Miss Malleson would by now be in the mews behind the house, if not already within it.
Cold-bloodedly considering that, he concluded that perhaps it was time that Henry was caught. Of course, as a member of an august arm of “the authorities,” Henry considered himself beyond reach, indeed quite literally above the law.
In his mind, Malcolm weighed all he knew against Henry’s conviction of his own invincibility.
Then he stirred and walked on, past Arlington Street and on toward White’s in St. James. There would be plenty of acquaintances there to see him, many well-connected friends with whom he could dine.
Regardless of who had weighed the odds correctly, him or Henry—and he knew who he would wager on if he were a wagering man—given what would most likely transpire once Miss Malleson was in Henry’s clutches, there was no need whatever for Malcolm to be anywhere in the vicinity.
Chapter 21
On the carriage floor, Phoebe suffered through every jolt, every rattle, until she felt like her teeth would come loose. When the carriage finally came to a blessed halt, she exhaled with relief—as well as she could past the gag.
She hadn’t been able to move an inch. Her hands were too well tied; she hadn’t been able to loosen the bonds. The fabric of the hood was fine woven and black; she couldn’t even distinguish daylight through it.
But she knew she was still in London; the carriage hadn’t gone that far—the ordeal over the cobbles hadn’t gone on that long. The familiar sounds of the capital reached her ears, muted by the hood but otherwise undimmed. If she had to guess, she would say they were still in Mayfair, or close to it.
By the clatter outside, the echoes of the horses’ hooves as they shuffled and of men’s voices and boots, the carriage was in some narrow space between houses—probably a mews.
Before she could think further, the carriage door was wrenched open. Hands—large male hands—grabbed her, hauling her out; there were two of them as before, but this time one hefted her over his shoulder.
“I’ll take her in. You wait with the horses.”
“Aye, but hurry up.” The second man sounded nervous. “This ain’t the sort of place I like to hang about. Yer never know when a constable might stroll by. The watchhouse ain’t far.”
The man carrying her grunted, then turned. For some moments Phoebe had all she could do to fight back waves of dizziness; the man was carrying her like a sack of potatoes with her head dangling down his back, her legs locked to his chest under one beefy arm. With her arms bound and her tied hands trapped beneath her, she couldn’t brace or in any other way steady herself against the rocking of his gait.
Then, thankfully, he slowed and stopped. Her senses returned to her; she could hear and feel again. From the coolness reaching her, he’d carried her into a house, presumably by some back door to a lower floor. No kitchen smells, no warmth. A cellar?
“This way.”
Beneath the hood, she blinked. A well-modulated voice, accents unmistakable—a tonnish butler.
Then they were moving again, but slowly; she concentrated on the surroundings, on what she could learn, instead of letting her senses focus on the nauseating effect of being held upside down with the man’s burly shoulder pressing into her middle.
She could hear the man’s footsteps and the butler’s as he preceded them. Stone flags at first, then they climbed a short flight of steps and came out onto tiles. That lasted for a little way; she sensed they were in an enclosed space—a corridor?
Then they went through a doorway and the walls fell back. A hall?
A tiled floor still, but then the footsteps became muffled; a rug. The man slowly swiveled, balancing her weight, reached for something—and started to climb.
Wooden stairs.
She continued to track their progess through what seemed to be a fashionable house. On reaching the first floor, the butler led the way down a carpeted corridor. Phoebe counted the paces, one of Deverell’s rules echoing in her head.
If you’re caught and can’t do anything else, concentrate on learning as much as you can about where you are, and your captors.
He’d continued giving her lessons and advice on defending herself, on how to react in various adverse circumstances; somewhat to her surprise, his words hovered high in her mind, almost as if he were there, watching over her.
But this was no test, no game. This was all too real.
She counted, remained focused. Twelve paces from the stairhead, the butler paused; she sensed him moving—opening some door?—then the man carrying her grunted and changed direction.
He passed through a narrow portal; Phoebe felt one side brush her shoulder. Then he climbed.
Steep, narrow stairs—servants’ stairs?
Under the hood, Phoebe frowned. That seemed an odd place for servants’ or attic stairs. Equally, it seemed odd that attic stairs were starting from the first floor. Almost all houses in Mayfair and surrounds had attics above the second floor, not the first.