Chapter 19
Later that night, Phoebe sat at her dressing table brushing out her hair and thinking over the events of the day.
Meeting Deverell’s colleagues, learning what they planned to do, how they planned to catch the white slavers, had been intriguing, but looking back on the episode, what truly amazed her was that she had been invited to attend. And accepted as a necessary presence. She’d said little but hadn’t felt excluded. Time and again they’d glanced at her for confirmation; if there’d been anything with which she’d disagreed, she’d been given amp
le opportunity to say so. And any comment she might have made would have been listened to and addressed, of that she felt sure.
It had felt strange to be treated so…much like an equal. As Deverell treated her, true. Perhaps men like him, like the others, saw partnerships with ladies as the norm, or at least mundane enough to be accepted without a blink.
That, she well knew, was certainly not the common thinking among fashionable gentlemen.
Uttering a soft snort, she laid aside her brush and reached around her neck to unhook her pearl necklace. She’d told Skinner she wouldn’t need her tonight; she hadn’t yet undressed, because she wanted to talk to Deverell.
First. For that, clothes would help.
After leaving his club, they’d gone to the agency to tell the others their news. Emmeline had blinked, expression blanking on hearing that there would be four other gentlemen—all large ex-guardsmen like Deverell—haunting her kitchen over the next few weeks; she’d gone very quiet.
She’d taken Emmeline aside and they’d gone up to see Molly; there, she’d explained that the other four were just like Deverell, that there was absolutely nothing to fear from them—that indeed, both Emmeline and Molly could rely on them if they had any need.
Somewhat to her surprise, Emmeline had blinked again, thought a moment, then smiled and assured her all would be well. If they were just like Deverell, then, or so it seemed, both Emmeline and Molly were quite looking forward to meeting them.
She didn’t hear so much as a footstep before her door opened; she glanced around and saw Deverell already inside, shutting it behind him.
Noting her state of dress, he arched a brow as he approached.
Rising, she gave him her hands.
“Excellent!” He took her hands in his. “I was going to warn you not to undress.”
“Oh?” She was surprised; he tended to want her out of her clothes as soon as possible. “Why?”
His lips twisted. “Because, as I seriously doubt I can persuade you to spend the next few weeks—until we catch the slavers and their supporting cast—locked up safe and secure in this room, I want to teach you a few tricks to defend yourself in the event a man grabs you like that blackguard did last night.”
“Oh.” Intrigued, she asked, “Should I punch him?”
He gave her a long-suffering look and lifted one of her hands. “Make a fist. Tight.”
She did. Then he did the same, holding his fist alongside hers.
“See the difference?”
She grimaced. “Yours is nearly three times the size of mine.”
“True. My wrist is also at least double the size of yours. If you try to punch a man you’re liable to hurt yourself more than him. But we’ll come to what you can do in a moment. First”—he recaptured her hands by locking his fingers around her wrists—“you need to break free.”
She studied their hands, held between them. The man who had grabbed her last night had had hold of just one of her wrists and she hadn’t been able to pull free; Deverell had shackled both and he was larger and stronger. “Can I?” She glanced at his face. “Is it possible?”
He smiled. “Oh, yes. Rotate your arms upward and outward.”
She blinked, then looked at their hands and did—and his hands were forced from hers. “Oh!”
“You have to do it much faster than that, or he’ll realize and resist, but if you do, it’s almost impossible for anyone to hold onto you like that.” He recaptured her wrists. “Try it again—quickly this time.”
She did. They repeated the exercise a number of times; each time she sensed him using more of his strength, yet she always managed to break his hold. “Well!” she said when they stopped. “I had no idea it was that simple.”
He grinned. “It’s not—that just stops him from holding you by the wrists. Wrists are the easiest way to hold a woman, but once you’ve broken his hold, any determined attacker is going to grab you—your body—next.”
He demonstrated, seizing her about the waist before she could leap back. He held her before him. “Now what do you do?”