Deverell saw trepidation dull her eyes, sensed in the sudden tensing of her spine the first stirrings of fear. He would have frowned and inwardly cursed, even brought their waltz to a premature halt, except…beneath the fear—no, along with the fear—he sensed something else.
Something that stopped his breath in his chest, that scattered his thoughts and momentarily left him foundering.
A flash of insight into her, into her peculiar fear, into her responses to him, even into her secret and how all might interact, how all might be part of the one whole.
He searched her violet eyes, trained on his face; she was wary, watchful…and battling an unwilling fascination.
By instinct he understood, but his mind couldn’t grapple with the revelation, not on such short notice. But his reaction—
Looking up, he steered her to the edge of the floor. He halted them and smoothly stepped out of the stream of dancers, guiding her to the side of the room, stopping a little way from where Edith still chatted.
His face like hewn granite, he swung Phoebe to face him. “Enough.” He paused to get his emotions under control. “Understand this: I won’t rest until I learn all that you’re hiding—your involvement with those men, and your reasons. Regardless, believe this—I will never, ever harm you in any way, and I won’t allow anyone else to even attempt it.”
He held her wide-eyed gaze, stunned, faintly shocked, for a fraught second, then demanded, “Do you understand?”
A frown formed in her eyes. “Yes—and no.”
At least that was the truth. He hissed out a breath and glanced at the horde of guests before them, reminding himself of where they were. “I have to go.” Before he did something to truly shock her—and half the ton. He glanced at her and trapped her gaze. “If you come to your senses and wish to confide in me, send word to Number 12, Montrose Place. If not…”
Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. He moved his thumb caressingly across the knuckles of the hand he still held. He lifted his gaze to her eyes in time to detect the sensual shiver she couldn’t suppress. Stifling a curse, he released her hand, stepped back, and gracefully bowed. “I’ll meet you tomorrow night and we can continue this discussion.”
Turning, he left her, striding directly across the room and climbing the steps without glancing back.
He’d unnerved her—more than she’d thought possible.
Finally gaining the privacy of her bedchamber, Phoebe accepted Skinner’s help in undressing, all the while struggling to slow her whirling thoughts enough to focus on what she had to do.
Skinner shot her a concerned look. “Off with the woolly ones, you are. Did something happen?”
She grimaced. “Deverell. He was there.”
“Ah.” Skinner said no more but busied herself rehanging Phoebe’s gown.
Swathed in her nightgown, Phoebe sank onto her dressing stool and started pulling pins from her hair. “That night at Cranbrook Manor—he saw me take Jessica to the carriage.”
“What?” Skinner stared at her, openmouthed. Then she snapped her lips shut. “You never said.”
“No. I didn’t know what he would do, not even how much he knows, and I didn’t want any of you, Fergus for instance, doing anything to catch his eye. Regardless of anything else he might be, Deverell is not slow-witted.”
“He didn’t strike me as such, and if that lad of his was even half right, his lordship’s not one to muck about with.”
“Indeed.” Phoebe unraveled her hair, then picked up her brush. “This evening he told me he’d seen Scatcher and Birtles enough to identify them, and he knows they’re not part of this household. He wants to know where I met them.”
Skinner frowned and folded Phoebe’s chemise. “Why’s he want to know that? He’s not…well, pressuring you, is he?”
“No, not in the way you mean.” Phoebe dragged in a long breath, then admitted, “He told me he would never do anything to harm me, but he wants to know what’s going on.”
Moving around the room tidying this and that, Skinner continued to frown. “You know, it’s not like what we do is anything to be ashamed of—not to any right-thinking person. Perhaps you should tell him? From what his lad let fall, he sounds like the sort that might help.”
“No. I can’t take the risk. Gentlemen like him—worse, peers like him—have their own way of looking at our world. What seems right to us…he probably won’t agree.”
Setting down her brush, Phoebe rose. “Tomorrow morning, slip out and take a message to Scatcher and Birtles. Tell them to lie low—to keep to the backs of the shops, and above all else not to come here. If they need to send a message, use a boy or send Emmeline. Deverell didn’t see her.”
She climbed into bed, then looked across at Skinner, waiting by the door. “Go out via the mews—Deverell might be watching the house.”
Skinner’s brows rose high, but she nodded. “I’ll do that. But I still say you should think about telling him.”
With that, she left. Phoebe slumped back on the pillows and pulled the covers to her chin.