To Distraction

  Phoebe paused, imagining. “Lady Pelham said she’d call in Church Street tomorrow morning. Tell Em not to fall on her ladyship’s neck, but to adhere to the usual procedures—Lady Pelham’s old, but not dim-witted.”

  “Should hope not,” Skinner replied. “No dim-witted ladies allowed on our books.”

  Phoebe smiled. “Tell Em to set up a meeting between Lady Pelham and Jessica for…perhaps two days from today. That’ll give us time to get her references done, and give her an extra day to prepare…”

  Eyes still closed, enjoying the soothing warmth of the water, Phoebe grimaced. She would have preferred to speak with Jessica herself, to prepare the girl for her interview, to tell her what Lady Pelham was like and soothe the girl’s nervousness.

  With all the women she’d rescued, that lingering fear and the nervousness it inspired had always affected her most keenly, always moved her to do whatever she could to as swiftly as possible eradicate it.

  Not an easy task, as she well knew.

  Behind her, she heard Skinner head for the door.

  “I’m going to take this skirt down to brush. You all right until I get back?”

  Phoebe raised a dripping hand and waved her on.

  Skinner paused by the door. “Once you’re out this evening, and his viscountship’s watching you, I’ll pop around to Church Street and give Em the news.”

  “Yes, do—just be careful. Deverell seems to be concentrating on just me, but let’s not take any chances.”

  On a humph, Skinner left. Phoebe heard the door close.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes and sat up. Lifting the sponge, she squeezed and watched the droplets trickle down her hand and drip into the cooling water. “Damn Deverell.”

  He and his actions were starting to interfere with the safe and effective running of the agency. She didn’t approve at all.

  She wondered what “lines of inquiry” he’d set in train.

  The longer he remained focused on learning her secret—the one of her involvement in making maids disappear—the more he would disrupt the agency’s work, potentially even exposing it and bringing the whole to ruin.

  All she’d worked for for the past four and more years he now threatened. And it wasn’t just herself involved; there were her people—both of her small household and those she employed at the agency, and others like Loftus and, albeit at a distance, Edith—who lent their aid in various ways.

  And, of course, there were the girls and women the agency helped.

  The water was growing cold. She put the sponge to her skin, slowly bathed her limbs…felt the gentle stroking, remembered his hand stroking, the sensations, the excitement…

  She stared across the room. She couldn’t let him continue to push ahead with his inquiries and threaten the agency and its work. She was going to have to act, to do something about him; she couldn’t simply hope she’d be able to cope with whatever disaster he brought down on their heads.

  Which meant she was going to have to distract him.

  Give him something else—let him think he might learn something else by turning his attention away from the agency.

  To her. To her other secret.

  It was the only distraction she could imagine that might work.

  The door opened; Skinner whisked in. “You nearly done there?”

  Phoebe straightened and applied the sponge more vigorously. “Nearly.” After a moment, she said, “I’ve changed my mind. Not the blue gown—the dark ruby red.”

  Skinner paused to bend a puzzled look on her, then shrugged and headed for the wardrobe. “You know best, but if it’s discouraging his viscountship you’re set on, the ruby red’s not going to help.”

  Chapter 9

  The last of the day’s light was fading from the sky above the city’s rooftops. Deverell sat in the chair before Montague’s desk, steadily working his way through a list of dates and figures written in Montague’s neat, precise hand.

  He’d been at the club when Montague’s message had reached him. When he’d arrived, Montague had said nothing, simply handed him the list and indicated he should read.

  He’d now read enough to understand his man-of-business’s tactful silence. The evidence before him strongly suggested that Phoebe Malleson was being blackmailed.

  Only he’d take an oath that wasn’t the case. Despite his earlier hypothesis, she didn’t have the right temperament for a target—a blackmailee.

  He looked up, across the expanse of the desk met Montague’s impassive gaze. “Trace the money.”

  Stoic, still under the impression his sole interest stemmed from matrimonial considerations, Montague studied him, then quietly asked, “You’re sure?”

  Deverell nodded and tossed the list on the desk. “I appreciate your tact, but of one thing I’m one hundred percent certain—these payments aren’t what they look like. Indeed, if you were a betting man I’d lay you odds that the answer will be something you—or I—would never guess.”

  Whatever Phoebe was doing—he was fairly certain secretively—with her funds, it was sure to be out of the ordinary.

  Montague pursed his lips and picked up the list. Through his pince-nez, he perused it. “I daresay some will be dressmakers’ bills.”

  Deverell had noted the sums drawn in cash, as distinct from the large, regular bank drafts. “I suspect not. Given the amounts and more tellingly the timing of her cash withdrawals, coupled with the state of her wardrobe, I’d hazard she pays her modiste and other such accounts in cash. Consider—she lives with her aunt, doesn’t gamble, has a groom and maid provided by her father. It’s difficult to conjure what other significant calls she would have on her purse.”

  His frown deepening, Montague continued to study the figures.

  Deverell rose. “It’s the drafts I’m interested in—find out who those were paid to.”

  Still scanning, Montague nodded. “I’ll get my people onto it right away.” He looked up.

  His hand on the doorknob, Deverell met his gaze. “Let me know the instant you learn anything to the point.”

  Montague nodded; returning his attention to his list, he drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him.

  Deverell went out. Montague’s head clerk leapt up from his stool and hurried to open the outer door. As he went through, Deverell heard a bell jangling, summoning Montague’s people to their master’s presence.

  Pondering what he’d seen of Phoebe’s finances, he stepped down to the street and turned toward the club.

  Later that evening, once again assisted by Audrey, clearly relishing her role as matrimonial facilitator, he tracked Phoebe down in Lady Fenshaw’s ballroom. Her ladyship’s ball was the premier entertainment that evening; a few minutes spent charming Edith yielded the information that she and Phoebe were not gallivanting on elsewhere that night.

  Perfect. Parting from Edith, Deverell checked Phoebe’s progress down the line of the country dance currently demanding her attention. Physical and conversational, or so it appeared. Halting by the side of the room, he frowned; if Phoebe was so intent on claiming her status as ape-leader, why was she dancing with some eligible sprig?

  Eyes narrowing, he studied the glimpses he caught of her face as she and her partner whirled through the figures. She looked animated. His gaze shifted to the gentleman, wondering who it was who was so engaging her interest…then he amended the thought: why was she intent on interrogating the man?

  To his immense irritation, before he could better focus on Phoebe and her questioning, Lady Charters swept up, daughter and niece in tow, and claimed his attention.

  “Now you simply must tell us if the gossip is correct—is Paignton Hall really a castle?” Lady Charters’s eyes, magnified by her lorgnettes, were fixed, gimletlike, on his face.

  “It seems so fanciful,” her daughter Melissa cooed.

  “So romantic!” the niece sighed.

  He mentally goggled. “The hall itself isn’t a castle but is built within the shell of an earlier struc
ture.”

  “Do you mean some of the walls are truly from a castle—the original stones?” Miss Charters clasped her hands to her bosom, as if that were the most romantic notion of all.

  “It must be dreadfully cold,” Lady Charters opined. “How do your aunts find it?”

  “Actually…” To his horror, he found he’d been trapped, boxed in by a discussion of his new principal residence. Despite his best endeavors, as soon as he civilly answered one question, one of the three ladies hemming him in leapt in with another.

  His back was to the wall, literally and figuratively; he was feeling increasingly desperate when, to his utter surprise, Phoebe swept up. He’d been so distracted by Lady Charters’s ambush he hadn’t even noticed the music had ceased.

  Phoebe beamed on Lady Charters, greeted her and both young ladies breezily, then brazenly twined her arm with his. “I fear I must drag Deverell away—a summons from his aunt.”

  She delivered the words with such deadpan assurance that, with no more than a murmur of regret and a wish that they might continue their fascinating discussion at some later time, Lady Charters and her assistant harpies stood back and let him escape.

  The instant they were out of earshot, he exhaled. “That was…appalling.” Puzzled, he looked at Phoebe, realizing she was steering him down the room rather than the other way around.

  As if she truly were leading him somewhere.

  “Audrey isn’t here.”

  “I know—she had to attend the Deveraux event. But I didn’t say which of your aunts—you have several, do you not?”

  “Three—but none of them are here.”

  “Lady Charters won’t know that.” She slowed.

  Studying her face, he got the impression that she was mentally casting about for something. She’d led him toward the end of the ballroom, away from the entrance.

  He halted; laying his hand over hers on his sleeve, he held her beside him. “As grateful as I am for your timely intervention, what’s this in aid of?”

  “There’s something I wish to discuss with you. Can you find us somewhere private?”

  He trapped her gaze. “What do you want to discuss?”

  Her chin firmed. “I’ll tell you—when we’re private. Someplace where no one will interrupt.”

  A certain nervy tension had crept into her; she glanced around at the crowd milling about the ballroom. Deverell thought of Montague’s list of dates and amounts, and wondered if, perhaps, he had it wrong. Now she knew he wouldn’t rest until he knew her secret, had she decided that she might as well confess and enlist his aid in ridding herself of a blackmailer?

  Instinctive reaction swept through him. Lifting his head, he swiftly scanned the room, swiftly dredged up from long-ago memory the amenities of Fenshaw House. “This way.”

  He led her on. The French doors at the end of the ballroom stood open to the terrace, but instead of conducting her through the flimsy billowing draperies, he led her to the side, into the corner.

  When she frowned at him, as if to indicate that if this was his idea of private it fell woefully short of her need, he merely said, “Wait.”

  Other couples were passing back and forth from the terrace to the ballroom, often getting caught in the long curtains, having to stop and, with much laughter, disentangle themselves.

  A party of four got trapped, their difficulties compounded as one couple was going out, the other in, and both had got tangled in the same pair of curtains.

  The giggles and exclamations drew everyone’s attention.

  Deverell turned and opened the door concealed in the paneling before which they’d been standing.

  Phoebe blinked, then scurried through; he followed, closing the panel behind them.

  The narrow service corridor had no lamps burning; it ran halfway back alongside the ballroom, then turned to the right. A muted glow came from around the corner, evidence of a distant lamp. He waved Phoebe on.

  She reached the corner and peeked around it; joining her, he took her arm and guided her on along the wider connecting corridor. Behind them, the sound of the ball faded. He went past three doors, then stopped before the next on their right. Opening it, he glanced in, then stood back and bowed Phoebe in. “As you commanded.”

  Moving past him, she entered the room; walking to its center, she halted, looking around at what was clearly a small parlor sited between two bedchambers. No lamps were lit in any of the rooms; they were not in use.

  Crossing to a table on which a lamp sat, Deverell looked for a tinder box.

  Phoebe cleared her throat. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Lifting his gaze, through the shadows he studied her. What moonlight reached into the room was more illusion than illumination. Without light, he wouldn’t be able to see her eyes. Read her thoughts.

  “Ah…” Apparently growing nervous under his scrutiny, she gestured to the windows. “If you light a lamp, someone strolling in the gardens might see us.”

  Unlikely—they were too far from the terrace—but not impossible. Regardless, he couldn’t find tinder or match.

  “So.” Rounding the table, he strolled to her. “Cut line—what did you want to tell me?”

  Her head rose as he neared; it might have been a trick of the poor light, but he thought her eyes widened.

  She waited until he halted before her, then slowly moistened her lips.

  He realized her gaze had dropped to his, but then she raised her eyes—and stepped into him.

  Lifted her arms, wound them about his neck, stretched up—and whispered against his lips, “I wanted to discuss…this.”

  Then she kissed him.

  It was his evening for being ambushed.

  The instant her body had made contact with his, his hands had instinctively risen to grasp her waist—to seize her, hold her, trap her. The unexpected pressure of her soft, beguilingly feminine lips on his, offering a blatant invitation in a language he knew well, sent a surge of reaction crashing through him. Lust, desire, passion erupted, had him raising one hand to her nape, locking her head so he could kiss her back, so he could ravage her mouth and take all she offered—all he desired.

  Sliding his other arm around her, he locked her svelte form against him, crushing her to him, her breasts to his chest, her thighs riding against his.

  Savoring the promise of all he yearned to possess.

  All she’d invited him to take.

  Or had she?

  Her mouth was open beneath his, a soft, utterly fascinating landscape he could explore for years without growing bored; her body was pliant against his, unresisting…it was a battle to free any part of his mind enough to think—to even accept that he needed to do so.

  To realize that this wasn’t a logical extension of what had gone before.

  He’d come here tonight fully intending to steer her through another step on her path to seduction; he’d expected to have to pursue her, herd her, to expend effort to even get her that far…

  Her tongue touched his, in bold innocence stroked, then tangled, lured…his body heated. Temptation burgeoned and grew; desire welled.

  Secrets. He’d let her lead him there thinking she wanted to discuss the secret of her involvement with missing maids and payments of large sums of money. Instead…

  Wrong secret. It was the other one she wanted to address.

  Which seemed strange.

  He had to battle her hold as well as his inclinations to break the kiss and lift his head enough to see her face. “Phoebe…”

  She stared up at him for a second, then her gaze dropped to his lips. “I want more…”

  The whisper was laden with discovery, with surprise.

  Before he could remember what he’d been about to ask, she boldly stretched up, deliberately pressed her body more definitely to his, and drew his lips to hers again.

  Pressed her lips to his again.

  Effectively cindered his thoughts, effectively slayed his resistance.

  His reaction was
instinctive; she touched some primitive part of him no other ever had. A part of him he wasn’t so experienced in controlling.

  Before any part of his mind had engaged, he’d taken charge of the kiss, pressing her lips wide, plundering her soft mouth in a heated, explicit invasion from which, to his surprise, she didn’t retreat.

  Without conscious direction, his hands had spread over her back, poised to sweep lower and mold her hips to his, fingers testing the supple muscles framing her spine.

  So he knew when she hesitated, when she paused, when she suddenly wasn’t sure….

  Too much, too soon.

  She didn’t retreat, yet he sensed the shiver that raced through her, evocative, wholly sensual. His fingers firmed on her back in response, but he managed to keep them there, if not unthreatening, then at least not immediately threatening more, while he continued to feed from her mouth, continued to dally, lips and tongues caressing…it seemed she’d only just realized where her impulsive behavior had landed her.

  The suspicion that he still wasn’t reading all her motives, all her intentions clearly gained purchase in his mind. After the blatant invitation she’d issued, had she been any other lady he would have felt no compunction in accepting unreservedly, in laying her on the sofa or across the table and taking her there, in the deserted parlor, enjoying all she’d offered, her body, her pleasure, fully expecting her to be with him every inch of the way.

  But this was Phoebe, and despite that invitation matters were nowhere near clear.

  It took effort, yet once again he drew back from the kiss. Held back and watched her face until she lifted lids now heavy to reveal eyes now dazed.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” The words sounded harsher than he’d intended. She hadn’t yet panicked, but recollection of that moment in the wood when she had remained a potent image in his mind. He didn’t, ever, want to see such a look in her eyes again—especially not when she was looking at him.

  She moistened her lips, breathed, “Yes.”

  Disguising his cynicism was beyond him. “Do you know what you’re inviting?”

  “Ye-es.” Less certain, less sure. But then her voice firmed; her eyes flashed, briefly meeting his, and she pressed closer again. “Yes. Stop arguing.”