To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)
To cede him what he now had to have.
“Very well.” Holding her gaze, he evenly said, “Consider my position. I now know you regularly put yourself into situations that are utterly and unquestionably beyond acceptable for a tonnish lady—both in terms of your reputation and even more in terms of your personal safety.”
She frowned, irritated. “It’s not usually dangerous.”
He arched a brow. “Tell me…what would you have done if I hadn’t been there tonight? You and little Miss Spry would have been left facing an enraged man, one who’d come chasing a small and helpless female with a cosh in one hand and a swordstick in the other. Allow me to inform you rational argument wouldn’t have worked.”
She had the grace to blush; he suspected she also quelled a shiver. “That was the first time any such trouble has occurred.”
“Indeed. It did however occur, and it occurs to me that you owe me a debt in that regard.”
Lips compressed, she studied him, then asked, “Where are you headed with this?”
His lips eased, but his smile was intent. He kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Knowing what I now know, the ton at large would consider me unquestionably obliged to inform your fathe
r.” Her eyes flared; he held up a staying hand. “However, there is an alternative—one that would be acceptable to me and to the ton should they ever learn of the matter. That alternative requires me to make myself responsible for your protection, both in terms of your reputation and your physical safety.”
Her eyes narrowed, darkened. She held herself very still, then quietly stated, “That’s the definition of a husband.”
He shrugged lightly, still holding her gaze. “Husband, protector…lover. Call the position what you will, it’s one I and the ton recognize. Either one of the three could apply in this situation.”
He intended to claim all three positions, simultaneously, eventually, but saw no reason to push the point. Not yet; now was not the time.
Phoebe studied him for a long moment, then swung and slowly paced. A minute ticked by, then she halted and looked at him. “What would this—being my protector in this case—entail?”
“You would have to include me in any action to do with your enterprise that could in any way harm your reputation or even remotely put you in danger.” He tilted his head, considering, his eyes on her. “Or, indeed, brought your enterprise into danger. Protecting it would be a necessary part of protecting you.”
She frowned. “And if I agree, you’ll allow me to continue—the agency to continue—as it has to this point, unchanged? Without interference?”
That last was the part she couldn’t bring herself to believe.
But he nodded without hesitation, his green gaze unwavering. “Provided you abide by my stipulations, then you and your people will be free to proceed as you always have, with the one proviso that if there’s any danger, I will step in and do whatever is necessary to ensure your safety—and that of your people and your enterprise as well.”
She was confused—not by his offer but by the fact that he’d made it. She couldn’t make him out; she didn’t understand him or his motives.
Watching her, Deverell felt that for the first time that night, some control over events was returning to him. He gave her a moment more, then arched his brows. “Well?”
He knew very well that she had no real choice. She knew it, too.
She continued frowning at him, but then, in clear capitulation, she drew a long breath and nodded. “Very well. On the basis of what you just said, I accept your proposition.”
“Good. Now who’s Loftus?” It was a point that bothered him, this unknown male.
To his relief, his concern was misplaced. Loftus proved to be a reclusive middle-aged philanthropist who’d learned of the agency’s work through his housekeeper, when she’d hired a girl from the agency and he’d questioned the forged references the agency had provided. Since learning of them and their enterprise some three years before, Loftus had supported them in myriad ways, both financial and practical.
“He’s one of our best sources for new positions for the girls we help. Despite his restricted lifestyle, he hears of things in his circles—wealthy merchants who are looking for a well-trained governess, or who need a lady’s maid for their daughter. That sort of thing.”
Loftus was clearly not an enemy; indeed, be might well prove to be an ally.
A knock on the door had them both looking that way. When he called, “Come,” Pringle walked in.
Deverell rose and greeted him. He introduced Phoebe as McKenna’s employer.
Pringle bowed; straightening, he stepped back as Gasthorpe slipped past to remove the tea tray. “I’ve checked the wound, cleaned and treated it. McKenna’s lucky he has a thick head—beyond a headache that might last a few days, I doubt he’ll suffer any lasting injury. The wound itself should heal well enough, and give him no further trouble.”
Deverell thanked the dapper surgeon; Phoebe smiled, added her thanks, and gave him her hand. After bowing over it, Pringle withdrew; Gasthorpe had already left with the tray.
One glance was all it took to tell Deverell that Phoebe’s mind had refocused on McKenna. He’d got the vital agreement he’d wanted from her; it seemed an opportune moment to move on and let that point rest.