And let her whirling thoughts fill her mind.
The rational, logical part of her had firmly prayed he’d leave her alone, and was petulantly annoyed that he hadn’t. Regardless, his words had slayed any hope that he would disappear from her orbit anytime soon.
That he wouldn’t pursue her.
Her mind drifted back forty-eight hours. That night he’d uncovered far more than just Scatcher and Birtles and her association with fleeing maids. He’d seen her panic, and by some ungodly act of fate he might be intelligent enough to guess what it meant, experienced enough to see it for what it was.
She sincerely hoped he hadn’t, that he didn’t.
Lying on her back, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered if that was a lie.
She wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell—and therein lay her biggest problem.
He made her feel so much, even now. Even still. Even though she knew he had the strength to overwhelm her, subdue her, subjugate her. Even though he possessed every one of the physical and social attributes she’d spent the last eight years avoiding.
He was a gentleman of her class, in his prime, infinitely stronger than she, and p
owerful—not just physically but socially. Able to do much as he pleased, with ladies as with all other things.
She should avoid him, totally and completely, yet he clearly wasn’t going to allow that. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid what he made her feel—and that, beneath it all, was what scared her the most.
That, and the change she’d sensed in him tonight. She didn’t know what he’d seen in her eyes that had turned his features so hard, his gaze so penetrating. For an instant, she’d felt as transparent as crystal, as if she hadn’t been hiding anything at all from him…and then he’d declared that he would learn her secret but would never harm her and abruptly left.
What was she supposed to make of that? What did it portend—what did he intend it to presage?
She wrestled with those questions for untold minutes; unresolved, they followed her into her dreams.
The next morning, Deverell sat down before an array of breakfast platters in the club’s dining room and glanced at Gasthorpe. “Send Grainger in.”
Gasthorpe bowed and withdrew.
A few minutes later, Deverell heard Grainger’s jaunty footsteps coming along the corridor.
“You wanted me, m’lord?” Grainger stood just inside the door, hair neat, boots polished.
Deverell nodded. “I want you to watch a house in Park Street. Number 28. Mrs. Edith Balmain’s residence.”
Grainger’s brow creased. “Balmain? She was at the manor, wasn’t she? She’s Miss Malleson’s aunt.”
Deverell nodded and sipped his coffee. Over the rim of the cup, he met Grainger’s eager eyes. Lowering the cup, he said, “I want you to watch the house and take note of whoever goes in or out, and if Miss Malleson goes out, follow her.”
Grainger straightened. “Right then—I follow her, but just watch everyone else.”
“Precisely.” Deverell nodded a dismissal, and Grainger, happy as a clam, took himself off.
Inwardly shaking his head in benign amusement, Deverell gave his attention to ham and eggs, and his mind to organizing his own investigations.
“Phoebe’s financial state?” Audrey turned from her latest masterpiece to view him as he stood a few paces away. “Good heavens, Deverell dear, why ever do you need to know?”
He smiled cynically. “Humor me, dear Audrey—and do remember that it was at your behest that I went looking for Phoebe.”
“Hmm…yes. Well, I suppose, seeing your mind is, thank heaven, heading in the right direction, I should do all I can to encourage you.” Setting down her brush and palette, she swiveled to face him and happily told him all she knew.
Early afternoon found Deverell in the city.
“Miss Phoebe Malleson, Lord Martindale’s daughter, and his heiress, at least as far as any unentailed property.” Heath-cote Montague, as ever neat, precise, and unshakably calm, carefully transcribed the information onto a fresh sheet of paper. “Very good.”
He looked up; across his desk, he met Deverell’s gaze. “You want to know all the usual, I take it—current income, such as it might be, expectations?”