Where The Heart Leads (9 page)

With a mental sigh, she let the blind fall and listened to the clop of hooves slowly fade.

That evening, Barnaby did something he’d never done. He propped one shoulder against a fashionable matron’s wall and over the heads of the assembled throng studied a young lady across the room.

For once he was grateful that the matron in question, Lady Moffat, had a drawing room whose small size was at odds with her extensive acquaintance. Despite the continuing exodus of ton families from the capital, enough remained to ensure that the crowd packed into the limited space gave him adequate cover.

Within the ton, such cover was thinning by the day. Just when, for the first time in his life, he had need of it. His mother, he felt sure, would laugh herself into stitches if she learned of his predicament.

She’d laugh even more if she could see him.

He didn’t have any question to ask Penelope yet here he was, watching her. He’d decided he may as well obsess over her in person, rather than sit at home staring into the fire and seeing her face in the flames. Alone, by himself, he would think of nothing but her; no other subject, not even the puzzling case she’d brought him, served to break her spell.

The saner, more rational part of him felt he should be stubbornly resisting her lure. The rest of him, led by a more primitive side he hadn’t previously thought he possessed, had already surrendered.

As if the notion flitting about the corners of his mind were inevitable.

As if it were a truth he couldn’t—wouldn’t be able to no matter how hard he tried—deny.

His sophisticated self scoffed, and assured him he was merely intrigued by a lady so very different from all others he’d met.

His more primitive self wasn’t listening.

His more primitive self was observing the men gathering about
her through ever-narrowing eyes. When Hellicar swanned into contention, he inwardly swore, pushed away from the wall, and headed in her direction.

Penelope was holding her own against an annoying clutch of would-be suitors when she glimpsed Barnaby through the crowd. The whirl of emotions that afflicted her when she realized he was heading her way was a warning; excitement, trepidation, and a seductive thrill were a novel and unsettling mix.

Sternly ordering her stupid senses to bear up, she refocused on Harlan Rigby’s aristocratic countenance. He was presently holding forth on the pleasures of the chase, something she was well acquainted with having grown up in Leicestershire with hunting-mad brothers. Unfortunately it was beyond Rigby’s comprehension that a mere female might know anything about anything. Even more unfortunately, as he was possessed of a sizable fortune along with passable looks, not even Hellicar at his most pointed had succeeded in puncturing Rigby’s self-assurance, let alone opened his eyes to the simple fact that the route to her favors did not lie in belittling her intelligence.

Rigby was an afflicting ailment she had yet to learn how to treat.

Barnaby appeared, by some magic convincing the younger gentlemen to make space for him beside her. That left her flanked by him and Hellicar, but still facing Rigby.

Smiling welcomingly, she gave Barnaby her hand. Rigby paused in his ponderous discourse while Barnaby bowed and he and she exchanged greetings, but then Rigby drew breath, opened his large mouth—

“It seems rather stuffy in here.” Apparently oblivious of Rigby, Barnaby trapped her gaze. He’d kept hold of her hand; he lightly squeezed her fingers. “It’s too cold to stroll the terrace, but perhaps you’d care to take a turn in the salon.” He raised his brows. “I believe that’s a waltz commencing, if you’d care to indulge?”

She beamed delightedly. Anyone who saved her from Rigby and his views on the best way to husband hounds was worthy of her undying gratitude. “Thank you. It is rather oppressive. A waltz will be just the thing.”

Inclining his head, Barnaby set her hand on his sleeve, covering her fingers with his.

Nerves clenching at the subtle touch, she turned to her circle of unwanted admirers. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?”

Most had watched the byplay between her and Barnaby with interest, much along the lines of where he went, they might soon follow.

All except Rigby. Frowning, he fixed her with a puzzled look. “But, Miss Ashford, I’ve yet to tell you of my success with the latest round of crossbreeding with whippets.” His tone made it clear he couldn’t believe she didn’t want to hear every last detail.

She wasn’t sure how to answer; the very thought she might want to know such a thing made her brain seize.

Her white knight stepped in. “I find it hard to believe, Rigby, that you’re unaware that Calverton, Miss Ashford’s brother, is a renowned breeder of prize hounds.” Barnaby’s lips curved. “Are you smothering her with your procedures in the hope of winkling family secrets from her?”

Rigby blinked. “What?”

A snort sounded on Penelope’s right—Hellicar smothering a bark of laughter. The other gentlemen fought to hide smiles.

Barnaby’s smile turned apologetic. He glanced at Penelope, then nodded to Rigby. “I’m desolated to cut short your time for interrogating Miss Ashford, old man, but the lady desires to waltz.” With a general nod, he drew her out of the circle. “If you’ll excuse us?”

All the others bowed, amused. Rigby simply stared as if he couldn’t believe she was deserting him.

But she was, for a much more challenging proposition. Barnaby led her to the archway separating the drawing room from the salon beyond, in which couples were dancing. A string quartet was crowded into an alcove at one end, laboring to be heard over a hundred conversations. They’d just played the opening bars of a waltz.

“I didn’t think my ears had played me false.” Barnaby glanced down and met her eyes. “Were you serious about dancing, or were you merely seizing the opportunity to escape Rigby?”

He was giving her a chance to avoid the effects that waltzing with him was sure to provoke. If she was wise, she’d take it…but she wasn’t such a coward.

“I would like to waltz.”
With you.
She didn’t say the words, but the sudden intentness in his eyes made her wonder if he’d heard
them—guessed them. Without another word, he drew her forward, onto the floor, into his arms, then whirled her into the swirling throng.

As previously with him, the revolutions of the dance swept her away. Left her senses giddy. Left her wits reeling.

Pleasurably.

They didn’t speak again, exchanged not one word, not aloud. But their gazes locked and held, and communication seemed to flow without speech, on another plane, in a different dimension. In a different language.

A language of the senses.

One large hand, warm and strong at her back, the other clasping her fingers firmly, he held her with a confidence that left her free to relax, to dispense with her customary distrust of her partners and revel in the swirling motion, the quick, tight turns, the reverses and checks, in the masterful way he steered her around the floor.

Masterful men, she concluded, had their place—even with her.

The music flowed over and around them. The magical moment stretched; the subtle pleasure sank to her bones, taking hold and soothing her in some inexplicable way. Like a large warm hand stroking her senses.

She felt like a contented cat. If she could have, she would have purred. Instead, she didn’t—couldn’t—stop smiling, softly, gently, as they whirled and she floated on a cloud of delight.

After a time, he smiled, too, in that same, quietly satisfied way. They didn’t need words to communicate their shared pleasure.

Too soon the musicans reached the end of the measure. Barnaby halted with a flourish. He bowed; she bobbed the regulation curtsy, and with an inward sigh returned to the world.

He settled her hand on his sleeve and turned her toward the drawing room.

Her senses were still waltzing, but her wits had reconnected—enough to recall her to the pertinent point that as he was there, he must have questions.

She glanced at his face, waited a heartbeat, but he seemed in no rush to pursue his inquiries. She looked ahead, smiling politely at those they passed. She was content to let the moment stretch, to just be together, him and her, with no investigation intruding—content to
imagine, just for that moment, that investigating wasn’t the reason he was there.

But it was, and now she’d thought of it…inwardly sighing, she asked, “What was it you wanted to know?”

He looked down at her, puzzlement clear in his blue eyes.

“The investigation,” she prompted. “What did you come here to ask?”

The expression in his eyes blanked, then his lips tightened and he looked ahead; locating her mother, he tacked in her direction.

“Well?” she prodded, hoping he realized her mother had no knowledge of the situation at the Foundling House. That they even had a situation, let alone that she’d recruited him to investigate and she was investigating, too.

“Just give me a minute to think,” he muttered, still looking ahead. Not looking at her.

She blinked. Perhaps he’d forgotten what he’d come to ask, and couldn’t remember. Perhaps the waltz had distracted him, too.

Or perhaps…

He led her to a spot beside the chaise on which her mother sat, chatting to Lady Horatia Cynster. Both ladies smiled benevolently at their approach, but immediately returned to their discussion.

Suddenly very certain she needed to know what had brought him to Lady Moffat’s, she drew her hand from his sleeve, faced him, and fixed him with an interrogatory stare.

Barnaby met it. Lips firming, he extemporized, “Stokes wasn’t in when I called this afternoon. I left a note explaining the situation with Jemmie Carter—Stokes will no doubt order a guard, but I’ll go and see him tomorrow morning regardless. Wherever he was, he was working on this case—he and I need to consolidate what we know and plan our next step.”

Penelope’s eyes lit up. “I’ll come, too.”

Barnaby inwardly swore; he’d only told her what he had to excuse his presence, not to tantalize her. “There’s no need—”

“Of course there is. I’m the one who knows most about these boys—the four who’ve been taken and Jemmie.” Her dark eyes darkened further; he got the impression she was expending effort not to frown. “Besides,” she continued, her diction crisp, “I’m the one who initiated the investigation—I have a right to know what’s being done.”

He argued. In forceful terms, albeit keeping his voice low.

She regarded him mulishly, and gave not one inch. When he ran out of arguments, she tartly commented, “I don’t know why you bother. You know perfectly well I won’t change my mind—and if I choose to call on Inspector Stokes, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

He could think of a few things, but all involved rope. Exasperated, he exhaled through his teeth. “All right.”

She gifted him with a smile—a tight one. “See? That didn’t hurt a bit.”

“Much you know.”

She heard the mumbled grumble, but forbore to comment. She looked out at the guests. “What time do you imagine calling on Stokes?”

Lips tight, he considered, then surrendered. “I’ll call for you at ten.”

She didn’t react for a moment, then inclined her head. “I’ll be waiting.”

A warning, but he’d expected no less. Once she set her mind on a path she was…as ungovernable as he.

In his mind he could hear his mother laughing riotously.

He had half a mind to retreat, to excuse himself and depart. From the way she held herself, slightly stiff by his side, and the quick sidelong glances she darted his way, that was what she expected him to do. To cut his losses and run.

But he’d already lost all he could that night; there was nothing more he could concede.

And the night was yet young; there would probably be another waltz or two, and in this style of gathering there were no sharp-eyed dowagers keeping track of who danced how many times with whom.

He glanced at Lady Calverton, still absorbed with Lady Cynster. Perhaps there was more he could salvage from the night; he might as well remain, and reap what benefits he could.

In that vein, the first order of business was to thaw the ice maiden by his side. Glancing at her clear profile, he asked, “Is Rigby always so pompous?”

She glanced at him, suspicious, but after a moment, she answered.

After that, courtesy of him paying close attention, enough to
keep the reins firmly in his grasp, the remainder of the evening went his way.

“Good evening, Smythe.” The gentleman who called himself Mr. Alert—he prided himself on being forever alert to the possibilities fate sent his way—watched as his henchman, silhouetted against the moonlit night as he stood in the open French door, glanced around the unlit parlor.

The town house in St. John’s Wood Terrace had proved very useful to Alert. As usual when he met with his rougher associates, the only source of light in the room was the glowing embers of a dying fire.

“Do come in and sit down.” Alert clung to his fashionable drawl, knowing that it emphasized the distinction between himself and Smythe. Master and servant. “I don’t believe we need any great deal of light to conclude our business—do you?”

Smythe fixed him with a hard, direct, but carefully unchallenging glance. “As you wish.” A large, hulking brute of a man, surprisingly quick and agile for his size, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door carefully, then picked his way around the shadowy furniture to the armchair set opposite the one Alert occupied by the hearth.

Relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, the picture of a gentleman at his ease, Alert smiled encouragingly as Smythe sat. “Excellent.” He drew a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “I have here the list of houses to which we’ll need to gain access. Eight addresses in all, all in Mayfair. As I made clear at our last meeting, it’s imperative—absolutely essential—that we burgle all these houses in a single night.” He locked his eyes on Smythe’s. “I take it you and Grimsby have made suitable arrangements?”

Smythe nodded. “Grimsby is still a few boys short, but he says he’ll have all eight soon.”

“And you’re confident not only that he can supply the right number and style of boy, but that the training he provides will be up to scratch?”