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.”
Coates frowned; he waited for Phoebe and Emmeline to sit, then took the chair opposite Deverell. “Spot of bother?” He considered Phoebe for an instant, then turned his gaze on Deverell. “I take it there was some threat that Fergus and Birtles couldn’t handle?”
Meeting Coates’s dark eyes and seeing the real concern therein, Deverell recalled thinking that Loftus Coates might well prove an ally. Inwardly congratulating himself on his farsightedness, he nodded. “A cosh and a swordstick.”
Coates’s lips thinned; he turned a reproachful gaze on Phoebe. “My dear—”
She stopped him with an upraised hand. “Before you begin any lecture, I’ve accepted Deverell’s offer of…” She caught herself before saying “protection,” caught his eyes for a brief moment then smoothly continued—“an additional escort, additional help whenever we perform a rescue.”
Coates studied her for a moment, then transferred his gaze to Deverell. After a moment, he nodded. “Very well. I’ll say no more on that head. Instead, I’ll ask what I came here to learn—is there any special client you need help with placing? If you performed a recent rescue, I imagine there is.”
Phoebe nodded and proceeded to tell him of Miss Spry. It quickly became apparent that Coates had a large network of acquaintances and business associates, wealthier merchants, bankers, and the like.
“A governess of impeccable character with some experience with very young children. I really don’t think she’ll be difficult to place, my dear.” Coates smiled at Phoebe. “Leave it with me. I should have an answer in a day or two.”
Phoebe exhaled. “If you can manage it, we’d all be very grateful. She’s a lovely young woman, but we’ve nothing in our books that would be suitable, and with the news about the Chifleys’ loss still doing the rounds in the ton, I fear it wouldn’t be wise to look in those circles.”
“No, indeed. Not for Miss Spry, and not for the agency, either.” Coates glanced at Deverell, then looked back at Phoebe. “You really do need to exercise great care, my dear. No placement is worth the risk of jeopardizing all the good work the agency still has before it.”
It was a gentle rebuke, yet Deverell was grateful to Coates for making it; it absolved him of the need. At present he was doing his best not to tell Phoebe things she didn’t want to hear, but he could only go so far down that road.
Phoebe grimaced but merely rose as Coates did.
Deverell rose, too.
After shaking hands with Phoebe, Coates turned to him. “Perhaps, Lord Paignton, you could spare me a few minutes?”
Deverell smiled. “Of course.” Avoiding Phoebe’s immediately suspicious gaze, he waved to the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”
With a gracious nod, Coates accepted; he turned back to Phoebe. “I’ll be in touch in a few days, my dear.” With a nod to Emmeline, Coates turned and followed Deverell up the corridor.
They both nodded to Birtles at his post behind the counter, then Deverell held the door for Coates and followed him onto the pavement. By unspoken agreement, they strolled a few yards until they were beyond the agency’s windows.
Coates halted; he stared across the street and awkwardly cleared his throat. “I assume I don’t need to inquire as to your intentions, my lord.”
Deverell waited until Coates turned his head and met his eyes. “No.”
Coates studied his eyes, then nodded; Deverell glimpsed fleeting relief in his. “In that case, might I ask your…ah, stance as to Miss Malleson’s activities with the agency. I should tell you that I’ve assisted in my small way for over three years, and in that time I’ve come to admire and, figuratively speaking, greatly applaud the work Miss Malleson has accomplished in saving so many poor girls from…from…”
“An unenviable and undeserved fate?”
“Indeed.” Chin firming, Coates nodded. “Just so.”
Deverell looked down, frowned slightly as he considered his position—considered the right words to describe it. “I see no reason—none whatever—to disapprove of Miss Malleson’s intent with regard to the females she rescues. Indeed, like you, I find her actions admirable. However, I cannot, and will not, permit her to place herself—or indeed, as I’ve informed her, any of her people or the agency itself—in any danger. Of any kind.”
Looking up, he met Loftus Coates’s eyes. His voice firmed. “My stance, therefore, is that as I have no wish to curtail her activities, I must of necessity join in them—but as her protector, her shield. That’s my purpose in joining her little band—keeping Phoebe, and all her works, safe.”
Coates held his gaze for a moment, then briefly smiled. He held out his hand. “Thank you. I believe we understand each other. It’s a relief to know Phoebe has such a shield. If you ever need assistance of the sort I’m able to give, I’ll be honored to provide it.”
Deverell smiled and gripped Coates’s hand. They parted, and he returned to the agency, still smiling, just a little smug.
He knew what he was doing, or at least he’d thought he did. But as the days went by and he learned more about the agency’s operation and scope, Deverell found himself increasingly drawn in. Not just because of Phoebe, because it was her enterprise, the daytime activity about which her life revolved, but for the purpose itself.
Two nights later, lying pleasantly sated beside Phoebe in her bed, he stared at the canopy above and pondered the depth of his developing interest in the agency’s work. Perhaps it wasn’t such a fanciful notion that a man like him, one who had spent so many years in pursuit of his country’s greater good, should be attracted to the battle Phoebe was waging. The scale might be a great deal smaller, the field more circumscribed, yet it was still a battle between good and evil, between right and wrong—and it was waged largely undercover, yet another aspect that made the whole seem comfortable and familiar to him.
He felt like he belonged. As if working alongside Phoebe, keeping her and the agency safe, was a position that had been crafted especially for him—the answer to the restless, unsettled feeling that had gripped him over the past months. His lack of purpose…but was it fair or right to make Phoebe’s purpose his?
Beside him, she snuffled, wriggled closer, her bottom to his side, then sank back into slumber.
Inwardly smiling, he turned his mind to the day just passed, and those before t
hat. He was starting to find a certain rhythm, a pattern to his days; he was actively searching for it, constructing it. During the mornings he generally left Phoebe to her visits with Edith; it was essential for her to maintain her position as Edith’s “shadow,” always there, always listening, learning, quietly questioning. She often returned from those visits with information on households and possible positions for the agency’s clients. Over those morning hours, he took care of any estate business, looked in on Montague, and dealt with any business matters requiring his attention.
In the afternoons, he usually dropped by the agency; by the time he’d chatted with Birtles and learned from Emmeline about the day’s developments, Phoebe would have finished her afternoon visits and would join them. The next hour or so would be spent on agency business. His background enabled him to offer novel solutions to some of the problems; every such instance sent a glow of satisfaction through him, somewhat to his surprise.
But it felt good. His association with Phoebe’s agency was bringing him a return he hadn’t expected. He was increasingly grateful to them—especially Phoebe—for accepting his services, for allowing him into their circle.
His wandering thoughts drifted over the past day, one not so routine. Lady Castlereagh had hosted a picnic at the family’s estate in Surrey; Edith had declared she would be too tired by the drive, so he’d driven Phoebe down in his curricle and spent the day at her side. His appearance in that position had further fueled speculation, but of that Phoebe thankfully continued to be oblivious. She’d remained focused on her goals—keeping her ears open for possible positions—and in that, he’d seen a chance to assist.
Leonora, Countess Trentham, had been present, along with Trentham’s redoubtable great-aunts. Recalling that his fellow Bastion Club member and his wife accommodated a startlingly large number of older ladies in their various households, he introduced Phoebe and stood back.
Until her marriage, Leonora hadn’t spent much time in the ton; she and Phoebe hadn’t previously met. He wasn’t, however, the least bit surprised when they seemed to recognize each other as kindred spirits. By the time he and Phoebe parted from Leonora, the women were well on their way to becoming firm friends. Leonora, by no means blind, had invited Phoebe to call, and there had already been mention of the Athena Agency.
While the ladies had chatted, he’d considered the network of households, of wives and their friends, that courtesy of their marriages the Bastion Club members were creating. And those members and their wives he would trust with his life—and also, therefore, the secret of the Athena Agency.
There was a possibility there for expanding the agency’s work, but that was a prospect for the future, for after he’d made the speculation in Leonora’s and so many other ladies’ eyes a reality.
He dwelled on the vision—Phoebe as his wife. Soon; the time for broaching that issue was not yet, but approaching. Just as well.
Aside from all else, there was the not-so-minor detail that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—willingly sleep anywhere but beside her. Some nights ago when Phoebe had sent a note that Edith had been too tired by their day’s outing to Richmond to attend any evening entertainments, he’d grasped the opportunity to drop by the gentlemen’s clubs, simply to show his face and hear any story doing the rounds; afterward, he’d decided it was too late to disturb Phoebe.
Instead, he’d spent a hellish night in his previously perfectly comfortable bed at the club. Time and again, on the brink of sleep or just beyond, he’d reached for Phoebe and she hadn’t been there.
He’d barely slept a wink. At some deeper level, his nerves—or was it his emotions?—had felt abraded.
He wasn’t interested in repeating the experience. It had been unsettling to realize how important she’d become to him; that was an aspect, something he knew was a growing and burgeoning aspect, of his wooing of her that he hadn’t foreseen but saw little benefit in dwelling too much upon.
Once she was his wife, that unexpected and unsettling craving would be satisfied, so all he needed to concentrate on was marrying her and the rest would take care of itself.
Fixing his mind on that goal, he turned and slid his arms around her, curled about her, and let his dreams claim him.
The next evening he joined Phoebe at Lady Walker’s ball. Audrey was present, too; she sat beside Edith, her sharp eyes narrowed, studying him as he bowed, chatted to Edith, then moved on to take Phoebe’s hand.
Sincerely hoping his aunt would keep her questions—on his imminent nuptials, he had not a doubt—to herself, he raised Phoebe’s hand to his lips, kissed, then looked over the sea of heads as the musicians struck up.
“How useful—a waltz.” He caught Phoebe’s eyes. “Shall we?”
She smiled and assented, allowing him to lead her to the floor. Buoyed by the clear expectation in her eyes, he swung her into his arms and swept her into the swirling throng.
He waited until they’d completed their first circuit, until she’d all but sighed and relaxed in his arms, before asking, “How’s our latest special client?”
“She’s recovering well.” Phoebe met his green eyes; she still found it astonishing to be discussing such matters with him. “From what she’s told us, we got her away just in time.”
They’d run another rescue three nights before; Deverell had watched over the proceedings more or less over her shoulder the whole time, but all had gone well, exactly as planned.
A slight frown darkened his green eyes. “Emmeline mentioned there might be two other outings in the offing. Are there always that many?”
That many female staff needing rescue from their masters.
“Yes, and no. This is the busiest time of year for it.”
His frown grew more puzzled. “Why? Just because it’s the Season?”
“No—it’s because of what happens at the end of the Season. It’s almost May. By June the ton starts to remove to the country, so for female staff feeling under threat, the choice is to escape now or risk being trapped on some country estate where the man involved will have even more time on his hands and the houses are bigger.”
She paused while he whirled her around the end of the room; once they were heading back up it, she added, “And in terms of finding another position, now is the time. The ton in particular does little to no hiring during summer—ladies tend to wait until they’re back in town.”
He raised his brows. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” After a moment, he refocused on her eyes. “So how many are you expecting?”
She lightly shrugged. “All I can be sure of is that there will be more.”
He inclined his head; he drew her closer as again they whirled through the tight turn at the end of the room, but this time he didn’t ease his hold. This time he kept her close; she wasn’t even sure he was conscious of it. That it wasn’t an instinctive part of his reaction to a subject she increasingly realized he found disturbing.
In the sense that he felt he should do more.
“You know,” she said, acting on a whim, her voice low, just for him, “I realized some time ago that we couldn’t save every girl, every woman. That it’s simply not possible, that not being able to help some is a fact of life, one we have to accept.”
His eyes had fixed on hers; holding his gaze, she continued, “Edith calls my hobby a ‘little crusade’—as usual she sees to the heart of things. But I’ve accepted, as we all must, that we can’t change our world—that we can’t eradicate this particular evil. That we can only do what we do, but what we mustn’t do is imagine that because we can’t fix the whole problem, that what we do accomplish isn’t worthwhile.”
A long moment passed; the waltz was ending when he replied, “Edith’s indeed very wise—it seems you’ve inherited the trait.” He whirled her to a halt, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed. Met her eyes and smiled. “Successfully helping the girls and women we do is, indeed, sufficient justification.”
She returned his smile, let him set her hand
on his sleeve, then together they moved into the crowd, stopping to chat here, to exchange greetings and news there, to learn what was happening in the wider ton.
As they left Lady Fergurson and moved on, Phoebe smiled to herself; he’d grown almost as glib as she in eliciting useful information from ladies young and old. “Don’t forget to tell Emmeline about Mrs. Caldecott looking for a new companion.”
His lips curved but he made no reply, simply steered her to the next likely source.
When he’d first made it clear he wasn’t going to stand stoically by and simply watch what she did, she’d had serious reservations over how “helpful” he would be. Instead, quite aside from his glib tongue and charming smile—potent weapons within the ton—and his unusual background both as a military spy and also in business, which was proving so useful in other areas, there was the surprising yet undeniable fact that his simple presence at the agency had had an unexpected but powerfully positive consequence.
Emmeline’s rapid acceptance of him she’d put down to his charm and his undoubted ability to soothe women’s fears.
What she hadn’t immediately realized was that while every “special client” reacted at first sight of him with instinctive suspicion if not outright fear, just by being himself he allayed those fears and transformed even the most hardened suspicion to something close to fascination.
Not with him personally, but with what he represented.
It had taken her a little while to realize what a potent message his being at the agency, assisting as he was, was sending to their most vulnerable clients.
They’d seen the dark side of powerful gentlemen; he was the light to that dark, the living proof, one they could see with their own eyes, weigh with their own wits, and so realize that not all men like him were evil. That while some men outwardly like him were dastardly predators, others were protectors and defenders.
As all their “special clients” needed to work for their living and could not therefore avoid gentlemen like him, it was vital that they realize not all such men were dangerous. More, it was something they needed to learn and accept before they could with confidence go back into the arena in which they had to work.