To Distraction

The following afternoon, Phoebe stepped out of the morning room onto the narrow terrace that gave onto the lawn of the walled garden of Edith’s house. Inside, lying down on the chaises in the drawing room after their afternoon’s exertions, Audrey and Edith were idly swapping anecdotes, eyes shut, recovering.

  Smiling, Phoebe stepped onto the lawn and ambled, equally idle, down the path that followed the wide flowerbed along the laneway wall. It was after five o’clock and the sun was dipping below the rooftops, but the stones of the wall still held the full day’s heat; it was the perfect time for a lady to stroll without need of a parasol.

  She often strolled at this time, the hiatus between the afternoon’s entertainments and the ritual of dressing for the evening. The lingering warmth of the day released the perfume from the blooms nodding in the border; she stooped to sniff a red rose, marveling as she always did at the richness of the scent.

  Normally, she used these quiet moments to organize her thoughts, to review the day from the perspective of the agency and consider what the evening might bring, how she could best use its entertainments to further the agency’s aims. Today, however, she was fully engaged in suppressing her thoughts—from holding them back when they wanted to rush ahead. Soon Deverell would learn the identity of the dastardly procurer. Would he know today? Had Montague sent word to their meeting? Or had they already learned the answer via some other route?

  Regardless, who was the man? Was he someone she knew?

  More importantly, how would Deverell and his colleagues choose to act? Would they move today? Would he tell her first? Or…? “If I don’t stop thinking,” she muttered to herself, “I’ll drive myself insane.”

  She glanced across the lawn to where Fergus sat on a bench by the house, mending a bridle. Continuing on, she passed the gate in the wall; reaching the back corner of the garden, she paused to admire a rosebush covered with fat pink blooms.

  The sound of the back door opening had her glancing around. Milligan, the housekeeper, looked out. Seeing Phoebe, she beckoned and called, as she did most afternoons, “Mrs. Balmain’s called for tea in the drawing room, miss. I’m just about to take it in.”

  Phoebe waved to show she’d heard and turned back to the house. “Thank you, Milligan. I’ll come in.”

  Milligan noticed Fergus on the bench nearby. “You’d better hie yourself in, too, before my scones go cold.”

  “Scones, heh?” Fergus laid aside the bridle. He looked across at Phoebe, returning up the path, then turned and followed Milligan through the kitchen door.

  Phoebe didn’t hurry; it was so pleasant outside. She’d passed the garden gate and was halfway back to the morning room when a soft thud sounded behind her, followed immediately by a child’s wail.

  “Noooo! M’ball! How’m I gonna get it back?”

  Turning, Phoebe located the ball that had bounced on the lawn, then rolled a little way. From beyond the wall came sounds of an agitated conference debating the wisdom of climbing the high wall to retrieve the ball.

  Quickly walking back, she picked up the ball; hefting it in one hand, she walked toward the gate. “Don’t climb the wall! It’s got glass shards along the top. Wait a minute and I’ll bring your ball out to you.”

  She thought of tossing the ball back over the wall, but she couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t miss it, and then it might bounce into the garden across the lane, inhabited by a very large bullmastiff. Lifting the key from the nail, she slid it into the lock, then turned; the bolt fell. Grasping the heavy latch, she pulled the gate wide—and blinked at the empty lane.

  The sound of rushing, retreating footsteps reached her. Puzzled, she stepped through the gate, looking toward the street—and caught a fleeting glimpse of three urchins fleeing around the corner as if the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.

  “Well.” Astonished, she halted.

  In the same instant she realized she wasn’t alone.

  She sucked in a breath and whirled—

  A black bag dropped over her head. Letting the ball go, hands rising to grasp the cloth, she dragged in a breath to scream.

  A hard calloused hand caught each of hers.

  She parted her lips—a band of material was cinched over her mouth. It was pulled tight and tied about her head; she only just managed to keep the band from pressing between her lips and pushing the cloth into her mouth.

  For a moment, she was fully engrossed with that battle, then, as her senses snapped back to the outer world, she felt her arms being bound to her sides, then her hands were yanked forward and her wrists secured tightly before her. Before her head steadied she was lifted, carried between two men a short distance back along the lane, then loaded into a carriage, laid on the floor like a rolled-up rug.

  The carriage door was shut on her; the carriage tipped as one of the men climbed up. “Shut the gate.”

  The words were a deep, grumbling growl. A second later, she heard a muted thump as the gate closed.

  Almost immediately the carriage tipped as the second man joined the first. The carriage jerked, rocked forward, then rumbled down the lane and out into the street.

  From the opposite side of Park Street, along which he’d just happened to be strolling, yet another elegant gentleman out enjoying the pleasant afternoon, Malcolm watched the carriage bearing Miss Phoebe Malleson rattle down the street, then turn the corner and head deeper into Mayfair with an air of grim resignation.

  He shook his head and strolled on. It was a stupid move, unnecessary—there were plenty of maids in Mayfair; it would have been easy to avoid whatever group Miss Malleson was a part of—and unacceptably dangerous.

  The more he learned, the more he felt certain Henry’s reading of the situation was wildly fanciful. The other “gang” wasn’t in league with the white slavers, nor yet any other arm of the flesh trade—they were the wrong sort of people and there were no obvious connections. If left to his own much more cautious devices, Malcolm would have investigated the true nature of the other gang’s activities; given they, too, were operating if not outside the law then certainly on its fringes, and given that people of the caliber of Deverell and Miss Malleson were involved, there might well have been some nugget of information he could have exploited to nullify any threat the other gang might have posed.

  But the ways of wisdom, of caution, had deserted Henry. Malcolm would have had to advance his case in highly forceful fashion to convince his guardian of the folly of his approach.

  And that he hadn’t been prepared to do.

  Arguing successfully with Henry—while he could certainly have done it—would have shattered his disguise. The veils he’d spent years artfully weaving would have fallen from Henry’s eyes, and then he would have known the truth—and if he then later fell, he would take Malcolm with him.

  Malcolm had witnessed Henry’s vindictiveness too often to doubt it would—if given cause—be turned on him.

  One of the hallmarks of the wise was that they avoided the pitfalls that ensnared lesser mortals. Malcolm had absolutely no intention of becoming ensnared in the web he had to this point managed for Henry.

  Especially as it was Henry’s overweening arrogance that was set to bring the whole crashing down. “His territory” indeed!

  Reaching Piccadilly, Malcolm crossed the street and strolled along the edge of Green Park. He paced along the pavement, swinging his cane, to all appearances a gentleman contemplating the beauties of the day.

  Looking back on the last months, revisiting decisions in light of the looming debacle, there wasn’t, despite all, much else he could have done. Last December, with less than six months to go before Malcolm gained his majority and control of the fortune his father had bequeathed him, Henry—who as Malcolm’s guardian had complete control of that fortune until he came of age—had started toying with the funds, withdrawing small amounts here and there to feed his craving for acquiring pistols.

  Malcolm had had to find an alternative source of cash sufficient to satisfy Henry
’s spiraling need, and quickly—that had been the only reason he’d mentioned the white slave traders and the possibility he’d seen there.

  Henry, predictably, had leapt on the idea.

  A product of Malcolm’s creative mind, the possibility, when he’d pursued it at Henry’s direction, had transformed into a lucrative reality. And so it had started, and so it continued, and Henry, now addicted, would never allow it to cease.

  Until he was caught.

  Whether in the absence of Henry’s need Malcolm would have developed his notion of assisting white slavers to the point of actually doing it, he honestly couldn’t say. He often thought of such schemes, but purely in a theoretical way; never before had he converted theory into practice.

  Even now, even though it had been his concept and it had worked, although he was grateful for the experience he’d gained, he felt not the smallest ripple of regret at the notion that Henry would soon be caught and the white slaving scheme would end.

  In three days, he would be free of Henry; a whole world of ways in which to make money was out there, and he intended to explore. Yet until then…

  Increasingly certain Henry’s capture was in the wind—kidnapping the all-but-affianced bride of a man like Deverell seemed a certain way of bringing the full weight of the authorities down on one’s head—Malcolm paused at the corner of Arlington Street and considered the façade of Henry’s house.

  Miss Malleson would by now be in the mews behind the house, if not already within it.

  Cold-bloodedly considering that, he concluded that perhaps it was time that Henry was caught. Of course, as a member of an august arm of “the authorities,” Henry considered himself beyond reach, indeed quite literally above the law.

  In his mind, Malcolm weighed all he knew against Henry’s conviction of his own invincibility.

  Then he stirred and walked on, past Arlington Street and on toward White’s in St. James. There would be plenty of acquaintances there to see him, many well-connected friends with whom he could dine.

  Regardless of who had weighed the odds correctly, him or Henry—and he knew who he would wager on if he were a wagering man—given what would most likely transpire once Miss Malleson was in Henry’s clutches, there was no need whatever for Malcolm to be anywhere in the vicinity.

  Chapter 21

  On the carriage floor, Phoebe suffered through every jolt, every rattle, until she felt like her teeth would come loose. When the carriage finally came to a blessed halt, she exhaled with relief—as well as she could past the gag.

  She hadn’t been able to move an inch. Her hands were too well tied; she hadn’t been able to loosen the bonds. The fabric of the hood was fine woven and black; she couldn’t even distinguish daylight through it.

  But she knew she was still in London; the carriage hadn’t gone that far—the ordeal over the cobbles hadn’t gone on that long. The familiar sounds of the capital reached her ears, muted by the hood but otherwise undimmed. If she had to guess, she would say they were still in Mayfair, or close to it.

  By the clatter outside, the echoes of the horses’ hooves as they shuffled and of men’s voices and boots, the carriage was in some narrow space between houses—probably a mews.

  Before she could think further, the carriage door was wrenched open. Hands—large male hands—grabbed her, hauling her out; there were two of them as before, but this time one hefted her over his shoulder.

  “I’ll take her in. You wait with the horses.”

  “Aye, but hurry up.” The second man sounded nervous. “This ain’t the sort of place I like to hang about. Yer never know when a constable might stroll by. The watchhouse ain’t far.”

  The man carrying her grunted, then turned. For some moments Phoebe had all she could do to fight back waves of dizziness; the man was carrying her like a sack of potatoes with her head dangling down his back, her legs locked to his chest under one beefy arm. With her arms bound and her tied hands trapped beneath her, she couldn’t brace or in any other way steady herself against the rocking of his gait.

  Then, thankfully, he slowed and stopped. Her senses returned to her; she could hear and feel again. From the coolness reaching her, he’d carried her into a house, presumably by some back door to a lower floor. No kitchen smells, no warmth. A cellar?

  “This way.”

  Beneath the hood, she blinked. A well-modulated voice, accents unmistakable—a tonnish butler.

  Then they were moving again, but slowly; she concentrated on the surroundings, on what she could learn, instead of letting her senses focus on the nauseating effect of being held upside down with the man’s burly shoulder pressing into her middle.

  She could hear the man’s footsteps and the butler’s as he preceded them. Stone flags at first, then they climbed a short flight of steps and came out onto tiles. That lasted for a little way; she sensed they were in an enclosed space—a corridor?

  Then they went through a doorway and the walls fell back. A hall?

  A tiled floor still, but then the footsteps became muffled; a rug. The man slowly swiveled, balancing her weight, reached for something—and started to climb.

  Wooden stairs.

  She continued to track their progess through what seemed to be a fashionable house. On reaching the first floor, the butler led the way down a carpeted corridor. Phoebe counted the paces, one of Deverell’s rules echoing in her head.

  If you’re caught and can’t do anything else, concentrate on learning as much as you can about where you are, and your captors.

  He’d continued giving her lessons and advice on defending herself, on how to react in various adverse circumstances; somewhat to her surprise, his words hovered high in her mind, almost as if he were there, watching over her.

  But this was no test, no game. This was all too real.

  She counted, remained focused. Twelve paces from the stairhead, the butler paused; she sensed him moving—opening some door?—then the man carrying her grunted and changed direction.

  He passed through a narrow portal; Phoebe felt one side brush her shoulder. Then he climbed.

  Steep, narrow stairs—servants’ stairs?

  Under the hood, Phoebe frowned. That seemed an odd place for servants’ or attic stairs. Equally, it seemed odd that attic stairs were starting from the first floor. Almost all houses in Mayfair and surrounds had attics above the second floor, not the first.

  Could they have somehow come in on the first floor rather than the ground floor? No—what she’d thought was the front hall had been tiled. Tiles were rarely found in first-floor galleries—they had timber floors and runners.

  So what were these stairs—where were they taking her?

  The stairs, eleven of them, ended; the man angled himself and her through what was clearly a low, narrow doorway. With a grunt the man straightened; she felt him look around.

  “Put her on the bed.”

  The man moved to obey the butler’s command. Phoebe tensed, then she was hoisted off the man’s shoulder and dumped—exactly like a sack of potatoes—on a raised mattress.

  The panic she’d managed until then to hold at bay welled. She wriggled, then rolling to one side desperately searched with her halfboots for the edge of the bed. The butler muttered an oath and started forward.

  “’Ere—none o’ that.” The rough man grabbed her feet; anchoring each ankle in a beefy fist, he held them together and pressed them down on the bed.

  She threshed, trying to break free, but with her hands so well tied she could barely move.

  “Here,” the butler said, then she felt her feet being lashed together.

  Bad enough; they then secured her lashed ankles to one side, then the other—presumably to bedposts—fixing her feet midway between.

  When they stepped back, Phoebe tried to move her ankles and found the most she could manage was an inch either way. Worse, she could no longer shift around because she couldn’t put her soles to the bed to gain leverage.

  She sensed both me
n watching her, assessing their handiwork.

  “That’ll hold her.” The butler’s voice was superiorly smug.

  She heard him move. “Come,” he said. “I’ll inform the master she’s here and give you a note so you can claim the rest of your fee.”

  They left. Phoebe listened. A key turned in the lock of the narrow door, then she heard a creak as they went down the stairs. Straining her ears, she caught a distant muffled thud…and then she heard nothing more.

  She was hooded, gagged, and bound, helpless on a bed in some strange room in some gentleman’s house. Only two rough men and the man’s butler knew where she was. And now “the master” was about to be informed.

  Who was he?

  The procurer? Was this his way of striking back at the agency and her? He’d learned who she was; what was he planning to do?

  Her mind tried to run in a dozen directions at once; she couldn’t focus, couldn’t think….

  Deverell would come for her. He would find her. He wouldn’t rest until he did.

  How? She hadn’t a clue, but just as smothering panic rose once more, she remembered that he’d hoped to learn who the procurer was, possibly by that evening. Possibly very soon.

  Once he knew he would go to Park Street to tell her, find her gone, and guess…then he would come.

  She’d just reached that reassuring conclusion when the stairs beyond the door creaked.

  Instantly alert, she listened—and heard a key inserted in the lock, then the bolt clicked and the narrow door opened. She felt the slight draft, then the faint eddy as someone large moved into the room.

  The door closed.

  Blind, gagged, helpless, she lay on the bed, fear sliding through her; ruthlessly she trained her senses on the man who had entered and was standing at the foot of the bed studying her. She forced herself to remain perfectly still.

  He eventually stirred. “Good. I’m glad to see that you’re being sensible, my dear.”

  A hand tapped her booted foot, and she jumped.

  “Hysterics are so tiresome. And in this case, I assure you they would be entirely unrewarding.”