To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

The voice was harsh, hard, but very definitely cultured. Well-bred, well-educated—a man of the ton. Of her class, of her station.

He was also not young. Hearing Deverell’s strong, calm voice in her mind, Phoebe forced her panicky senses to her will and set them to glean every snippet of information she could about this man—her enemy. According to Deverell, you could never tell which little snippet might save you.

Over the increasingly loud thudding of her heart, she listened as he continued, pacing slowly back and forth between the door and the foot of the bed. “I want to assure you, my dear, that I fully comprehend your position. I realize you’ve discovered yourself in a bind, shall we say, and have accepted the only viable way out. Situated as you are, I can see that satisfying your lover—ex-lover, I assume—by assisting him in snatching maids for the slavers is a price many ladies in straits such as yours would willingly pay given that Deverell is now hovering so encouragingly.”

Under the hood, Phoebe frowned. What on earth…?

He halted; she sensed him studying her. “Handing over a few pretty maids is hardly to be counted in the scales against becoming Viscountess Paignton. And, of course, Deverell is exceedingly wealthy to boot.”

Phoebe blinked. He thought she was being blackmailed by an ex-lover into helping him snatch maids?

For one moment, indignation and affront rose and swept through her, swamping all fear. How dare he imagine…?!

But he did. Perhaps there was some chance of salvation there.

He spoke again, pacing once more; she listened avidly, noting every word, every nuance.

“All I wish from you, my dear, is the name of this man—your disreputable ex-lover. You need have no fear that in telling me his name, you will invite repercussions—I promise you I will take care of him. You will, quite literally, never see him again.”

There was a cadence to his speech, a heaviness, a weight carried in the harsh yet clearly enunicated, ponderously delivered periods that was both unusual and striking.

“Should you comply, I give you my word that you will suffer no injury from me or my associates.” She sensed him pause and glance at her. “You will note that I have no reason to fear you, or any knowledge you might glean from this encounter, as you will hardly be so foolish as to call anyone’s attention to your involvement—active involvement, I might add—in the white slave trade.”

Silence fell. He was standing at the foot of the bed, watching her.

Another moment ticked by, then he said, “Well?”

A wealth of arrogant demand infused the word; he was waiting for her response and wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

Idiot! Phoebe’s temper sparked. She mumbled from behind the strip of material still gagging her.

“Ah! Your pardon, my dear. How remiss of me.”

He moved to round the bed; Phoebe prayed he’d remove the hood from her head.

Then he was by the side of the bed and leaning over her—panic again bloomed. She fought to subdue it, to not cringe and press away from his hands as he reached about her head. She had to hold her breath and grit her teeth as he searched, all but physically holding back her reaction as he felt about her head—then he found the knot, jerked and untied the strip of material. She forced herself to raise her head so he could unwind the strip. Then he pulled it away.

The hood, the hood!

But no—he stepped back from the bed and left the hood in place. Her heart thudding uncomfortably, Phoebe huffed out a disgusted breath—the hood moved, lifting briefly off her face, then settling down again…but now she could see.

If she squinted straight down on either side of her nose, she could see a sliver of room beyond her tied feet, beyond the end of the bed.

“Right then, my dear. Now what is your answer? Speak up—what is this man’s name?”

Beneath the hood, she moistened her lips and dragooned her wits into order. “Umm…” Not for one minute did she trust his assurance that he wouldn’t harm her; if she told him a name—any name, given she had no disreputable blackmailing ex-lover—there was nothing to stop him killing her…or worse.

He was of the ton; he would consider her ruined goods at best—a female with no status and no rights. If he was, as seemed all but certain, the procurer they’d been searching for, then he had no honor, nothing she could place the slightest faith in.

“I…ah.” She dragged in a huge breath, felt her whirling thoughts steady. “I need to consider…”—on an afterthought she tacked on—“my lord. I need to think carefully of my situation. It’s not as…as simple and clear-cut as you suppose.”

There was a second’s hesitation, then came, “Indeed?”

His voice had grown horridly cold. She battled to quell a shiver and not shrink from where he stood by the bed.

After a moment’s fraught silence, he moved; he started to pace again. He rounded the corner of the bed and fell to pacing back and forth across its end—and she could see him!

Phoebe swallowed a gasp. She knew him! Or at least she had seen him before. His name escaped her, but he wasn’t a total stranger. Just one glance at his heavy frame, at his fastidious attire, confirmed he was of the haut ton. Her “my lord” hadn’t been amiss. Who the devil was he?