“Come.” He waved her to the door. “Let’s see how McKenna feels, and if he’s up to it, I’ll see you both home.”
She nodded and headed for the door; opening it for her, he followed a step behind her as she went down the stairs. “McKenna—he’s your groom as well as your coachman?”
“My father hired him to be my groom when I was eight. Whenever I stayed with my aunts, which was most of the time, he took on the role of coachman as well. He doesn’t like to be idle.”
Deverell said nothing, but the suspicion that Lord Martindale had hired McKenna to be rather more than a groom—that Fergus had become her coachman to ensure he would be able to watch over her when she was out of the house—solidified. McKenna considered himself her guard; that was why he’d accepted Deverell’s assistance so readily.
Why, when Deverell followed Phoebe into the small parlor and Fergus looked up, he studied Deverell for only an instant before giving his attention to Phoebe. Fergus knew Deverell posed no threat to her.
Deverell stood back and let Phoebe fuss, then stepped in and rescued Fergus. McKenna assured Phoebe he was perfectly well able to withstand the journey to Park Street.
“Grainger will drive us,” Deverell said. “You can travel in the carriage, then Grainger can stable the horses—all you need do is watch and tell him where.”
Fergus grunted, but assented.
Grainger had been waiting by the door, still eager over being a part of what he viewed as an adventure. In short order, Deverell had them all organized; he guided Phoebe, once again cloaked and hooded, down the path behind Fergus, Grainger, and a now largely redundant footman to the waiting carriage.
Minutes later, they were rolling, slowly and ponderously, through deserted streets. The ton’s entertainments were long over; while gentlemen might while away the rest of the night at their clubs in St. James, in Mayfair all was quiet and largely still. Lights had been doused, doors locked and bolted. There were few people of any sort out upon the streets.
Fergus had insisted he was recovered enough to ride up top, alongside Grainger, leaving Deverell alone with Phoebe in the dark confines of the carriage.
Through the heavy shadows, he felt her gaze on his face, not exactly suspicious but wary. He didn’t react, made no move to reengage her in discussion of her enterprise or anything else.
There was, as he’d told her, a correct time, a correct place, for everything. Their right time and place was nigh; he didn’t need to do anything but wait.
Under Fergus’s direction, Grainger guided the carriage into the narrow lane that ran alongside Edith’s Park Street town house, leading to the mews backing onto the end of the long garden.
Grainger halted the carriage in the mews. They all climbed down quietly. His hand beneath Phoebe’s elbow, Deverell arranged with Fergus that after helping him unharness and stable the horses, Grainger would help him up the stairs to his room above the carriage house.
“I’ll see Miss Malleson inside.” Deverell glanced at Grainger. “When you’re finished here, head back to Montrose Place.”
“Aye, sir.” Grainger snapped off a salute, then crooned to the horses, urging them to pull the carriage to the stable.
Fergus nodded his thanks and followed.
Grasping Phoebe’s arm, Deverell turned her; the garden gate, a thick wooden door set in the high wall along the side of the garden, faced the lane.
After one last glance back, she let him lead her around the corner to the gate. “Thank you for helping with Fergus. He’s not as young as he used to be.”
“None of us are.” The gate was unlocked; swinging it wide, he steered her through.
Other than a sharp glance, she said nothing more regarding Fergus, but pointed to a key hanging on the wall by the gate. “You should lock the gate after you when you leave—toss the key back over the wall and I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
He’d simply lock t
he gate without the key but saw no reason to mention that. She led him along the path toward the kitchen door, then diverged onto a connecting path that skirted the back of the house.
He’d wondered how she came and went; the answer was the French door to what he guessed was the morning room. It, too, was unlocked; opening it, she led the way inside.
Phoebe wasn’t surprised when he followed her into the darkened room. She never left lights burning; she knew the house more than well enough to find her way to her chamber in the dark.
What did surprise her—what brought her up short before she’d reached the spot where she’d planned to turn, give him her hand, thank him, and bid him good night—was the sharp click of the lock on the French door.
Halting, she started to turn—and discovered he’d followed much closer, much more swiftly and silently than she’d supposed.
He was behind her, close.
She stilled, and he moved closer yet, one large hand sliding about her waist, gently but definitely trapping her against him.