“My lords.” Gasthorpe stood back and waved the visitor in.
Montague appeared in the doorway. He glanced around at the tense assembly. His gaze touched each face; most he didn’t know, but his lids flickered in surprise when he saw Dalziel. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his gaze traveled on to Deverell’s face. “I do hope I haven’t called at an inopportune time, my lord.”
“Not at all.” Deverell felt hope bloom; setting his jaw, he waved Montague to a chair. “You’ve found a name?”
Looking unusually grim, Montague sat. “I have.” He glanced again at the others, all except Dalziel. “My news, however, is of a highly sensitive nature….”
“In the circumstances, I’ll ask you to speak freely before all here—Miss Malleson was kidnapped an hour ago and we’ve no time to lose. We all need to know the identity of the gentleman who’s been assisting the white slavers.”
Montague’s round countenance registered his shock, but he quickly set it aside. He glanced at Dalziel, then looked back at Deverell. “In that case…” He drew a deep breath and stated, “There are only two accounts in all the city’s banks that show sizeable deposits consistently made at or about the time each missing girl vanished.”
Deverell opened his mouth to demand just the name—Montague stayed him with an upraised hand. “You need to hear this. I’ll keep it brief, but you will need to judge the validity of what I’ve learned.”
Puzzled, Deverell frowned, but reluctantly nodded.
“One account is an investment account belonging to a Mr. Thomas Glendower, a young man of good family with a knack for investing. However, the payments made into that account are not as consistent in amount and timing as the deposits to one other account.”
“Whose?” It was Dalziel who demanded.
Montague looked at him. “Henry Hubert Lowther, Lord Lowther. He’s one of the law lords.”
A stunned silence followed, then Christian said, “I can see why you were so hesitant to name him.”
“And why,” Dalziel said, “you wanted us to hear the proof.”
“Indeed.” Montague’s lips tightened. “But there’s more.”
It was Dalziel’s turn to hold up a hand. “Does anyone know where Lowther lives?”
No one did. Deverell looked at Grainger. “Go and ask Gasthorpe.”
Wide-eyed, Grainger rushed off.
All those remaining returned their gazes to Montague.
Who looked more than grim. “Be Lowther who he may, the facts are inescapable—indeed, they are otherwise impossible to explain. I didn’t trust to anyone else’s interpretation—I went and looked at the records myself. All highly irregular, of course, but I trust you’ll overlook that. What I found…every time one of those girls went missing, Lowther deposited two hundred and fifty pounds into his account. Every time. I traced his estate income, which is pitifully little but is his only other income. Against that, he’s withdrawn large sums. Those sums pertain to purchases of notable pistols—he’s an avid collector apparently well known as having all but bottomless pockets.”
Gervase blinked. “But you just told us he doesn’t. That he has very little income.”
“Indeed.” Montague’s eyes glinted. “Given his lordship’s status, I dug deeper—to make sure I hadn’t missed any other explanation, any other possible source of funds. Instead, I discovered that his lordship has teetered on the brink of a financial abyss for the last year and more. It’s the guns—he’s bought far too many. With neglible income coming in, he had an imperative financial motive for seeking additional funds. Indeed, he’s been tampering with his ward’s accounts as well, although as yet they have suffered only minor depredations.”
“Only because he found a better source,” Tristan said. “Selling maids into slavery.”
Deverell had been juggling Montague’s information. “What you’re saying is that without the money from the slavers, Lowther would be bankrupt.”
Montague nodded. “That’s precisely the case.”
All of them knew what bankruptcy would mean to a man of Lowther’s standing. Dalziel put it into words. “The end. Point nonplus.” He rose, as did the others.
Grainger and Gasthorpe appeared at the open door.
“Where’s Lowther’s house?” Deverell asked. Even he heard the violence in his tone.
“Wait,” Dalziel countermanded. “We should let Mr. Montague depart, with our sincere thanks. He doesn’t need to hear what we intend to do.”
Briefly, Montague met Dalziel’s eyes; for one instant, Deverell thought he might argue, but then he inclined his head. “Indeed.” He glanced at Deverell. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to do what needs to be done.”
The words had a ring of finality.
Montague left.
At a nod from Deverell, Grainger blurted, “Arlington Street. Number 21.”
With a word of thanks, Deverell dismissed Grainger and Fergus, signaling Grainger to close the door. The instant it was shut, Deverell turned to Dalziel.
None of them had sat down again. Dalziel had picked up his glass of brandy and drained it; he was setting it down when Deverell cocked a brow at him. “Still in command?”
Dalziel met his gaze, then straightened and smiled—beyond dangerous, beyond ruthless, beyond merciless. “With such a quarry?” He left the question hanging for a heartbeat, then answered, “Definitely.”
Deverell hesitated, weighing up what he could see in Dalziel’s eyes, read in his expression—that if anyone was going to bring Lowther down, it had better be Dalziel, who had authority enough to withstand any resultant furor. He nodded. “You’re right. So—how are we going to play this hand?”
She felt almost calm.
Phoebe leaned against the wall beside the door, the heavy chamber pot she’d discovered under the bed cradled in her hands. From where she stood, she would hear the creak of the stairs, would be warned when her captor returned for her answer.
Her answer, she’d decided, would be best delivered in white porcelain. She’d ransacked the room; the chamber pot was the best weapon—it was heavier than the pitcher.
It would, she hoped, at least slow the man down, enough for her to rush down the stairs and, with any luck, lock the lower door behind her. She knew houses like this; if she could break free for a few minutes, she could reach the front door and safety. That was her plan; the rest would be easy.
She looked up, noting that the light was fading from the sky. Evening was drawing in; her two hours had to be almost up.
Resistance was risky, but she didn’t believe she had any real choice. Despite what he’d said, this man—their procurer—was one no woman should ever trust. Were she to give him a name, she might find herself dispatched to the white slavers without delay—and then how would Deverell find her? He’d admitted they couldn’t locate the warehouse, so rescue would come only when the slavers tried to take her aboard their ship—and how many weeks might pass before that happened?
Quite aside from any other danger, her reputation would be ruined—making it impossible for her to act on Audrey’s excellent advice and seize the life she’d absolutely decided should be hers.
Regardless of any other consideration, she was not about to let their beastly procurer stop her from becoming Deverell’s wife.
She was unquestionably the best wife for him; she was almost certain he would agree.
Her lips lifted wryly; she was honestly amazed at herself—at how completely determination, conviction, and sheer brazen stubbornness ruled her, at how little real purchase fear possessed.
Her present situation was far worse, far more scarifying than the incident in her past; she knew it, yet she was no longer the naïve seventeen-year-old she’d been. It wasn’t just the years that had passed that had changed her but how she’d spent them; most especially it was the last month and all Deverell had taught her, on so many levels, that left her not just determined never to be any man’s victim but confident she didn’t need to be. Tha
t there was every reason to fight and no reason to expect to lose.
Men like their procurer didn’t always win, because there were other men, better men, who would annihilate him. All she had to do was escape and leave them, the right sort of large and dangerous gentlemen, to take care of the rest.
That, to her mind, was as things should be.
Escape was her goal—and as soon as possible thereafter, she would speak to Deverell about marriage. If, in extremis, everyone made a vow to God about what they would do if they were saved, then that was her vow. It was senseless to carry on as they were; theirs was no true liaison. They were living in each other’s pockets, sharing each other’s lives—they might as well marry and have done with the charade.
So she would tell him—
Creak.
Phoebe sucked in a breath. A key slid into the lock.
Silently she took up her position behind the door. As it swung open, she hoisted the chamber pot high.
Pewter-gray hair—she didn’t wait to see more but brought the pot whistling down.
He glimpsed movement at the last second and ducked. Instead of cracking the pot over his crown, she dealt him a glancing blow. He staggered.
Phoebe gasped as the pot slipped from her hands and crashed on the floor, shattering into dozens of pieces.
His face contorted in a furious snarl, the man turned on her.
He grabbed her wrists.
She remembered, rotated her arms, and broke his grasp.
He was stunned for an instant; she stepped in and brought her knee up hard and fast, but she wobbled on a pot shard—her blow landed, but not precisely in the right spot.
But the snarl evaporated; his face turned purple. He sucked in a furious hissing breath and grabbed her shoulders. He tried to shake her, but they were both off-balance…for a moment they wrestled, pot shards crunching beneath their feet, then Phoebe remembered and butted him in the face.
He was shorter than Deverell and had his head lowered—she hit the side of his forehead with hers. Hard.
He howled—music to her ears!—but his fingers only bit more deeply into her shoulders.
Phoebe cursed and looked down, trying to locate his feet to smash her heel down on his instep—
“My lord—my lord! You must come quickly!”
Breathless and agitated, the butler’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
Phoebe lifted her head, glanced at the open door.
“There’s a gentleman arrived. He’s asking for you on some urgent matter. He won’t be denied.”
Phoebe dragged in a breath to scream—
With a massive effort, the man heaved her from her feet, swung her, and slung her across the room.
She hit the floor and slid into the wall, winded, but with her hands she managed to keep her head from cracking against the paneling.
Looking up, breathless, she saw the man—their procurer—standing before the door, dragging in a huge breath.
His color was high, choleric; his cold gray eyes, filled with fury and vindictive hate, pinned her. His hands shook as he tugged down his sleeves. “I’ll deal with you later.” His voice was a low, raspy growl, nothing like his previously deliberate diction. “And then the slavers can have you!”
He spat the last words at her, then went out of the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.
Phoebe struggled to her feet; she raced to the door and pounded on the panels. “Deverell! I’m here!”
She paused to drag in a breath, listened…and realized that she couldn’t hear the man’s or the butler’s footsteps receding. They’d closed the door at the bottom of the stairs; as she’d suspected, it cut off all sound.
No point screaming.
Lips twisting, then setting, she went back to the bed, circling the pot shards to sit on the side.
She’d assumed the visitor was Deverell, but what if it wasn’t?
If it wasn’t…the beast was going to come back once he’d dealt with the interruption, and now he knew she was loose in the room. What would he do?
Looking down, she kicked at a pot shard. More to the point, what was she going to do?
Chapter 22
Concealed in the shadows of Lord Lowther’s drawing room, through the partially open door Deverell watched Dalziel, Christian, and Tristan as they waited just inside Lowther’s front hall for his lordship to appear.
The butler had opened the front door to them; given no real choice, he’d reluctantly admitted the three gentlemen he’d seen waiting on the stoop and, rattled by Dalziel’s subtly menacing demand, had rushed off to summon his master. Tristan had silently reopened the front door; like wraiths, Deverell and Gervase had slipped in and taken up their station in the darkened drawing room. Deverell glanced at Gervase, beside him in the shadows; it was their task to search the house, if Phoebe were there to locate and release her while Dalziel and the others kept Lowther engaged.
Over two hours had passed since Phoebe had been strolling in Edith’s garden; their best guess was that she would be held somewhere in this house. Lowther would want to question her, to learn about her involvement with whisking maids away; given her station, it seemed unlikely—unnecessary—for him to have had her taken elsewhere. Not yet.
That Lowther was at home seemed to confirm their assessment.
They waited; silent in the dark, Deverell thanked heaven the discipline of patience was still his. Cold dread had swamped him at the first word of Phoebe’s kidnapping; everything he’d learned since had only intensified the sensation. Given her past, this was surely the worst terror that could have befallen her. He might have eased her trepidation, blunted her ingrained, now instinctive fear and the panic that arose from that, but he had no way of knowing how she would react to the present situation and its implicit threats, how deeply fear might grip her, how badly it might affect her.
How terrified she might be.
The thought of her terrified shook him to the core, unleashed a torrent of emotions and a compulsion to act unlike any he’d felt before, to rescue her, defend her, protect her. Above all, to keep her safe.
While he waited, focused and alert, all attention locked on doing just that, the detached, usually totally cynical part of his brain pointed out the obvious with breathtaking clarity—he felt like this about Phoebe because she was his life. The center of it, the lynchpin; without her, all the rest would fall apart.
He’d imagined he would be the center of her life; instead, she was the fulcrum about which his life revolved. Without her, he’d be lost.
As soon as this was over, as soon as he had her safe, he vowed he would ask and insist that she marry him. No more delays, no more waiting for her to see the obvious on her own; if she hadn’t noticed by now, he’d just have to make the matter plain—and show her why, every single reason why, she simply had to marry him.
Heavy footsteps came quickly down the stairs—more than one man. Lips set, Deverell resisted the urge to peek out; he and Gervase faded back into deeper shadow as the footsteps halted before Dalziel.
“Dalziel?” Lowther already sounded rattled. “What’s this?”
A fractional hesitation—fleeting but there, enough to alert both Deverell and Gervase—then Dalziel murmured, “My apologies for disturbing your nap, my lord.” Another brief but meaningful pause. “It seems you’ve taken a knock on the head.”
“What? Oh, that. It’s nothing—bumped my head on a drawer. Clumsy thing to do, but nothing to worry about.” Lowther paused to draw breath. “Now, what brings you to my door?”
“I fear I need to consult with you on a legal matter. I believe you’re acquainted with Dearne and Trentham?”
“Yes, of course.” Lowther hesitated, then coughed and stepped back. “If you’ll come into my study…?”
Deverell glanced at Gervase as they listened to the four men move down the hall.
“Nap?” Gervase mouthed.
Face set like stone, Deverell pointed upward. From Dalziel’s comments
, Lowther was disheveled and injured; his lordship had been involved in some fight moments before—and he’d come from upstairs.
Lowther’s voice, pitched between petulance and belligerence, faded; a door toward the back of the hall shut.
Deverell waited a heartbeat, then cautiously looked out. The butler, a tall, severe man, stood listening outside what was presumably the study door. As Deverell watched, the man grimaced, then walked off through the swinging doors leading to the rear of the house.
A touch on Gervase’s arm and Deverell was moving through the hall. Swift and silent, he reached the stairs; keeping to the edge of the treads, he climbed without a sound. Gervase followed at his heels.
At the top of the stairs, they paused, glancing around, listening, confirming that as expected at this time of day there were no staff abovestairs. Exchanging a nod, they separated; quickly, thoroughly, methodically, all in complete silence, they searched the first floor. Finding nothing, they went up to the second; from there, they progressed to the attics, treading more warily in case any staff were in their rooms.
They found nothing. And no one.
Halting in the narrow attic corridor, Deverell faced Gervase—and saw his frustration mirrored in his friend’s face. “We’ve missed it.”
Gervase nodded. “No sign of a struggle, not even a rumpled bed to account for Lowther’s disarranged state. Dalziel wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t think it pertinent, and Lowther wouldn’t have excused the injury if it wasn’t bad enough to be obvious.”
The cold dread intensified, invading Deverell’s gut; like a fist, it gripped, turning his innards to desolate ice. Hauling in a breath past the constriction banding his chest, he turned, resurveying the doors to the rooms on either side. “So we search again. It’s here, but hidden.”
It had to be. She had to be.
This time they worked together, one tapping on a wall, the other in the next room confirming that the wall was indeed shared, that there was no extra space between. They worked as fast as they could; how long Dalziel could spin out his fabrication of a legal consulation they didn’t know.