The instant they were aboard, Fergus whipped up his horses. He drove out of the dark alleys into the nearly deserted streets and headed toward the agency.
Beside him, Deverell settled on the seat. “Take a roundabout route.”
It wasn’t until she sat down at the table in the agency’s kitchen that Phoebe had a chance to analyze what had happened. Sinking onto a chair, she looked around—at her people, as Deverell referred to them.
He was there, sitting alongside her, his hands wrapped about a steaming mug. He and Fergus had tended to Birtles’s bruises while she and Emmeline had soothed and reassured the panicked maid. The girl, Molly Doyle, was now huddled under the covers on one of the narrow cots upstairs, thanking her stars for salvation.
A cup of tea appeared in front of Phoebe. She looked up and smiled her thanks as Emmeline took the chair beside her. Birtles sat slumped in the next chair, sipping what Phoebe suspected was an extra-strong hot toddy.
Fergus rose from the fire he’d been stoking and took the chair at the end. The back door opened and Scatcher and Grainger, who’d been taking care of the horses, came in. Emmeline rose, helped them to tea, then resumed her seat.
Deverell glanced around as Scatcher and lastly Grainger sat. “Good—we’re all here, more or less intact. We came out of that well, but…” His gaze traveled around the table, taking in the faces, finally coming to rest on Phoebe’s. “Who were they? Why did they attack us? And will they attack us again?”
“Wasn’t any doing of the household—the nobs the girl was fleeing from,” Birtles said. “Wrong sort of bruisers. And they weren’t young bloods out for a lark, neither.”
Scatcher nodded. “Lowlifes, they were—right rum customers.”
“Did you recognize any of them?” Deverell asked.
Scatcher shook his head. “Not from this side of town, nor yet, if you ask me, from the East End, neither.” He sipped, then said, “Southwark, most like.”
“What’s most worrying me,” Fergus said, his Scots accent slow and lugubrious, “is the why of it.”
That was worrying Phoebe, too.
Fergus glanced at her, then looked at Deverell. “Could it be that last time, and perhaps one time before that, they got to the girls first, but this time, we did?”
Deverell hesitated, then admitted, “It looks suspiciously like that. But what—” He broke off, looking down at the mug cradled between his hands, a frown drawing down his dark brows. “Bear with me—let’s talk this through. This other gang…if we assume they’re behind the other disappearances we’ve heard of, then it seems they’re targeting a specific sort of female.” He glanced around the table. “You all saw Molly Doyle?”
Puzzled, Fergus, Scatcher, and Grainger shook their heads.
“She’s Irish, another parlor maid, and strikingly pretty, if not beautiful. Mrs. Higgins described the other two girls—Lizette and Bertha—as ‘right lookers.’ It appears this gang is kidnapping beautiful parlor maids, and of course Mayfair has the best selection of those.”
“But…why?” Emmeline gave voice to the obvious question.
Deverell’s expression was grim. “I can think of only one reason. This other gang are procurers for white slave traders.”
Emmeline sucked in a shocked breath; horrified, Phoebe held hers.
Birtles blinked. “I didn’t think that happened anymore.”
“It does,” Deverell said, “but it operates in cycles. They’ll plague London for a few months, maybe a year, then fade away—but then it’s Bristol’s turn, or Liverpool, or Southampton. Over the years, they’ve likely become more selective—beautiful, preferably untouched young women will give the best return in their dastardly trade.”
He paused, then concluded, “It appears the blackguards have returned to London.”
“So,” Phoebe said, “while we’re rescuing the same sort of girls—for of course it’s the most attractive female staff who are subjected to unwanted attentions—this other gang is trying to kidnap them.”
“Exactly.” Deverell met her eyes when she looked at him. “And that’s why we’re going to have to do something about this, because short of halting the agency’s efforts with ‘special clients,’ it’s inevitable we’ll run across this gang again.” He paused, then added, “Or more specifically, they’ll come looking for us.”
“In the night, in the narrow alleys.” Fergus nodded direfully. “While we’re rescuing the girls—they’ll know where to find us.”
“Bad enough,” Deverell grimly returned, “but it’ll be even worse if they follow us back here. That we can’t have—it’s something we must never risk.”
They all murmured agreement to that.
Deverell waited a moment, allowing everyone time to assimilate the situation, then quietly said, “That leaves us facing a choice—a choice we have to make, more or less now, tonight.”
Phoebe turned to him. “What choice?”