Where The Heart Leads (3 page)

Stepping down, he let his feet take him in that direction. He wasn’t looking for anything specific, yet experience had taught him that snippets of what at the time seemed extraneous information often turned out to be crucial in solving a case.

Leaning against the side of the house, he let his gaze range over the group. They came in all sizes and shapes, some pudgy, heavyset, and thuggish looking, others scrawny and thin. Most moved freely in their games, but a few limped, and one dragged one foot.

Any similar group of tonnish children would have been more physically homogenous, with similar features, similar long limbs.

The one element these children shared, with one another and with children from his sphere, was a certain carefreeness not normally found in pauper children. It was a reflection of confidence in their security—that they would have a roof over their heads and reasonable sustenance, not just today but tomorrow as well, and into the foreseeable future.

These children were happy, far more than many of their peers would ever be.

A tutor was seated on a bench on the opposite side of the playground, reading a book but glancing up every now and then at his charges.

Eventually one of the boys—a wiry, ferret-faced lad of about ten—sidled up to Barnaby. He waited until Barnaby glanced down at him before asking, “Are you a new tutor, then?”

“No.” When more was clearly expected, he added, “I’m helping Miss Ashford with something. I’m waiting for her.”

Other boys edged closer as the first mouthed an “Oh.” He glanced at his friends, then felt emboldened enough to ask, “What are you, then?”

The third son of an earl
. Barnaby grinned, imagining how his interrogators would react to that. “I help people find things.”

“What things?”

Villains, generally.
“Possessions or people they want to find.”

One of the older boys frowned. “I thought bobbies did that. But you’re not one of them.”

“Nah,” another boy cut in. “Bobbies are about stopping things getting nicked in the first place. Finding nicked stuff is another game.”

Wisdom from the mouths of babes.

“So…” His first questioner eyed him measuringly. “Tell us a story about something you’ve helped find.” His tone made the words a hopeful plea rather than a demand.

Glancing at the circle of faces now surrounding him, perfectly aware that every boy had taken note of his clothes and their quality, Barnaby considered. A movement across the yard caught his eye. The tutor had noticed his charges’ interest; he raised a brow, wordlessly asking if Barnaby wished to be rescued.

Sending the tutor a reassuring smile, Barnaby looked down at his audience. “The first object I helped restore to its owner was the Duchess of Derwent’s emerald collar. It went missing during a house party at the Derwents’ estate…”

They peppered him with questions; he wasn’t surprised that it was the house party itself, the estate, and how “the nobs” entertained themselves that was the focus of their interest. Emeralds were something beyond their ken, but people fascinated them, just as people fascinated him. Listening to their reactions to his answers made him inwardly chuckle.

Inside her office, Penelope noticed that Mrs. Keggs’s attention had drifted from her and fixed on some point beyond her left shoulder. “I think that should hold us for the next few weeks.”

She laid down her pen and shut the inkpot lid with a clap; the noise jerked Mrs. Keggs’s attention back.

“Ah…thank you, miss.” Mrs. Keggs took the signed order Penelope handed her. “I’ll take this around to Connelly’s and get it filled this afternoon.”

Penelope smiled and nodded a dismissal. She watched as Mrs. Keggs rose, bobbed a curtsy, then, with one last glance out of the window at Penelope’s back, hurried out.

Swiveling her chair, Penelope looked out of the window—and saw Adair held captive by a group of boys.

She tensed to rise, but then realized she had it wrong;
he
was holding the boys captive—no mean feat—with some tale.

Relaxing, she studied the scene, examining her surprise; despite all
she’d heard of him she hadn’t expected Adair to have either the necessary facility, or the inclination, to interact freely with the lower orders—certainly not to the extent of stooping to entertain a group of near-urchins.

Yet his smile appeared quite genuine.

A little more of the wariness she’d felt over consulting him eased. Her fellow members of the governing committee were all out of London; although she’d informed them of the first three disappearances, she hadn’t yet sent word of the most recent—nor of her plan to enlist the aid of Mr. Barnaby Adair. In that, she’d acted on her own initiative. While she was certain Portia and Anne would support her action, she wasn’t so sure the other three would. Adair had made a name for himself assisting the police specifically in bringing members of the ton to justice—endeavors that hadn’t been met by universal approval within the ton.

Lips firming, she slapped her palms on the arms of her chair and pushed to her feet. “I don’t care,” she informed her empty office. “To get those boys back, I’d enlist the aid of the archfiend himself.”

Social threats had no power to sway her.

Other sorts of threats…

Eyes narrowing, she studied the tall, elegant figure surrounded by the ragtag group. And reluctantly conceded that at some level he did, indeed, represent a threat to her.

To her senses, her suddenly twitching nerves—to her unprecedentedly wayward brain. No man had ever made her think distracting thoughts.

No man had ever made her wonder what it would be like if he…

Turning back to her desk, she closed the order ledger.

After leaving his house last night she’d told herself that the worst was over, that when next she saw him his impact on her senses would have faded. Waned. Instead, when she’d looked up and seen him filling her doorway, his blue gaze fixed so
consideringly
on her, all rational thought had flown.

It had taken real effort to keep her expression blank and pretend she’d been mentally elsewhere, somewhere he hadn’t reached.

Clearly, if she wished to investigate by his side she was going to need the equivalent of armor. Or else…

The notion of him realizing how much he affected her, and smiling in that slow, arrogant
male
way of his, didn’t bear thinking about.

She pressed her lips together, then firmly reiterated, “Regardless, I don’t care.”

Collecting her reticule and gloves from beneath the desk, chin rising, she headed for the door.

And the man she’d recruited as the Foundling House’s champion.

A
t the behest of Dick’s father, Mrs. Keggs and I visited two weeks ago.” Penelope gazed out of the hackney at the passing streetscape. They’d hailed the carriage from the rank outside the Foundling Hospital; the driver had happily taken them up, and rattled away to the east at a good pace.

Their progress had slowed once they’d turned into the narrow, crowded byways of what Londoners termed “the East End.” A conglomeration of ramshackle, cheek-by-jowl houses, tenements, shops, and warehouses originally built around long-ago villages outside the old city wall, over the centuries the rough buildings had merged into a mean, dark, often dank sprawl of hodgepodge, rickety habitation.

Clerkenwell, the area into which they were heading, wasn’t quite as bad—as overcrowded and potentially dangerous—as other parts of the East End.

“He—Dick’s father, Mr. Monger—had consumption.” She swayed as the hackney turned into Farringdon Road. “It was clear he wouldn’t recover. The local doctor, a Mr. Snipe, was there, too—it was he who sent us word when Mr. Monger passed away.”

On the seat opposite, Adair had been frowning—increasingly—ever since they’d ventured into the meaner streets. “You received Snipe’s message yesterday morning?”

“No. The previous night. Monger died about seven o’clock.”

“But you weren’t at the Foundling House.”

“No.”

He turned his head and looked at her. “But if you had been…”

She shrugged and looked away. “In the evenings, I never am.”

Of course, given the four missing boys, she’d now instructed that news of a guardian’s death be conveyed to her immediately wherever she might be. Next time there was an orphan to retrieve, she would take her brother’s carriage, and his coachman and a groom, and plunge into the East End regardless of the hour…but she saw no point in stating that in the present company.

She’d known Adair was at the very least acquainted with her brother—and guardian—Luc; she could guess what he was thinking—that Luc couldn’t possibly approve of her going into such areas, more or less by herself. And certainly not at night.

In that he was perfectly correct; Luc had little idea what her position as “house administrator” entailed. And she would very much prefer to keep him in ignorance.

Glancing out of the window, she was relieved to see that they’d almost reached their goal; distraction lay to hand. “In this instance, three of the neighbors saw and spoke with the man who took Dick away the morning after Monger died. Their description of the man matches that given by the neighbors in the previous three cases.”

The carriage slowed almost to a stop, then ponderously turned into a street so narrow the carriage could barely pass down it.

“Here we are.” She shifted forward the instant the carriage halted, but Adair was before her, grasping the carriage’s door handle, forcing her to ease back to allow him to open the door and step down.

He did, then blocked the exit while he looked around.

She bit her tongue and battled the urge to jab him—sharply—between the shoulder blades. Very nice shoulders, encased in a fashionable overcoat, but they were in her way…she had to content herself with glaring.

Eventually, unhurriedly—oblivious—he moved. Stepping aside, he offered her his hand. Clinging to her manners, she steeled herself and surrendered her fingers; no, the effect of his touch—of feeling his long, strong fingers curl possessively around hers—still hadn’t waned. Waspishly reminding herself that it was at her request that he was there—taking up far too much space in her life and distracting her—she let him hand her down, then quickly slid her fingers free.

Without glancing at him, she started forward, waving at the hovel before them. “This is where Mr. Monger lived.”

Their arrival had naturally drawn attention; faces peered out through grimy windows; hands edged aside flaps where no glass had ever been.

She glanced at the building next door; a wooden table was set along its front. “His neighbor is a cobbler. He and his son both saw the man.”

Barnaby saw a shabby individual peering at them from beneath the overhang under which the cobbler’s table was set. Penelope started toward him; he followed at her heels. If she noticed the squalor and dirt that surrounded her, let alone the smells, she gave no sign.

“Mr. Trug.” Penelope nodded to the cobbler, who warily bobbed his head. “This is Mr. Adair, who is an expert in investigating strange occurrences, like Dick’s disappearance. I wonder if I can trouble you to tell him about the man who came and took Dick away.”

Trug eyed Barnaby, and Barnaby knew what he was thinking. What would a toff know of disappearing urchins?

“Mr. Trug? If you please? We want to find Dick as soon as we can.”

Trug glanced at Penelope, then cleared his throat. “Aye, well—it were early yesterday morning, barely light. Fellow came knocking on old Monger’s door. Me son, Harry, was about to head out to work. He stuck his head out and told the bloke Monger was dead and gone.” Trug looked at Barnaby. “The bloke was polite enough. He came over and explained he was there to fetch young Dick away. That’s when Harry yelled fer me.”

“This bloke—what did he look like?”

Trug looked up at Barnaby’s blond curls. “Taller’n me, but not as tall as you. Nor as broad of shoulder. Bit heavier round the middle. Stocky like.”

“Did you notice his hands, by any chance?”

Trug looked surprised, then his expression turned thoughtful. “Didn’t look to be a bruiser, now I think on it. And not a navvy or anything like—his hands weren’t callused. Shopworker or…well, like he said. Worked for the authorities.”

Barnaby nodded. “Clothing?”

“Heavy coat—nothing special. Cloth cap, the usual. Work boots like we all wear round here.”

Barnaby didn’t follow Trug’s gaze as it lowered to his polished Hessians. “What about his speech—his accent?”

Looking up again, Trug blinked. “Accent? Well…” Trug blinked again, then looked at Penelope. “Stap me, but I hadn’t thought of that. He came from round here. East End. No question.”

Penelope looked at Barnaby.

He met her gaze, then turned to Trug. “Is your son in?”

“Aye.” Trug lumbered around to head inside. “He’s back here—I’ll fetch him.”

The son verified all his father had said. When asked for a guess as to the man’s age, he pursed his lips, then opined, “Not old. Maybe about me own age—twenty-seven that’d be.”

He grinned at Penelope. From the corner of his eye, Barnaby saw her eyes narrow, her dark gaze turn flinty.

“Thank you.” He nodded to both Trugs and stepped back.

“Aye, well.” Trug senior settled back behind his bench. “I know Monger wanted young Dick to go with the lady, so don’t seem right this other bloke should steal him. Who knows what he’s got in mind for him—he’ll be forcing the poor little beggar up a chimney, like as not.”

Penelope paled, but her expression only grew more determined. She, too, nodded to the Trugs. “Thank you for your help.”

Turning, she joined Barnaby. She waved at the tiny house on the other side of Dick’s father’s abode. “We should talk to Mrs. Waters. Dick spent the night with her, so she saw and spoke to the man, too.”

Summoned by a bell hanging beside her door, Mrs. Waters emerged from the depths of her cramped home. A large, motherly woman with a florid complexion and limp gray hair, she confirmed the Trugs’ description. “Aye, twenty-five years old, I’d say, and he was from round here somewheres, but not close. I know most on the nearby streets, and he’s not a local, so to say, but yes, he’d be an East Ender born and bred, the way he spoke.”

“So he was too young to be a bailiff or anything like that.” Penelope glanced at Barnaby.

Mrs. Waters snorted. “Not him—he wasn’t a leader of anything, nor in charge of anything, I’ll take my oath.”

Barnaby was struck by her certainty. “Why do you say that?”

Mrs. Waters’s brow furrowed in thought, then she said, “Because he wasn’t even in charge of what he was doing. He was careful spoken.
Really
careful—like someone had taught him what to say, and how to say it.”

“So you think he’d been sent here to do a job—he was an errand boy, as it were.”

“That’s it.” Mrs. Waters nodded. “Someone had sent him to fetch Dick, and that’s what he did.” Her face clouded; she looked up at Barnaby. “You find that beggar and get Dick back. A good boy he was, never any trouble, no malice in him at all. He don’t deserve whatever those bastards”—she glanced at Penelope—“begging your pardon, miss, are planning for him.”

Barnaby inclined his head. “I’ll do my best. Thank you for your help.” He held out his hand to Penelope. “Miss Ashford?”

She didn’t take his hand, but after thanking Mrs. Waters, she walked by his side back to the hackney. She had to take his hand to climb into the carriage. After instructing the driver to return to the Foundling House, Barnaby joined her and shut the door.

Slumping on the seat, he ran through what they’d learned, trying to see what it suggested.

She broke into his thoughts. “So it’s possible Dick is not all that far away.” Eyes narrowed, she stared apparently unseeing across the carriage. “Does that suggest anything—any specific activity?”

He considered her, then said, “The East End is a large and densely populated area.”
Moreover, one teeming with vice
.

She grimaced, then refocused on him. “So—what next?”

“I think…if you’re agreeable, I’d like to lay what we know before a friend—Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard.”

Her brows rose. “The police?” After a moment of returning his regard, she said, “To be perfectly honest I can’t imagine Peel’s Police Force evincing much interest in missing pauper boys.”

His smile was as cynical as her tone. “In the normal way of things, you would unfortunately be correct. However, Stokes and I go back a long way. And at this stage all I’ll do is alert him to the situation and ask for his opinion.” He paused, then went on, “Once he’s heard what we know…”

If Stokes, like Barnaby, felt his instincts pricking…

But he didn’t need to share such thoughts with Penelope Ashford.

He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

He returned Penelope to the Foundling House, then took the hackney on to Scotland Yard. Entering the bland and unremarkable building that now housed the Metropolitan Police Force, he made his way to Stokes’s office unchallenged; most in the building knew him by sight, and by reputation.

Stokes’s office was on the first floor. When Barnaby reached it, the door stood open. He paused just outside, looking in, a slow grin lifting his lips at the sight of his friend, coat off, sleeves rolled up, laboriously writing reports.

If there was one thing Stokes did not appreciate about his increasing success and status, it was the inevitable report writing.

Sensing a presence, Stokes glanced up, saw him, and smiled. Delightedly. He laid down his pen, pushed aside the stack of papers, and sat back. “Well, well—what brings you here?”

Anticipation rang in his tone.

With a laugh, Barnaby walked into the office—not tiny, thankfully, but of a size just large enough to accommodate four people at a pinch. Set before the window, the desk with its chair faced the door. A cupboard stood against one wall, packed with files. Stokes’s greatcoat hung from the coat hook on the wall. Slipping the buttons of his own elegant overcoat free, Barnaby let it fall open as he sank into one of the two chairs before the desk.

He met Stokes’s slate-gray eyes. Of similar height and build to Barnaby, dark-haired, with rather saturnine features, Stokes was peculiarly classless. His father had been a merchant, not a gentleman, but courtesy of his maternal grandfather, Stokes had been well educated. Because of that, Stokes had a better grasp of the ways of the ton, and therefore a better chance of dealing with the denizens of that elite world, than any other inspector presently on Peel’s force.

In Barnaby’s opinion, the force was lucky to have Stokes. Aside from all else, he was intelligent and used his brain. Which in part was why they’d become close friends.

Which in turn was why Stokes was eyeing him with such undisguised
eagerness; he hoped Barnaby was about to save him from his reports.

Barnaby grinned. “I have a case that, while not in our usual way of things, might just pique your interest.”

“At present that wouldn’t be hard.” Stokes’s voice was deep, rather gravelly, a contrast to Barnaby’s well-modulated tones. “All our villains have gone on holiday early this year, or else they’ve retired to the country because we’ve made it too warm for them here. Either way, I’m all ears.”

“In that case…I’ve been asked by the administrator of the Foundling House in Bloomsbury to look into the disappearance of four boys.”

Succinctly, Barnaby outlined all he’d learned from Penelope, from his observations at the house, and during their trip to Clerkenwell. As he did, a gravity he hadn’t allowed Penelope to see infused his voice and his expression.

By the time he concluded with, “The most pertinent fact is that it was the same man who whisked each of the four boys away,” he looked and felt distinctly grim.

Stokes’s face had hardened. His eyes had narrowed, darkening. “You want my opinion?” Barnaby nodded. “I don’t like the sound of it any more than you do.”

Sitting back in his chair, Stokes tapped one spatulate fingertip on his desk. “Let’s consider—what use could someone make of four—at least four—seven-to ten-year-old boys, all from the East End?” Without pause, Stokes answered the question. “Brothels. Cabin boys. Chimney sweeps. Burglars’ boys. Just to cite the more obvious.”

Barnaby grimaced; folding his hands over his waistcoat, he looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not so sure of the brothels, thank heaven. Surely they wouldn’t restrict themselves to the East End for such prey.”

“We don’t know how widespread this is. We might have heard about the East End cases simply because it’s the administrator at the Foundling House who called you in—and they deal mostly with the East End.”

“True.” Lowering his gaze, Barnaby fixed it on Stokes. “So what do you think?”