Where The Heart Leads (10 page)

“Aye. He knows the ropes, and I’ve used boys from him before.”

“Indeed. But this time you’re working for me. As I believe I’ve stressed, this is a game with high stakes, far higher than any you’ve played for previously.” Alert held Smythe’s gaze. “You need to be
sure—indeed, you need to be able to assure me—that your tools will be up to the task.”

Smythe didn’t blink, didn’t shift. “They will be.” When Alert’s expression made it clear he expected more, he grudgingly added, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I know where he’s getting the boys. With the date you’ve given me, we’ve time to make sure we have the right number, and have them properly trained.” Smythe hesitated, as if—finally—considering the eventualities, then went on, “I’ll stop by Grimsby’s and make sure he understands how…serious we are about this.”

Alert permitted himself a small smile. “Do. I see no reason for us to find ourselves in difficulties because Grimsby didn’t adequately comprehend, as you put it, the seriousness of our endeavor.”

Smythe’s gaze dropped to the list in Alert’s hand. “I’ll need those addresses.”

The addresses were Alert’s primary contribution to their game, together with the list of items to be stolen—he prefered the term “liberated”—from each house. “Not just yet.” Lifting his gaze, he met Smythe’s frown. “I’ll hand it over in good time for you to do the necessary reconnoitering, but as you said, we’ve plenty of time.”

No fool, Smythe understood that Alert didn’t trust him. A moment passed, then he stood. “I’ll get moving, then.”

Remaining seated, Alert nodded a dismissal. “I’ll arrange our next meeting as I did this one. Unless I leave word otherwise, we’ll meet here.”

With a curt nod, Smythe retraced his steps to the French door, and let himself out.

Wreathed in shadows, Alert smiled. All was going according to plan. His need for money had in no way eased—indeed, courtesy of the visit he’d endured yesterday from the fiend into whose clutches he’d unwittingly fallen, and the latest arrangement for repayment to which he’d been forced to agree, that need would only escalate with every passing day—yet his salvation was at hand. There was, he’d discovered, a certain satisfaction—a thrill, in fact—in cheating fate, and society, through the simple application of his admittedly devious brain.

He had no doubt that with his knowledge and Smythe’s talents—and Grimsby’s tools—he would come about, and that handsomely. As
well as freeing him from the shackles of London’s most notorious cent-per-cent, his scheme would significantly bolster his nonexistent fortune.

Fate, as he well knew, favored the bold.

Glancing down at the list of houses he still held, he considered it—and saw superimposed the other, even more important list that was its mate, the list of the items to be liberated from each house.

He’d chosen carefully. Only one item from each address. Chances were they wouldn’t even be missed, not until the families returned in March, and possibly not even then. And once they were…the staff of the houses would be the obvious suspects.

By all accounts, Smythe was a master of his trade. He—or rather the boys he used—would be in and out without leaving any trace.

And there wouldn’t be any fences involved to later assist the authorities. He’d eliminated the need. Knowing the world of the ton as he did—and the Lord knew he’d studied it avidly—he’d appreciated that a judicious choice of items would ensure immediate resale, and on his terms.

He already had collectors keen to acquire the items, no questions asked. Selling to such people would ensure they never even contemplated exposing him. And the prices they were willing to pay would easily free him of the debt currently weighing him down, even with the constantly increasing load.

Slipping the list of houses back in his pocket, he smiled even more broadly. Of course, the items were much more valuable than he’d intimated to Smythe, but he couldn’t imagine that a burglar from the East End would ever guess their true worth.

He would need to be careful, but he could handle Smythe, and Smythe would handle Grimsby.

All was going precisely as he wished. And soon he would be as wealthy as everyone in his life thought him to be.

T
he following morning, on Barnaby Adair’s arm, Penelope climbed the steps of a nondescript building on Great Scotland Yard.

Her curiosity was running high. She’d heard all the commonly told tales of Peel’s Police Force, the tonnish rumblings that had accompanied its establishment and consequent development over the last years, but this was the first time she’d come into contact with members of said force. More, other than Adair, she knew of no one who had visited its headquarters; she was agog to see what the place was like.

As he ushered her into the front foyer—a depressingly ordinary area in uninspiring shades of gray—she looked around, keen to see whatever there was to be seen. Quite aside from appeasing her natural inquisitiveness, concentrating on absorbing all she could about the police force helped avoid absorbing more about Adair—his nearness, his strength, his unfailing handsomeness—items from which her misbehaving senses steadfastly refused to be distracted.

Inwardly lecturing herself, she studied the only distraction the foyer offered—a little man in a dark blue uniform seated on a high stool behind a raised counter along one side. He glanced up, saw her—but then saw Adair. Raising a hand in an acknowledging salute, the man returned to his ledgers.

She frowned and looked about. Other than some clerk disappearing into the nether regions there was no one else around. “Is this where they deal with criminals? It seems awfully quiet.”

“No. This building houses the senior investigating officers. There are bobbies in the building next door and a watch house down the
street.” She felt Adair’s gaze touch her face. “We won’t be running into any villains today.”

Inwardly she grimaced, and prayed Stokes proved better fodder for distraction. After last night and the two reckless waltzes she’d shared with Adair, she needed something to focus on—something other than him. The increasing intensity of her reaction to him was disturbing in a way that tantalized as much as bothered her.

He steered her to the stairs at the end of the foyer. As they climbed, she reminded herself that thinking of him as Adair, rather than Barnaby, would help in keeping him at a sensible distance. Despite her earlier resolution, she’d yet to define a way forward—a way of dealing with him that would nullify the effect he had on her nerves, her senses, and, to her supreme irritation, sometimes her wits.

Unfortunately, her failure to devise an effective plan had left her wayward senses free to seize the day and slip their leash, and wallow as they would. As they had during those waltzes last night. As they had this morning when he’d arrived as promised to escort her there.

As they still were.

Mentally gritting her teeth, she vowed that the instant she had a moment to spare, she was going to find some way to make them stop.

At the head of the stairs Adair guided her to the right, down a long corridor. “Stokes’s office is down here.”

He led her to an open door; his hand brushed the back of her waist as he ushered her through, sending unwelcome awareness streaking through her.

Luckily, the man—gentleman?—seated behind the desk gave her something else to think about. He glanced up as she entered, then laid aside his pen and rose.

To his full, imposing six-foot height.

After returning from Glossup Hall, Portia had described Stokes to her, but as Portia had, by then, been engaged to Simon Cynster, her description had, Penelope now realized, lacked a certain depth.

Stokes was, to her eyes, quite fascinating. Not in the same way Adair, close by on her right, was, thank heaven; Stokes engaged her curiosity and piqued her interest on quite a different plane. She immediately sensed he was something of an enigma; while her mind instantly latched on to that promising fact, her senses and her nerves remained entirely unaffected.

Walking forward, she smiled and held out her hand. “Inspector Stokes.”

He studied her for a heartbeat, then reached across the desk and shook her hand. He shot a quick glance at Adair. “Miss Ashford, I presume?”

“Indeed. Mr. Adair and I are here to consult with you on the matter of our missing boys.”

Stokes hesitated, then looked at Barnaby, who had no difficulty reading the questions in his friend’s eyes.

“This Miss Ashford is even less conventional than her sister.” He let Stokes read his resignation—that he hadn’t brought her there willingly—then moved to position one of the chairs before the desk for her.

She sat, smiling amiably. Stokes resumed his seat. Setting another chair beside Penelope’s, Barnaby sat and crossed his legs. He harbored not a single doubt that Penelope was set on immersing herself in all aspects of the investigation. He and Stokes would have to, at some point, draw a line and curtail her involvement, although he’d yet to fathom exactly how.

Regardless, until she reached the point beyond which it was unsafe for her to go, he saw no real benefit in attempting to rein her in.

Stokes focused on him. “I got your note about the Carters. I had cause to visit Aldgate watch house this morning, and discussed the situation with the sergeant there.” He glanced at Penelope. “We have to exercise caution so that we don’t alert those involved to our interest in them—if we do, we’ll lose all chance of rescuing the boys already taken. If Mrs. Carter’s death is imminent, then mounting an around-the-clock watch would possibly be worth the risk—possibly.” He locked eyes with Penelope. “Do you know if she’s expected to die soon?”

She held his gaze, then grimaced and glanced at Barnaby. “After meeting her, I would have to say no.”

“So it could be weeks, even months, before this boy, Jemmie, becomes a target?” Stokes pressed.

Penelope sighed. “I checked with Mrs. Keggs—the Foundling House’s matron—after seeing the Carters yesterday. Mrs. Keggs has trained as a nurse. She’s visited the Carters recently, and her opinion, confirmed by the local doctor, is that Mrs. Carter has at least three months more.”

Stokes nodded. “So Jemmie Carter is not at immediate risk, and setting a watch on him might well work against us. However, if our more direct avenues of investigation fail, we may need to pursue him and others like him to pick up a trail.”

Remembering Jemmie, seeing the boy in his mind’s eye, Barnaby reluctantly nodded. “You’re right—a watch for any length of time might well put the boys already taken at greater risk.” Meeting Stokes’s gaze, he asked, “So if you ‘had cause to visit’ an East End watch house this morning, can I infer that you’ve found some other way forward?”

Stokes hesitated. To Barnaby it was clear he was feeling his way over Penelope; he wasn’t at all sure how much he should say before her.

Penelope spoke before he could. “Rest assured, Inspector, nothing you say will shock me. I’m here to assist in whatever way I can, and am determined to see our four missing boys rescued and the villains exposed.”

Stokes’s brows rose a fraction, but he inclined his head. “A laudable stance, Miss Ashford.”

Barnaby hid a smile; Stokes had clearly been polishing his tact.

“Very well.” Stokes settled his forearms on his desk and clasped his hands. He glanced from Penelope to Barnaby. “As I mentioned yesterday, I knew of a contact who I hoped would help me gain better insight into the identities and whereabouts of burglary schoolmasters who might be currently active in the East End. Through my contact, I was introduced to a man who’s lived all his life in the area. He gave me eight names, together with some addresses, although by the nature of their business these villains move constantly so the latter are likely not to be of much help.”

Stokes drew a sheet from a pile beside his blotter. “This morning I visited Aldgate watch house. The police there verified my list, and added one more name.” He glanced at Barnaby. “So we have nine individuals to pursue.” He transferred his gaze to Penelope. “But we have no guarantee at this point that any of these men are involved in this particular case.”

Following Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby saw Penelope nod—saw the gleam of engaged alertness in her eyes.

“That’s excellent progress, Inspector—you’ve moved a great deal faster than I’d dared hope. I do understand that nothing is yet certain,
but we now have a place to start—a route through which to learn more of active burglary schools. Your contact has certainly advanced our cause materially—can I ask you for their name? I’d like to send a note from the Foundling House expressing our gratitude. It never hurts to encourage people when they’ve been helpful.”

Barnaby inwardly winced. He straightened in his chair. He was about to explain to Penelope that revealing contacts was something an investigator never did, when he saw something that froze the words in his throat.

Color was rising in Stokes’s lean cheeks.

Observing the phenomenon, registering Penelope tilting her head as she did the same, Barnaby eased back in his chair again, and left Stokes to her.

Raising her brows, she prompted, “Inspector?”

Stokes shot Barnaby a glance—only to see that he’d get no help from him. He was now as intrigued as Penelope. Lips thinning, Stokes cleared his throat and met Penelope’s gaze. “Miss Martin, a milliner in St. John’s Wood High Street, hails originally from the East End. I met her while investigating another crime to which she was a witness. When I approached her with our present case, Miss Martin suggested introducing me to her father—he’s lived in the area all his life, and now he’s bedridden he spends most of his days listening and talking about what’s going on around about.”

“He gave you the names?” Penelope asked.

Stokes nodded. “However, as I said, we’ve no guarantee our list will lead to your four boys.”

“But those individuals, even if they’re not connected in any way with this latest incident, are surely the most likely to have heard if someone else is actively involved in their trade. They might well be able to help us locate our villain and thus rescue the boys.”

Stokes shook his head. “No—it won’t be that easy. Consider.”

As Stokes leaned forward, Barnaby noticed that his friend was rapidly losing his reticence over interacting with Penelope; like Barnaby, he was starting to treat her as a coinvestigator.

“If we go into the East End,” Stokes continued, “and openly inquire whether any of these men are currently running a burglary school, no one will say they are,
even
if they are. Instead, the instant we go away, whoever we ask will most likely send word to the men
we’ve inquired about, and tell them questions are being asked. That’s how the East End operates. It’s an area that has its own rules, and by and large those rules don’t encourage interference from ouside, especially from the rozzers, as they term us. The certain upshot of us making open inquiries will be that the villains—be they the ones on our list or someone else—will hear of our interest in short order, and they’ll close up shop and move, taking the boys with them, and taking even greater care to hide their tracks.”

Sitting back, Stokes shook his head. “We’ll never catch them by asking questions.”

Frowning, Penelope replied, “I see.” She paused for only an instant before continuing, “From that I gather that you intend to go into the area in disguise, locate these men, and observe their activities from a distance—thus establishing whether they are currently running a burglary school, and if our boys are with them.”

Stokes blinked; he glanced at Barnaby, as if seeking guidance. Unsure of Penelope’s direction, Barnaby had none to give.

When Stokes looked back at her, she trapped his gaze. “Is Miss Martin assisting you in that endeavor?”

Stokes’s eyes widened fractionally; he hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, “Miss Martin has agreed to assist us in furthering our investigations along the lines you’ve indicated.”

“Excellent!” Penelope beamed.

Stokes, seeing her smile, wasn’t the only one suddenly uneasy. Eyeing her delight, Barnaby felt his instincts go on full alert.

“So”—Penelope glanced from Stokes to Barnaby, then back again—“when are we to meet with Miss Martin to make our plans?”

Shocked into immobility by the implication of her words, Barnaby didn’t shake free fast enough to stop Stokes from admitting, “I intend to meet with her tomorrow afternoon.” Stokes regarded Penelope with a disbelief even greater than Barnaby’s. “But—”

“You aren’t going.” Barnaby infused the statement—a statement that plainly had to be made—with absolute, unshakable conviction.

Turning her head, Penelope blinked at him. “Of course I am. We have to sort out the details of our disguises, and how best to work to uncover what we need to learn.”

Stokes dragged in a breath. “Miss Ashford—you cannot venture into the East End.”

She turned her gaze—growing darker by the second—on Stokes. “If a milliner from St. John’s Wood can transform herself back into a woman who would pass without comment in the East End, then she’ll know how to disguise me to a similar degree.”

Barnaby found himself literally lost for words. He knew she would scoff if he described her as a beauty, but she was the type of lady who turned men’s heads. Effortlessly. And that was a feature that couldn’t be disguised.

“If Mr. Adair”—Penelope cast him a hard look—“who I’m sure is expecting to join in your hunt, but will need to be equally disguised to do so, and I, join you and Miss Martin in pursuing our inquiries, those inquiries will proceed significantly faster.”

“Miss Ashford.” Clasping his hands on the desk, Stokes made a valiant effort to retreat to a formal, authoritarian position. “It would be unconscionable of me to allow a lady like you—”

“Inspector Stokes.” Penelope’s voice acquired a precise diction that brooked no interruption whatever. “You will notice that Mr. Adair is remaining silent. That’s because he knows that argument on this issue is futile. I do not require permission from you, nor him, to pursue this matter. I’m bound and determined to see our four boys rescued and the villains prosecuted. Moreover, as administrator of the Foundling House, I am arguably morally obliged to do all I can in that endeavor.” She paused, then added, “I’m sure, if I request Miss Martin’s help in this matter, she will assist me regardless of your views.”