Sitting comfortably in the leather chair before the desk, Deverell nodded. “In the circumstances I’d like you to be as thorough as you can. You should remember I haven’t done this before.”
Montague’s round face creased in a smile. “Of course, my lord. And might I say it’s a pleasure and indeed an honor to be called on to assist you in such a matter.”
Deverell acknowledged Montague’s smile with his usual charm; like Audrey, Montague had assumed that his interest in Phoebe’s financial affairs stemmed from matrimonial intent. As part of arranging an appropriate marriage settlement, learning of his intended’s financial situation was a sensible move.
As he did, indeed, ultimately intend to marry Phoebe, he felt no qualms in allowing Audrey and Montague, his and his family’s man-of-business, to believe that prospective marriage settlements were the reason behind his query. “I understand she’s already inherited significant wealth from a great-aunt.”
Montague scribbled some more. “That would most likely be held in trust.”
“No, I believe Miss Malleson’s great-aunt was a strong advocate of females taking responsibility for their own lives and, by extension, their own funds. As I understand it, Miss Malleson has been in control of her inheritance since the age of twenty-one. She’s now twenty-five.”
“Hmm.” Montague frowned. “It’s possible there may not be much left in that account.” Over the pince-nez perched on his nose, he glanced at Deverell. “I gather she moves among the haut ton?”
“She does, but…Miss Malleson is not the average tonnish young lady.” She certainly hadn’t spent a fortune on gowns or jewels, although from what Audrey had divulged, she could probably afford to. “Look closely at her expenditures as well as her income.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Head down, taking notes, Montague nodded portentiously. “I could wish all my clients were as wise. It never does to be surprised by habits one might have learned of prior to an offer, simply by exercising due caution.”
Deverell suppressed an unexpected urge to correct Montague’s misperception, to defend Phoebe’s financial honor. Regardless of what she might be involved in, she was certainly no profligate.
Uncrossing his legs, he rose. “Send word to Montrose Place as soon as you have anything substantial to report.”
“Indeed.” Setting down his pen, Montague rose. “I expect you’ll want to end the lease on the Mayfair house when it comes up for renewal?”
Deverell raised his brows. “I haven’t considered.” The Paignton estate included a large house in Mayfair; he’d lived in it for a few weeks early in the year, but it was far too large for a single gentleman; he’d rented it out for the Season. “Alert me when the lease nears its end, and I’ll consult with Miss Malleson.”
The thought of him and Phoebe rattling around the huge house wasn’t attractive, but the thought of him, Phoebe, and their children filling the space held considerable appeal.
Imagining it, he shook hands with Montague and departed, leaving his man-of-business and his clerks in absolutely no doubt that wedding bells would shortly be ringing.
He returned to the Bastion Club in time to spend a quiet half hour in the library sunk in an armchair reviewing all he knew, and all he’d set in train. And all he was starting to suspect.
Grainger returned. He came to the library to report that Phoebe had attended various social engagements both before and after lunch, then returned to the Park Street town house. “I figure she’ll be dressing for dinner about now, so I thought I’d come back and see if you wanted me to watch during the night.”
“No. That won’t be necessary.” Lying back in the armchair, Deverell instructed, “Get a good night’s sleep and you can watch again tomorrow—start at nine o’clock. She won’t venture out before that.”
Living up to her role of matrimonial facilitator—she would be offended to be labeled a matchmaker—Audrey had supplied him with a list of the three balls Phoebe was expected to attend that evening. After meeting with him at the last, he doubted she would be up at dawn.
With a jaunty nod, Grainger turned and left.
Deverell let the pleasant silence wrap around him once more. He was glad he was presently the only member living at the club; as matters stood, he wouldn’t have wished to confide in even his colleagues. When the facts, his observations of Phoebe’s actions, were simply stated, the obvious explanations—the ones most minds would leap to—were distinctly unpleasant and nefarious.
He knew, absolutely and without question, that in this case, given Phoebe’s involvement, the obvious didn’t apply. The notion of her being embroiled in schemes linked to prostitution or worse was simply untenable.
Especially given her reaction to him in the wood.
Especially given what was coloring their interaction still.
When he combined everything he knew, he still had no clue what she was up to, not specifically. However, the one t
hing he felt confident in concluding was that she would never, ever, place another female in a position of fear.
From what he already knew of her, such an act would go entirely against her grain. Whatever she was doing with the female staff he felt certain she and her helpers, whoever they were, had spirited away, she would be helping the women, not harming them.
Phoebe was an agent for good, not evil.
He’d dealt with enough of the other sort over the years to be absolutely sure.
Unfortunately, being an agent for good could be a dangerous occupation, especially in the arena she’d chosen.