Where The Heart Leads (38 page)

His first impulse was to scoop her into his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed. But then he thought of why she was there.

After a moment, he crouched down, found her hands amid the folds of her cloak, lightly chafed them. “Penelope? Wake up, sweetheart.”

She roused at the sound of his voice. Eyes blinking, then opening wide, she stared at him, then flung herself into his arms. “You’re all right!” She hugged him violently.

He laughed and caught her; rocked back on his heels, rather than sprawl on the rug he rose, drawing her with him.

The instant her feet touched the floor, she pulled back and looked him over; it took a second to realize she was checking for damage.

He smiled and tugged her back into his arms. “I’m unhurt—there wasn’t any action. I’ve been at Scotland Yard all night.”

She stared into his face. “So what happened?”

He looked down at her, then stooped, swung her up in his arms, turned and sat in the armchair, settling her on his lap.

She made herself comfortable, leaning against his arm so she could see his face. “So?”

He told her everything. He even described Stokes’s frustration. She made him recount every tiny fact he’d learned of the single burglary reported, then with him hypothesized as to what had occurred—how one of the boys must have slipped in and out through the bars, taking the urn.

She frowned. “It must have been a small urn.”

“It was. Stokes and I questioned the caretaker before he left. He described the urn—from the sound of it it wasn’t just any Chinese urn, but a very old one made of carved ivory. God only knows how much it might be worth.”

After a moment, she said, “He’s targeted collector’s pieces, hasn’t he?”

He nodded. “Which fits with the idea of him thieving on demand—stealing specific items he knows certain individuals want and will pay for, without asking difficult questions about how he got them.”

She grimaced. “Sadly, when it comes to the more avid collectors, there are quite a few unscrupulous enough to fit the bill.”

He didn’t reply. They’d covered all the known facts; no matter the urgency they both felt over finding the two missing boys, there was nothing else—no other avenue—for them to explore that night.

Not in terms of the investigation.

He could tell she was thinking, still mulling over all he’d told her. Absentmindedly she rubbed her cheek against his chest. The simple, unconscious caress sent warmth, not just of desire but of a deeper need, swirling through him.

She was quiet, at ease, at peace in his arms.

The opportunity was there if he wished to grasp it, yet…the moment still felt so special, so novel and quietly glorious, he couldn’t bring himself to disrupt it, to cut it short.

After Lord Montford’s comment, after her coming here—after his reaction to finding her waiting for him—there was no question of what lay between them. He’d wanted her to speak, to suggest that they marry, thus absolving him of having to, yet his need to have her as his wife and what drove that need, while still featuring in his mind as a vulnerability, was no longer something he sought to hide…or more accurately, hiding it was no longer reason enough to keep him from seizing what he needed, what he wanted, what he had to have.

If she didn’t speak soon, he would.

But here, tonight, was not the time.

They were both tired, and the morrow looked set to make demands on them both. Tonight they needed respite—they needed what they would find in each other’s arms. Pleasure, and an oblivion that healed.

Carefully, he stood, lifting her securely in his arms. He started for the door. “Is your poor coachman waiting outside?”

Penelope rested her head on his shoulder, her arms loosely circling his neck. “No. I sent him home. We’ll have to find a hackney later.” As he turned toward the stairs, she smiled and murmured, “Much later—at dawn.”

P
enelope spent the next morning struggling to concentrate on running the Foundling House. There was nothing on her plate that was unusual, and issues such as which supplier to use for the next order for towels were not demanding enough to pull her mind from the treadmill of her thoughts.

When she’d discovered Dick missing, she’d felt in some way personally responsible. Logically she knew no blame attached to her, yet still she’d felt as if somehow she should have prevented it.

Losing Jemmie had only intensified the feeling. In murdering his mother and taking the boy, Smythe and Grimsby—and by extension Alert—had struck directly at her. At that point, the investigation had become very personal.

Now, with so many avenues exhausted or closed to them for one reason or another, a species of frustration laced with dread rode her, consuming her mind.

They had to—simply had to—find and rescue Jemmie and Dick.

Yet rack her brain though she might, she couldn’t think of anything they could do, couldn’t see any way forward.

“Any news of those two boys, ma’am?”

She looked up, finding a smile, albeit a brief one, for Mrs. Keggs. “Unfortunately not.”

That redoubtable matron sighed and shook her gray head. “It’s a worry—two innocents like that in the hands of a murderer.”

“Indeed.” Knowing she had to for the sake of staff morale, Penelope summoned a confident expression. “We—myself, Mr. Adair,
Inspector Stokes, and others—are doing all we can to locate Dick and Jemmie.”

“Aye, and it’s a relief to know they haven’t been forgotten.” Mrs. Keggs clasped her hands. “We’ll all be praying you succeed, and soon.”

With a nod, Mrs. Keggs departed.

All confidence fading, Penelope grimaced at the empty doorway. “As will I, Keggs. As will I.” Praying, it seemed, was all she could do.

“I can’t think of anything.” Stokes, pacing across his office, shot a sharp glance at Barnaby, perched once again on the edge of his desk. “Can you?”

Barnaby shook his head. “We’ve been through it a hundred times. Smythe has the boys, and unless the Almighty decides to take a hand we’ve no prospect of locating him in the short term.”

“And the short term is all we’ve got.”

“Indeed. Alert…now we have a better feeling for the game he’s playing, I’m more confident we’ll identify him—in time.” Barnaby’s voice hardened. “Again, it’s ‘in time.’ Montague sent a message this morning—he’s checked enough to learn that every one of our eleven gentlemen suspects is in debt to some degree. Given their ages, and that they’re all bachelors, that’s not particularly surprising. However, how significant that debt might be will depend on their individual circumstances, and that Montague hasn’t yet had time to assess. He says that’ll take days, at least.”

Stokes grimaced. “None of my contacts has come up with any hint of any of the eleven being involved in shady dealings.”

Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t think Alert will have stooped to petty crime, or even associated with criminals in the past. He’s clever and careful, even if he is growing increasingly cocky.”

Stokes grunted, still pacing. “He has the right to feel cocky. So far, he’s trumped us at every turn.”

Barnaby made no reply. For the first time in his investigative career he was truly stumped, at least on the subject of locating the boys. Alert he would pursue and eventually catch, but rescuing the boys…

He’d made a promise to Jemmie’s mother, and to the boy himself. Losing Jemmie—having the boy snatched away so that he couldn’t fulfill his promises—lay like a leaden weight on his soul, on his honor.

On top of that, the loss of Dick and Jemmie was making Penelope fret, more than he’d dreamed possible.

Like him, she didn’t deal well with failure.

And this time failure was staring them in the face.

Stokes continued to pace. For all of them, being forced to wait without anything to do, knowing the boys were out there somewhere, was eating at their nerves. And time was running out. Now the boys had burgled houses alongside Smythe, he, knowing they were being looked for, might well view them as potential threats.

Now that Alert had executed his plan and pulled off his burglaries, even if they’d only learned of one…

Abruptly Barnaby refocused on Stokes. “Could Smythe have done eight burglaries in one night?”

Halting, Stokes blinked at him. “With two boys? No.”

“No? Definitely no?”

Stokes saw what he meant. His face lit. “No, damn it—it’s not physically possible. Which means if Alert is adhering to his original series of eight burglaries—”

“And why wouldn’t he be, given his scheme appears to be working perfectly?”

Stokes nodded. “Then he has…at least three more burglaries to do.”

“Five’s the maximum in one night?”

“Four’s more like it. Especially if he’s having to use boys for them all, which according to Grimsby is the case.”

“So Alert’s series of burglaries are currently a work in progress. He’s not finished—which means we have at least one more night, and possibly four more burglaries during which they might be caught.”

Stokes grimaced. “I wouldn’t count on Smythe making a mistake.”

“It doesn’t have to be him.”

Stokes raised his brows. “The boys?”

“There’s always a chance. And if there’s a chance, there’s hope.” Barnaby thought for a minute, then stood and picked his coat up off the chair. “I’m going to see a man about another sort of chance.”

“That’s all he told you? And you let him go?” Penelope looked at Stokes with transparent disgust.

Stokes shrugged and reached for another pikelet. “He’ll tell me if anything useful comes from whatever hare he’s gone to chase. Meanwhile, with more burglaries pending, I’ve enough to think about.”

Penelope humphed. They—she, Stokes, and Griselda—were once again gathered in Griselda’s parlor. Today, Griselda had made pikelets, which Penelope hadn’t had since she’d been in the nursery. It was comforting to sit curled on Griselda’s sofa, a mug of tea in her hand, and nibble and sip.

And share her despondency.

“Joe and Ned Wills dropped by this morning,” Griselda said. “No news, but they said the whole East End has its eyes and ears open. Once Smythe lets the boys go, we’ll have them within hours.”

Stokes sighed. “He won’t.”

“He won’t let them go?” Penelope stared at him.

His expression grim, Stokes shook his head. “He knows we’re searching for them. He’ll either keep them and use them in more burglaries, or he’ll get rid of them in such a way that they won’t pose any threat to him. Perhaps take them to Deptford or Rotherhithe, make them apprentices, or cabin boys on coal haulers. He’ll get money for handing them over, and at the same time ensure they won’t be telling tales to anyone who’ll listen any time soon.”

A knock on the street door took Griselda downstairs; she returned with Barnaby in her wake.

To Penelope, he seemed more intent than she’d expected. He helped himself to three pikelets and Griselda handed him a mug of tea. He sipped as she said, “We were just discussing what Smythe will do with the boys. Stokes thinks he might put them out as apprentices.”

She glanced at Stokes. “You don’t think he’ll kill them?” The nightmare that lurked in the back of her mind.

Stokes met her gaze steadily. “I can’t say he won’t. If he feels they pose a real threat to him, he might.” He looked at Barnaby. “Where have you been?”

Barnaby lowered his mug. “Checking with Lord Winslow—he’s
one of the law lords. If it can be proved the boys, as minors operating under an adult’s thumb, were forced to burgle houses against their wishes—and we can prove that by personal testimonies including mine and that of Miss Ashford here—then they’ll be excused the crime and can bear witness against their oppressor.”

Stokes’s expression grew grimmer. “So if we find them, they will indeed pose a threat to Smythe.”

Barnaby nodded. He met Penelope’s eyes. “They’ll be regarded as innocent,
if
we can find them. But we need to find them soon, and get them out of Smythe’s hands. He might not know what ‘under duress’ means, that the boys can testify against him without implicating themselves, but they know too much and, like Grimsby, Smythe will know all about making bargains with the police—he’ll assume the boys will be encouraged to tell all they know in return for lighter sentences.” Sober, he held her gaze. “Which means that whichever way Smythe thinks about it, once Alert’s burglaries are over, Jemmie and Dick are very real threats to him.”

That summation, its implication, settled like a grim reality upon them.

They went over all they knew yet again. Unfortunately, knowing more burglaries would take place didn’t help in doing anything about them, or in locating Smythe and his charges.

“Alert really has tied this up tight.” Stokes set down his mug. “He’s anticipated what we, the police, will do, and from the first worked around us.”

They’d talked themselves to a standstill again. Penelope glanced out the window and saw that the dull day had closed in to an even duller evening. She sighed; setting down her mug, she rose. “I have to go. I’ve another fund-raising dinner tonight.”

Barnaby scanned her face. Setting down his mug, he rose, too. “I’ll see you home.”

Again they had to walk past the church with its cemetery alongside to reach the main road and find a hackney. Once in the carriage rattling toward Mount Street, Barnaby studied Penelope’s profile, then closed his hand about one of hers, lifted it to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers.

She shot him a sidelong, questioning glance.

He smiled. “Where’s this dinner?”

“Lord Abingdon’s, in Park Place.” She sighed, looking forward. “Portia arranges all these affairs—and then goes off to the country with Simon and leaves me to attend them!” She paused, then went on, “I’ve never missed her so much as I do now. I hate having to concentrate on social niceties, on polite conversation, when there’s something so much more important to attend to.”

Soothingly stroking her fingers, he said, “In reality there’s nothing we can do tonight. We have no idea when Alert will attempt his next burglaries, whether he’ll spread them out over more than one night—we don’t even know how many more of the eight Smythe has yet to do. If Alert is well connected with the police, he’ll know they aren’t going to act until they hear back from the marquess about that urn. And even then what are they going to do? From the police’s point of view—the governors’ and Peel’s—it’s a devilishly difficult situation.”

She put her head back against the squabs. “I know. And Lord Abingdon is a kindly sort who helps us on several fronts. I can’t truly begrudge him the evening.” After a moment, she added, “Unfortunately, Mama can’t attend—she heard this morning that an old friend is failing and has gone off to Essex to see her before we have to leave for the Chase.”

Time was running out on more than one front. “I know Abingdon quite well. I helped him resolve a minor difficulty some years ago.” He caught her eyes when she looked at him. “I’ll escort you tonight, if you like.”

She looked at him for a long moment, studying his eyes, his face, then her lips lightly curved. “Yes. I’d like.”

He smiled. Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers again. “I’ll come for you at…what? Seven?”

Her smile deepening, she nodded. “Seven.”

At eleven o’clock that night, after a pleasant dinner with Lord Abingdon and two friends who, like his lordship, were interested in philanthropic works, Barnaby and Penelope descended the steps of his lordship’s town house to discover the fog had blown away, leaving the night crisp and clear.

“If I stare hard enough I can even see the stars.” Penelope tucked
her hand in the crook of Barnaby’s elbow. “Let’s not bother with a hackney—it’ll be nice to walk.”

Barnaby glanced down at her as they started along the pavement. “We’ll have to cross half of Mayfair to reach Mount Street. You’re not, by any chance, hoping to run into Smythe along the way?”

Her brows rose. “Strange to say, that idea hadn’t crossed my mind.” She met his gaze; her lips were curved. “I wasn’t thinking of walking to Mount Street. Jermyn Street’s much closer.”

It was. He blinked. “Your mother…”

“Is in Essex.”

They reached Arlington Street; turning the corner, they continued strolling. “I feel I ought to point out that in the interests of propriety you shouldn’t be seen strolling down Jermyn Street on a gentleman’s arm at night.”

“Nonsense. In this cloak, with my hood up, no one will recognize me.”

He wasn’t sure why he was arguing; he was entirely content to have her come home with him—exactly as if they were already married, or at least an affianced couple—but…“Mostyn will be shocked.”

She snorted. “I could demand to see your menus for the week and all Mostyn would do is bow, murmur ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and hurry to fetch them.”

He blinked. It took a moment to digest all those few words conveyed. In the end, he said, “He addresses you as ‘ma’am’?”

She shrugged. “Many do.”

Many wasn’t Mostyn, his terribly correct gentleman’s gentleman. “I see.” They’d reached the corner of Bent Street. Without further argument, Barnaby turned them along it.

He glanced at her face; beneath her lighthearted, almost playful expression he could detect a certain determination. Given the unresolved state of their relationship, he suspected he’d be wise to graciously give way. And see where she was taking them.

It might very well be where he wanted to go.

Penelope was indeed plotting and planning—rehearsing suitable phrases with which to introduce the subject of marriage once they’d reached his house. In the parlor would be preferable; easier to talk there—less distraction, there being no bed.

She’d assumed any discussion of their relationship, of how it had evolved from the initial purely professional connection to something so much more, to the point that they now, as they had over the last two nights, appeared to all others as a couple, connected in that indefinable way that marked two people who were, or should be, married, would be better put off until after they’d rescued Dick and Jemmie.