To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

“Paignton? Deverell, as he’s known?” Henry’s tone made it clear how ludicrous he found the suggestion. “You need to learn to read men better, boy. Deverell’s not the type—he’s not just ex-guards, he’s one of Dalziel’s crew. All King and country to the death and no holds barred along the way.” Henry snorted. “There’s not a chance in Hades that one of them would be involved in slaving.” Harsh amusement lit his eyes. “Even if they thought of it, their next thought—of finding their ex-commander on the doorstep asking them to please explain—would be guaranteed to make them pass the chance by. No—whoever Phoebe Malleson is helping whisk these girls away, it won’t be Deverell.”

Oh, wonderful! Deverell was that sort of man. Malcolm fixed his gaze on the handsome pair of pistols mounted on the wall behind Henry until he was sure his voice wouldn’t betray his scorn. Then he tried again. “There’s definitely something between them—Deverell and Phoebe Malleson.”

Henry’s brows rose, faintly supercilious. “She wouldn’t be the first lady to have dallied along the way with some less-than-suitable customer. Perhaps she’s got Deverell on her string now, but the other one is blackmailing her. That might well be it—if she’s looking to land Deverell, then the last thing she’d want is a past lover showing his face.”

He paused, then nodded as if convinced by his arguments. He fixed Malcolm with an ice-cold stare. “Get her here.”

Malcolm hesitated, then, his expession utterly blank, inclined his head and rose.

Chapter 20

The work of the agency had to go on. Deverell repeated that dictum several times each hour, reminding himself why Phoebe needed to swan through ballrooms and drawing rooms filled with frenetic hordes.

Tonight, they’d already graced the Dalrymples’ ball and the Cavendish event; they now stood in Lady Melvin’s ballroom, surrounded by a garrulous throng. Despite his experience, he was having to work to keep a charming expression plastered on his face, rather than give vent to a snarling growl. The apogee of the Season was nigh, and those of the matchmaking sorority who had yet to succeed were growing desperate—desperate enough to disregard all warnings and take a concerted tilt at him.

Luckily, Phoebe stood firm in his defense—only fair, given his sole purpose in being by her side, there to be tilted at, was to protect her.

“This is madness,” she murmured as a surge of people toward the dance floor sent a rippling jostle through the crowd.

“Quite.” He drew her nearer, protectively, into the lee of his body. “But for some incomprehensible reason, the ton’s hostesses engage in exactly the same behavior year after year. Are female memories really that short?”

She shot him a reproving look, but her lips had curved. “I want to find Lady Canterbury. I heard she’s looking for a new parlor maid. I know Lord Canterbury is safe enough, but I’m not sure who else is in their household.”

Meaning whether there were any untrustworthy males lurking. “I’m fairly certain Canterbury has no sons.” Lifting his head, he scanned the gathering. “I last saw her ladyship over by that corner.” He caught Phoebe’s eye, arched a brow. “Do we assay forth and hunt her down?”

She grinned. “You make it sound like a military exercise.”

“If you want my opinion,” he returned, head bent so his words fell by her ear as they moved forward into the press of guests, “there are more than a few ladies among the ton who could give any general lessons.”

Looking ahead, she laughed, yet as he steered her through the throng, his senses, his instincts, were alert and alive, very much as if this were indeed a battlefield. Until the slavers were caught and all threat to Phoebe and her enterprise removed, he would remain on guard; Phoebe wouldn’t set foot outside at night without him by her side. During the day, if he wasn’t with her, then she was either at the agency or with Edith, Audrey, or Loftus, and always under Fergus’s watchful eye.

He and Fergus had an agreement—Phoebe would never be without one or the other hovering. Whether she’d noticed that yet or not he didn’t know, but he saw no reason to draw their close guarding of her to her attention. No need to precipitate futile argument on that score.

Later that evening in the carriage rattling back to Park Street after the last of their selected entertainments, it was Edith who inquired as to the progress of their investigations. He brought her up to date; they’d long jettisoned any notion of keeping the seriousness of the situation from Audrey and Edith. Audrey was spending quite a bit of time with Loftus, and he was no match for her interrogatory wiles. So what Loftus heard, Audrey knew, and therefore Edith knew, too.

“Tristan and I managed to track down two of the men who accosted us in the alley while we were rescuing Molly Doyle.” He glanced across the carriage at Phoebe; she was hanging on his words. “Both had been hired specifically for that event. Neither knew by whom—they both described the person they dealt with as a young man, not a gentleman, not well-educated but well-spoken enough, not well-dressed so much as neat. The implication was that this hirer is of a type who can appear in their seedier world without inviting notice, but he’s not widely known—not someone anyone seems to know well enough to identify in any way.”

Phoebe raised her brows. “But they worked for him? He clearly hadn’t any difficulty gathering quite a band.”

Deverell’s lip curled cynically. “He pays well—that’s really all men like that care about, and he kept his word and paid them the rest of what he’d promised even though they singularly failed to seize Molly Doyle or inflict much damage on us. In that, he was clever—word will have gone out among the bruisers and thugs-for-hire that he’s trustworthy in that regard. I doubt he’ll have trouble hiring men as and when he needs them.

“However”—Deverell grimaced—“among the teeming multitudes of London, as this hirer is not known to the established underworld and he comes and goes and never uses the same taverns twice, then our chances of tracing him are minuscule.”

Phoebe frowned. “He seems rather clever for someone of that ilk.”

Deverell hesitated, then said, “The men we spoke with, and apparently their colleagues, assumed the young man was working under the direction of someone else. When he told them what to do, it was as if he were reciting orders from some master. They all had the impression that he was acting as a servant, although he never mentioned any other.”

“So,” Edith said, her nom

ally soft voice sharp, “the procurer—who we suspect is of the ton—has a hirer, a man of lower class to handle the less savory aspects of his trade.”

Deverell nodded. “But if we can’t locate the hirer, then we can’t follow him back to his master. So in terms of identifying the procurer, our best and indeed only remaining way forward is through tracing the money that’s presumably behind it all.”

“Has your man Montague learned anything there?” Phoebe struggled to read Deverell’s face through the shadows.

A wolfish grin flashed. “We live in hope. Montague sent word late today that he’s nearing the end of his researches and believes he may have turned up something. However, he’s insisted on reviewing all the evidence himself. We’ve arranged a meeting for the afternoon of the day after tomorrow so the rest of us can share any news we’ve gleaned—I’m hoping Montague will have a name to give us by then.”

He went on to briefly outline for Edith the steps taken to keep watch for the slaving ship and their plan to rescue the girls already in the slavers’ clutches. Having heard all that the previous night, Phoebe leaned back against the squabs and mentally reviewed all that had recently been going on around the agency and its work.