It wasn’t Phoebe Malleson who bothered Malcolm but the gentleman in whose arms she’d been whirling, the gentleman who’d looked at her as if she were his all. The gentleman who had spent the last ten years of the war behind enemy lines. Malcolm was exceedingly glad he’d learned that little tidbit; he’d gnawed at it through the night and brought it like a well-picked bone, along with his other observations, to deposit before “his master” at the earliest opportunity.
“Phoebe Malleson, you say?” Eyes narrowing, Henry set down the book he’d been reading. “She’s Martindale’s daughter—his heiress. He became a recluse after his wife died. The girl goes around with her aunts—she has a round dozen of them—but as I heard it not one of them could get her wed, heiress or no.”
Malcolm, in his customary seat before the desk, murmured, “I found her with one of her aunts, Mrs. Edith Balmain. I don’t know about Miss Malleson not being weddable—she had a gentleman dancing attendance on her.” He went on to describe Paignton, watching for Henry’s reaction—which was dismissive.
“Never mind him—have Miss Malleson seized and brought here.” Henry’s eyes gleamed coldly. “It shouldn’t take much persuasion to get her to tell me who the leader of this other gang is. No doubt he’ll prove to be some disreputable lover.” He snorted contemptuously. “Women, ladies or not, they’re all the same. Serves Martindale right, allowing her to roam with only females to watch over her.”
Malcolm had to bite back an acid comment. Had to work to pitch his voice to its usual diffident note. “You don’t think Paignton might be the man?”
“Paignton? Deverell, as he’s known?” Henry’s tone made it clear how ludicrous he found the suggestion. “You need to learn to read men better, boy. Deverell’s not the type—he’s not just ex-guards, he’s one of Dalziel’s crew. All King and country to the death and no holds barred along the way.” Henry snorted. “There’s not a chance in Hades that one of them would be involved in slaving.” Harsh amusement lit his eyes. “Even if they thought of it, their next thought—of finding their ex-commander on the doorstep asking them to please explain—would be guaranteed to make them pass the chance by. No—whoever Phoebe Malleson is helping whisk these girls away, it won’t be Deverell.”
Oh, wonderful! Deverell was that sort of man. Malcolm fixed his gaze on the handsome pair of pistols mounted on the wall behind Henry until he was sure his voice wouldn’t betray his scorn. Then he tried again. “There’s definitely something between them—Deverell and Phoebe Malleson.”
Henry’s brows rose, faintly supercilious. “She wouldn’t be the first lady to have dallied along the way with some less-than-suitable customer. Perhaps she’s got Deverell on her string now, but the other one is blackmailing her. That might well be it—if she’s looking to land Deverell, then the last thing she’d want is a past lover showing his face.”
He paused, then nodded as if convinced by his arguments. He fixed Malcolm with an ice-cold stare. “Get her here.”
Malcolm hesitated, then, his expession utterly blank, inclined his head and rose.
Chapter 20
The work of the agency had to go on. Deverell repeated that dictum several times each hour, reminding himself why Phoebe needed to swan through ballrooms and drawing rooms filled with frenetic hordes.
Tonight, they’d already graced the Dalrymples’ ball and the Cavendish event; they now stood in Lady Melvin’s ballroom, surrounded by a garrulous throng. Despite his experience, he was having to work to keep a charming expression plastered on his face, rather than give vent to a snarling growl. The apogee of the Season was nigh, and those of the matchmaking sorority who had yet to succeed were growing desperate—desperate enough to disregard all warnings and take a concerted tilt at him.
Luckily, Phoebe stood firm in his defense—only fair, given his sole purpose in being by her side, there to be tilted at, was to protect her.
“This is madness,” she murmured as a surge of people toward the dance floor sent a rippling jostle through the crowd.
“Quite.” He drew her nearer, protectively, into the lee of his body. “But for some incomprehensible reason, the ton’s hostesses engage in exactly the same behavior year after year. Are female memories really that short?”
She shot him a reproving look, but her lips had curved. “I want to find Lady Canterbury. I heard she’s looking for a new parlor maid. I know Lord Canterbury is safe enough, but I’m not sure who else is in their household.”
Meaning whether there were any untrustworthy males lurking. “I’m fairly certain Canterbury has no sons.” Lifting his head, he scanned the gathering. “I last saw her ladyship over by that corner.” He caught Phoebe’s eye, arched a brow. “Do we assay forth and hunt her down?”
She grinned. “You make it sound like a military exercise.”
“If you want my opinion,” he returned, head bent so his words fell by her ear as they moved forward into the press of guests, “there are more than a few ladies among the ton who could give any general lessons.”
Looking ahead, she laughed, yet as he steered her through the throng, his senses, his instincts, were alert and alive, very much as if this were indeed a battlefield. Until the slavers were caught and all threat to Phoebe and her enterprise removed, he would remain on guard; Phoebe wouldn’t set foot outside at night without him by her side. During the day, if he wasn’t with her, then she was either at the agency or with Edith, Audrey, or Loftus, and always under Fergus’s watchful eye.
He and Fergus had an agreement—Phoebe would never be without one or the other hovering. Whether she’d noticed that yet or not he didn’t know, but he saw no reason to draw their close guarding of her to her attention. No need to precipitate futile argument on that score.
Later that evening in the carriage rattling back to Park Street after the last of their selected entertainments, it was Edith who inquired as to the progress of their investigations. He brought her up to date; they’d long jettisoned any notion of keeping the seriousness of the situation from Audrey and Edith. Audrey was spending quite a bit of time with Loftus, and he was no match for her interrogatory wiles. So what Loftus heard, Audrey knew, and therefore Edith knew, too.
“Tristan and I managed to track down two of the men who accosted us in the alley while we were rescuing Molly Doyle.” He glanced across the carriage at Phoebe; she was hanging on his words. “Both had been hired specifically for that event. Neither knew by whom—they both described the person they dealt with as a young man, not a gentleman, not well-educated but well-spoken enough, not well-dressed so much as neat. The implication was that this hirer is of a type who can appear in their seedier world without inviting notice, but he’s not widely known—not someone anyone seems to know well enough to identify in any way.”
Phoebe raised her brows. “But they worked for him? He clearly hadn’t any difficulty gathering quite a band.”
Deverell’s lip curled cynically. “He pays well—that’s really all men like that care about, and he kept his word and paid them the rest of what he’d promised even though they singularly failed to seize Molly Doyle or inflict much damage on us. In that, he was clever—word will have gone out among the bruisers and thugs-for-hire that he’s trustworthy in that regard. I doubt he’ll have trouble hiring men as and when he needs them.
“However”—Deverell grimaced—“among the teeming multitudes of London, as this hirer is not known to the established underworld and he comes and goes and never uses the same taverns twice, then our chances of tracing him are minuscule.”
Phoebe frowned. “He seems rather clever for someone of that ilk.”
Deverell hesitated, then said, “The men we spoke with, and apparently their colleagues, assumed the young man was working under the direction of someone else. When he told them what to do, it was as if he were reciting orders from some master. They all had the impression that he was acting as a servant, although he never mentioned any other.”
“So,” Edith said, her nom
ally soft voice sharp, “the procurer—who we suspect is of the ton—has a hirer, a man of lower class to handle the less savory aspects of his trade.”
Deverell nodded. “But if we can’t locate the hirer, then we can’t follow him back to his master. So in terms of identifying the procurer, our best and indeed only remaining way forward is through tracing the money that’s presumably behind it all.”
“Has your man Montague learned anything there?” Phoebe struggled to read Deverell’s face through the shadows.
A wolfish grin flashed. “We live in hope. Montague sent word late today that he’s nearing the end of his researches and believes he may have turned up something. However, he’s insisted on reviewing all the evidence himself. We’ve arranged a meeting for the afternoon of the day after tomorrow so the rest of us can share any news we’ve gleaned—I’m hoping Montague will have a name to give us by then.”
He went on to briefly outline for Edith the steps taken to keep watch for the slaving ship and their plan to rescue the girls already in the slavers’ clutches. Having heard all that the previous night, Phoebe leaned back against the squabs and mentally reviewed all that had recently been going on around the agency and its work.
They’d rescued two more girls since Molly Doyle; in both cases, the instant the need was identified Deverell had stepped in and organized a swift and heavily guarded operation utilizing his friends and their undoubted expertise. Both rescues had gone off without a hitch.
If they could drive off the slavers she would on one level be satisfied enough; the agency could continue its work untrameled—and indeed, with the additional support the recent weeks had brought, would be stronger and more effective than ever.
But the existence of their “procurer” sent an icy chill through her; that someone like that could exist, circulating in their privileged world yet preying on the most vulnerable, indeed using their position to do so, filled her with a repugnance impossible to swallow. Impossible not to act upon.
She glanced at Deverell; even veiled by the shadows, not only his impatience but also his steady confidence were easy to read. She caught his eye, let something of her own anticipation show. “So by the end of the day after tomorrow, with luck you might know the procurer’s identity.”
He met her eyes and nodded. “It’s what we’re all waiting for—and then we’ll act.”
Late the next afternoon, every sense alert, Malcolm moved unhurriedly through the sulphurous murk hanging low in the crowded passage known as Swan Lane, not far from London Bridge.
Buildings pressed close on either side; regardless of their appearance, all were occupied—any could be hiding interested eyes, yet the late-afternoon fog was a dense veil, obscuring vision beyond a few feet. Sounds echoed eerily in the enclosed space; the immediate smells of woodsmoke, rotting refuse, sewage, and the metallic whiff of the fog were all overlaid by the unmistakable stench of the nearby docks.
Malcolm’s destination loomed on his left; soundlessly he turned up a flight of narrow, rickety steps and climbed to the tiny room tucked above the rough tavern after which the lane was named. He paused on the landing and looked down the steps, listening to the cadence of the scuffling foot traffic below. No disturbance, no change; he didn’t think anyone had seen him, let alone followed him.
Satisfied that the stairs would give warning of anyone tempted to creep close enough to listen outside the door—always a risk in this neighborhood—he lifted the latch and went in.
The room was dusty and cramped; squeezed beneath the rafters, it held a bare wooden table supporting a single candle, already lit, three stools, and nothing else—other than Jennings, propped on one stool, patiently waiting, a dutiful and thankfully intelligent lackey.
Jennings rose.
Closing the door, Malcolm smiled easily, removing the dark, wide-brimmed hat he’d worn to disguise his shining head and fair features, neither of which belonged hereabouts. For a second, he studied Jennings—round face, stocky build, neat and clean, looking oh-so-like a tradesman’s son. He was the same age as Malcolm but in experience a world apart; considering the ready smile Jennings returned, Malcolm cynically wondered which way Jennings would jump if his loyalty were ever tested.
Not that it mattered; Jennings was not, when it came down to it, his principal line of defense. Should he be caught and persuaded to speak, anything Jennings might say would only support Malcolm’s own assertions—that Malcolm was merely his guardian’s pawn, nothing more than a higher-level lackey, the next rank up from Jennings in a heirarchy controlled with an iron fist from the top.
Jennings thought the careful plans Malcolm related came from Malcolm’s unknown governor, to wit Henry, while Henry thought that all the plans of how to accomplish the abductions and deal with the white slavers had originated with the likewise unknown contact, Jennings.
Only if Jennings described in Henry’s hearing the instructions Malcolm had regularly communicated, which supposedly came from his governor, would there be any reason even in Henry’s mind to question the construct Malcolm had created. And how likely was that?
Drawing out one of the stools, Malcolm sat. “We have another job. Not quite the sort of thing we’ve done before.” He met Jennings’s eyes, read the eagerness therein, grimaced and let a hint of uncertainty—the first he’d ever displayed before Jennings—slide through his voice. “If it were me…frankly, I’d leave this lady be. This is too rich for my blood—too risky.”
He paused, frowning, letting Jennings see how troubled he was. “But the governor’s set on it, so…” With a shrug and another grimace, he outlined what men would be needed, where and when the snatch was to take place, and exactly how it was to be done.
Jennings’s eyes widened at the details, but Malcolm had chosen him not just for his so-average appearance but also for his nimble wits. Despite taking no notes, Jennings could be relied on to remember every detail, no matter how minor, how seemingly inconsequential, and given the implications of the where, when and how, he needed no further explanation of the risks.
After a moment of thought, Jennings nodded. “I know where I can get two reliable men smart enough to do exactly as I tell them, and a suitable carriage.” He met Malcolm’s eyes. “But given the danger, are you sure we shouldn’t have more men?”
Malcolm shook his head. “According to my governor, in such an area more than two men would invite attention, and that we wish to avoid at all costs. The danger will come not from seizing the lady but from being noticeable and thus traceable on the way to the second house.”
Jennings frowned. “You’re right—this is certainly different to the others—but,” he shrugged, “I’m sure we’ll pull it off.”
“Indeed.” Reaching beneath his cloak, Malcolm drew out a purse and tossed it on the table. It clanked; Jennings eyed it, mentally weighing it, then nodded and reached for it.
“Offer more than the usual rates if the men haggle.” Malcolm rose and met his lieutenant’s eyes. “Just make sure we have two good men to carry out the deed and that they stick to the plan exactly.”
Jennings nodded and pocketed the purse.
Placing his hat back on his head, settling it so the wide brim shaded his face, Malcolm turned to the door. His hand on the latch, he halted, hesitated. His motto was: Caution was always wise. He turned back.
Jennings looked at him inquiringly.
Malcolm’s features remained set; inwardly, he smiled. “One thing—if on the day after tomorrow I fail to show at our next meeting, then you’d best assume that regardless of our carefulness my governor’s been found out. If that happens, I’d strongly advise you to disappear. Not just from the area, but from London.”
Jennings held his gaze unblinkingly, then said, “I’ve an aunt in Exeter—I might take myself down there to get some sea air.”
Malcolm let his lips quirk, a touch rueful. “An excellent idea.”
With a nod he turned to the door.
Jennings rushed to ask, “But what
about you?”
Facing the door, Malcolm smiled, letting his true emotions show where Jennings couldn’t see them. “Don’t worry about me. Even if the minions of justice bring my governor down, I doubt they’ll be concerned with a mere message-bearer.”
One, moreover, who’d taken care to appear an innocent-led-astray.
Raising his hand in farewell, Malcolm opened the door; without looking back, he left the tiny room.
As he threaded his way back through the dingy alleys, he swiftly reviewed his defenses. All were in place. All were rock solid. Jennings had been the only possible chink, and Malcolm now had the sealing of that in his control.
If Henry were caught, through either this latest folly or some other foolishness Malcolm knew nothing about and therefore couldn’t guard against, it would be impossible to hide his involvement. He’d realized from the first that his best defense was to remain in plain sight, but disguised.
In this case, the disguise he’d used for years with Henry, and which his guardian fondly, firmly, and irrevocably believed encompassed the true reality of Malcolm Sinclair, was essentially unassailable. It would protect him from anything beyond the mildest of repercussions; indeed, he’d own to surprise if he was even considered worth a formal warning.
As his boots struck the cobbles of a major street, he smiled cynically. If he played his cards well, he might even be viewed as a victim.
He was an excellent cardplayer. If Henry bought down their house of cards, his next challenge would be to see what hand he could get himself dealt out of the wreckage.
Pleased with the analogy, he whistled beneath his breath as he headed back to Mayfair.
Aside from all else, he had only a few days before fate would lift him into a new world, one in which he would be entirely his own master.
In just four days, he would turn twenty-one—and assume control of the inheritance he’d worked so diligently to protect from Henry’s depredations.