Where The Heart Leads (18 page)

“That’s a reasonable guess.”

“Well, then.” She surveyed the files, then looked at him. “Shall we work out a plan of campaign?”

“Please.”

“Let’s work progressively, taking our points in order—you start, and check each file for whether it’s a boy or a girl. Girls set aside, boys pass on to me.” Leaning forward, she pointed to the top right corner of the file he’d reopened. “See there? Boy or girl?”

“Boy. One for you.” He tossed the file on the desk in front of her and reached for the next.

“I’ll check their age and the address.” Pulling the file to her, she opened it. “East End or not.” She frowned and looked up. “Is it likely they’ll extend their reach outside the East End?”

“It’s possible”—he dropped the second file to the floor beside his chair—“but only if they can’t find a suitable boy on their own patch.” He reached for the next file. “Villains tend to stick to specific neighborhoods—like a territory that’s somehow their domain for whatever nefarious purpose.”

She nodded, and checked the address on the file she had—Paddington. Closing the file, she dropped it to the floor by her chair just as Barnaby slid another her way.

They settled into a silent rhythm as the house quieted around them. When they’d arrived, the older children had been awake, and the staff had been about, overseeing them and tucking the younger ones into bed. The sounds of a bustling family, multiplied significantly, echoed along the corridors. But as the clock on top of the cabinet ticked relentlessly on, all such sounds faded, leaving the dry rustling of paper and the occasional slap of a discarded file the only punctuations in the enfolding silence.

When the clock chimed, signifying the half hour, Penelope glanced up and saw it was half past eleven. With a sigh, she dropped the last of the files to be discarded on the latest pile, then studied, as Barnaby was, the small pile that remained on her blotter.

Reaching out, she riffled the spines. “Fifteen.” Fifteen East End boys aged between seven and eleven who were registered as potential foundlings.

Barnaby eyed the discarded files. “I hadn’t any notion there would be so many potential orphans.” He lifted his gaze to her face. “You can’t take in all these.”

She shook her head. “We’d like to, but we can’t. We have to choose.” After a moment, she added, “As it happens, we base our decision on some of the traits these villains look for—quickness of mind, and preferably of body. Size we don’t take into account, but knowing we have to choose, we long ago decided that we had to take the children who would make the most of the opportunities we provide.”

“And that means quick wits and reasonable health.” He reached for the top file of the remaining fifteen. “So now we try to find some indication of the guardian’s physical state.”

Even with only fifteen files to assess, that took time; they had to read not only what was written, but also to some extent between the lines.

In the end, the pile reduced to three. Three boys they both agreed were the only likely targets among all the files they’d waded through.

Hands folded on her desk, Penelope looked at the three files. “I keep worrying that there will be others, boys who haven’t been registered.” She raised her eyes to Barnaby’s face. “What if the villains go after one of them and leave these boys”—she nodded at the files—“alone?”

He grimaced. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take. But so far you’ve lost five of your registered candidates—chances are these boys are, or will become, targets of these villains.” He paused, then added, “We have to assume that and go forward with our plan. There are no certainties, but it’s the best we can do.”

She studied his eyes as if reading his sincerity, then nodded. “You’re right.” Looking down at the files, she sighed. “There’s nothing in these to say if the boys themselves are physically suitable. They might be too big, or clumsy, or…I’ll have to visit them tomorrow and see.”

The clock chimed—one o’clock.

Barnaby rose, rounded the desk, took her hand and drew her to her feet. “We’ll go together tomorrow morning, and take a closer look at these three.”

Reaching across, he turned down the desk lamp they’d set high to give them light enough to read, then capturing both her hands, he drew her to face him. “We’ve accomplished all we can for tonight…on that front.”

She heard his change of direction in his tone. Her eyes widened, searching his. “What…?”

Lips curving, he drew her into his arms, bent his head, and kissed her confusion from her lips. Tasted them, making it clear just what subject he was intent on investigating.

Her. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

How she felt in his arms, how she fitted so snugly against him.

He’d anticipated some resistance; instead, all he sensed was a moment of blankness—as if her mind had seized, simply frozen.

Then her lips, already parted when he’d covered them, firmed beneath his—but she didn’t try to clamp them shut and deny him; she pressed them more firmly to his and kissed him back.

Definitely—no tentativeness this time. Her sudden change in tack left him mometarily following rather than leading.

Then her hands, braced against his chest, slid up over his shoulders to slip beneath his curls and caress his nape. He had to fight to suppress a shudder, surprised that such a simple touch from her slim fingers on his exposed skin could be so evocative.

But then she stepped into him—and his world quaked.

She pressed against him and yielded her mouth—and he lost touch with his immediate world, transported in a heartbeat to one where his civilized guise was gone and his primitive nature ruled.

He spread his hands on her back, pulled her flush against him. The heat of her response, the offered heat of her mouth, the wanton stroke of her tongue urged him on; he angled his head, laid claim to all she offered, and blatantly, flagrantly, molded her hips to his.

She uttered a soft sound—neither moan, sob, nor gasp but an expression of all three, a sound of encouragement he had no difficulty interpreting; he responded by letting his hands, clamped about her hips, ease and slide down, around, filling his palms with her firm curves. Fingers flexing, he moved her against him, suggestively, provocatively.

And felt her melt.

Felt all resistance, even that telltale tension in her spine, evaporate.

She was his for the taking, and they both knew it.

One small hand slid from his nape to his cheek, pressing along it as she kissed him—every bit as wantonly, as blatantly, as he wished.

Turning, he trapped her against the desk; the edge hit the backs of her thighs. The files littering the expanse were no longer relevant; he reached out to push them away—

Click, click, click.

The clack of heels approaching along the tiled corridor jerked them both back into the world—the one encompassed by her office with its open archway, and the anteroom beyond with its open door.

They broke apart. Barnaby stiffly rounded the desk and dropped into the chair he’d earlier occupied.

Penelope pulled her chair—which had rolled away—back to her desk and sat in it, and grabbed the three files left on her blotter.

She looked up as Mrs. Keggs appeared in the archway.

Mrs. Keggs took in the restacked files, then the three in Penelope’s hand. “Well, you have worked like Trojans if you’ve got through all those. Only three?”

Penelope nodded. “We’ve just finished.” Locating her reticule on the floor by her feet, she picked it up and rose. “And yes, there’s only three. I’ll have to visit them and see if they’re possible targets for these villains.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll take the files with me and do that tomorrow.”

Barnaby got to his feet.

Mrs. Keggs smiled brightly. “Indeed. You’ll be wanting your beds, I’ve no doubt. I’ll lock up after you.”

Penelope didn’t meet Barnaby’s eyes as she walked past him. She paused by the hook on which she’d hung her evening cloak; before she could lift it down, his hand appeared and did so.

Behind her, he shook it out and draped it over her shoulders. “Have you got everything?”

His breath brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Her senses skittered; she grimly hauled them back.

“I believe so.” She managed a smile for Mrs. Keggs—her unwitting savior. The three files in one hand, her reticule in the other, her cloak over her shoulders—and Barnaby Adair at her heels—she walked calmly up the long corridor to the foyer, farewelled Mrs. Keggs, then, head high, walked out into the night.

Throughout the subsequent journey back to Mount Street, she remained silent. There was absolutely nothing she could think of to say. She wasn’t sure she appreciated his tact in not saying one damned word, either—especially as she sensed he was amused by her silence.

She did, however, have a great deal to think about courtesy of that thoroughly unwise kiss. Not the one he’d given her, initiating the episode, but the one she—witlessly and wantonly—had pressed on him.

That and what had followed were definitely things she needed to analyze.

Exchanging minimal words, they parted at the door in Mount Street, after he’d verified it had, indeed, been left on the latch, allowing her to enter without rousing the household. The last sight she had
of him as she closed the door revealed a certain knowing smile on his face; she would have loved to wipe it off, but decided ignoring it was the wiser course.

Lighting the candle left for her on the hall table, she picked it up and trailed up the stairs…wondering when her wits were going to return to her enough for her to decide where she now stood with respect to Barnaby Adair.

P
enelope had expected to spend at least a few hours of what had remained of the night reassessing her position with Barnaby Adair. Instead, the instant her head had made contact with her pillow, she’d fallen deeply asleep. Unfortunately, waking with a smile on her lips hadn’t improved her mood.

But it had lent steel to her decision.

She was increasingly certain that all those little touches that might initially have been instinctive were now deliberate. That he knew the effect he had on her and was intentionally playing on her senses.

That he was, in fact, hunting her.

That conclusion had deepened her resolve. After the previous night’s kiss—which shouldn’t have occurred at all, and how she’d come to be so brainless as to recklessly let herself enjoy it she didn’t know—had proved beyond doubt that the only way to deal with him henceforth was to avoid him.

As far as she was able while continuing to work with him on the investigation.

Hurrying down the stairs, juggling the three files while pulling on her gloves, she reflected that at least today she wouldn’t have to exercise any great ingenuity to stick to her plan. She’d already taken steps to ensure he wouldn’t be with her; she didn’t need an escort to look over three boys.

Smiling at Leighton, waiting by the front door to swing it wide, she paused to check her bonnet in the hall mirror. It was barely eight-thirty, far too early for any tonnish gentleman to be up and about, and as she had three addresses to call at, even when he realized she’d
left him behind the chances of him correctly guessing which one she was headed for were slim to none.

For today, she was safe. Turning from the mirror, she nodded her thanks to Leighton as he opened the door. Stepping over the threshold, a satisfied smile curving her lips—

She froze, stopped in her tracks by the sight of the bright curly head atop the pair of broad shoulders, from which a modish greatcoat hung, that were presently leaning against the railing above the area steps.

Behind her, Leighton murmured, “Mr. Adair said he was happy to wait outside for you, miss.”

So she would have no warning that her plan had been sprung. “Indeed.”

The morning was chilly and damp; mist wreathed the street, wisps draping the hackney and its horse by the curb. It would certainly have been warmer to wait indoors.

Eyes narrowing, she went down the steps.

He heard and turned, and smiled—an easy, charming smile that held no hint of triumph. Pushing away from the railing as she reached the pavement, he strolled to the carriage, opened the door, and held out his hand.

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. She thrust the three files into his hand, grabbed up her skirts, and clambered into the carriage unaided.

If he chuckled, at least she didn’t hear it. Dropping onto the seat in the far corner, she quickly arranged her skirts, then looked out of the window.

He climbed in and shut the door; she felt the seat give as he settled beside her.

The carriage started off. She hadn’t heard him give the driver any directions; she frowned, glanced at him. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t meet her gaze, merely settled his head against the squabs and made himself comfortable. “The driver’s from the East End—he knows the area well. We discussed the best route—he’ll take us to Gun Street first, then North Tenter, and then around to Black Lion Yard.”

It would be childish to sniff disparagingly just because he’d arranged things so well. “I see.” Turning her head, she looked out at the passing streetscape, and told herself she shouldn’t sulk.

By the time they reached the first address, in Gun Street opposite Spitalfields Market, her irritation had largely evaporated. He’d left her with no excuse to protest, and being with him, simply being near him, tended to erode her resistance.

Regardless, she sternly lectured herself to concentrate on the matter at hand—identifying any other boy who might be at risk from their villains—and to ignore her senses’ giddy preoccupation with Barnaby Adair and all his works.

Steeling herself, she let him hand her down at the corner of Gun Street.

Gun was a short street, and within a second of setting eyes on the boy they’d come to see, it was plain he wasn’t a candidate for a burglary school. He was squat and heavy-bodied; one glance at his father, consumptive though he was, suggested the boy would only grow larger with every month.

Penelope excused their visit on the grounds of checking details in their file. Barnaby stood by her side as she spent a few minutes easing the father’s concern over the Foundling House having questions.

She’d worn a garnet-red pelisse for the excursion; it set off her pure complexion and brought out the red in her sleek dark hair. The gown possessed no frills, no furbelows. While he would have wagered that anything she wore beneath would be silk, he was increasingly intrigued by the question of whether her private garments would be weighed down by the usual ribbons and lace, or if, like the rest of her wardrobe, they would be severely plain.

He wasn’t sure which option he would find more arousing; while the former would be a surprise—suggesting she was, beneath her outer screens, much like other ladies—the latter…in the same way that her severe gowns somehow emphasized her vivid allure, would severe undergarments also emphasize the…glory of what they concealed?

It was a point that understandably exercised his mind.

A sharp prod recalled him to the present; he blinked, and discovered Penelope regarding him with a frown.

“Mr. Nesbit has answered all our questions. It’s time to leave.”

He smiled. “Yes, of course.” With a nod to Nesbit, he followed her from the cramped hovel, and helped her back into the carriage.

Settling beside her on the seat, he continued to smile.

Their next stop, in North Tenter Street, was equally brief.

Back in the carriage, Penelope remarked, “No burglar would ever take such a simpleton as a helper. He’d most likely forget what he was supposed to fetch, and go and wake the housekeeper to ask if she could help him.”

The boy hadn’t been quite that bad, but he’d been waited on hand and foot all his life by his doting aunt, and no longer believed it was necessary to think for himself.

Barnaby looked out of the window as they made the turn into Leman Street. “That leaves only one more to check.”

“Indeed.” After a moment, Penelope echoed his thoughts. “I don’t know whether to hope this last boy is a likely candidate—which would put him at risk, but also give us a chance to set a trap to catch these villains—or whether I’d rather he was…too fat, too slow, too sluggish to interest them, and therefore he and his”—she consulted the file on her lap—“grandmother will not be under any threat at all.”

The light glinted off her spectacles as she turned her head and looked at him.

He was tempted to reach for her hand and squeeze it reassuringly—either that or pluck her spectacles from her nose and kiss her senseless, effectively distracting her from such troubling thoughts. Instead, he said, “All we can do is let fate roll her dice, and then deal with whatever turns up.”

Black Lion Yard was a small cramped space ringed by a collection of old tenements. The yard, such as it was, was cobbled like a street, but there was no thoroughfare; boxes and crates were haphazardly piled both in the corners and elsewhere across the yard, so anyone entering had to tack and weave to reach their destination.

Their destination was the ground-floor rooms in the building at the center of one side of the yard. Mary Bushel and her grandson Horace—known as Horry—lived there.

Within two minutes of making Horry’s acquaintance, both of them knew which way fate’s dice had fallen. Horry—small and slight, quick and bright—was unquestionably an outstanding candidate for a burglary school.

When Penelope glanced his way, Barnaby didn’t need any words to know what she was thinking. What question she was wordlessly
asking. But with Jemmie’s disappearance and his mother’s too-early death weighing on them both, and on the investigation in general, there was no question over what they should do.

He nodded, a slight but definite movement.

As she had in the previous two instances, she’d excused their visit on the grounds of the Foundling House needing more details for its files. Now she turned back to Horry’s grandmother—who, every bit as quick as her grandson, had seen the look he and Penelope had shared. Sudden worry infused Mary’s features.

Seeing it, Penelope reached out and placed her hand over Mary’s. “There’s something we must tell you—but first let me assure you that we will definitely be waiting to take Horry into our care when the time comes.”

A large part of Mary’s anxiety subsided. “He’s a good lad—quick and useful. He’s got a good nature—you’ll never have any trouble with him.”

“I’m sure we won’t.” Penelope spared a smile for Horry, who, sensing the change in atmosphere, had sidled closer to his grandmother, until he was leaning against her arm where she sat in her chair, his thin hand gripping her bony shoulder. Mary reached up and patted his hand.

Once again meeting Mary’s eyes, Penelope said, “Horry is exactly the sort of candidate we at the Foundling House look for. Unfortunately, there are some other men about who also want boys like him—boys who are small, slight, and quick-witted. Good boys who’ll do what they’re told.”

Dawning comprehension narrowed Mary’s eyes. After a moment, she said, “I’ve lived in the East End all me life. I know all the larks—and unless I miss me guess, you’re talking of a burglary school.”

Penelope nodded. “Yes, that’s right.” She went on to explain about the four boys who’d gone missing, and then about Jemmie and his mother. Her anger resonated in her voice, something Mary Bushel, sharp as two pins, didn’t fail to notice.

But when Penelope mentioned the police, and the notion of having them protect Mary and Horry, Mary’s comprehension failed. Astonished, she stared at Penelope, then glanced at Barnaby. “’Garn—you don’t mean that. The perlice worrying about folks like us?”

Barnaby met her washed-out blue eyes. “I know it’s not what
you’re used to around here, but…” He paused, realizing that he needed to couch the truth in a way she, and anyone else she asked for advice, would accept. “Think of it this way—this burglary school is training boys, quite a few of them, to burgle…which houses?”

Mary blinked. “If they’re training boys up, it’s usually the houses of the nobs they’ve got in their sights.”

“Precisely. So while Miss Ashford and I might be more concerned over rescuing the missing boys, and making sure no other boys are dragooned into a life of crime, the police are keen to find the villains and shut down the school, so there won’t be a string of burglaries in Mayfair to upset the commissioners.”

Mary slowly nodded. “Aye—that makes sense.”

“And that’s why the police will set a watch on this house—both to protect you and Horry, because they don’t want more boys going into this school, and also to keep watch for and catch these villains when they come for Horry, as it seems likely they will.” Barnaby paused. “It’s unusual, I know, but in this case the police’s interests and yours are the same. We all want the same things—you and Horry safe, and the villains caught.”

Mary nodded again, but then her gaze grew distant. She rocked slightly, then refocused on Barnaby’s face. “I don’t know about the perlice—I don’t know as I’d trust ’em with me and Horry’s lives.” She held up a hand, halting any comment Barnaby might have thought to make. “However, they can come and keep watch if they please. But fer me peace of mind, I want people I trust about me.”

Lifting Horry’s hand from her shoulder, she squeezed, then released it. “Get you round next door, Horry, and see if any of the Wills boys are in. Tell ’em I’d like a word.”

Horry nodded, cast a glance at Barnaby and Penelope, then quickly went out of the door.

Mary looked at Barnaby and Penelope. “The Wills boys may be rough and ready, but they’re honest lads.”

Horry returned in less than a minute, two brawny, dark-featured men in tow. Horry went to stand by Mary’s shoulder as she nodded in greeting to the newcomers. “Joe, Ned.” To Penelope and Barnaby, she said, “These are two of the Wills boys—they’re me neighbors. Joe here is the oldest—there’s four of ’em, all told.”

Joe Wills, taking in Barnaby and Penelope, clearly didn’t know
what to think. “Horry spun us a bit of a tale, Mary, something about the perlice wanting to come and stop some beggars killing you and snatching him away to do burglaries?”

Clearly Horry had understood the gist of things well enough.

Mary nodded. “Not so much of a tale as it sounds. But I’ll let them tell it.” She looked to Barnaby and Penelope; the Wills boys followed her lead.

Penelope leapt in. “I’m from the Foundling House in Bloomsbury. Mrs. Bushel here—Mary—has asked us to take Horry in when she passes on.”

With the occasional interjection from Mary, Penelope told their tale to the point where they’d learned that Mrs. Carter had been murdered and Jemmie spirited away.

Both Wills boys shifted, and exchanged a dark look.

Barnaby picked up the tale. “As I explained to Mary, despite the usual way of things, in this case the police have a real interest in capturing these villains.” Once again he cast the official interest in terms of protecting the “nobs”—it was what the Wills boys would expect; the comprehension in their eyes and the way they nodded as they followed his tale suggested he’d judged their prejudices correctly.

He went on to explain why the police needed to put a close watch on Mary and Horry, “indeed, on Black Lion Yard, so that they can catch these villains when they come for Horry.”

Joe Wills’s eyes were hard. “You’re saying these blackguards might come here and hold a pillow over Mary’s face until she’s dead, then scarper with Horry?”

Barnaby hesitated, then nodded. “That’s precisely what we believe they’ll do.”

Penelope sat forward. “They think that because with Mary gone Horry will be an orphan, there’ll be no one who cares—no one who’ll raise a fuss that he’s gone. They’re assuming—and counting on—Mary and Horry having no friends, at least not nearby. No one who’ll pay any attention.” She spread her hands. “Well, you can see it, can’t you? An old woman in the East End dies and an orphan disappears—who’s going to raise a dust?”