Deverell grinned; looking ahead, he patted her hand where it lay, possessively gripping his sleeve. “It’s just one of those crosses men such as I have to bear. Within these halls we’re the hunted, not the hunter. It’s a sad, sad reflection on our times.”
Phoebe looked at him, then snorted and faced forward. After a moment, she said, “You might try to be a little more dismissive.”
He could, but he was deriving far too much satisfaction from having her wield her tongue and her wits in his defense. She was surprisingly good at it. “You need to polish your skills. This is clearly not a type of action you’ve engaged in much before—protecting gentlemen from the importunings of gorgons and their charges—and who knows? You might find you need such talents in the years to come.”
For instance, when she was his wife.
Phoebe merely humphed and turned him toward the refreshment room. “After dealing with Lady Harting—was she the fourth?—I’m parched.”
He dutifully steered them through the milling throng. The ton was galloping toward the Season’s zenith with its customary hedonistic fervor, and to cap it all, last week Princess Charlotte, the Princess Royal, had married, casting those females with matrimonial intentions into a heightened frenzy. Every ball was packed, every entertainment an unmitigated crush, with matchmaking mamas lurking at every turn. He would much prefer to retreat and avoid such events, but Phoebe still needed to circulate, to keep her ear to the ground over households, potential problems, and most importantly suitable placements for the women on the agency’s books, both those from its conventional activities as well as their special clients.
Reaching the refreshment room, a side salon thankfully less crowded, he procured two glasses of champagne.
Phoebe lifted one from his fingers. “There’s an alcove of sorts where that window’s screened by those palms. Let’s go over there.”
He nodded and trailed her across the salon to where the positioning of the palms and the window created a nook—in public view, indeed giving a view of the ballroom, yet affording a degree of privacy.
Phoebe stepped into the alcove and with a small sigh of relief turned to face him. Her gaze went beyond him, idly scanning the guests swanning about the ballroom. He sipped and looked at her face, studied it—saw and savored the subtle dropping of her veils now she was alone with him.
It was moments like this when they were alone, two together yet in some indefinable way as one, that he felt the urge to mention marriage most strongly, when he felt their complementarity—their ability to work together for the agency and more widely in society itself—showed so strongly that it couldn’t be denied, and he couldn’t believe she wasn’t aware of it, that she didn’t see it as clearly as he.
Ever since she’d admitted him to the select circle who knew about the agency, they’d steadily grown closer. Although he’d intended that to happen, and done all he could to promote it, he was nevertheless amazed at how readily and how deeply their lives had intertwined. She had to see, to know by now that their marriage was meant to be.
To him there was no question, none at all. The only question remaining was when to broach the subject, and for his money the answer was as soon as possible, which realistically meant as soon as they’d successfully dealt with the white slavers and the associated threat to the agency.
He took a sip of champagne and inwardly vowed that the instant all danger was past, he’d ask Phoebe to officially be his.
As if following his thoughts, she stirred and glanced at him. “I’m dying to hear what came of your meeting today. There’s no one near enough to hear, so tell me—what have the others found?”
Phoebe knew he and his colleagues had met that morning to pool all they’d thus far learned and decide which avenues to further pursue. Deverell had, without her prompting, kept her apprised of all he heard, but they usually had to wait until they were alone in her bedchamber. But her impatience was building; with the threat of the white slavers hanging over the agency, she found it difficult to concentrate on the mundane.
He shifted, glancing around, confirming no one was within earshot. “Regarding the females who’ve gone missing over recent weeks, through the watchhouses we’ve now got information on eight. Six were from Mayfair, or near to it, all working in households of the ton, not just wealthy but of a certain social standing. The other two were merchants’ daughters, both very beautiful, and in both cases they personally interacted with gentlemen of the haut ton coming to buy their fathers’ wares.”
“So assuming we’re correct and the villain is some member of the ton, he would have met them in their fathers’ businesses.”
Deverell nodded; those two girls had been snatched from the gardens of their homes. He had to work to keep all grimness from his face, to keep his expression charming and light, as if he and Phoebe were swapping inanities. “So we’ve now got dates for eight kidnappings. I’m hoping that somewhere, employing his usual thorough and stunningly far-reaching methods into which I don’t care to inquire too closely, Montague, my man-of-business, will be able to trace payments matching those dates to some account.”
Phoebe raised her brows. “Can that be done?”
“Yes, but not easily. And unfortunately, not quickly. But if money’s his object, then some trace will be there.” Unless the man was wise enough to keep his dastardly windfall under his mattress, but if he was eager for the funds…“The other possibility is that he’s spending the money, or had some pressing need—Dalziel’s set his contacts to trawl through the clubs and report any unusual or urgent debts or unexpected profligacy.”
Phoebe frowned. “How do you think this man, the tonnish villain, works—how does he interact with the smugglers?”
“The more we learn from the underworld contacts Gervase, Tristan, Christian, and I have been speaking with, the more it seems likely our man is acting as the procurer we labeled him. According to those who might be expected to know, white slavers don’t like to show their faces—they don’t like to grab their wares themselves. Traditionally they’ve relied on locals they entice into working for them—it’s the locals who identify the best targets, arrange the kidnappings using local men, and then deliver the girls to the slavers. In this case, however, the usual locals aren’t being used. Although the underworld suspected white slavers were back, no one knows who their new procurer is, a situation that’s making everyone uneasy, not least because this new procurer is making the old ones look bad. He’s been handing over excellent goods and he’s been operating for some time without any alarm being raised—without alerting the authorities, or leaving any clue as to who he is.”
Phoebe was silent for a moment, then asked, “Where do they keep the girls?”
“From what we’ve gathered, their base is generally a warehouse—it’ll be one of myriad legitimate warehouses somewhere along the river behind the docks. Locating it would literally be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
Phoebe drew in a sharp breath. “So the girls who’ve been seized are beyond our reach?”
“Not necessarily. They gather their cargo in the warehouse, but once they have their quota, they have to move them to their ship. We’re much more likely to be able to identify the ship—we decided today to forgo any attempt to locate the warehouse and concentrate instead on locating the ship. If we can identify it, we can rescue the girls.” He paused, then added, voice low, “It’s unlikely they’ll be harmed—the slavers will get more for them if they’re untouched and beautiful. They’ll be well fed and well housed.”
“But prisoners,” Phoebe said, abiding anger in her voice.
Deverell nodded. “Tristan’s spoken with Jack, Lord Hendon, another ex-operative and friend of Tony Blake, one of our members. Jack owns Hendon Shipping, one of our largest shipping lines—he has all the contacts we need to keep a tight watch on the river, and now Dalziel has alerted the water police, Jack’s working with them. They know what they’re doing. They’re quite sure no slaving ship has slipped in and out in recent weeks, so the ship for this cargo is yet to arrive.”
“So we’ll have a chance to rescue the girls?”