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“So unfortunate that Phoebe fell ill. Did you and she visit many households today?”
Edith smiled sweetly, encouragingly, up at him. “Only three. Two this morning—old Lady Cren
shaw and then later Mrs. Fortinbras, but then this afternoon, Phoebe insisted on calling on Lady Chifley.” Edith heaved a put-upon sigh. “I really don’t know what Phoebe was thinking—Lady Chifley is always so tiresome, endlessly reciting all her equally tiresome sons’ exploits, as if they were in any way distinguished.”
A touch of color appeared in Edith’s lined cheeks; she lowered her voice. “Spoiled, you know—every last one.”
“Oh.” Deverell raised his brows, feigning polite interest. In reality, his interest was rabid. “How old are her ladyship’s sons? I don’t believe I’ve ever met them.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have,” Edith assured him. “They’re much younger. Only the eldest is down from university yet, and although it pains me to be so blunt, Frederick can hardly be termed a welcome addition to the ton.”
Deverell fought to keep a frown from his face. “Why’s that?”
Lips firming, Edith lightly rapped her cane on the floor. “He’s objectionable. Quite objectionable.” She met Deverell’s eyes, her normally limpid gaze razor sharp. “Phoebe thought so, too. We met him briefly before we left Lady Chifley this afternoon.”
Deverell looked down into Edith’s old eyes and couldn’t decide if she knew what she was telling him. The terrifying thought bloomed that she did and was doing so deliberately….
He straightened, then swept her a bow. “Pray excuse me.”
Edith smiled, sweet and soft and unterrifying again. “Of course, dear.”
With a nod for Audrey and Lady Cranbrook, he turned on his heel and rapidly quit the ballroom; seconds later, he left the house.
The instant he set foot inside the club, Gasthorpe came hurrying from the back of the hall.
“My lord, Grainger sent a message just five minutes past. About half an hour ago, Miss Malleson drove up in a carriage to the back of the agency. She went in. Shortly after, she and two men—one her groom—came out and they left all together, once more in her carriage. As per your orders, Grainger remained on watch at the agency.”
Deverell shut the front door behind him and comprehensively swore.
Whisking maids away, objectionable sons. It wasn’t difficult to guess what Phoebe and her agency—he was perfectly sure it was hers—were up to. Or why.
But this…unless managed carefully, “abducting” maids from the center of London was an action guaranteed to be fraught with dangers—plural, not singular.
Mentally kicking himself for not asking Edith the obvious pertinent question, he refocused on Gasthorpe, standing before him, waiting to assist. “Where’s Chifley House?”
A narrow alleyway ran along the backs of the large houses on Dover Street; Deverell found Phoebe, cloaked and hooded, a slighter shadow picking her way down it alongside a bulky, heavier shadow moving with a ponderous, lumbering gait.
A few yards wide, the alley was bounded by the high stone walls along the rear of each property. Sliding into the dense shadows about its mouth, Deverell followed Phoebe and her guard, a good fifty yards behind. He wanted to see what happened, how their “abduction” was orchestrated, before he made his presence known. He’d already identified one major strategic error on their parts and capitalized on it; their carriage was pulled up to the curb on Hay Hill, just past the alley mouth. Their driver sat alert on the box, reins in his hands, ready to drive off, meanwhile keeping watch on the carriages and passersby traveling up and down Berkeley Street across the end of short Hay Hill.
The carriage should have been positioned before the alley mouth, not beyond it. To the inexperienced, beyond seemed safer—easier to leap in and drive off, escaping any pursuers racing up the alley. If the carriage were before the alley mouth, the pursuers might intercept it—that was how that reasoning went. However, with the driver facing away from the alley mouth, he hadn’t seen Deverell approach from the rear and slide into the shadows, hadn’t noticed him gliding in the wake of Phoebe and her guard.
The lumbering giant, too, although clearly alert and watchful, was searching every shadow except those behind him.
Phoebe slowed, looking up at the backs of the houses. Deverell guessed she was counting; Chifley House was in the middle of the block, halfway down the alley. As she swung to walk on, he noticed she was carrying a small shielded lantern, presently fully shielded. The night was dark, overcast, with no real moonlight; with the tall town houses rising on either side, the alley was one small step from pitch black, yet she made no attempt to use the lantern to light her way.
The damned woman knew what she was doing was dangerous. That she should do everything possible not to draw attention to her presence in the alley.
Lips grimly set, Deverell hugged the darkest, densest shadows along the opposite wall and steadily closed the distance between them.
The giant reached out and touched Phoebe’s shoulder. When she halted and looked his way, he gestured to a door set in the grimy alley wall.
Again, Phoebe looked back along the alley, scanning the houses; her gaze didn’t swing far enough to detect Deverell, now twenty yards away.
Phoebe nodded. Deverell strained his ears, but neither she nor her guard spoke. The giant reached for the door latch and lifted it, but it was locked. Phoebe stepped closer; partially unshielding her lantern, she shone a narrow beam on the old, heavy lock as the giant crouched down and went to work on it.
Deverell could have had it open in seconds; the giant took two minutes, but eventually he rose and nodded to Phoebe. He lifted the latch and eased the door open just enough to confirm that it was no longer barred. Then he glanced at Phoebe.
She looked down, fiddling with the lantern, then looked up and nodded to the giant.
