To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She couldn’t say; she would have to feel her way. The carriage turned down a quiet street. She inwardly grimaced. After he’d so blatantly used Fergus’s injury to jockey her into coming to his club—into meekly walking into the lion’s den—of one thing she felt sure: He would use whatever advantage fate handed him, wield whatever power he held and call in her mounting debts of gratitude to pressure her into telling him all—everything he wanted to know.

How to avoid that was what she needed to know.

The carriage slowed, then halted. Deverell leaned past her, opened the door, then stepped out. Turning, he offered his hand; clasping her fingers firmly, he helped her down to the pavement.

She looked about while he sent his lad—Grainger—hurrying up to the house. He returned in less than a minute with a footman; a precisely dressed, rotund, butlerlike individual followed.

While Grainger and the footman assisted Fergus from the carriage, overseen by the butler, Deverell led her up the paved path, past neat bushes and shrubs toward steps leading up to the house’s—club’s—front door. She glanced left and right; the building was similar to other houses on the street, in no way extraordinary. Number 12 Montrose Place flew no flag to indentify it as a club for wealthy gentlemen.

“This is your club?” She felt compelled to confirm that.

“Yes.” Deverell glanced back at the other

s. “The Bastion Club.”

He guided her up the steps and through the open front door. In the hallway—tiled and recently painted, fresh but rather austere, quite definitely masculine with its lack of ornamentation or anything as softening as a vase of flowers—he lingered, waiting for the others.

When all four were inside and the butler had shut the door, Deverell nodded toward Fergus, who seemed exhausted. “Put Mr. McKenna in the small parlor. Grainger—stay with him.” To the butler he said, “Send for Pringle. Ask him to examine Mr. McKenna thoroughly—he took a nasty knock in the line of duty.”

The butler bowed. “At once, my lord.”

Deverell glanced at Grainger and the footman easing Fergus into the room to one side of the front door, then he looked again at the butler. “Are any of the others in this evening?”

“No, my lord. Just yourself.”

“In that case, we’ll break with tradition. Miss Malleson and I will be in the library.” Releasing her, he lifted her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the butler.

As if visiting a gentleman’s club was an unremarkable event, she shook straight the skirts of her midnight blue walking gown—long-sleeved and buttoned to the throat, it helped her blend with the night—then straightened.

Deverell’s fingers closed about her elbow; he turned her toward the stairs. “Summon us if we’re needed. And send Pringle up when he’s finished with McKenna.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler hovered at the bottom of the stairs. “Shall I bring tea?”

Deverell glanced questioningly at her. She considered, then looked at the butler. “Thank you—that would be welcome.”

Having something between them other than just words might be helpful.

Deverell steered Phoebe up the stairs, his fingers wrapped about her elbow more in case she required support than in any sense of restraint. As they gained the first-floor landing, he glanced at her face. Head high, she showed no sign of nerves, of being unsettled.

Most young ladies, even twenty-five-year-olds, could be excused for feeling decidedly shaky after the events of the evening. Releasing her, he opened the library door and stood back for her to precede him; she swept in, spine stiff—she was clearly made of stern stuff.

Following her inside, he closed the door and reflected that that was just as well; he had very little patience for feminine fluster.

He watched as she walked slowly across the room, taking in the quietly luxurious, distinctly masculine furnishings, the deep leather armchairs, the small polished tables scattered between, the well-stocked bookshelves and the sporting magazines lying discarded here and there.

Reaching the fireplace on the other side of the room, she glanced up at the wide mirror above the mantel, briefly studied his reflection in it, then looked down and bent to warm her hands before the sprightly fire dancing in the hearth.

He remembered she’d done the same in the agency’s kitchen, yet the night wasn’t that chilly, and her hands, when he’d taken them to help her out of the carriage, hadn’t been cold.

She was nervous—or at least on edge—after all.

He headed toward her. She looked up and turned to face him. He waved her to an armchair angled beside the fire. While she moved to it and sat, he drew another around, positioning it across the hearth but further back from the flames. He sat and studied her.

He’d intended from the first to use the library; having Pringle see McKenna in the small parlor had simply been a useful excuse. They’d set aside the small parlor for meeting with females, but it was simply too small for his present need. If he paced, or if Phoebe paced, in the small parlor they would have been too close. Far too close given the subjects their discussion was slated to encompass and the instincts it was sure to abrade.

Let alone the feelings—the reactions, the emotions—already roiling through him.

Settling in the chair, sinking into the cushioning leather, Phoebe flicked a glance at the door, concern for McKenna patently riding her. Distracting her.