Where The Heart Leads (17 page)

It was nearly noon. He’d given the jarvey orders to drive back to Mayfair. They’d called in at the Foundling House earlier, and didn’t need to return. “We’ll get something to eat, then we can go on to Scotland Yard.”

Beside him, Penelope nodded. “And after we’ve seen Stokes, we really should tell Griselda the news.”

Stokes had been visited by exactly the same thought. He arrived at the shop in St. John’s Wood High Street just after two o’clock.

This time the girls smiled at him. One immediately bustled back to inform Miss Martin of his presence.

Griselda came to the curtain, a smile on her lips.

He returned the smile, he thought well enough, but she seemed to read his underlying tension. Her expression grew serious; she tilted her head, inviting him with her eyes. “Please—come through.”

Passing the girls, he followed her into the kitchen, letting the curtain fall closed behind him. As before, the table was covered with feathers and ribbons; a fashionable bonnet, its decoration half-finished, sat in the center of the space. “I’ve interrupted you,” he said.

She frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

He met her eyes, then glanced back at the curtain. “If you would feel comfortable permitting it, I’d prefer to speak upstairs.”

“Of course.” She moved around the table to the stairs. “Let’s go up.”

He followed her up the narrow flight, trying not to focus on her swaying hips, and failing. She led the way into the parlor; going to the armchair that was clearly her favorite, she waved him to its mate.

Dropping into it, he sighed; when he was there, with her, he literally felt as if some amorphous weight lifted from his shoulders. In reply to her raised brows, he said, “I can’t remember if Adair and Miss Ashford mentioned they’d found a boy similar to those who’d gone missing, in similar circumstances, but as his mother was by all accounts some way from death’s door there seemed little benefit in placing a constant watch on the house.”

She shook her head. “What happened?”

Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes. “Last night we heard the boy’s mother had been found dead—murdered—and the boy’s disappeared.”

She said something beneath her breath he felt sure he wasn’t supposed to hear. “In the East End?”

Opening his eyes, he nodded. “Near Arnold Circus.” He watched her frown deepen. “Why?”

She glanced at him, then her lips firmed. After a moment, she said, “The East End is in many ways lawless, but they do take care of their own. There are certain boundaries no one crosses, and killing a mother to steal her son—that’s one of them. No one’s going to be happy with this—if there’s any information to be had, it’ll be readily given.”

“So if we ask, we’ll be told?”

She smiled cynically. “The rozzers will get whatever help can be given.”

He studied her face. “You don’t sound confident that help will be enough.”

“Because I’m not. There might be enough information to suggest who took the boy, but finding the villain and getting the boy back will be another matter entirely.” After a moment, she said, “There’s still five names on your list. It’s possible one of those five is the schoolmaster who’s snatching the boys. The fastest way I can help you and the others to rescue them is by finding out about those five men.”

The bell downstairs jangled. Griselda rose, then cocked her head, listening. Stokes got to his feet.

Griselda glanced at him. “Miss Ashford and Adair.”

She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. “Yes, Imogen, I know. Please tell them to come up—they know the way.”

A moment later Penelope appeared, followed by Barnaby.

Penelope’s eyes widened when she saw Stokes. “There you are! We called at Scotland Yard, but you were out.”

Stokes colored faintly. “I spent longer than I expected at Liverpool Street.” He glanced at Barnaby. “We’ve put out an alert to all the watch houses in London, giving Jemmie’s description. Soon everyone in the force will know we want him—if he’s seen on the streets, there’s a chance he’ll be picked up.”

Barnaby grimaced. “Unfortunately, if he’s been snatched for a burglary school he may not be on the streets—not until he’s sent out to work.”

And once a boy participated in a crime, disentangling him from the legal system would become problematic.

Griselda waved them to sit. They did, all sober, not to say deflated.

Barnaby looked at Stokes. “We spoke with everyone up and down the street. We had one stroke of luck.” He explained what Jenks had seen.

Stokes nodded. “It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. That fits with the time the doctor thinks she was killed, so they most likely are the villains responsible.” He thought, then added, “I’ll stop by Liverpool Street on my way back and get them to send that description out, too. Neither man may be all that recognizable on his own, but together…the description might be more useful than it sounds.”

“True,” Barnaby said, “but finding the boys is becoming urgent. They have five that we know of, but there may be more—boys we haven’t heard about. We can’t just wait for information to come in.”

“Exactly the point I was making when you arrived.” Griselda leaned forward. “I was intending to visit my father tomorrow to see if he’d heard anything more about the five names still on our list. I’ll do that first thing, then depending on what he’s heard, I’ll ask around and see if I can learn anything definite.” She looked at Stokes. “If I think I’ve found the school’s location, I’ll send word.”

“You won’t have to send word—I’ll be with you.” When Griselda opened her mouth, Stokes held up a staying hand. “As I told you before, if you’re going out on police business and there’s any risk attached—which there definitely is—then I have to be there, too.”

Griselda narrowed her eyes, but then inclined her head. “Very well.”

“We’ll come, too.” Penelope pushed up from the depths of the sofa. “We’ll get through looking much quicker—”

“No.” Barnaby laid a hand on her arm. When she looked at him, he met her eyes. “You have another avenue to pursue.” When she looked puzzled, he said, “The files, remember?”

She blinked. “Oh. Yes.” She looked at Stokes. “I’d forgotten.”

Stokes frowned. “What files?”

“At the Foundling House,” Barnaby said. “Remember our earlier thought about setting a trap using some boy who was the right sort and whose guardian was about to die?” When Stokes nodded, he con
tinued, “That plan fell by the wayside because the only boy like that in the files was Jemmie, and it transpired his mother wasn’t likely to die for months.

“However”—his tone hardened—“given what’s happened with Jemmie, that suggests their need for boys is urgent, enough for them not to blink at bringing ailing guardians’ lives to a premature end.”

Stokes’s expression sharpened. “So if you can find another boy of the right physical sort, with an ailing guardian who’s expected to die at some date, there’s a chance…” He paused, looking inward, then he focused on Penelope. “If you can find a boy like that in the East End, I’ll guarantee the police will keep him safe. We’ll have a constant watch placed on him—if these villains come calling, we’ll have them. Even if I have to do the watching myself.”

Penelope saw the commitment blazing in Stokes’s eyes; she glanced at Griselda, saw a quieter version infusing her, and suddenly felt a great deal better. She was even prepared to leave the searching to them and Barnaby while she plowed through the mountains of files.

Barnaby sighed. “How many files are there?”

She glanced at him. “You saw the last lot—multiply by ten.”

He looked at Stokes. “It might be a better division of labor if I helped Penelope go through the files. If we find a likely candidate, I’ll send word.”

Stokes met his eyes; after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. We’ll search on the ground, you two search the files.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes, first on Stokes, then on Barnaby, and wondered whether it was entirely her imagination that there’d been some other communication in that exchange, one that had run beneath their words.

Regardless, they now had their appointed tasks; leaving Stokes and Griselda making arrangements about where to meet, she and Barnaby went downstairs and out onto the street.

Again they had to walk around the church to find a hackney. As they passed the spot where they’d had their previous afternoon’s altercation—and he’d kissed her—a wave of consciousness swept her. It felt like tingles spreading under her skin, leaving her nerve endings tantalized, sensitized.

It helped not at all that a gentleman chose that moment to walk
along the same stretch in the opposite direction. As he neared, Barnaby steered her to the side—his large strong hand burning her back, his body a shield between her and the unknown.

She bit her lip and forced herself not to react. That simple touch was an instinctive act, one gentlemen like he performed for ladies such as she. Usually it meant nothing…yet to her it did. The courtesy might be a common one, but it wasn’t one gentlemen used on her. She didn’t normally allow it—because it smacked of protection and she knew where that led.

They continued around the corner, and his hand fell away. Lifting her head, she eased out the breath trapped in her lungs. She wasn’t going to say anything, call any attention to the disturbing effect such little attentions from him had on her. While in light of their previous night’s discussion she might wonder if he was doing it on purpose, to wear down her resistance, she had no proof that was so—and she would certainly appear irrational if she protested on such grounds.

He raised an arm and summoned a hackney. Waiting beside him, she cast him a sidelong glance. Another reason she wasn’t going to say anything was because she needed him to help her rescue Jemmie.

That was her first and most important consideration, one that overrode any missish need to put distance between them. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, cutting off all contact was simply not possible.

When the hackney pulled up and he offered his hand, she calmly placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her in.

Sinking onto the padded seat beside her, Barnaby had no difficulty hiding his smile. She might be as transparent as glass, at least over her reaction to him and his touch, but he wasn’t such a fool as to take her—or her indomitable will—for granted. She was skittish and so aware; to win her he would need to play the age-old game very carefully.

Luckily, he thrived on challenge.

The carriage rolled swiftly toward Mayfair. After some time, her uncharacteristic silence registered. He glanced at her; her face was half turned toward the window, but what he could see of her expression was serene…which meant she was planning something.

“What?”

She looked at him; when she didn’t bother asking what he was referring to, he knew he’d read her abstraction correctly.

She considered him, then said, “Jemmie’s out there somewhere, alone in a sense, and probably afraid. I’m not inclined to wait until tomorrow to start searching for the next boy they’re likely to take. You said it yourself, there’s clearly some urgency over getting more boys—every hour we wait is time we can’t afford to waste.” She met his gaze steadily. “Unfortunately, I’m committed to accompanying my mother to a musicale this evening.”

The faint arching of one brow echoed the question in her tone.

Rather than appear too eager—too happy to fall in with her plans—he looked forward, then sighed. “I’ll meet you there, and we can slip away. Lord knows they never notice who’s there and who isn’t once the caterwauling starts, but we’ll have to keep an eye on the clock and get back before it ends.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her wave a dismissive hand. “No need.” With a sangfroid to match his, she stared out of the window. “I’ll develop a headache and claim your escort home. Mama won’t make a fuss. I’ll make sure she won’t check on me when she gets home, either, and Leighton knows to leave the front door on the latch unless he sees me come in.”

She turned her head and looked at him. “Once we leave Lady Throgmorton’s we can spend all night searching the files.”

As offers of how to spend an evening went, he’d had better, but her suggestion would allow him to advance his cause, both with her and in rescuing Jemmie Carter.

He nodded. “Lady Throgmorton’s then, at eight o’clock.”

By eight forty-five that evening they were sitting in Penelope’s office at the Foundling House surrounded by files. Stacks and stacks of them. Barnaby eyed the teetering piles. “There has to be a faster way.”

“Unfortunately there isn’t.”

“What about the files we looked through before—there weren’t as many of them.”

“Those
were the files of children in cases where the guardian’s
death was considered imminent—in Mrs. Carter’s case her health improved, but I’d already done the formal visit, which is why I remembered Jemmie.”

Seated behind her desk, Penelope surveyed the files—there were over a hundred—that Miss Marsh had gathered and piled on the desk and alongside it. “
These
are the files of all children registered with us as possible candidates to come here at some point in the future. These represent our unculled waiting list. The last lot of files—there were only a few dozen, if you recall—were the accepted and imminent list.”

Barnaby picked up the top file from the nearest stack. He started flicking through it. “These files are a lot thinner.”

“Because they only contain the initial registration, and at most one note. We haven’t yet followed up, got a doctor’s report, anything—and I haven’t been to visit these families, and neither has Keggs, so we won’t have any physical description of the child to help us.”

His expression grew wary. “What, exactly, are we searching for here?”

“For a boy between seven and eleven years old. One known as a potential orphan.” She ticked the points off on her fingers. “He has to live in the East End. And then we need to check if there’s any mention in the note about the guardian. How ill they are, whether they’re incapacitated or not.” She met his eyes. “I imagine that if they’ve a choice, these villains will target a guardian they can readily overcome.”