To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She took all that in in one comprehensive glance, then concentrated on what they hadn’t told her—all else that she could see as he moved among them.

Deverell was graceful, elegant, and strong, as were the other three club members. Their ex-commander, however, took all three qualities to the extreme. Phoebe had lived all her life in the ton, but she’d never, ever, set eyes on a man like this one.

There was something that lived just beneath his surface, something that prowled. Something infinitely more dangerous—something that frankly shouldn’t be permitted in any well-bred drawing room.

And then he was moving toward her, his dark gaze fixed on her, Deverell bringing him to her to introduce.

She rose, feeling trapped in that predatory gaze. Deverell and the others were dominant men, but they weren’t like this.

This man was too much—definitely too much. Too dangerous, too powerful—too male.

All her reservations over large and powerful men returned in a rush. She glanced at Deverell. He caught her wide-eyed look, arched a quizzical brow, then he was by her side, his hand under her elbow.

Just as well; it stopped her from curtsying.

His touch reassured and anchored her. She heard him introduce her and remembered just in time to offer her hand.

Dalziel took it in his; his fingers were cool, their pressure undisturbing as he bowed over hers.

She drew breath and managed a passable smile.

Releasing her hand, he smiled in return—effortlessly charming, just like Deverell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Malleson.”

She uttered the prescribed reply and they parted; he moved away to accept a glass of brandy from Tristan. She sank back into her chair, able to breathe again. As the others all sat, she realized why she’d instinctively started to curtsy. Deeply.

She’d seen Dalziel before—not met him, only seen him. At some party one of her aunts had given long ago. The memory was hazy. Deverell started to speak, and she put it aside to tease out later.

Deverell had told the others little beyond the fact that he’d stumbled on a slaving gang operating in Mayfair. Early this morning, he’d spoken to her of the need to reveal to his ex-colleagues, as well as Dalziel, the full scope of the agency’s operations. If they wanted their help, they needed to trust them with the whole truth. She’d agreed, and now she’d met them she had no doubt that had been the right decision.

But as she listened to Deverell explain the agency, ho

w they learned of their “special clients’” needs and then arranged to whisk the girls away and resettle them, she wondered how such behavior sounded to them—whether they would be shocked that a lady of her station, unmarried, should be not just involved in but the instigator of such an enterprise, correcting a wrong ladies such as she weren’t supposed to know of, or at least were supposed to hide any awareness of. Would they view her as vulgar?

While Deverell was speaking, she kept her gaze on the glass of sherry in her hand. When he came to the end of his description of the agency and paused, she drew breath and looked up, swiftly scanning the circle of faces.

Tristan was the easiest to read; his eyes were wide in patent amazement heavily tinged with approval. “What an extremely laudable goal.”

“Indeed.” Gervase raised his glass to her. “A commendable endeavor.”

“Felicitations on your courage, Miss Malleson.” Dalziel inclined his head to her, his dark eyes trapping hers. “The only element I find disturbing about your enterprise is that it has reason to exist.” His face hardened and he lowered his eyes. “Would that it didn’t.”

“True,” Christian said. “However, as we’re dealing with reality—indeed, must deal with it—your endeavor is worthy of the highest respect. Would that more ladies looked to such activities rather than their usual often ineffective charities.”

“Speaking of which, would you mind, Miss Malleson, if I told my wife of your agency?” Tristan asked. “It’s the sort of enterprise in which I know she’d love to be involved.”

Blushing under their fulsome praise, Phoebe admitted that she’d already met Leonora and they were meeting again. She gave Tristan permission to explain about the agency; rather surprised, she found herself promising to allow Leonora to assist.

“So that’s the agency as is,” Deverell resumed. “What happened…”

While he described the recent events—the girls who’d disappeared before they’d been rescued and the latest fracas—Phoebe surreptitously studied the others, considering not just their words but all she could see of their reactions.

They were like Deverell in multiple ways—strong, large, inherently sensually charismatic, powerful, arrogant, dominant and wealthy gentlemen who, although warriors at heart, were driven not by the urge to dominate and own, to capture and exploit, but by a need to protect and defend.

Although the least easy to outwardly read, Dalziel was in that respect the clearest example; although all of them felt it, his anger at those who gave the agency reason to exist was more hard-edged, more potent, more clearly sensed.

Raising her head, she gazed around the circle; all were focused on Deverell and his words. She no longer had the slightest doubt that enlisting the aid of these gentlemen was the right thing to do. She felt perfectly safe trusting them with the agency’s secrets, and hers. In entrusting the agency’s defense to them.

As had happened with Deverell, as she looked around the circle she felt not a little amazement, a small voice in her head noting that it wasn’t only Deverell who was like this—large, powerful, sensual—and safe.