Where The Heart Leads (12 page)

Penelope met Griselda’s eyes, held them. “You’re a milliner, so you know how different bonnets can change a woman’s appearance. You know what makes women look drab just as much as you know how to make them appear stunning.” She smiled, a swift, engaging gesture. “Think of me as a challenge to your skills—I need you to fashion a disguise that will allow me to move through the East End markets without anyone thinking I don’t belong.”

Griselda met her gaze, then openly studied her. Her eyes narrowed, considering.

Barnaby held his breath. Once again he was tempted to speak and state the obvious—that there was no disguise that would adequately dim Penelope’s startling vitality, let alone her innate aristocratic grace. Once again instinct cautioned him to keep his lips tightly shut. He exchanged a glance with Stokes; his friend was similarly on tenterhooks, wanting to influence the outcome and knowing they would be damned if they tried.

Penelope bore Griselda’s scrutiny with unimpaired confidence.

Eventually, Griselda pronounced, “You’ll never pass as an East Ender.”

Barnaby wanted to cheer.

“But,”
Griselda continued, “I could, in the right clothes, with the right hat and shawl, see you as a Covent Garden flowerseller. They come to the markets quite often, plying their wares there during the hours the nobs aren’t around their normal haunts, and most
importantly, many of them are…well, they’re by-blows, so your features won’t mark you as a fraud.”

Barnaby shot a horrified look at Stokes.

Stokes returned it with interest.

Then Griselda grimaced. “Be that as it may, while we might be able to disguise your appearance, the instant you open your mouth you’ll give yourself away.”

Barnaby glanced at Penelope, expecting to see her deflating with disappointment. Instead, she glowed.

“You needn’t worry about me, love.” Her voice sounded quite different—still her, but a different her. “I can speak any number of languages—Latin, Greek, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and Russian among them—so East End to me is just another language, one easier to master, and one I hear every day.”

Barnaby hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Crossing his arms, he sank back against the sofa; glancing at Stokes—seeing his own inner consternation mirrored in his eyes—he shrugged.

They’d lost the battle, too.

Griselda was openly amazed. “That was…perfect. If I wasn’t looking at you, I would have thought you were from…oh, somewhere around Spitalfields.”

“Indeed. So once adequately disguised, I’ll be able to help gather the information we need.” She glanced at Barnaby, and sweetly asked, “I assume you’ll be accompanying us, too?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Count on it.” He looked at Griselda. “Don’t worry about me—Stokes can confirm my disguise will work.”

Stokes nodded. “As will mine.” To Griselda he said, “We’ve done this before.”

She studied his face, then nodded. “Very well.” She looked back at Penelope. “So we have to put together your disguise.”

They eventually decided that Griselda would borrow a suitable skirt, blouse, and jacket from the maids from a nearby house. “I do their Easter bonnets for them—they’ll be happy to help. And they’re your size.”

That settled, Stokes brought out his list of names. Together, he and Griselda worked out a sensible order in which to tackle the list.

They agreed to meet at the shop at nine o’clock the next morning.

“That’ll give me time to set my apprentices to their work. Then we’ll have to disguise you”—she nodded at Penelope—“and then get to Petticoat Lane. We should arrive there by half past ten, which will be the perfect time to start moving through the stalls. The crowds will be big enough by then for us to merge in.”

With all decided, they shook hands, Penelope and Griselda both patently pleased with their new acquaintance, then trooped down into the shop.

Griselda showed them to the door. Following Penelope and Barnaby, Stokes paused on the doorstep to exchange a few words.

Barnaby left him to it. The hackney was waiting to return him and Penelope to Mayfair; he handed her up, then followed, shutting the door.

Dropping onto the seat beside her, he stared straight ahead, considering—not happily—what tomorrow would bring.

Beside him Penelope continued to beam, radiating eager enthusiasm. “Our disguises will work perfectly—there’s no need to worry.”

He crossed his arms. “I’m not worrying.” His tone suggested he was far beyond that.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’ll be perfectly safe with Griselda and Stokes. He is a policeman, after all.”

He managed not to growl. “I’ll be there.” A moment ticked past, then he flatly stated, “In fact, I’ll be glued to your side.” His temper rose as the possibilities continued to reel through his mind. “Can you imagine what your brother would say if he knew you were trooping about the East End passing yourself off as a Covent Garden
flowerseller
?” Usually more accurately termed a Covent Garden whore.

“I can, actually.” She remained entirely unperturbed. “He’d go pale, as he always does when he’s reining in his temper, then he’d argue, in that tight, clipped, frightfully controlled voice of his, and then, when he lost the argument, he’d lose his temper and throw his hands in the air and storm out.”

She glanced sideways at him; even though he refused to meet her gaze, he could tell it was faintly amused. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

Lips tight, jaw set, he debated, then evenly replied, “No. Arguing
with you is a waste of time.” And he now understood it was pointless.

Dealing with Penelope in his preferred manner—on a rational, logical basis—was never going to swing advantage his way. With other ladies, the rational, logical approach left him with the whip hand—but not with her. She was a past master at using the rational and logical to her own ends, as she’d just demonstrated.

Arms crossed, he kept his narrow-eyed gaze fixed ahead, steadfastly ignoring the effervescent triumph bubbling beside him.

Both he and Stokes had fallen in with Penelope’s wish to meet Griselda in the firm expectation that there would be—at best—a certain stiffness between the two women. Instead, Penelope had effortlessly reached out and bridged the social gap—and it had been she who’d done that, not Griselda. Griselda had watched and waited, but Penelope had made the effort and known just how to do it, so now there was a budding friendship there, one no one could have predicted.

So…where he and Stokes had been a team of two, there was now a team of four.

He’d imagined going into the East End with Stokes—the two of them had worked together in disguise before. With four of them…the hunt would indeed go faster. Penelope’s version of an East End accent had been startingly good. She could indeed pass as a local even better than he. The four of them could split up, and get through Stokes’s list faster.

Having Penelope on their team as well as Griselda would help locate the four missing boys that much sooner.

And all debate aside, that was their common goal.

He glanced up as the carriage swung around a corner; they’d already reached Mount Street. His gaze on the façades as the hackney slowed, he said, “Tomorrow morning get your footman to summon a hackney at half-past eight. When it arrives, give the driver Griselda’s direction and get in.”

The hackney halted. Reaching across to open the door, he met Penelope’s eyes. “I’ll join you in the hackney.”

Brows rising, she studied him. He moved past her and stepped down, assisted her out, then paid off the hackney and escorted her to her brother’s door.

He waited for her to ask—to demand to be told what he was planning. Instead, she turned to him with a confident smile and gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning then. Good day, Mr. Adair.”

Feeling somehow cheated, he bowed over her hand. The butler opened the door; with a nod for that worthy, he turned, descended the steps, and strode away.

P
enelope had learned long ago that it was never wise to encourage any gentleman to believe she needed protection. Especially not when said gentleman was of the ilk of her brother Luc, or her cousin Martin, or her brother-in-law Simon Cynster. Some men simply could not be trusted to know where to draw the line—or to even recognize that a line existed—between smothering a lady in cotton wool and being a reasonable white knight. The inevitable result of any lady accepting their protection was an ongoing battle, one the lady was forced to wage to retain some workable degree of independence.

That had certainly been her observation in the case of the aforementioned males. As she rushed to be ready at half past eight the next morning, she was increasingly certain Barnaby Adair, regardless of his eccentric pastime, belonged to the same group.

Masterful men, experience warned, were masterful all the way through.

They didn’t—couldn’t—change their stripes, although they might at times disguise them.

With such wisdom resonating in her mind, she bolstered her enthusiasm with a quick but substantial breakfast, then hurried into her pelisse. She reached the front door just as the hackney she’d ordered to be summoned rolled up.

Farewelling Leighton, the butler, she glanced right and left as she went down the steps, but saw no one who might be Barnaby Adair. A footman was holding the carriage door, waiting to help her up.

She called up to the driver, “St. John’s Wood High Street—the milliner’s shop,” then climbed in.

Settling on the seat, she nodded a dismissal to the footman. He closed the door and retreated.

The door on the other side of the carriage opened; the carriage dipped as a man climbed in.

Even though she’d been expecting an appearance, Penelope’s mouth fell open. The only thing she recognized about the man who shut the door and slumped on the seat opposite was his blue, blue eyes.

The carriage started forward—then abruptly stopped, the jarvey having realized some man had joined his lady passenger.

“Miss? Is everything all right?”

Her eyes—round with amazement—still fixed on Barnaby’s face, Penelope simply stared. Barnaby scowled and roughly jerked his head toward the box seat, and she recalled herself and stammered, “Y-yes—perfectly all right. Drive on.”

The jarvey muttered something, then the carriage rattled into motion again. As they rounded the corner out of Mount Street, Penelope let her gaze descend, taking in all of this rather startling version of Barnaby Adair.

Disguises generally concealed, but sometimes, they revealed. She was somewhat stunned—and just a little wary—of what, courtesy of his present guise, she could see.

He frowned at her, the gesture little removed from his earlier scowl—an expression that somehow fitted his new face, the clean, austere lines smudged with soot, the lean squareness of his jaw somehow more dominant beneath the prickly growth of a day-old beard. The beard roughened his cheeks. His hair was an uncombed tumble of golden curls; he never normally looked windblown and rumpled, but now he did.

As if he’d just rolled out of some doxy’s bed.

The thought flashed across Penelope’s mind; she instantly banished it. Closing her mouth, she found she had to swallow; her throat had grown unaccountably dry. Her gaze continued traveling over him, across his shoulders and chest, clad in a threadbare jacket with a thin, limp, cotton shirt beneath. No cravat or collar hid the lean length of his throat.

His long thighs were encased in workman’s breeches; worn, scuffed boots were on his feet. He was the very picture of a rough-and-ready lout, a navvy who worked about the docks and warehouses doing this and that—whatever paid best at the time.

A certain dangerous quality emanated from him. The aura of a male not to be crossed.

Too dangerous to cross.

“What?” Through narrowed eyes, he challenged her.

She held his gaze—the only thing instantly recognizable about him—and knew that under the rough clothes and equally rough behavior he was still the same man. Reassured, she smiled mildly and shook her head. “You’re perfect for the part.”
Of escorting me in my flowerseller’s disguise.

She didn’t voice the latter words, but if the sharpness in his gaze was any guide, he’d understood her meaning.

He humphed, then folded his arms across his chest, put his head back, and lapsed into uncommunicative silence.

Her smile spontaneously deepening, Penelope looked out the window so he wouldn’t see.

As the carriage rattled on, she pondered that dangerous quality she sensed in him; it wasn’t a characteristic he’d assumed for the role but something intrinsic, inherent in him.

Her earlier thoughts returned to her, now colored by a deeper insight. In view of her strengthening suspicion that Barnaby Adair was as one with her brother, cousin, brother-in-law, and their ilk, it seemed obvious—as demonstrated by the present situation—that with such men, the sophistication they displayed when going about their tonnish lives was the disguise. It was when they stripped off the outer trappings of polished civility—as Barnaby now had—that one glimpsed the reality concealed.

Given that reality…she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her revelation. How she should react.

Whether she should react at all, or instead pretend she hadn’t noticed.

They passed the journey in silence, she busy with her thoughts, fueled by burgeoning curiosity.

The carriage eventually halted outside Griselda’s shop. Barnaby uncrossed his long legs, opened the door, and stepped down. He
hunted in his pocket and tossed some coins to the driver—leaving Penelope to descend from the carriage on her own.

She did, then closed the carriage door. Barnaby cast her a sharp glance, checking, then, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he slouched up Griselda’s steps, flung open the door, waited for Penelope to join him, then—stepping entirely out of character—he extravagantly bowed her through.

“
Strewth!
He’s a toff!”

The muttered words came from the jarvey on the box.

Pausing in the doorway, Penelope glanced at Barnaby’s face as he straightened and looked at the driver; the lean planes appeared harder, more edged, than she’d ever seen them. As she watched, his blue eyes narrowed to flinty shards. A muffled curse from the driver was immediately followed by the sound of hooves as he whipped up his horse and rattled away.

Without waiting to catch Barnaby’s eye, she swept on into the sanctuary of the shop. She wasn’t at all sure she didn’t share the jarvey’s reservations about the man who followed at her heels.

Griselda had heard the tinkling bell. She came through the curtain behind the counter, set eyes on Barnaby—and very nearly stepped back. Her eyes widened, unconsciously matching those of her two apprentices who’d been working on the table between the counter and the curtain. They were now frozen, needles in midair.

After a fraught moment, Griselda’s gaze shifted to Penelope.

Who smiled. “Good morning, Miss Martin. I believe you’re expecting us?”

Griselda blinked. “Oh—yes, of course.” Coloring faintly, she held back the curtain. “Please come through.”

They went forward, Barnaby at Penelope’s shoulder. She noticed he even moved differently—more aggressively. They passed the two girls, who dropped their gazes.

In frank amazement, Griselda shook her head at Barnaby when he halted before her. She waved them on. “Go on upstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Penelope started up the stairs. Behind them she heard Griselda, voice muffled by the curtain, instructing her apprentices on their day’s work.

Stepping into the parlor, Penelope paused. Barnaby moved past her;
he went to the bow window and stood looking out over the street. She seized the moment to study him, to examine again the fundamental hardness his unaccustomed guise allowed to show through.

A moment later, Griselda joined her.

“Well.” Like her, Griselda surveyed the figure before the windows. “You’ll certainly pass muster.”

Barnaby turned his head and looked at them, then, with his chin, indicated Penelope. “Let’s see what your magic can make of her.”

Griselda caught Penelope’s eye. She tipped her head toward her bedroom. “Come in here—I’ve got the clothes laid out.”

Turning away from the presence by the window, Penelope meekly followed Griselda into the other room.

It took some time, and not a little hilarity, to transform Penelope into a Covent Garden flowerseller. Griselda firmly shut the bedroom door, giving them some privacy in which to work.

Once she was satisfied with the picture Penelope presented, Griselda had to change her own clothes. “I decided appearing down on my luck will make those who recognize me more likely to talk. Parading around as a successful milliner might get respect, but it isn’t going to garner any sympathy in the East End.”

Seated before Griselda’s dressing table, Penelope used the mirror to adjust the angle of her hat. It was an ancient, dark blue velvet cap that had seen much better days, but with a spray of silk flowers attached to the band it looked exactly like something a flowerseller from the streets around Covent Garden would wear.

Her clothes consisted of a full skirt in cheap, bright blue satin, a once white blouse now a soft shade of gray, and a waisted jacket in black twill with large buttons.

They’d wound ribbon around the earpieces of her spectacles, and rubbed wax on the gold frames to make them look tarnished. A trug, the mark of her trade, had been discussed, but abandoned; she wasn’t interested in selling any wares today.

Eyeing the overall result with satisfaction, Penelope said, “This disguise is wonderful—thank you for your help.”

Tying the cords of an old petticoat at her waist, Griselda glanced at
her. She hesitated, then said, “If you want to return the favor, you can relieve my curiosity.”

Penelope swung around on the stool. She spread her hands. “Ask what you will.”

Griselda reached for the skirt she’d chosen. “I’ve heard of the Foundling House, and the children who go there—the education they receive there. By all accounts, you and a handful of other ladies, some your sisters, have arranged all that. You still actively run the place.” She paused, then said, “My question is this: Why do you do it? A lady like you doesn’t need to sully her hands with the likes of that.”

Penelope raised her brows. She didn’t immediately answer; the question was sincere, and deserved a considered—equally sincere—response. Griselda glanced at her face, saw she was thinking, and gave her time.

Eventually, she said, “I’m the daughter of a viscount, now the sister of a very wealthy one. I’ve lived, and still live, a sheltered life of luxury in which all my needs are met without me having to lift a finger. And while I wouldn’t be honest if I claimed that all that was anything other than extremely comfortable, what it’s not is challenging.”

Looking up, she met Griselda’s gaze. “If I just sat back and let my life as a viscount’s daughter unfold in the way that it would were I to surrender the reins, then what satisfaction would I gain from it?” She spread her hands wide. “What would I achieve in my life?”

Letting her hands fall to her lap, she went on, “Being wealthy is nice, but being idle and achieving nothing is not. Not satisfying, not…fulfilling.”

Drawing in a breath, she felt that truth resonate within her. Holding Griselda’s gaze, she concluded, “
That’s
why I do what I do. Why ladies like me do what we do. People call it charity, and for the recipients I suppose it is, but it serves an important role for us, too. It gives us what we wouldn’t otherwise have—satisfaction, fulfillment, and a purpose in life.”

After a moment, Griselda nodded. “Thank you. That makes sense.” She smiled. “
You
now make sense in a way you didn’t before. I’m very glad Stokes remembered me and asked me to help.”

“Speaking of Stokes…” Penelope held up a finger. They both
listened and heard, muffled but distinguishable, the jingling of the bell on the door.

“His timing is excellent.” Griselda shrugged into a loose jacket with a torn pocket, then picked up a shabby bonnet and placed it over her hair. They heard Barnaby’s heavy bootsteps cross to the stairs and go down. Glancing in the mirror past Penelope, Griselda settled the bonnet, then nodded. “I’m done. Let’s join them.”

Griselda descended the stairs first. When she reached for the curtain, Penelope caught her hand and tugged her back. “What about your apprentices? Won’t they think this is all rather odd?”

“Undoubtedly. Odd and more.” Griselda grinned reassuringly. “But they’re good girls and I’ve told them to keep their eyes open but their mouths firmly shut. They’ve got good positions here and they know it—they won’t risk them by talking out of turn.”

Penelope nodded. Releasing Griselda, she drew in a steadying breath; butterflies fluttered as if she were about to step out on a stage.

Griselda led the way. Looking past her, Penelope saw Barnaby and Stokes standing, talking, in the middle of the shop, two dark and dangerous characters incongruously surrounded by feathers and frippery.

The sight tugged her lips into a smile. Griselda stopped by the counter to speak with her apprentices. Stokes and Barnaby were discussing something. Stokes, facing the counter, saw her first—and stopped speaking.

Alerted by the sudden blankness in Stokes’s face, Barnaby swung around.

And saw her—Penelope Ashford, youngest sister of Viscount Calverton, connected by birth and marriage to any number of the senior families in the ton—in a guise that effectively transformed her, spectacles and all, into the most refreshingly fetching, utterly engaging trollop who had ever strolled the Covent Garden walks.

He very nearly closed his eyes and groaned.

Stokes muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath; Barnaby didn’t need to hear it to know that he’d be spending every minute of that day glued to Penelope’s side.

She came up to them, smiling delightedly, clearly taken with her new persona.

Even as he looked down into her dark eyes, a niggling warning
took shape in his brain. When stepping into the shoes of someone from a much lower station, as now, he’d always found it easy to shrug off the social restraints that applied to a gentleman of his class.