Gervase blinked. “But you just told us he doesn’t. That he has very little income.”
“Indeed.” Montague’s eyes glinted. “Given his lordship’s status, I dug deeper—to make sure I hadn’t missed any other explanation, any other possible source of funds. Instead, I discovered that his lordship has teetered on the brink of a financial abyss for the last year and more. It’s the guns—he’s bought far too many. With neglible income coming in, he had an imperative financial motive for seeking additional funds. Indeed, he’s been tampering with his ward’s accounts as well, although as yet they have suffered only minor depredations.”
“Only because he found a better source,” Tristan said. “Selling maids into slavery.”
Deverell had been juggling Montague’s information. “What you’re saying is that without the money from the slavers, Lowther would be bankrupt.”
Montague nodded. “That’s precisely the case.”
All of them knew what bankruptcy would mean to a man of Lowther’s standing. Dalziel put it into words. “The end. Point nonplus.” He rose, as did the others.
Grainger and Gasthorpe appeared at the open door.
“Where’s Lowther’s house?” Deverell asked. Even he heard the violence in his tone.
“Wait,” Dalziel countermanded. “We should let Mr. Montague depart, with our sincere thanks. He doesn’t need to hear what we intend to do.”
Briefly, Montague met Dalziel’s eyes; for one instant, Deverell thought he might argue, but then he inclined his head. “Indeed.” He glanced at Deverell. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to do what needs to be done.”
The words had a ring of finality.
Montague left.
At a nod from Deverell, Grainger blurted, “Arlington Street. Number 21.”
With a word of thanks, Deverell dismissed Grainger and Fergus, signaling Grainger to close the door. The instant it was shut, Deverell turned to Dalziel.
None of them had sat down again. Dalziel had picked up his glass of brandy and drained it; he was setting it down when Deverell cocked a brow at him. “Still in command?”
Dalziel met his gaze, then straightened and smiled—beyond dangerous, beyond ruthless, beyond merciless. “With such a quarry?” He left the question hanging for a heartbeat, then answered, “Definitely.”
Deverell hesitated, weighing up what he could see in Dalziel’s eyes, read in his expression—that if anyone was going to bring Lowther down, it had better be Dalziel, who had authority enough to withstand any resultant furor. He nodded. “You’re right. So—how are we going to play this hand?”
She felt almost calm.
Phoebe leaned against the wall beside the door, the heavy chamber pot she’d discovered under the bed cradled in her hands. From where she stood, she would hear the creak of the stairs, would be warned when her captor returned for her answer.
Her answer, she’d decided, would be best delivered in white porcelain. She’d ransacked the room; the chamber pot was the best weapon—it was heavier than the pitcher.
It would, she hoped, at least slow the man down, enough for her to rush down the stairs and, with any luck, lock the lower door behind her. She knew houses like this; if she could break free for a few minutes, she could reach the front door and safety. That was her plan; the rest would be easy.
She looked up, noting that the light was fading from the sky. Evening was drawing in; her two hours had to be almost up.
Resistance was risky, but she didn’t believe she had any real choice. Despite what he’d said, this man—their procurer—was one no woman should ever trust. Were she to give him a name, she might find herself dispatched to the white slavers without delay—and then how would Deverell find her? He’d admitted they couldn’t locate the warehouse, so rescue would come only when the slavers tried to take her aboard their ship—and how many weeks might pass before that happened?
Quite aside from any other danger, her reputation would be ruined—making it impossible for her to act on Audrey’s excellent advice and seize the life she’d absolutely decided should be hers.
Regardless of any other consideration, she was not about to let their beastly procurer stop her from becoming Deverell’s wife.
She was unquestionably the best wife for him; she was almost certain he would agree.
Her lips lifted wryly; she was honestly amazed at herself—at how completely determination, conviction, and sheer brazen stubbornness ruled her, at how little real purchase fear possessed.
Her present situation was far worse, far more scarifying than the incident in her past; she knew it, yet she was no longer the naïve seventeen-year-old she’d been. It wasn’t just the years that had passed that had changed her but how she’d spent them; most especially it was the last month and all Deverell had taught her, on so many levels, that left her not just determined never to be any man’s victim but confident she didn’t need to be. Tha
t there was every reason to fight and no reason to expect to lose.
Men like their procurer didn’t always win, because there were other men, better men, who would annihilate him. All she had to do was escape and leave them, the right sort of large and dangerous gentlemen, to take care of the rest.