sort of sniveling female she abhorred, but…
He flung a scowl her way; she got an excellent view of his face, of the shaggy brows overhanging flintlike eyes. Memory stirred, but it was still too elusive for her to pin down.
He studied her; a touch of derision crept into his expression. “Two hours,” he snapped. “I have business to attend to.” He turned to the door. “I’ll return once that’s complete.” Halting with his hand on the latch, he glanced back at her. “But I’ll expect to have that name from you when I do—no more prevarication. You will not find me inclined to indulgence then.”
His gaze grew colder, his voice harder. “And if you think to deny me, my dear, I’m afraid your circumstances will become most unpleasant. As you no doubt know, white slavers are not in the least fussy over the station of their goods, only that they are handsome—and in that respect, my dear, do remember that you qualify.”
He watched her for a moment, as if waiting for some sign she appreciated the full portent of his words. When she remained perfectly still, he swung on his heel, pulled open the door, and went out.
Phoebe didn’t breathe until she heard the lock click, followed by the telltale creak of the stairs as he went down.
Then she exhaled, dragged in another breath, and gave mute thanks she’d managed thus far.
But what now? She had two hours; she had no illusion that he wouldn’t return, that he wouldn’t insist on having a name.
She wasn’t going to lie there and wait for him to come back.
Getting free of her bonds was her first task. The cords lashing her arms to her sides passed just above her elbows; wriggling, she bent her arms up, raising her hands to where she could examine the cords securing them. Unfortunately, with her elbows trapped at her sides, she couldn’t raise her hands to her face, couldn’t use her teeth to attack the cords about her wrists.
Temporarily defeated, she decided to
see if she could get the hood off; after much wriggling and shifting of shoulders and head, she managed to work the hood back and back, until the front edge lay over her brow.
She huffed out a free breath; at least she could see. She took a moment to study her surroundings. It was a strange room—not large but reasonably comfortable with a perfectly adequate bed. While not luxurious, it was certainly no dungeon. In addition to the bed—a four-poster as she’d imagined, but with no canopy above—a small chest of drawers sat beside the door, with a taller chest against one side wall with a porcelain basin and pitcher atop it.
Phoebe wondered whether there would be any water in the pitcher but doubted it. She looked up and around, studying the strangest aspect of the room—it had no windows. There was a large skylight in the ceiling, but it was far too high for anyone to reach, even standing on the bed or the taller chest.
With a sigh, she returned her gaze to her hands and the cords binding them. No matter how she contorted hands and wrists, she couldn’t reach the knots with her straining fingers. Squinting down, desperation rising, she saw the heavy pearl brooch pinned between her breasts.
She had it free in an instant; holding it up, she examined the pin. The brooch was heavy, the pin long and sturdy. Carefully maneuvering it between her fingers, she got to work—painstakingly unpicking and unraveling the cords lashing her wrists.
It was a long, slow, laborious process, but she could see she was making headway. She was determined not to be lying on the bed helpless when that dreadful man returned; while working on the cords, she went over in her mind all Deverell had taught her. The knowledge that there were things she could do to protect herself calmed her, gave her determination a focus.
An hour might have passed, but finally the cords fell and her hands were free! Resisting an urge to cheer—she had no idea if anyone was beyond the door—she lay back, smiling up at the ceiling as she massaged her wrists, then she pushed herself upright and set to work on her other bonds.
Within minutes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her arms, swinging her legs. Carefully, she stood. She crept to the door and put her ear to it. It was a thinnish panel, yet she could hear nothing, sense no one close on the stairs. Recalling how cramped and narrow they were, and that there was another door at their foot, she assumed that if there were any guard, they’d be beyond the second door in the corridor below.
She felt safe enough to walk to free up her limbs.
Eventually, however, she returned to sit once again on the side of the bed. Clasping her hands in her lap, she forced herself to face what had to be faced.
What if Deverell didn’t learn the identity of the procurer that day?
“There’s a ship standing out in the Thames—the Maire Jeune, out of The Hague.”
The clock on the mantelpiece of the Bastion Club library chimed six times; the five men gathered in the armchairs paid it no heed as Tristan continued, “They put off their cargo of fleeces yesterday and say they’re waiting to take on a new cargo. But there’s no cargo registered by any merchant or shipping line for that ship. The captain claimed his agent is negotiating for one, but no one’s sighted any agent. The water police are keeping a close watch on the ship from afar—they were careful not to raise any suspicions with their ‘customary inquiries.’”
“So we have the ship,” Deverell said. “Now we need to be sure of catching them before they slip the girls on board and hoist anchor late one night.”
In the depths of one armchair, Dalziel stirred. He drew out a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. “What’s the ship’s description? I’ll send an alert to the naval captain in Falmouth, just in case she slips our net. No sense not being thorough.”
There were very few people who could be that thorough. Deverell held his tongue and waited while Tristan gave Dalziel the information and he jotted it down.
“Send your alert via Charles.” Gervase caught Dalziel’s eye when he looked up. “That’s the sort of message he would love to deliver. It’ll make him feel included.”
Dalziel’s lips twitched, but he inclined his head. “Indeed. St. Austell will be the perfect messenger.” He looked around the group. “So what else have we gathered?”
They each reported, but other than the news of the ship, there was little real advance beyond what they’d known days before.
“So,” Deverell concluded, “tracing the money is still our surest route to the procurer.”
“Is there anything more we can do on that front?” Christian asked.
“I doubt it.” It was Dalziel who answered. “I can vouch that Montague is thorough and uncommonly tenacious over such matters. He has contacts I’d give my right arm to learn of.” His long lips twisted. “But he’s the soul of discretion—which is presumably why he has such astonishing connections.”
Which, Deverell surmised, was a subtle hint that although Montague might know of Dalziel, there was no point pursing his identity through that most upright man of business. Deverell had to admit the idea had crossed his mind; Montague managed the affairs of some of the most wealthy and influential families in the land.
He recalled he hadn’t mentioned Montague’s last message. “Montague might have turned up something by now. He was spending today checking. I told him about this meeting—I was hoping he’d have learned something definite by the end of the day.”
They all looked at the clock; it was nearly six-thirty.
Christian rose and fetched the decanter; Dalziel asked after Christian’s underworld contacts, whether they might be inclined to assist in bringing down the slavers.
They were discussing that possibility when the knocker on the club’s front door was plied with uncommon force. Repeatedly.
From downstairs came the clatter of Gasthorpe’s and the footman’s footsteps as they ran to open it.
In the library, eyes met. They all sat up, sat forward, set glasses down.
Voices reached them, all male, agitated. Then numerous feet came pounding up the stairs.
As one, the five rose and turned to the door as it burst open.
Fergus stumbled in, Grainger on his heels, Gasthorpe a step behind.
Fergus fixed his gaze on Deverell, literally wringing the cap he held between his huge hands. “They’ve got her, m’lord—the blackguards have kidnapped Miss Phoebe.”
Deverell’s world tilted. A cold wave washed through him, leaching out all warmth; ice crept behind it, desolate and bleak. His heart stopped, his body felt like stone—locking him in place despite the overwhelming impulse to race to Park Street, to look for clues, tear London apart if need be….
He managed a step forward.
Beside him, Dalziel put out a hand and halted him. “No.” There was a quality in that steely voice that even now commanded.
That dragged Deverell, all but quivering under the restraint, back to the real world. He hauled in a breath, held it.
“Find out all you can first,” Dalziel quietly continued, “then we’ll all be able to help.”
The sense in that was undeniable. Deverell expelled the breath locked in his lungs and nodded. Motioning Fergus to a chair, he sank slowly back into his, breathing deeply, desperately searching for a calm that had been destroyed.
He fought to curb the black panic roiling through him. He’d never felt its like before—it was so difficult to breathe—but Dalziel was right; Deverell forced his mind to focus. Fergus slumped onto the straight-backed chair Gervase set for him. Deverell met the Scotsman’s anguished gaze and realized Fergus was flaying himself; she’d been in his care.
He kept his tone even. “What happened? Start from when you last saw her, but quickly.”
Fergus nodded and dragged in a breath. “She was walking in the rear garden like she always does late afternoon. They—Miss Audrey, Mrs. Edith, and Miss Phoebe—had come back from their afternoon rounds. The two ladies laid down in the drawing room and Miss Phoebe went for her constitutional.”
Christian le
aned forward. “She walks every day at that time?”
“Aye.”
“It’s a walled garden,” Deverell put in. He nodded to Fergus. “Go on.”
“Milligan—the housekeeper—called to Miss Phoebe that Miss Edith had rung for the tea tray. Miss Phoebe was down the back corner of the garden. She said she was coming and started back, and then Milligan called me in. I went.” Fergus looked shattered. “But she was halfway back to the morning room—no more than twenty yards—and the back gate was locked, I’d checked it, and there’s shards along the top of that wall. How did they get in and grab her?”
“Was the gate still locked?”
“No.” Grainger had come to stand beside Fergus. “I’d gone past earlier—the key was on the nail and the gate was locked, but when we checked after she’d gone, the key was in the lock and the gate was shut but unlocked.”
“No one heard anything?” Tristan asked.
Fergus shook his head. “Nor saw anything, either. We asked everyone.”
“She opened the gate.” Deverell frowned. “Why? She’s not witless, and she knew she was in danger.” After a moment, he answered, “Someone must have lured her out with something she assumed was safe.”
No one commented.
“Time.” Dalziel fixed Fergus with his dark gaze. “How long was it before you realized she was gone?”
Fergus grimaced. “Half an hour or so. We thought she was with Mrs. Edith and Miss Audrey, but then Mrs. Edith sent the maid down to ask where Miss Phoebe was as her tea was getting cold.”
“So.” Dalziel steepled his fingers. “Half an hour, then time to ask about, then your journey here.” He glanced at the clock. “An hour, at least, but not much more.”
Fergus nodded.
Deverell opened his mouth—before he could speak another knock fell on the front door. A polite knock.
Gasthorpe had gone downstairs a few minutes before, presumably to summon all the footmen and boys who ran messages for the club members. A murmur of voices rose from the front hall, then footsteps, steady and sure, climbed the stairs.
To Distraction Page 39
