To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She peered at his face, what she could glimpse of it as, head bowed, hands locked behind his back, he slowly paced. He was older, in his fifties, she imagined; his hair was gray-white, a pewterish shade. He was of average height, heavily built, pigeon-chested; every movement shrieked of the reserved, stiff-rumped arrogance too often found in men of his age and class. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his features were unremittingly harsh; he was scowling ferociously.

What she saw gave her some clue to his character. She cleared her throat. “Please…I realize it’s an…an imposition, but if I could have a little time to gather my wits and recover—the jolting in the carriage was dreadful—they left me on the floor, you know. And then being carried upstairs I nearly swooned.” It wasn’t too hard to make her voice quaver, to instill a suggestion of tears in her tone. She sounded like the sort of sniveling female she abhorred, but…

He flung a scowl her way; she got an excellent view of his face, of the shaggy brows overhanging flintlike eyes. Memory stirred, but it was still too elusive for her to pin down.

He studied her; a touch of derision crept into his expression. “Two hours,” he snapped. “I have business to attend to.” He turned to the door. “I’ll return once that’s complete.” Halting with his hand on the latch, he glanced back at her. “But I’ll expect to have that name from you when I do—no more prevarication. You will not find me inclined to indulgence then.”

His gaze grew colder, his voice harder. “And if you think to deny me, my dear, I’m afraid your circumstances will become most unpleasant. As you no doubt know, white slavers are not in the least fussy over the station of their goods, only that they are handsome—and in that respect, my dear, do remember that you qualify.”

He watched her for a moment, as if waiting for some sign she appreciated the full portent of his words. When she remained perfectly still, he swung on his heel, pulled open the door, and went out.

Phoebe didn’t breathe until she heard the lock click, followed by the telltale creak of the stairs as he went down.

Then she exhaled, dragged in another breath, and gave mute thanks she’d managed thus far.

But what now? She had two hours; she had no illusion that he wouldn’t return, that he wouldn’t insist on having a name.

She wasn’t going to lie there and wait for him to come back.

Getting free of her bonds was her first task. The cords lashing her arms to her sides passed just above her elbows; wriggling, she bent her arms up, raising her hands to where she could examine the cords securing them. Unfortunately, with her elbows trapped at her sides, she couldn’t raise her hands to her face, couldn’t use her teeth to attack the cords about her wrists.

Temporarily defeated, she decided to

see if she could get the hood off; after much wriggling and shifting of shoulders and head, she managed to work the hood back and back, until the front edge lay over her brow.

She huffed out a free breath; at least she could see. She took a moment to study her surroundings. It was a strange room—not large but reasonably comfortable with a perfectly adequate bed. While not luxurious, it was certainly no dungeon. In addition to the bed—a four-poster as she’d imagined, but with no canopy above—a small chest of drawers sat beside the door, with a taller chest against one side wall with a porcelain basin and pitcher atop it.

Phoebe wondered whether there would be any water in the pitcher but doubted it. She looked up and around, studying the strangest aspect of the room—it had no windows. There was a large skylight in the ceiling, but it was far too high for anyone to reach, even standing on the bed or the taller chest.

With a sigh, she returned her gaze to her hands and the cords binding them. No matter how she contorted hands and wrists, she couldn’t reach the knots with her straining fingers. Squinting down, desperation rising, she saw the heavy pearl brooch pinned between her breasts.

She had it free in an instant; holding it up, she examined the pin. The brooch was heavy, the pin long and sturdy. Carefully maneuvering it between her fingers, she got to work—painstakingly unpicking and unraveling the cords lashing her wrists.

It was a long, slow, laborious process, but she could see she was making headway. She was determined not to be lying on the bed helpless when that dreadful man returned; while working on the cords, she went over in her mind all Deverell had taught her. The knowledge that there were things she could do to protect herself calmed her, gave her determination a focus.

An hour might have passed, but finally the cords fell and her hands were free! Resisting an urge to cheer—she had no idea if anyone was beyond the door—she lay back, smiling up at the ceiling as she massaged her wrists, then she pushed herself upright and set to work on her other bonds.

Within minutes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her arms, swinging her legs. Carefully, she stood. She crept to the door and put her ear to it. It was a thinnish panel, yet she could hear nothing, sense no one close on the stairs. Recalling how cramped and narrow they were, and that there was another door at their foot, she assumed that if there were any guard, they’d be beyond the second door in the corridor below.

She felt safe enough to walk to free up her limbs.

Eventually, however, she returned to sit once again on the side of the bed. Clasping her hands in her lap, she forced herself to face what had to be faced.

What if Deverell didn’t learn the identity of the procurer that day?

“There’s a ship standing out in the Thames—the Maire Jeune, out of The Hague.”

The clock on the mantelpiece of the Bastion Club library chimed six times; the five men gathered in the armchairs paid it no heed as Tristan continued, “They put off their cargo of fleeces yesterday and say they’re waiting to take on a new cargo. But there’s no cargo registered by any merchant or shipping line for that ship. The captain claimed his agent is negotiating for one, but no one’s sighted any agent. The water police are keeping a close watch on the ship from afar—they were careful not to raise any suspicions with their ‘customary inquiries.’”

“So we have the ship,” Deverell said. “Now we need to be sure of catching them before they slip the girls on board and hoist anchor late one night.”

In the depths of one armchair, Dalziel stirred. He drew out a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. “What’s the ship’s description? I’ll send an alert to the naval captain in Falmouth, just in case she slips our net. No sense not being thorough.”

There were very few people who could be that thorough. Deverell held his tongue and waited while Tristan gave Dalziel the information and he jotted it down.

“Send your alert via Charles.” Gervase caught Dalziel’s eye when he looked up. “That’s the sort of message he would love to deliver. It’ll make him feel included.”

Dalziel’s lips twitched, but he inclined his head. “Indeed. St. Austell will be the perfect messenger.” He looked around the group. “So what else have we gathered?”