To Distraction

  For instance, when she was his wife.

  Phoebe merely humphed and turned him toward the refreshment room. “After dealing with Lady Harting—was she the fourth?—I’m parched.”

  He dutifully steered them through the milling throng. The ton was galloping toward the Season’s zenith with its customary hedonistic fervor, and to cap it all, last week Princess Charlotte, the Princess Royal, had married, casting those females with matrimonial intentions into a heightened frenzy. Every ball was packed, every entertainment an unmitigated crush, with matchmaking mamas lurking at every turn. He would much prefer to retreat and avoid such events, but Phoebe still needed to circulate, to keep her ear to the ground over households, potential problems, and most importantly suitable placements for the women on the agency’s books, both those from its conventional activities as well as their special clients.

  Reaching the refreshment room, a side salon thankfully less crowded, he procured two glasses of champagne.

  Phoebe lifted one from his fingers. “There’s an alcove of sorts where that window’s screened by those palms. Let’s go over there.”

  He nodded and trailed her across the salon to where the positioning of the palms and the window created a nook—in public view, indeed giving a view of the ballroom, yet affording a degree of privacy.

  Phoebe stepped into the alcove and with a small sigh of relief turned to face him. Her gaze went beyond him, idly scanning the guests swanning about the ballroom. He sipped and looked at her face, studied it—saw and savored the subtle dropping of her veils now she was alone with him.

  It was moments like this when they were alone, two together yet in some indefinable way as one, that he felt the urge to mention marriage most strongly, when he felt their complementarity—their ability to work together for the agency and more widely in society itself—showed so strongly that it couldn’t be denied, and he couldn’t believe she wasn’t aware of it, that she didn’t see it as clearly as he.

  Ever since she’d admitted him to the select circle who knew about the agency, they’d steadily grown closer. Although he’d intended that to happen, and done all he could to promote it, he was nevertheless amazed at how readily and how deeply their lives had intertwined. She had to see, to know by now that their marriage was meant to be.

  To him there was no question, none at all. The only question remaining was when to broach the subject, and for his money the answer was as soon as possible, which realistically meant as soon as they’d successfully dealt with the white slavers and the associated threat to the agency.

  He took a sip of champagne and inwardly vowed that the instant all danger was past, he’d ask Phoebe to officially be his.

  As if following his thoughts, she stirred and glanced at him. “I’m dying to hear what came of your meeting today. There’s no one near enough to hear, so tell me—what have the others found?”

  Phoebe knew he and his colleagues had met that morning to pool all they’d thus far learned and decide which avenues to further pursue. Deverell had, without her prompting, kept her apprised of all he heard, but they usually had to wait until they were alone in her bedchamber. But her impatience was building; with the threat of the white slavers hanging over the agency, she found it difficult to concentrate on the mundane.

  He shifted, glancing around, confirming no one was within earshot. “Regarding the females who’ve gone missing over recent weeks, through the watchhouses we’ve now got information on eight. Six were from Mayfair, or near to it, all working in households of the ton, not just wealthy but of a certain social standing. The other two were merchants’ daughters, both very beautiful, and in both cases they personally interacted with gentlemen of the haut ton coming to buy their fathers’ wares.”

  “So assuming we’re correct and the villain is some member of the ton, he would have met them in their fathers’ businesses.”

  Deverell nodded; those two girls had been snatched from the gardens of their homes. He had to work to keep all grimness from his face, to keep his expression charming and light, as if he and Phoebe were swapping inanities. “So we’ve now got dates for eight kidnappings. I’m hoping that somewhere, employing his usual thorough and stunningly far-reaching methods into which I don’t care to inquire too closely, Montague, my man-of-business, will be able to trace payments matching those dates to some account.”

  Phoebe raised her brows. “Can that be done?”

  “Yes, but not easily. And unfortunately, not quickly. But if money’s his object, then some trace will be there.” Unless the man was wise enough to keep his dastardly windfall under his mattress, but if he was eager for the funds…“The other possibility is that he’s spending the money, or had some pressing need—Dalziel’s set his contacts to trawl through the clubs and report any unusual or urgent debts or unexpected profligacy.”

  Phoebe frowned. “How do you think this man, the tonnish villain, works—how does he interact with the smugglers?”

  “The more we learn from the underworld contacts Gervase, Tristan, Christian, and I have been speaking with, the more it seems likely our man is acting as the procurer we labeled him. According to those who might be expected to know, white slavers don’t like to show their faces—they don’t like to grab their wares themselves. Traditionally they’ve relied on locals they entice into working for them—it’s the locals who identify the best targets, arrange the kidnappings using local men, and then deliver the girls to the slavers. In this case, however, the usual locals aren’t being used. Although the underworld suspected white slavers were back, no one knows who their new procurer is, a situation that’s making everyone uneasy, not least because this new procurer is making the old ones look bad. He’s been handing over excellent goods and he’s been operating for some time without any alarm being raised—without alerting the authorities, or leaving any clue as to who he is.”

  Phoebe was silent for a moment, then asked, “Where do they keep the girls?”

  “From what we’ve gathered, their base is generally a warehouse—it’ll be one of myriad legitimate warehouses somewhere along the river behind the docks. Locating it would literally be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  Phoebe drew in a sharp breath. “So the girls who’ve been seized are beyond our reach?”

  “Not necessarily. They gather their cargo in the warehouse, but once they have their quota, they have to move them to their ship. We’re much more likely to be able to identify the ship—we decided today to forgo any attempt to locate the warehouse and concentrate instead on locating the ship. If we can identify it, we can rescue the girls.” He paused, then added, voice low, “It’s unlikely they’ll be harmed—the slavers will get more for them if they’re untouched and beautiful. They’ll be well fed and well housed.”

  “But prisoners,” Phoebe said, abiding anger in her voice.

  Deverell nodded. “Tristan’s spoken with Jack, Lord Hendon, another ex-operative and friend of Tony Blake, one of our members. Jack owns Hendon Shipping, one of our largest shipping lines—he has all the contacts we need to keep a tight watch on the river, and now Dalziel has alerted the water police, Jack’s working with them. They know what they’re doing. They’re quite sure no slaving ship has slipped in and out in recent weeks, so the ship for this cargo is yet to arrive.”

  “So we’ll have a chance to rescue the girls?”

  “With luck, yes.” Some other guests were drifting their way. Deverell took Phoebe’s elbow and guided her out of the alcove, back toward the crowded ballroom; there was nowhere else to go. “Once they have a full load”—he lowered his voice—“they’ll call in their ship. They’ll have it sail up openly—it’ll be carrying some legitimate cargo to explain its appearance in the Pool and most importantly its need for a dock. When it docks, the cargo will be openly put off, and the girls secretly loaded in its place, then the ship will put out again, most likely claiming it’s headed for Southampton or to some other port for its next cargo. Once out at sea, they inst
ead set sail for wherever their secret cargo is bound.”

  “So…” Eyes narrowing, Phoebe imagined how it would be. “We’ll have to wait until the last moment, just before they put the girls on board.”

  Straightening, Deverell nodded. “We’ll have to wait for them to bring the girls to us.”

  The surging crowd neared; they were forced to put aside their discussion and pretend to enjoy the ball.

  We, she’d said—and he’d said us.

  As dawn approached the next morning, Phoebe lay snug and warm beside Deverell in her bed and, eyes closed, let her thoughts roam, let herself poke, prod, and assess the subject that increasingly impinged on her mind.

  She’d changed. She’d come a long way from her blanket distrust of strong and powerful men; quite aside from the one slumbering naked beside her, she was now in league with a crew of them, and far from recoiling, she appreciated them and their attributes more every day. As for Deverell…

  He’d become much more than just another of “her people,” those who worked with her in the agency and elsewhere, lending their support to her “little crusade.” Indeed, he wasn’t even just the best and closest; he was her lover and protector in truth—and over the last weeks of working together she’d come to realize he’d coalesced those positions into something more.

  He’d become her personal champion.

  Others, she’d realized, viewed him so—not just his colleagues but also Emmeline and Birtles, Fergus, and, even more telling, Skinner. They all viewed his position—their relationship—as right and proper, something to be not just accepted but encouraged. Which was interesting, considering their previous views of men such as he, every bit as negative as hers had been.

  Her lips quirked. In a quite amazing turnaround, she’d become an advocate of strong and powerful gentlemen. A certain type of strong and powerful man. To her surprise, she’d discovered she could accept him as her champion without turning a hair.

  All that was strange enough, but what was steadily herding her mind in a truly startling direction was the sense of sharing growing between them now they’d joined forces in defense of the agency. Initially she hadn’t imagined he would have any real concern for it beyond the fact that it took up much of her time and posed a certain danger, but as the weeks had progressed she’d realized she’d underestimated him—that his increasing involvement with the agency, its works and its defense was driven by sincere interest.

  Sincere appreciation of the value of the work and a wish to contribute. He was like Loftus in that regard, an unexpected godsend.

  It was that sense of sharing, the increasing sense of partnership engendered and consolidated as over the last weeks they’d worked together that drove her thoughts. Of shared goals, shared commitments…shared lives.

  That was where her thoughts invariably led her.

  There was no denying that their support of each other in spheres beyond the agency had also grown instinctive and constant. She suspected he was as aware of it as she—which left her wondering what his thoughts on their relationship were, whether they’d headed down the same path as hers.

  They were lovers, yes, but he needed a wife. He’d said so from the first, but the last weeks in the ballrooms had brought home to her just how real his need truly was.

  And how easily she could fulfill it.

  And how willing she now was to do so.

  She, Phoebe Mary Malleson, was actively considering marriage. For years she’d imagined she never would; now she couldn’t imagine not pursuing the path her thoughts were urging her down.

  And she was fairly certain that if she suggested it, he would agree. It had been she who had declared against it when he’d first raised the subject, so it would need to be she who reopened it and resurrected the prospect he’d initially proposed.

  She thought of that—how to reintroduce the subject, how he might respond.

  Beside her, he stirred, reaching for her beneath the covers; finding her, he hugged her close and sank back into slumber. It wasn’t yet dawn; she didn’t need to wake him yet.

  So she let him sleep while she grappled with the amazing fact that regardless of what his initial reaction might be to her suggestion that they wed, she—her heart, her mind, her entire being—was determined to persuade him that putting his ring on her finger would be the best thing he could possibly do—for them both.

  Malcolm Sinclair stood at the side of Lady Rathdowne’s drawing room and wished there were more shadows in the room. He didn’t appreciate the attention of the young ladies, and even less that of their hard-eyed mamas who looked him over measuringly, wondering if he were suitable prey.

  His appearance was no help, but at least his age afforded him some protection; many knew he’d yet to attain his majority, that he was rather too young to be thinking of matrimony just yet. Still, too many noted him for his comfort.

  Her ladyship’s soiree was the third event on his evening’s calendar; he had two more balls to call in at if he drew a blank there. He’d spent the past week trawling the ton’s entertainments, something of a penance, yet even if Henry hadn’t ordered him to find the lady in the alley, he would have done so anyway; to his mind, self-preservation was a worthy goal.

  It had finally dawned on him that the major balls at which young ladies made their come-outs were not the right venues in which to seek his quarry. Rational conjecture suggested she would be older—a widow or a daring matron perhaps. So he’d shifted his field to the more select entertainments such ladies frequented.

  The more reasonable numbers were an added benefit. The relative lack of crush enabled him to stand quietly by the side of the room and systematically quarter it.

  His gaze passed over her at first, but then she straightened from speaking with an old lady seated on a sofa and turned to a large gentleman….

  Malcolm recognized them both, or at least he thought he did. The lady moved and he was sure of her, but the man? He hadn’t seen him as clearly; no matter how he racked his memory, he couldn’t be certain of him.

  But of her he assuredly was.

  Doing his best to merge with the wall, he studied the couple; they were directly across the room, but the intervening guests provided a sufficient screen—he could observe without fear of being noticed.

  Then the musicians in the adjoining salon struck up a waltz. The gentleman turned to the lady and spoke; with a smile—she really was remarkably attractive if a trifle long in the tooth—she gave him her hand. Excusing themselves to the old biddy on the sofa, they headed for the dance floor.

  Malcolm didn’t follow; fixing his gaze on the old lady, he was surprised to find he knew her. Edith Balmain. She’d been a friend of his parents and had spoken kindly to him some months before when she’d encountered him in Bond Street.

  There’d been an easy familiarity in the way the other lady had interacted with Edith; a relative or connection was Malcolm’s educated guess.

  Smiling faintly, he moved away from the wall and crossed the room. He paused to glance in at the dancers on the way and saw his pair revolving as if there were no others on the floor. They made a handsome couple, but to Malcolm’s sharp eyes there was more to it than that; he’d take an oath they were lovers—that the unknown gentleman was her paramour.

  Filing the observation away, he continued his progress, deftly avoiding two young ladies to approach the sofa, and Edith Balmain.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Balmain.” He bowed easily before her, an eager, innocent light in his eyes. “Malcolm Sinclair, ma’am.”

  She had sharp blue eyes; they regarded him with interest. “Malcolm—how nice to see you again, my boy. Are you well?”

  “Indeed.” He let his gaze sweep the room. “I’ve just started going about a trifle—finding my legs in this arena, so to speak.”

  “I’m sure the hostesses will be delighted to welcome you. Your mother was a favorite of many, you know.”

  He knew very little about his mother; the comment made him pause,
but the waltz wouldn’t last forever.

  Edith’s blue gaze was searching his face. “As I recall you’re finished with your studies, is that correct?”

  “Yes—I came down last year, but I’ve been traveling with friends until a few months ago.” He drew a quick verbal sketch of his travels; time was running short. He ended with a restless glance around, followed by an ingenuous, “Are you here alone, ma’am?”

  She smiled, understanding perfectly—or so she thought. “No, no—I’m here with my niece, Miss Malleson. She’s dancing at present but will no doubt return shortly.”

  “Oh!” Malcolm turned his head to look toward the dance floor. “Was she the lady who was with you a few minutes ago? With some gentleman?”

  Edith smiled. “Yes, that was she. Deverell—Viscount Paignton—was with her.”

  “Deverell?” Malcolm frowned as if trying to place the name. “I don’t believe I recognize him.”

  Edith waved, dismissing his effort. “You won’t. Deverell spent the last ten years of the war in France, behind enemy lines. He was last on the town, or indeed anywhere in the ton, when he was your age and you were in the schoolroom.” Tilting her head, Edith studied him. “If you wish, I’ll introduce you.”

  There was a twinkle in her eyes that made it easy for Malcolm to, with suitably labored tact, disclaim all need to be introduced to either Miss Malleson or her escort. Edith accepted his reluctance readily, assuming he was nervous or shy or both.

  Employing the most boyish version of his ready charm, Malcolm took his leave of her as the last chords of the waltz sounded. Quitting her vicinity, he retreated in good order and immediately left the house—before she could think to point him out to Miss Malleson and Paignton.

  For the moment, he’d learned all he needed to know about them; they didn’t need to know about him.