To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

An unsettling portent.

The days proved even more confounding. Deverell had an amazing knack of reading people, and therefore knowing just how to smooth feathers, as he’d proved with Emmeline. And therefore Birtles. Within forty-eight hours, he’d become an accepted member of her little band, viewed by all the others as one of them. Even Skinner, who hadn’t actually met him but had only heard of his exploits from Fergus, jettisoned her heretofore prickly view of “his viscountship”; she still irreverently called him that, but her tone made it clear the title was no longer one of contemptuous dismissiveness.

Unlike her easily-won-over staff, Phoebe was significantly more suspicious, not of his good intentions or his trustworthiness but of the wisdom of allowing a gentleman like him too great an involvement in her domain.

She kept expecting him to take charge. Indeed, she was firmly convinced he wouldn’t be able to help himself, that he would at some point find the temptation simply too great and, with the best of intentions, usurp her position. Through those first days she remained constantly on guard, keyed up, ready to repel any encroachment on his part—and time after time he met her eyes, smiled, and waited for her decision.

It was thoroughly disconcerting, and not a little discomposing, to find herself constantly wrong-footed over him, albeit only in her mind, in her expectations. It was equally lowering to realize that he read her as well as, if not better than, he read all the others; he seemed to know just how far he could go without triggering her defenses, unerringly to know when stepping one inch further would bruise her toes.

And he’d stop. And defer to her.

After six days of constantly watching him, of constantly having him around, both at the agency and in the evenings at

her elbow in the ton, helping here, assisting there, protecting always, even she mentally threw up her hands and consented to be impressed. Consented to admit, if only to herself, that he was one of that exceedingly rare breed of gentleman who did not constitutionally require to be forever in charge.

Not that she told him; he needed no encouragement.

And then she discovered that, courtesy of his particular talent for business, he was perfectly happy to sit down with the agency’s ledgers and accounts and add, check, balance, and record—all with an ease that bespoke considerable experience—and her resistance crumbled.

As she’d remarked to Skinner that evening while primping to meet him at Lady Parkinson’s ball, any man willing to step in and spare her that ordeal was worth tolerating.

Skinner had humphed and cast a glance at her new gown. “Tolerating…is that what this is?”

She’d blushed and said nothing more.

A week after Jessica had happily left for her new life with Lady Pelham in the country, Phoebe sat in the agency’s kitchen with Emmeline by her side, going over their lists of female staff looking for positions, discussing possible matches with their list of households looking to hire.

Their “rescue work” comprised only a small part of the agency’s activities, a necessary condition to allow them to successfully and unobtrusively place their special clients. After four years of operation, the agency boasted a considerable list of female staff placed, had an enviable if select reputation among those seeking work in the capital, and a significant clientele among the households of the ton whose housekeepers returned again and again when looking for maids, dressers, governesses, or companions.

Deverell listened to Phoebe’s and Emmeline’s comments with half his mind; the other half was engaged in matching recent receipts with a list of projected costs. The agency didn’t have a budget; he’d decided it needed one, and as finance was one area in which Phoebe seemed happy to give him free rein, he was engaged in formulating one.

An activity that kept his mind sufficiently busy and his boots under the agency’s table—alongside Phoebe’s.

The bell over the agency’s front door tinkled; they all looked up and heard Birtles, minding the counter in the shop, greet whoever had walked in. “How was Harrogate, sir?”

Phoebe and Emmeline exchanged surprised and delighted glances, then Birtles continued, “Come you in then, sir. Miss Phoebe’s here and will be right pleased to see you.”

Deverell rose as both Phoebe and Emmeline pushed back their chairs and stood to greet a large, older gentleman, white-haired and well-dressed, neat yet rather somber.

“Loftus.” Smiling, Phoebe advanced, hands outstretched.

“Mr. Coates.” Emmeline beamed.

Loftus Coates took Phoebe’s hands in his, a shy, avuncular smile wreathing his face. “I fear the waters didn’t agree with me, so I returned somewhat earlier than I’d anticipated.”

Coates’s gaze had found Deverell; his voice died away.

An easy smile curving his lips, Deverell rounded the table and offered his hand. “Deverell—Paignton, for my sins.” He still hadn’t got used to his title.

Coates released Phoebe’s hand and gripped his.

Deverell continued, answering the question in Coates’s mind, “I’m assisting Miss Malleson in her endeavors.”

“Oh?” To Coates’s credit, he showed no inclination to retreat. He looked at Phoebe.

Deverell looked at Phoebe. And waited.

She met his eyes briefly, then looked at Coates. “Indeed.” She glanced again at Deverell. “Strange though it may seem, Paignton has indeed been very helpful.” She gestured to the chairs about the table; as they all moved to sit, she went on, “We had a spot of bother while rescuing our latest special client.”