“Aye, guv.”
Rather more than a trifle shaken, Phoebe watched Fergus, now out of the carriage but leaning heavily on Birtles, pause to have a word with the lanky lad, who had clearly been keeping watch on their premises.
How had Deverell found out? How long had he known?
How much had he learned?
Most importantly, what would he do with his newfound knowledge?
His fingers tightened about her arm. Head rising, she allowed him to steer her toward the back door. Miss Constance Spry, the Chifley’s ex-governess, a quiet, rather timid but sensible young woman with excellent references and unimpeachable background, meekly followed; regardless of what had transpired, Phoebe felt entirely justified in having embarked on their precipitous rescue, inadequately planned though it had been.
Miss Spry’s situation had been desperate. That had been apparent when, that afternoon at Chifley House, leaving Edith with Lady Chifley and the two other matrons who’d called, Phoebe had stepped out onto the terrace and seen, on a path to the side of the small garden, the petite governess struggling in the arms of Chifley, valiantly fighting to avoid being kissed. Phoebe had deliberately scuffed her shoe, causing both to look up; Miss Spry had grasped the moment, wrenched free, and run.
Chifley had looked at Phoebe, then looked after Miss Spry and laughed. Cruelly. It had been clear he would be after her, with even greater determination, at the first opportunity. Nothing was going to stop him until he’d ruined her; the fact that she was a vicar’s daughter probably only incited him more.
Letting Miss Spry escape, with a sneer on his face, Chifley had started, deliberately, toward Phoebe. She’d turned and stepped back into the drawing room, feeling physically ill.
To her relief, within minutes of Chifley joining his doting mama and her cronies, Edith, clearly struggling not to curl her lip, had declared that they had to leave.
Across the room, Chifley had bent an openly lascivious look on Phoebe; he’d certainly seen her well enough to recognize her. In the alley, however, in the dark, his attention had been fixed on poor Miss Spry. If he had recognized Phoebe, shock would have brought him up short; she felt reasonably confident he hadn’t, that at least in that respect her secret was still safe.
Nearing the agency’s door, she glanced back. Fergus was coming on slowly. She briefly scanned his face and inwardly winced at the pain she saw there. That was the only real regret she had over the night’s events.
Des
pite the obvious drawbacks, even having Deverell find them had had its benefits; he’d rescued them, but more importantly he’d meted out some degree of punishment to Chifley, which was more than she would have been able to do.
For that, and his help with Fergus, she was willing to at least treat him civilly, even though he’d clearly been spying on her.
Reaching past her, he opened the back door; turning, head high, she led him inside.
The door gave onto a small dark hall; a few paces brought them into the large spacious kitchen at the rear of the shop.
Emmeline had been sitting knitting by the fire, with Jessica at the table nearby, quietly chatting. Both looked up eagerly as the sounds of the group’s arrival filtered into the large room…then both women’s faces blanked as Phoebe came forward and they saw Deverell, prowling larger than life, behind her.
Emmeline and Jessica quickly came to their feet. An awkward silence fell as the others shuffled in. Phoebe walked to the hearth, bent to warm her hands at the cheery blaze; the instant everyone was in the room, she turned and waved at Deverell, who had come to stand alongside her. “This is Lord Paignton.”
She said nothing more. The difficult silence lengthened, then Fergus groaned. Shuffling to the table, he slumped into a chair. “Begging y’r pardon, Miss Phoebe, m’lord, but m’head’s fit to split.”
Emmeline gasped, blanched; dropping her knitting on her chair, she hurried around the table. “Good Lord—what happened?”
She didn’t wait for any explanation; she fretted and fussed, dispatching Birtles for clean rags and Jessica to fetch a bowl of warm water.
Phoebe stood by the fire and let the mild pandemonium reign; she knew it was Emmeline’s way of coping, not just with the shock of Fergus’s injury but with the even bigger shock of having a man like Deverell in her kitchen.
He was the epitome, outwardly at least, of the type of gentleman Emmeline had had good cause to flee years before. Phoebe glanced sideways at him, wondering if perhaps he might feel, or be made to feel, awkward enough to leave. He was frowning—at first she thought at Emmeline, but then she realized he was looking at Fergus. More specifically, at Fergus’s cracked head.
Phoebe noticed Miss Spry, white-faced, her worldly goods clutched to her chest, trying to look inconspicuous against one wall. When Jessica returned with the bowl of water and placed it on the table by Emmeline, Phoebe beckoned to her. “Jessica—this is Miss Spry. Perhaps you would be good enough to take her upstairs and show her where she can rest.”
Ignoring the looming, attentive presence by her side, Phoebe smiled reassuringly at the governess. “You’ll be perfectly safe here. Once Emmeline has tended to Fergus, she’ll come up and see you settled. Go with Jessica.” Switching her gaze to Jessica, she added, “We won’t need either of you again tonight.”
Jessica nodded, a trifle overwhelmed, and turned away.
Although Miss Spry’s eyes remained unnaturally wide, she bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, miss.” Then she swallowed, cast a fleeting glance at Deverell—one Phoebe noted wasn’t so much frightened as awed—and said, “I owe you and your friends here more than I can ever repay. I won’t forget.”
Inclining her head with a certain quiet dignity, Miss Spry joined Jessica. Together, they slipped from the room.
Deverell heard stairs creak as the two young women climbed to the rooms above the shop. He returned his gaze to Fergus; after several more minutes of Fergus’s grunted protests and Emmeline’s exclamations and largely ineffectual fussing, he stirred. “Here—let me see.”