They cleared the attics, then the second floor; the only spaces they found were taken up by cupboards. Descending to the first floor, they continued; it didn’t take them long to establish that the larger rooms were all as they should be. Frustrated, in Deverell’s case with a species of icy panic sliding through his veins, they halted in the corridor a little way from the main stairs.
“This is crazy.” Hauling in a tight breath, Deverell raked his hand through his hair. “There has to be something here.”
Gervase grimaced. After a moment he said, “Are we wrong?”
Deverell didn’t want to think it, but in his present state, he wasn’t even sure his earlier deductions were rational. The panic welling inside him was unlike any he’d known. He’d faced death, several times, without such turmoil. Without such desperate, driving, gut-wrenching compulsion to act to fend off the soul-destroying desolation looming.
He had to find Phoebe. He was barely aware of clenching his fists with the effort to smother an urge to roar her name. Lips thin, pressed tight, he looked down, then growled, “Somewhere here there’s something to be found.”
Lifting his head, he looked along the corridor to the stairs. “Let’s talk to the butler.”
He took a step and something crunched underfoot. He looked down, then crouched. Lifting a pottery shard, he held it up so Gervase could see.
“Odd.” Gervase looked right and left. “This place has been swept recently.”
Deverell narrowed his eyes. “What if Lowther didn’t hit his head, but someone hit it for him?”
Gervase met his eyes, then looked around. “Where is the question.” Then he pointed to the side of the corridor past Deverell. “Is that another sliver? There—at the bottom of those doors.”
Deverell swiveled, looked, reached out, and fingered the thin white fragment, then rose, examining the narrow doors in the corridor wall. “Looks like a closet.” He pulled the handle. “It’s locked.”
Gervase ranged beside him. “Why lock a closet?”
“Indeed.” Deverell felt in his pocket. In a few seconds, the doors were unlocked. He tugged them open.
Shelves packed with towels and linens faced them. As one, he and Gervase took a step back, scanning the top, the sides, the floor of the cupboard.
“It’s a hidden door,” Gervase said.
Deverell nodded. “There must be stairs behind it, concealed in the cupboards in the rooms on either side. We need to find the catch.”
Towels and linens flew, then reaching to the back corner of one shelf, Gervase grunted. “Got it.”
Deverell stepped back. A click sounded. Gervase joined him as the two halves of the cupboard swung out from the center, pivoting at the sides to reveal a dark set of very steep, narrow stairs leading upward. They could just make out another door at the top of the stairs, beyond a wide last step.
“Well, well,” Deverell breathed.
Gervase tapped his arm. They communicated by signal; they didn’t know if Phoebe was alone or with a guard.
Seconds later, Deverell crept silently up the stairs, leaving Gervase at their base, guarding his back.
In the room at the top of the stairs, Phoebe had returned to stand against the wall beside the door, but this time on the other side. The beast would expect her to be behind the door; he might well swing it back hard to hit her.
Head back against the wall, she tried not to think about what she intended to do. The beast had left her no choice; she was not going to be his victim.
Her gaze drifted to the mound of white porcelain fragments on the floor by the chest of drawers. She’d broken both the pitcher and the bowl in her quest for a decent weapon. In her right hand, she clutched the long, thin, daggerlike piece she’d fashioned; she’d lagged half its length with the cord with which she’d been tied so she could grip it tightly. The exposed tip was definitely sharp enough to slice through skin; how much more damage it would do she would soon find out.
The stairs creaked.
She sucked in a breath. Waited.
But he waited, too. More cautious, this time.
She would only get one chance at him—in the instant he came through the door. She couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t fail. Her future and Deverell’s depended on it.
The lock scraped.
She breathed out, sucked in another breath and held it. Clutched the dagger shard and tensed…
The door flung open, shoved forcefully as she’d foreseen. It banged against the wall.
A man stepped in.
Eyes closing, she swung with all her might, driving the daggerpoint hard for his chest.
Deverell saw, grabbed her wrist lightning quick, crushingly in that first instant, but he immediately gentled his hold as he held the point of the wicked-looking makeshift dagger away from his waistcoat. She gasped and fought his strength. “Phoebe.”
Her eyes flew wide, lifted to his face.
For an instant she simply stared at him, then the dagger fell from her fingers, all the fight drained out of her and she flung herself at him. “Oh, thank God—it’s you!”
She clutched him, hugged him—then pulled back and framed his face. “How did you find me? That man, whoever he is—”
She broke off as Gervase poked his head through the doorway. He looked her up and down, grinned, then looked at Deverell. “I’ll tell them.”
Deverell nodded. He couldn’t speak. He could barely stand as relief and so much more poured through him.
Turning, Gervase went quickly down the stairs.
Dragging in a still-too-tight breath, Deverell returned his attention to Phoebe, looked at her for an instant—at her face, her eyes, glowing and alive, undimmed…then he hauled her into his arms and hugged her until she squealed. Even then, eyes closed, battling emotions that were simply too strong, he had to breathe deeply again before he could force himself to ease his hold and set her back enough to examine her properly.
Her afternoon gown of green cambric was rumpled and crumpled, but not torn; numerous heavy dark red locks had come loose from her chignon, but otherwise he could see no damage. No sign she’d been molested.
Most reassuring was the clear, open expression on her face and the martial light gleaming in her violet eyes.
His reaction was so profound it all but rocked his world.
Hands cupping her shoulders, he looked into her face, met those bright eyes, and struggled to behave normally. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded. Far from swooning or even wilting, she seemed energized. “I hit him with the chamber pot, but he ducked and it broke. Then he tried to grab my wrists but your maneuver worked—much to his amazement. I tried to knee him but he shifted—I almost got him, though. And then…” She frowned lightly. “I can’t remember what more, but then his butler called him away. He flung me aside but I wasn’t hurt.”
She was babbling but seemed quite chuffed at her resourcefulness.
Then her eyes found his. After a moment, she tilted her head, then said, “I might not have defeated him, but thanks to what you taught me—to all you’ve taught me—he didn’t harm me. And now you’ve rescued me, so…”
He expected her to say “all is well”; he would have sworn from her tone that that was what she intended. Instead, her pause lengthened. He waited; buffeted by relief, joy, triumph, pride in her, appreciation of her courage and so much more, he was still battling to find his emotional feet.
Then her expression sobered; her chin set, determination in every line. “As soon as this is over, the first chance we have to speak alone, we must talk.”
He blinked. Talk? While one part of his mind had him nodding in complete agreement, another part was scrambling to fathom her direction. Most especially the source of her sudden serious determination.
She glanced at the door, a frown forming. “Who was Gervase going to tell?”
Mentally shaking his head, somewhat desperately realigning his wits, he refocused on what lay before them. “The others�
�Dalziel, Christian, and Tristan. They’re speaking with Lowther, distracting him. They weren’t going to come to the point until we had you safe.”
Casting a last glance around the room—it was concealed between other rooms and in between two floors, which was why they hadn’t discovered it earlier—he steered her to the door. “Come—we should go downstairs.”
Gervase knocked on the study door, then opened it and walked in.
Seated in the chair before the wide desk, Dalziel turned to look at him. Tristan stood to one side, close to the wall, arms folded; Christian stood in a similar position on the other side of the desk, at ease yet focused.
Lowther sat rigidly upright behind the desk, trying to hide incipient panic behind a belligerent scowl.
Closing the door, Gervase walked forward and answered the others’ unvoiced question. “We found her. She’s with Deverell.” Halting behind the chair Dalziel occupied, Gervase held Lowther’s gaze. “The room she was in was concealed.”
“Is that so?” Dalziel’s brows rose as he turned his dark gaze back on Lowther. “How very unwise.”
Lowther had paled. He tried for blustering anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re insinuating—”
“The time for insinuations is past.” Dalziel’s voice, although not raised, left no doubt that he, and not Lowther, was in charge of the interview. “Perhaps I should tell you what we already know.”
Calmly, succinctly, he outlined their case against Lowther, citing the evidence tying him to the kidnappings of eight separate women. Christian, Tristan, and Gervase stood not exactly unobtrusively around the room, their gazes resting on Lowther, their condemnation explicit in their cold silence. Lowther glanced at them, read judgment in their eyes; his gaze drifted back to Dalziel.
He swallowed.
There was no hope; he saw that. His face—he—seemed to age before their eyes.
Reaching the end of his recitation, Dalziel asked, “Who was your contact among the white slavers?”
Lowther blinked, twice, then with peevish arrogance stated, “I don’t know—I don’t consort with such people.”
“A nice distinction—you simply take their money. So how was the information relayed from you to the gang who organized the abductions, and how were the resultant payments delivered to you?”
Lowther hesitated. After a moment, he said, “My ward—Malcolm Sinclair.”
A curious stillness descended on Dalziel. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, lighter—and wholly frightening. “Your ward. Correct me if I’m wrong—Sinclair’s been your ward from the time he was a child.”
Curtly, Lowther nodded.
“And you’ve involved him in this business? Or did he involve himself?”
Lowther snorted. “Malcolm’s nothing but a pawn. He does what I tell him. Under my direction, he made the contacts and acted as courier, ferrying information and money back and forth.”
“And that’s the full extent of his involvement?”
Lowther compressed his lips, then conceded, “He has friends from his Eton and Oxford days—I encouraged him to cultivate them. They proved excellent sources of information about pretty maids and the like—the usual young men’s gossip. Malcolm would bring the information to me and I would decide what was useful, what not.”
“So Sinclair’s role was entirely of your making?”
Lowther’s lip curled. “Malcolm’s weak—he lacks backbone. He’s bright enough but totally indecisive, inclined to be overcautious to the point of doing nothing. He might think of schemes, but he would never actually do anything about them.”
After a moment’s silence, Dalziel murmured, “A pity, perhaps, that you didn’t follow his lead.”
A deep coldness threaded through his voice, one that chilled to the marrow. Already pasty-faced, Lowther blanched even more.
The silence stretched; none of them moved.
Lowther, increasingly ashen, sat frozen, immobilized as the full weight of all that had been said—and not said—sank into his brain. Eventually he blinked, and the belligerent but brittle defiance that had held him upright until that moment started to fade.
Dalziel glanced at the others. “Perhaps you would give me a few minutes with his lordship. I’ll join you in the drawing room.”
All three recognized an order when they heard one, especially one delivered in that quiet, deadly, almost disembodied voice. They exchanged glances as they went to the door. Each cast one last glance at Lowther—sitting behind his desk, his pallor ghastly, his eyes fixed straight ahead, the wall behind him sporting six fabulous examples of his obsession, the obsession he’d sold women into slavery to satisfy—then they quietly quit the room and closed the door, and left Lowther staring at his fate.
For long moments, a clock ticking was the only sound to break the silence.
Then Dalziel spoke, his tone colder, icier than the grave. “Well, my lord?”
Slowly, Lowther refocused and met Dalziel’s dark gaze.
There was only one answer he could make.
Deverell cocked his head as he heard the study door open.
He and Phoebe were waiting in the now fully lit drawing room, she occupying an armchair while he paced.
On one level, he wanted to face Lowther and exact vengeance in blood, but aside from him having no intention of leaving Phoebe’s side, given the depth of his cold fury it was perhaps as well that he left Lowther’s punishment to others. Luckily, if there were any man alive he trusted to see justice served, it was Dalziel; he had to be content with leaving the matter in his ex-commander’s experienced hands.
“Lowther!” Phoebe shook her head and sipped the tea the butler had hurried to bring her—after she’d leveled a strait glance his way.
Deverell had noticed and questioned her; she’d confirmed the butler’s involvement and complicity in her imprisonment. Quelling his initial impulse to rend the man limb from limb after he’d delivered the tea, by the time the butler reappeared with the tray, he’d decided on a more fitting course.
Courtesy of the time he’d spent at the agency, he now had a much finer understanding of life belowstairs; he’d suggested and Phoebe had agreed that they should simply mention the man’s behavior to Scatcher and Birtles, and leave them to arrange his fate.
“I still find it mindboggling.” Phoebe set her cup on her saucer. “A law lord, and if your recollection is correct, one specifically involved in drafting the laws on slavery.”
The study door shut; Deverell heard the others’ footsteps nearing.
Halting, he grasped their last moment alone to look at Phoebe—to drink in the sight of her, calm and in large measure composed, safe and unharmed, to let the knowledge wash through him…. He turned as the others filed in.
“No doubt about his guilt,” Christian growled. “It was written all over his face.” He saw Phoebe, smiled charmingly, and sat on the chaise opposite her. “Where was this room he’d locked you in?”
Between them, Deverell, Gervase, and Phoebe explained what had happened regarding Phoebe’s capture and subsequent rescue, then Tristan and Christian described what had transpired in the study.
“Lowther knew what was coming before he’d even sat down,” Christian said, “what with me and Tristan standing there, two peers whose word would be beyond question as witnesses.”
“I’ve never sat through an interview like that.” Tristan shook his head. “When Lowther began, he was convinced he could bluster his way out of any net Dalziel might construct, but even before Gervase joined us he’d tripped himself up twice by reacting to information he shouldn’t have known. Dalziel’s frighteningly acute—he seizes on tiny reactions, and from that seems to know just where to slip in the knife and pry….”
Tristan paused, then went on, “Then Gervase came in, the kid gloves came off, and it was all over.”
Deverell asked about the contact with the slavers; the others had just finished explaining about Lowther’s ward when they all
heard the door of the study open, then almost immediately shut.
All fell silent and listened.
Strolling, prowling footsteps sounded on the tiles, then Dalziel appeared in the open doorway.
He scanned the room; his gaze found Phoebe, and he inclined his head.
She nodded back, not quite smiling. Unsure.
Everyone watched Dalziel. There was a tension in him, one all the other men recognized, one that pricked their instincts and brought them alert in expectation of some greater danger, as if seeing in him a fleeting glimpse of a lethal edge finely honed.
A shot rang out, echoing and crashing in the confines of the house. In the study; there was no doubt in anyone’s mind where the sound came from or what it meant.
No one moved, then shouts and running footsteps rolled up from the rear of the house, spilling into the hall. Dalziel turned his head, looked, then he turned back and met Phoebe’s wide eyes. “My apologies.” The deep voice was even, undisturbed. “But it had to be done.”
Shocked, but puzzled, too, Phoebe held his dark gaze. “You suggested he take his life.” Her tone held no condemnation, only honest curiosity.
He looked at her for a moment, then quietly said, “There are some men we simply do not need in this world.”
The butler hove in sight, all but babbling in consternation. Dalziel turned to deal with him. Christian rose and went to assist.
Tristan and Gervase got to their feet.
Phoebe set down her cup and looked at Deverell.
He met her eyes and held out his hand. “Come—I’ll take you home.”
They traveled the short distance in a hackney, not a suitable venue in which to broach the subject of Phoebe’s vow. As soon as they were alone, in suitable surroundings—she was determined on that.
They walked into the Park Street house to discover Edith, Audrey, and Loftus in the drawing room, all waiting, agog, to hear that she was safe. Of course, once assured that was indeed so, they demanded to know all the rest.
Deverell suggested, and Phoebe concurred, that Skinner, Fergus, and Grainger, who Deverell had sent earlier from the club to reassure Edith, be summoned so all involved could hear their tale.
To Distraction Page 41
