He went forward, rounding the table to where Fergus sat slumped, his head propped in his hands. He noticed the stark fear that flashed in Emmeline’s eyes but gave no sign that he realized it was due to his approach; she fluttered, but then, fists clenching, stood her ground on Fergus’s other side.
“It’s a…a monstrous crack.” Emmeline wrung her hands as he leaned over Fergus, gently parting the man’s thinning, curly hair to examine the severe contusion left by the viciously wielded cosh. Emmeline set her chin. “He should have a doctor see to it.”
That had been her central plaint, one Fergus had thus far refused to countenance. However, the wound on the back of his skull was larger than Deverell had expected to see. It was mostly laceration, but…
Holding up three fingers a yard in front of Fergus, Deverell asked, “How many fingers?”
Fergus glanced up. A moment passed before he said, “Three.”
Phoebe drew nearer; Deverell didn’t need to look to sense her increasing concern. He straightened. “I think Emmeline”—he nodded to the older woman—“is right.”
Emmeline blinked, shocked.
When Fergus shot him a frowning glance, he added, “I tended enough battlefield injuries to know what needs a surgeon and what doesn’t, and while I doubt it’ll prove incapacitating, that wound needs to be looked at.”
“A surgeon?” Phoebe glanced at Emmeline. “I can’t think of whom—”
“If I could suggest,” Deverell said dryly, “my colleagues and I at my private club have a surgeon on call, one who’s accustomed to dealing with injuries such as this, and similarly accustomed to being discreet.” He met Phoebe’s eyes. “We can take Fergus there—it’s not far—and I’ll summon Pringle, our surgeon.”
Looking down, he met Fergus’s eyes, narrowed in pain. “Pringle knows more about such injuries than any man alive. He can check you over, then we’ll all feel much happier. At the very least, he’ll clean the wound properly.”
Emmeline looked as if she couldn’t believe her ears, as if she couldn’t quite believe he’d offered to help.
Phoebe was regarding him, also with suspicion in her eyes, but not for the same reason.
He met her gaze and faintly raised his brows. He did indeed want her at the club, away from her people so he could question her—something he was reluctant to do before those here, all of whom clearly saw her as their mistress-cum-leader. That wasn’t a position he wished to undermine; he simply wanted answers to his highly pertinent questions.
Her people also seemed uncertain over whether or not he posed a threat to her, and them, too; he didn’t think he did—wasn’t entirely sure why they were viewing him as they were—but that was another reason for shifting her interrogation to more conducive surrounds.
And if her concern for Fergus gave him the leverage to accomplish that, he wasn’t too noble not to use it.
He continued to look at her, awaiting her decision—as did everyone else. She hesitated, but her concern for Fergus was stronger than her wariness of him and his plans. She nodded. “That’s a very”—her lips thinned—“kind offer.”
He suppressed a grin; she’d guessed his plans.
The next few minutes were filled with yet more fuss, during which he learned that Emmeline’s husband, Birtles, was the man who had driven the carriage. He suggested that Birtles remain at the agency, his home, while Grainger drove Edith’s carriage.
Fergus fretted about entrusting his cattle to the youthful Grainger; Deverell countered with the unarguable—that Grainger cared for and drove his matched grays.
Three minutes later, he led Phoebe out to the carriage, following Birtles and Emmeline, who were guiding the still unsteady Fergus between them. In short order, they were in the carriage and Grainger was driving them through the streets. Phoebe glanced at Deverell but said nothing; the lack of privacy was a major impediment—Fergus was sitting on the seat opposite.
For his part, Deverell was content to wait; they were, after all, heading into his domain.
Chapter 13
Phoebe stared out of the carriage window at the houses slipping past. Those hosting entertainments were well lit; guests were departing from some, the clop of horses’ hooves and the revelers’ gay voices ringing in the air. The evening was well advanced; a few blocks away in Mayfair, the haut ton would be gathering shawls and reticules and preparing to leave their balls.
She owned to a fleeting wish that she’d been among them and not facing a situation that could at best be termed difficult—but then Miss Spry would have been ruined. Jaw setting, Phoebe dragooned her wits into battle order and turned them on Deverell.
On how she was going to cope with him.
He was clearly going to be a very real problem. Indeed, after witnessing all he had that night, he’d become a real threat to her enterprise.
Tucked in the corner of the leather seat, her face turned from him, she was nevertheless aware of him beside her—of his hard body, warm and alive, of steely muscles coupled with an incisive mind. Of his strength, not just physical but on numerous other planes as well.
He would be a formidable adversary. Could he be converted into an ally?
Or if not that, could she at least persuade him to keep silent?