To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

The Birtles address was the same as the agency’s, but Coates lived in Connaught Square, one step away from Mayfair.

Deverell studied the names, then folded the letter, tucked it into a pocket, rose, and crossed to sample the dishes Gasthorpe had left ready on the sideboard. After piling his plate, he returned to the table. While he worked his way through ham, eggs, and kippers, he considered what he knew and what he had yet to learn.

When his plate was clean, he stirred and turned to Gasthorpe. “Has Grainger left yet?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good.” His smile as he pushed away from the table held a predatory edge. “Tell him to report to the library—I’ve a new assignment for him.”

Rising, he strolled out and up the stairs, wondering what further insights the day’s activities might yield. While Grainger watched the Athena Agency, he would see what he could learn about Birtles and Coates—especially Coates. If he had any rival for Phoebe’s affections, he wanted to know, but quite aside from that was the obvious question of what a gentleman was doing associated with an agency “specializing in the employment of superior young women in genteel establishments.”

Deverell walked into Lady Fortescue’s ballroom midway through the evening, intent on finding Phoebe and hearing what she had to say about the Athena Agency.

Unable to help himself, in the afternoon he’d dressed as a laborer and slouched past the agency’s twin bow windows, but he’d seen nothing beyond a desk and two chairs—empty—and a counter behind which a woman in her midthirties had been standing perusing some papers. The storefront had looked discreetly prosperous and businesslike, yet not intimidating; the glass in the two bow windows had sparkled, and the paint work had been fresh, with the agency’s name picked out in neat, bright script over the door.

The Athena Agency had been outwardly created to inspire confidence in its well-heeled clients. Even the address, not Mayfair but on the opposite side of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, was excellently gauged to strike the right note; very definitely catering to the upper classes, yet not seeking to impose itself on the haut ton.

Such observations had set his thumbs pricking; they were precisely the sort of minor but critical details Phoebe would appreciate.

Other than confirming that Mr. Loftus Coates’s abode bore witness to his position—affluent, well-to-do, but not as well connected as one needed to be to move among the haut ton—he’d got little further in his investigations of the man; his servants didn’t patronize the local tavern, nor were they well known in the neighborhood shops. A trifle odd, but if Coates was a recluse, as one shopkeeper had termed him, perhaps his household staff was small, and their circle of acquaintance commensurately narrow.

He hadn’t yet asked Montague to pursue Loftus Coates; he’d decided to see if Phoebe, once apprised of his knowledge of the agency, might make such an investigation unnecessary. If she capitulated and told him all, he wouldn’t need to investigate anyone else.

“I’m exceedingly glad to see you, my lord.” Lady Fortescue viewed his bow with a critical eye. “It’s past time you joined the throng and made your choice. Audrey’s somewhere here—I’m sure she’ll introduce you to any young ladies you’ve yet to meet.”

Deverell clung to his charming smile and omitted to inform her ladyship that his choice was made, his interest fixed on only one lady, and she was no longer so young. Or so innocent, except in the biblical sense.

Leaving Lady Fortescue to the business of managing her guests, he headed for the corner where he’d glimpsed the tip of a red ostrich feather swaying above a crimson turban.

It was indeed Audrey; she was seated beside Edith, heads together, Lady Cranbrook alongside. He greeted Lady Cranbrook, then Audrey, so that it appeared perfectly natural that he should chat a trifle longer with Edith.

“Miss Malleson?” he asked. Somewhat to his surprise, Phoebe wasn’t hovering nearby. After last night, after her stringent comments regarding her expectations for tonight, he’d fully expected her to waylay him the instant he crossed the threshold.

On the other hand, after last night, perhaps she’d decided to play least in sight, just to force him to exert himself.

Edith’s washed-out blue eyes smiled rather sadly up at him. “I’m afraid Phoebe’s indisposed, my lord. Such a shame. She’s at home tucked up in bed—she must have eaten something that disagreed with her.”

From the word “indisposed,” his instincts had gone on high alert, yet for the life of him, he couldn’t tell if Edith was lying or not. Couldn’t tell if Phoebe truly was lying moaning in bed or…

He smiled commiseratingly and made some remark. Instead of moving away, he remained beside the three older ladies, chatting easily, yet the conversation engaged only the surface of his brain.

The rest was racing, assessing, evaluating. The bottom line was he wasn’t inclined to believe Edith’s tale.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t cite pricking thumbs as evidence of any duplicity.

Lady Cranbrook claimed their collective attention with some tale—and he recalled that at Cranbrook Manor it had been Phoebe herself who had whisked the maid away.

The pricking in his thumbs was joined by an icy sensation at the back of his neck—an infallible sign that danger threatened. In this case, he was clearly not its target. Phoebe was.

His mind tenaciously followed the logical paths: Phoebe had most definitely and unarguably expected to meet him here tonight at Lady Fortescue’s ball. She’d made a very large point of that. If instead she was whisking some maid away tonight, then the necessity had to have been sprung on her—she’d certainly known nothing of it last night—but how had she learned of the need?

How did she learn of any such situations, those necessitating the whisking away of maids? Even more to the point, if she and her agency were behind the maids’ “abductions,” for want of a better word, then with respect to any action she had planned tonight, how had she gathered the necessary intelligence on the house, the surrounding streets, the household’s habits?

A glimmer of an answer took shape in his mind. In Grainger’s absence, he’d set one of the footmen from the club to watch Edith’s town house and follow Phoebe and Edith on their outings. While Deverell had been dressing, the lad had looked in to report no unusual activity and had tendered a list of the houses Edith and Phoebe had visited that day.

Deverell had forgotten to read the list; he’d left it on the dresser at the club.

Inwardly wincing, he turned to Edith. It took him no more than a minute to subvert the conversation, then to separate his and Edith’s discussion from Audrey’s and Lady Cranbrook’s.