To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

Grainger was as mystified as everyone else. “A sweet little thing, she was. A bit timid, but I thought as that was just starry eyes, her being newly hired an’ all.”

“Newly hired?” Leaning on the paddock fence, Deverell glanced at his groom. “Are you sure?”

“Aye. Not six weeks. Told me so herself.” After a moment, Grainger asked, “Why? Is that important?”

“It might be.” Deverell described the two earlier disappearances.

Grainger nodded. “Makes you wonder if that governess was new to the place, don’t it?”

“Indeed.” Deverell hesitated, then more diffidently asked, “How did Miss Malleson’s people take the news? Skinner, and her coachman-cum-groom—what’s his name?”

“McKenna.” Grainger frowned, clearly replaying the moment in his mind. “Clear as I can remember, they were both shocked—same as everyone else.” Puzzled, he looked at Deverell. “Why do you ask?”

It was reassuring that her staff were better actors than Phoebe.

He hesitated, his gaze on his horses, inwardly debating, but Grainger had proved himself not just useful but also discreet. Briefly, he outlined what he knew, and what he’d deduced. “Miss Malleson’s involved, but her involvement with anything illegal won’t be by choice.”

Grainger’s brow had furrowed. “You mean some blackguard is…well, blackmailing her into helping them snatch women away?”

“I don’t know, but that’s one possibility. Because of that, we need to tread warily.” He straightened. “Keep a close eye on Miss Malleson’s people. Miss Malleson had to have help in whisking Jessica away. Skinner most likely was the one who disarranged the girl’s bed. But remember”—he caught Grainger’s eye—“if Miss Malleson is in this type of trouble, we can expect her people to go to great lengths to protect her. Don’t alert them, don’t do anything to draw their attention. In defending their mistress, they could prove dangerous.”

Like him.

Grainger swore he’d be careful.

Together they returned to the house.

Everything he’d learned suggested that the incident the previous night was the tip of a large iceberg, something dangerous and illicit, and Phoebe was involved up to her pretty neck.

Deverell prowled the house, then stood at the drawing room windows and studied his target, still seated in the shade reading her damned novel. She was doing her utmost to avoid him, to cut herself off from him. Regardless, he was going to learn the truth—if nothing else to ensure that she wasn’t hurt. To ensure that he could p

rotect her.

The why wasn’t something he needed to dwell on; his aim was clear in his mind.

So he lay in wait for her.

Phoebe stayed outside, safe with the others, for as long as possible. She kept her nose buried in her novel, turning pages now and then, but read not a word.

She hadn’t expected Deverell to see her with Jessica last night, but after she’d escaped him, her mind had been in too great a turmoil to think things through. Not “business” things. Instead, she’d spent the hours until dawn castigating herself over other things entirely.

At first she’d paced, driven by shaky fury and a crushing sense of betrayal, railing against her foolishness in ever imagining that he might be different from others of his kind, for being taken in by him. For being stupid enough to imagine that if denied, he wouldn’t resort to force and simply take.

He’d charmed and seduced her, gained her confidence—and then…

She’d tripped over her hem and stopped to wrestle it clear…then remained stationary as her fury, held close for too long, had abruptly leached from her. She’d lifted her head, drawn in a deep breath—calmed.

And sanity, honesty, and rationality had poured back into her mind.

Standing stock-still in the middle of her bedchamber, she’d relived those moments in the wood…and her heart had sunk.

She’d panicked not over what had happened but over what she had, in a moment of evoked memory, thought had been happening.

With a quiet groan, she’d slumped onto her bed and stared blindly at the floor as the veils of panic dissipated, revealing the interlude, his actions and hers, in a cold and unforgiving light. Yes, he’d done what he’d done, reacted as he had, but it hadn’t been his actions that had panicked her. That had all been a sleight of memory—a memory she’d assumed she’d put behind her long ago.

The implication had left her feeling numb and quietly aghast. Since that long-ago incident, she’d been extra careful, as any woman would be, especially vigilant over large, strong, and powerful men, but as no man had interested her in the slightest, keeping all gentlemen at a nonthreatening, non-memory-evoking distance had been easy. She’d told Deverell the truth—she’d allowed no man to woo her; she’d never been interested enough to even consider it.

He, however, had breached her guards—and, apparently, stirred that awful memory. He’d been so successful in easing her into his arms, easing her past all those moments when she’d frozen, poised on the brink of uncertainty, that she hadn’t seen the danger. She’d long ago assumed that the memory and its effect on her had died; she’d had no inkling it could rise up and ambush her as it had last night.