To Distraction

by Stephanie Laurens

  Edith paused, her gaze steady on Sinclair. “So I thought, my boy, that it’s time we had a talk.”

  Edith waited, but Sinclair made no response. Lifting her teacup, she sipped. Sinclair had taken a cup but hadn’t drunk; as Deverell watched, he slowly laid the cup and saucer aside on a table to his right.

  The movement caught Deverell’s attention, set his instincts quivering. It was not just graceful but controlled—too controlled. Oh, yes, Sinclair was far more than he seemed. Had he forgotten Deverell was watching? Or had he not realized how revealing such minor honest gestures could be?

  Given Sinclair’s age, Deverell suspected the latter. Given Sinclair’s intelligence, he felt sure of it.

  Balancing her cup on her saucer, Edith continued. She was no longer looking at Sinclair. “Lowther was always a weak man. His weakness—his coldness, his lack of proper feeling—was what he had in common with your father. It was what made them such close friends. But while Lowther was clever enough, your father was brilliant.” She glanced at Sinclair. “Everyone who met him knew it—the depth and breadth of his mind was undeniable.

  “Unfortunately, however, he had no real ability to connect with the world beyond his intellect. He had no notion of other people, or society in general, no empathy whatever. He was the third son of a viscount yet had not the faintest concept of morals, ethics, or even propriety. He could speak nine languages fluently but couldn’t comprehend that the world was real and did not revolve about him. Lowther, as I said, was similar, although he hid it far better. Your father, however—for him his salvation came in the form of your mother.

  “She was his anchor, his link with the world. He would listen to her, and because he truly loved her—and for no other reason at all—he would do what she asked, to please her. Despite his flaws, he was generous in his love and totally committed to her. Together, with her acting as his conscience, he became for a brief time the brilliant scholar and philosopher he should have been.”

  Edith paused; her voice lowered and Deverell had to strain his ears. “There was, of course, a price, and in some ways that price was your isolation. Your mother never meant to neglect you, but your father’s demands on her time and attention were constant and unceasing, so you were—in hindsight most unwisely—left much to yourself. And then they were gone—the brief flash ended with a carriage accident, and unhappily you were left to Lowther’s care.”

  She looked directly at Sinclair. “Many of us tried to look in on you at first, but with your father’s death Lowther became even more cold and distant, and less amenable to society’s pressures. So you grew up alone with him your only guide. Looking back, that was something we—those of us who knew your parents—never should have allowed. But we never saw you, not since you were six, so didn’t realize…”

  Edith paused, then set aside cup and saucer and faced Sinclair. “I’m one of the few still alive who knew both your parents well. You’re brilliant like your father—oh, you needn’t try to hide it, and it’s far too late to deny it—it shines in your eyes for any who know the signs to see. Knowing that, knowing Lowther and his limitations…well, my boy, it’s hard to imagine he was the one who thought up the recent scheme, and not you. Regardless, I’m quite sure you have enough of your mother in you that it wasn’t you who set the scheme in motion—that was Lowther—but the scheme I’ve heard described has the stamp of your mind on it, not his.”

  There was not a sound in the room; at the other end, Deverell stood transfixed.

  “As matters stand,” Edith continued, “the authorities have been lenient over your involvement. They’ve given you a chance—one I hope you see for what it is. Listen to me, Malcolm, for I’ve seen your kind before and few others ever have. You need to control the products of your intellect. You will always see opportunity and possibility where others see none, but too often your schemes will ride roughshod over the rights and indeed the lives of others. Unlike your father, you will see that—but like him, you won’t really care. You will very likely not indulge in such schemes yourself—you have no pressing reason to—but you will be tempted, as you were with Lowther, to let others try them, if for no other reason than to see if they work.”

  Sinclair’s stillness, complete and absolute, his attention locked on Edith, proved beyond doubt the acuity of Edith’s words.

  Studying Sinclair’s face, Edith nodded. “Yes, I can see that in you, too. So consider this a warning—in all likelihood it will be the only one you’ll ever receive. Stay on the straight and narrow. You’re stronger than your father—you recognize right from wrong. Don’t let your brilliance seduce you into letting the schemes your brain devises become reality, thus harming others, albeit at arm’s length. Just because blame can never be sheeted home to you does not absolve you of it.”

  Edith sat back, eyes on Sinclair’s face. After a moment, she said, “There’s nothing more I can say, for you understand me perfectly. When next temptation comes your way, let it pass by.”

  A long moment passed in which neither Sinclair nor Edith moved, then she said, “Thank you for coming. Paignton will see you out.”

  Sinclair rose, as did Edith.

  To Deverell’s surprise, Sinclair hesitated, then bowed—gracefully, without the assumed awkwardness of youth. “Ma’am.”

  He turned and started toward Deverell, who strolled to wait by the door.

  Deverell watched Sinclair draw nearer, saw the softening of his face as his youthful, vague, rather diffident mask slid back into place. His stride changed, too, less confident, more hesitant.

  By the time Sinclair reached him, there was no hint of the dangerous man he knew Edith had faced.

  Before the door, Sinclair paused and glanced back. Edith had risen and walked to her writing desk before the window; as they watched, she picked up her diary—a slim volume clasped between engraved silver plates with a large cabuchon amethyst adorning the front cover—then sat and, opening the diary, holding back a page, she reached for her pen.

  Turning, Sinclair nodded vaguely in Deverell’s direction. Without meeting his eyes, he allowed Deverell to show him out of the house.

  Deverell spoke with Christian, then consulted with Dalziel, but they concluded that the official stance on Malcolm Sinclair was correct. Edith’s conjecture that the scheme was the fruit of Sinclair’s brain was hardly proof, and even she felt certain it had been Lowther, and not Sinclair, who had put it into action. Indeed, Lowther himself had confirmed Sinclair’s lackey status.

  “The man may have criminal ideas,” Dalziel said, “but that’s no crime.”

  “Just as long as he does nothing to convert theory into practice.” Deverell met Dalziel’s, then Christian’s, eyes. They needed no words to know what each of them was thinking.

  Malcolm Sinclair would bear watching.

  Paignton Hall, Devon

  Three weeks later

  They were married in the chapel of his castle—an ancient place encapsulated within a much more modern structure.

  Phoebe was thrilled and fascinated with her new and fancifully different home, with the surrounding countryside, so lush and verdant, with the seas that sometimes thundered and at other times shushed so peacefully into the cove beneath her window.

  Today the seas were peaceful, the sun beaming down as she and Deverell, arm in arm, wended their way through the huge crowd gathered to celebrate their wedding.

  Everyone was there; she and Deverell had agreed to have their banns read and give everyone the three weeks to prepare and journey down to the hall. She’d convinced Emmeline and Birtles to close the agency for a few days and enjoy the castle’s hospitality. They’d managed to bring Scatcher with them; he was wandering the old bailey, now an expanse of lawn on which they were all gathered, gazing in amazement at the surrounding castle walls.

  Phoebe glanced around, too, but at the crowd, noting the many large gentlemen—the Bastion Club members and various others—present. Many were powerful, forceful men, ruthless when necess
ary, dangerous when crossed, and not one of them would she not trust with her honor, with her life.

  For years she’d imagined such gentlemen didn’t exist; now they surrounded her. Glancing at the one on whose arm she was strolling, she smiled to herself and leaned lightly, fleetingly, against him.

  He looked at her but only smiled.

  They stopped beside Jack, Lord Hendon, another of those large and powerful gentlemen. Kit, his beautiful wife, beside him, smiled delightedly and touched cheeks with Phoebe. Although older than Phoebe, she was of like mind in many ways and, as Phoebe now was, was included in that highly select group, the wives of the gentlemen of the Bastion Club, Jack being an unofficial club member.

  Jack shook hands with Deverell.

  When he turned to Phoebe, she stretched up and bussed his cheek. “Thank you for your help.”

  Jack grinned. “My pleasure.” He glanced at Deverell. “Any time you want to stop a slaving ship, I’m your man.”

  Two days after Lowther had shot himself, they’d trapped the white slavers on the docks and rescued all the abducted girls. The men on the ship had hoisted sail and tried to slip away, but had found their way blockaded, not just by the water police in their rowing boats but by two large ships of the Hendon line, fully manned with cannons deployed.

  “Have you settled all the girls yet?” Kit asked. “I sent Emmeline two more names I think would be suitable for some of your clients.”

  “Thank you.” Phoebe pressed Kit’s hand. “With all of you—and your friends, too—assisting, we’ve been able to place all the kidnapped girls, as well as a number who wanted to change households.”

  Her “little crusade” had grown; Deverell had remarked it was well on the way to becoming a secret cause célèbre, at least among a certain section of the ton.

  “Indeed.” Kit’s eyes twinkled as she reclaimed her husband’s arm. “And with the continued success of the gentlemen of the Bastion Club in finding suitable brides, there’ll be positions aplenty for nannies and children’s maids all too soon.”

  Phoebe blushed. She was grateful when Deverell excused them and guided her on; she hadn’t told anyone their news yet—only him. “Do you think she guessed?”

  In light of Kit’s knowing smile, Deverell thought it very likely. He shrugged. “Everyone will know soon enough.”

  He looked down at Phoebe, at her bright eyes, at the garnet glints glowing in her rich, dark red hair. “Once you give me leave, I fully intend to shout it from the rooftops.” Everything he could have asked from life he now had, all he wanted from life he now possessed.

  Phoebe chuckled and let him lead her on to where Audrey and Loftus sat with Edith in the shade of one of the old towers. They chatted for some minutes. While Phoebe spoke with Edith and Loftus, Audrey stood; moving to Deverell’s other side, she leaned on his arm.

  He arched a brow at her.

  “You’re now the head of the family, so I thought I should warn you—I’m about to cause a scandal.”

  He raised both brows. “Oh?”

  Audrey nodded, the peacock feather in her turban bobbing wildly. “I’m going to marry Loftus.” Head high, she met his eyes. “Are you going to disown me?”

  “Of course not.” He’d guessed, and approved; Loftus provided the perfect foil for Audrey’s flamboyant eccentricity, and having helped him to his own thoroughly suitable bride, it seemed entirely right that she should, through that, find her own happiness.

  She considered him, then smiled softly. “Your father would have, you know.”

  Closing his hand over hers on his sleeve, he gently squeezed. “Thanks to you, I’m not my father.”

  Just as well; if he had been, he’d never have had the sense to pursue, let alone marry, an unconventional female like Phoebe.

  And what a shame that would have been.

  Last night, she’d found him in the library reading a book on India. After having him describe various castes and practices, she’d declared she was a maharani and he her pleasure slave; she’d ordered him to her bedchamber, there to fulfill her every wish, her every desire.

  He was looking forward to discovering what unconventional tack she would lead him on tonight, their wedding night. He felt sure she’d have some novel idea, and if by chance she didn’t, he had quite a few ideas of his own.

  Alicia, Tony’s wife, waylaid them, then carried Phoebe off to talk with the other wives—the increasing band of Bastion Club matriarchs-in-the-making. Knowing what was good for him, he yielded her up with good grace and took himself off to join his colleagues in the shadow of one wall.

  Christian raised his glass to him as he came up. “I notice our dear ex-commander is as usual absent.”

  “Of course.” Deverell glanced over the sea of heads. “We received the usual expression of regret.”

  “One day,” Charles St. Austell predicted, “one of us is going to stumble across him in his true guise—I just hope it’s me.”

  Tristan frowned. “Speaking of guises, one thing that puzzles me—I assume you noticed that your man Montague recognized him, and so did Lowther.”

  “So?” Tony Blake arched a brow. “We know he’s one of us, almost certainly a son of the nobility.”

  Jack Warnefleet snorted softly. “Half the old biddies seem to know who he is—they just won’t tell us.”

  “That’s just it,” Tristan said. “They all know him—who he really is—but none of them, not one, uses his real name. They all refer to him as Dalziel. Why? For what possible reason would the entire ton—all the grande dames and peers—collude in such a thing, a noble gentleman—we all know he’s that—not using his real name?”

  They all blinked.

  Eventually Gervase voiced the one reason that had popped into all their heads. “Scandal. For some reason he’s debarred from using, or refuses to now use, his family name.”

  Deverell frowned, then glanced at Christian. “He’s older than us, isn’t he?” Christian was the oldest of them by a year or so.

  Christian grimaced. “I’ve never been sure, but yes, I think he is older than I am by a year, perhaps two.”

  “So it’s possible,” Charles concluded, “that there was some ungodly scandal in the years before any of us went up to town—in the years while we were at Oxford busy doing other things.”

  They all nodded.

  “And of course none of us can remember it,” Deverell said, “because we never heard of it, never knew of it in the first place.”

  A silence fell in which they all rapidly canvassed their sources, then Tony sighed. “It won’t do us a bit of good, you know. All those who know his name also know the reason he doesn’t use it, and for whatever reason, they have all accepted—every last one—that it’s better if he’s known as Dalziel, with that reason why wiped from collective memory.”

  Charles grimaced and sipped. “That must have been quite a scandal.”

  No one argued.

  “So Royce whoever-he-is remains an enigma, at least for now.” Gervase turned to Deverell and held out his hand. “I’ve got to get on—I’m expected at Crowhurst tonight.”

  Charles raised his brows. “Why the rush?” He waggled his brows. “Is there some particular someone waiting?”

  They all noticed that the smile Gervase returned was somewhat tight. “Nothing as interesting, unfortunately. Family business calls, and I can’t afford to let it drift.”

  Charles opened his mouth, then shut it.

  Gervase made his farewells, then unobtrusively tacked through the crowd, heading for the archway and the stables beyond.

  Deverell glanced at Charles. “What were you about to say?”

  His gaze on Gervase’s back, Charles replied, “Have any of you noticed how often he’s called away, back to Crowhurst, on family business?”

  Jack Warnefleet frowned. “Now you mention it, yes. He’s hardly spent any time in town at all, although I know he intended to.”

  Christian cleared his throat. “According to G
asthorpe, it really is family business. Every time Gervase gets up to town, it’s only a matter of days, apparently, before some missive arrives and he has to return.”

  They all stared after Gervase until he passed under the archway and out of sight.

  “I wonder,” Deverell said, “what’s going on at Crowhurst.”

  About the Author

  New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. Stephanie lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters.

  For information on Stephanie and her books, including details of upcoming novels, visit Stephanie’s website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

  Readers can write to Stephanie via email at slaurens@vicnet.net.au. Readers can also email that address to be included in the PRIVATE Heads-Up email book announcement list for notification whenever a new Stephanie Laurens title hits the shelves!

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  Enter the World of Stephanie Laurens

  The Bastion Club Novels*

  #1 THE LADY CHOSEN • #2 A GENTLEMAN’S HONOR

  #3 A LADY OF HIS OWN • #4 A FINE PASSION

  CAPTAIN JACK'S WOMAN ( prequel)

  The Cynster Novels

  WHAT PRICE LOVE? • THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE

  THE IDEAL BRIDE • THE PERFECT LOVER

  THE PROMISE IN A KISS • ON A WICKED DAWN