Lips twisting, Deverell clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door. “Wish me luck—I’m off to Whitehall to beard a lion.”
A hungry, frustrated, disaffected lion who seemed perfectly ready to savage something that deserved it.
Sitting in front of Dalziel’s desk, watching the elegant gentleman who for ten and more years had been his commander mentally sift the information Deverell had just finished laying before him—the evidence of missing maids, the “rescue” that had been disrupted, the nature of the men involved—Deverell wondered how much longer Dalziel—Royce whoever-he-was—would continue to search for his last traitor.
They’d been close to success last month when Jack Warnefleet had been in town, but at the last moment Dalziel’s “last traitor”—the one he’d hypothesized must exist and who they now knew was flesh and blood—had slipped from their net. He’d killed his henchman to do it, but that only bore witness to the man’s ruthlessness.
Dalziel’s ruthlessness had never been in question. Although his expression remained as enigmatic as ever, his dark brown eyes held enough frustration for Deverell to read.
Just what that augered Deverell wasn’t sure; he’d come hoping for Dalziel’s support in an administrative sense—he could open doors with just a message, get attention from any branch of the authorities, insist on things no one else could. Regardless of his failure over his last traitor, he still wielded significant power. But…there was a restless tension in Dalziel Deverell recognized—the need to act, to do, to accomplish something even if the most desired goal remained out of reach.
Battle nerves, they’d called it. The impulse to act that one often had to fight against in the hour prior to the first charge. That those who’d served in the same secret arena as Deverell had had to learn to suppress, to not act precipitously and bring disaster down on their heads. Yet in Dalziel’s case it wasn’t so much a matter of timing as of release—of having no outlet for the frustrations his pursuit of the last traitor had generated.
Failure was something Dalziel’s temperament was not well suited to absorb.
Abruptly Dalziel’s gaze refocused on his face. “Slavers.”
Just the word, uttered in that deep, ineffably cultured voice, with an inflection dripping so much more than disgust told Deverell that administrative assistance was the most minor of the support he was going to get.
“This agency—how safe are they?”
“For the moment, safe enough. There’s no information the slavers are likely to find that will lead them to it.”
Dalziel nodded. Decisively. “Very well—you can count me in. Slaving in any form is bad enough, but to have a gang operating on London streets, seizing women—women they pick and choose assisted by someone in the ton—is anathema, beyond condemnation. That they made a mistake and nearly grabbed Miss Malleson only illustrates that the danger is not confined to the lower classes.
“And you’re perfectly right—we can’t leave this to the overworked watch. Besides”—Dalziel’s dark eyes glinted with the predatory inclinations of a born marauder—“as some of the culprits are likely to be members of the ton, the watch will be hampered where we will not.”
We, Deverell noted.
“So—how are you proposing we go about this?” Dalziel’s gaze was now deceptively mild.
Deverell wasn’t fooled; his ex-commander was spoiling for a fight—he was just glad they were on the same side. “I’ve called a meeting at the club for four o’clock this afternoon. Crowhurst will be there, and most likely Trentham and Dearne. St. Austell, Torrington, and Warnefleet are all on their estates—by the time a message reaches them and they return to town, it’ll all be over.”
“Indeed. And I daresay, recently married as they are, they might have other calls on their time.” Dalziel had looked down, consulting a diary; Deverell couldn’t tell if that last comment was uttered tongue-in-cheek or as a statement of fact.
“Four o’clock at the Bastion Club.” Dalziel looked up and met Deverell’s eyes. “I’ll be there.”
Early that afternoon Malcolm again braved his guardian’s study to sit elegantly at ease in the chair before Henry’s desk. And possess his soul with saintly patience.
Eventually Henry looked up, narrow-eyed, from the dispatch box through which he’d been leafing. Stony-faced, he regarded Malcolm. “Well?”
With diffidence perfected to an art, Malcolm flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “We caused them some grief, but…”
Henry scowled. “But what?” He dumped the red dispatch box down on the desk. “They were supposed to be taught a lesson.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure they got the point.” Malcolm frowned slightly, the gesture for once entirely genuine; he was puzzled, his instincts for self-preservation stirring uneasily. “I was watching the action from a doorway nearby. They didn’t see me—but I have to admit I didn’t like what I saw.”
Henry’s scowl grew blacker. “What the devil do you mean?”
Malcolm hesitated, replaying the scene again in his mind. “One of the other crew…he could fight. And no, I don’t mean he was a brawler or a pugilist or anything of that nature. Not even a devotee of Gentleman Jackson—he was far more effective than that.”
In his mind he saw again the tall, lean, menacing figure—saw again how he moved, the controlled strength, the incisive, decisive application of same. “He was…something quite different, and definitely dangerous. I didn’t get a good look at him, but if I had to describe him, I’d say he had the build of a guardsman.”
“Hmm.” Henry shut the red box and pushed it aside. “It sounds like they—whoever they are—have recruited some talent.”
“There was something else.” Malcolm met Henry’s eyes. “There was a woman there—one of them, helping to get the girl away.”
“A woman?” Henry raised his brows, then snorted. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Probably your ‘guardsman’s’ doxy.”