“With luck, yes.” Some other guests were drifting their way. Deverell took Phoebe’s elbow and guided her out of the alcove, back toward the crowded ballroom; there was nowhere else to go. “Once they have a full load”—he lowered his voice—“they’ll call in their ship. They’ll have it sail up openly—it’ll be carrying some legitimate cargo to explain its appearance in the Pool and most importantly its need for a dock. When it docks, the cargo will be openly put off, and the girls secretly loaded in its place, then the ship will put out again, most likely claiming it’s headed for Southampton or to some other port for its next cargo. Once out at sea, they inst
ead set sail for wherever their secret cargo is bound.”
“So…” Eyes narrowing, Phoebe imagined how it would be. “We’ll have to wait until the last moment, just before they put the girls on board.”
Straightening, Deverell nodded. “We’ll have to wait for them to bring the girls to us.”
The surging crowd neared; they were forced to put aside their discussion and pretend to enjoy the ball.
We, she’d said—and he’d said us.
As dawn approached the next morning, Phoebe lay snug and warm beside Deverell in her bed and, eyes closed, let her thoughts roam, let herself poke, prod, and assess the subject that increasingly impinged on her mind.
She’d changed. She’d come a long way from her blanket distrust of strong and powerful men; quite aside from the one slumbering naked beside her, she was now in league with a crew of them, and far from recoiling, she appreciated them and their attributes more every day. As for Deverell…
He’d become much more than just another of “her people,” those who worked with her in the agency and elsewhere, lending their support to her “little crusade.” Indeed, he wasn’t even just the best and closest; he was her lover and protector in truth—and over the last weeks of working together she’d come to realize he’d coalesced those positions into something more.
He’d become her personal champion.
Others, she’d realized, viewed him so—not just his colleagues but also Emmeline and Birtles, Fergus, and, even more telling, Skinner. They all viewed his position—their relationship—as right and proper, something to be not just accepted but encouraged. Which was interesting, considering their previous views of men such as he, every bit as negative as hers had been.
Her lips quirked. In a quite amazing turnaround, she’d become an advocate of strong and powerful gentlemen. A certain type of strong and powerful man. To her surprise, she’d discovered she could accept him as her champion without turning a hair.
All that was strange enough, but what was steadily herding her mind in a truly startling direction was the sense of sharing growing between them now they’d joined forces in defense of the agency. Initially she hadn’t imagined he would have any real concern for it beyond the fact that it took up much of her time and posed a certain danger, but as the weeks had progressed she’d realized she’d underestimated him—that his increasing involvement with the agency, its works and its defense was driven by sincere interest.
Sincere appreciation of the value of the work and a wish to contribute. He was like Loftus in that regard, an unexpected godsend.
It was that sense of sharing, the increasing sense of partnership engendered and consolidated as over the last weeks they’d worked together that drove her thoughts. Of shared goals, shared commitments…shared lives.
That was where her thoughts invariably led her.
There was no denying that their support of each other in spheres beyond the agency had also grown instinctive and constant. She suspected he was as aware of it as she—which left her wondering what his thoughts on their relationship were, whether they’d headed down the same path as hers.
They were lovers, yes, but he needed a wife. He’d said so from the first, but the last weeks in the ballrooms had brought home to her just how real his need truly was.
And how easily she could fulfill it.
And how willing she now was to do so.
She, Phoebe Mary Malleson, was actively considering marriage. For years she’d imagined she never would; now she couldn’t imagine not pursuing the path her thoughts were urging her down.
And she was fairly certain that if she suggested it, he would agree. It had been she who had declared against it when he’d first raised the subject, so it would need to be she who reopened it and resurrected the prospect he’d initially proposed.
She thought of that—how to reintroduce the subject, how he might respond.
Beside her, he stirred, reaching for her beneath the covers; finding her, he hugged her close and sank back into slumber. It wasn’t yet dawn; she didn’t need to wake him yet.
So she let him sleep while she grappled with the amazing fact that regardless of what his initial reaction might be to her suggestion that they wed, she—her heart, her mind, her entire being—was determined to persuade him that putting his ring on her finger would be the best thing he could possibly do—for them both.
Malcolm Sinclair stood at the side of Lady Rathdowne’s drawing room and wished there were more shadows in the room. He didn’t appreciate the attention of the young ladies, and even less that of their hard-eyed mamas who looked him over measuringly, wondering if he were suitable prey.
His appearance was no help, but at least his age afforded him some protection; many knew he’d yet to attain his majority, that he was rather too young to be thinking of matrimony just yet. Still, too many noted him for his comfort.
Her ladyship’s soiree was the third event on his evening’s calendar; he had two more balls to call in at if he drew a blank there. He’d spent the past week trawling the ton’s entertainments, something of a penance, yet even if Henry hadn’t ordered him to find the lady in the alley, he would have done so anyway; to his mind, self-preservation was a worthy goal.
It had finally dawned on him that the major balls at which young ladies made their come-outs were not the right venues in which to seek his quarry. Rational conjecture suggested she would be older—a widow or a daring matron perhaps. So he’d shifted his field to the more select entertainments such ladies frequented.
The more reasonable numbers were an added benefit. The relative lack of crush enabled him to stand quietly by the side of the room and systematically quarter it.