Where The Heart Leads (11 page)

Barnaby glimpsed salvation, the way out of this argument for him and Stokes. He caught Stokes’s gaze. “Perhaps, in light of Miss Ashford’s strongly held notions, we should leave the question of her involvement until after we’ve met with Miss Martin?”

Thus leaving it to Miss Martin to pour the cold water of reality over Penelope’s enthusiasm. He had little doubt that a sensible, worldly milliner—someone used to dealing with fashionable, head-strong ladies—would know just how to convince Penelope that she needed to leave the investigating to others. Miss Martin would unquestionably do a better job of dissuading Penelope than either he or Stokes.

Doubtless having reached the same conclusion, Stokes slowly nodded. “That’s a reasonable suggestion.”

“Good. That’s settled.” Penelope looked at Stokes. “What time tomorrow, and where shall we meet?”

They agreed to meet outside Miss Martin’s shop in St. John’s Wood High Street at two o’clock the following afternoon.

“Excellent.” Penelope rose and shook hands with Stokes.

Turning to the door, she caught Barnaby’s eye. “Are you remaining, or leaving, too, Mr. Adair?”

“I’ll see you home.” Barnaby waited for her to start for the door before exchanging a long-suffering glance with Stokes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stokes nodded. “Indeed.”

Turning, Barnaby fell in at Penelope’s heels—following in her wake. He no longer minded; the view from that position was sufficient compensation.

“Grimsby? You there, old man?” Smythe ducked beneath the low beams of Grimsby’s ground-floor room. Word had it that Grimsby owned the whole house—all three floors of rickety tenement on Weavers Street.

Hearing a grumbled response from above, Smythe waited by the dusty counter. Around him all manner of old wares clogged the floor, piled here and there with no apparent order. Grimsby claimed to sell bric-a-brac, but Smythe knew most of the goods traded through the shop were stolen. He’d sold stuff he’d lifted through Grimsby himself on occasion.

A heavy, shuffling step on the stairs at the back of the shop heralded the descent of the store’s owner from his rooms on the first floor. The floor above that was where the boys Grimsby tutored learned their lessons. The attic above, concealed unless you knew where to look, was where the boys slept.

Smythe straightened as Grimsby appeared out of the dusty murk. The man was aging, and now carried a considerable paunch, but there was intelligence still alive in the beady eyes that narrowly studied Smythe.

“Smythe.” Grimsby nodded. “What’re you after?”

“I’m after bearing a message from our mutual friend.”

Grimsby’s expression—of canny malicious avarice—didn’t change. “What’s he want?”

“He wants to be assured that you’ll provide the tools for his lark as agreed.”

Grimsby’s features eased. He shrugged. “You can tell him we’ve encountered no difficulties.”

Smythe narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were two boys short?”

“Aye, we are. But unless he’s changed his timetable, we’ve plenty of time to get the last two in and trained up fer you.”

Smythe hesitated, then glanced back at the shop door, confirming there was no one lurking. He lowered his voice. “You still picking off the orphans?”

“Aye—best source of what we need with no one to raise a ruckus. Used to be we had to pick ’em off the streets, and there’s always the risk of a hue and cry that road. But taking the orphans from round here—no one’s fussed.”

“So what’s your prospects for these last two boys? When will you have them?”

Grimsby hesitated, then, beady eyes narrowing, said, “I don’t tell you how to run your business, now do I?”

Smythe straightened. “Give over, Grimsby—I’m the one who has to deal with Alert. And what he’s got on is big.”

“Aye—and just who put your name up for that, heh?”

“You, you old reprobate, but that’s all the more reason I’ll hold you to your promise to get me all eight boys. Eight, all properly trained and trialed. And that takes time—time you’re running out of.”

“What in thunder do you need eight fer, anyway? Never heard of a caper that needs eight all at once.”

“Never you mind why. The way Alert’s playing this, it’s possible I might need all eight boys to do what he wants.”

Grimsby looked suspicious. “You aiming to leave the nippers behind?”

“Not aiming to, no. But I don’t want to have to tell Alert I can’t finish his runs because some boy got stuck in a window, or tripped over a footman on his way out. Trained or not, they make mistakes, and Alert—as you know—isn’t a forgiving man.”

“Aye, well, that’s the only reason I’ve come out of retirement—to appease Mr. Bloody Alert.”

Smythe studied Grimsby. “What’s he got on you, old man?”

“Never
you
mind. Getting you to see him, and then getting you these boys, that’s my end of things.”

“Exactly what Alert sent me to remind you.” Smythe’s gaze hardened. “So what of these last two boys? I need them—I want to be able to tell Alert that we have all eight as planned.”

Grimsby eyed him for a long moment, then said, “Plenty of orphans littering the streets, but not the sort we need. Suddenly they’re all lumbering oxes, or simpletons, or worse. No use, is what they are.” He paused, then leaned nearer, lowering his voice, “When I told you I’d have the eight, I had eight in mind. We’ve got six of ’em. But with these last two, their sick relatives ain’t turned out to be as sick as I’d heard.”

Smythe read Grimsby’s expression, read his beady little eyes—read between his words. Thought of Alert and his high-stakes game. “So…how sick are they—these ailing relatives? More to the point, what’s their names and where do they live?”

Throughout the next day, Sunday, Penelope was forced to possess her soul with what patience she could—until at last she and Barnaby—Adair—reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Instructed to stop outside the milliner’s shop, the hackney slowed, rolling along as the driver studied the façades.

The carriage halted before a single-fronted, white-painted shop. Drawn blinds screeened the interior, but the sign swinging above the door read
GRISELDA MARTIN, MILLINER
.

Barnaby—Adair—got out and handed her down. While he paid the jarvey, Penelope considered the three steps leading up to the front door, then turned and saw Stokes walking down the street toward them.

He nodded politely as he joined her. “Miss Ashford.” Over her head, he nodded to Barnaby. “Miss Martin should be expecting us.”

Penelope promptly walked up the steps and tugged the bellpull beside the door. She heard the bell peal inside.

A minute later, light footsteps came hurrying toward the door. A click sounded, and the door swung inward. Penelope looked up into lovely blue eyes set in a sweet, round, rosy-cheeked face. She smiled. “Hello. You must be Miss Martin.”

The woman blinked, then noticed Barnaby and Stokes on the pavement. Stokes quickly stepped forward. “Miss Martin, this is—”

“Penelope Ashford.” Stepping forward, Penelope held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Miss Martin glanced at Penelope’s hand, then hesitantly took it, shook it, then added a bob for good measure.

“No, no.” Penelope moved farther into the shop, drawing Miss Martin with her. “There’s no need for any ceremony. You’ve been very kind in agreeing to help us find our missing boys. I truly am very grateful.”

Following Penelope inside, Barnaby could see the “Us?” forming in Griselda Martin’s eyes. When her gaze shifted to him, he smiled reassuringly. “Barnaby Adair, Miss Martin. I’m a friend of Stokes’s and like Miss Ashford—who is the administrator of the Foundling House where the missing boys should have gone—am most sincerely grateful for your assistance.”

Stokes stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. He caught Miss Martin’s eye. “I hope you’ll excuse this invasion, Miss Martin, but—”

“The truth, Miss Martin,” Penelope cut in, “is that I jockeyed Stokes into allowing me to come to meet you, together with himself and Mr. Adair. I’m absolutely determined to rescue the four boys who’ve been taken, and I gather you have a plan to go into the East End and search for clues to the burglary school in which they’ve likely been enrolled.”

Barnaby had a sudden sinking premonition that allowing Penelope to talk freely with Miss Martin would lead to disaster. But then Miss Martin frowned, and he hoped he was wrong.

Penelope hadn’t taken her eyes from Miss Martin’s face. In response to the frown she nodded. “Indeed. I daresay you’re wondering why a lady of my station is so interested in the welfare of four East End boys. The answer is quite simple. While they may not have been handed over to the Foundling House, as was intended, they were, nevertheless, made into our care. Those boys are our charges, and as the administrator of the house, I will not simply turn my back and let them be taken, denied the life that their parents arranged for them, to be instead inducted into a life of crime. That wasn’t their intended
destinies, and I will move heaven and earth if necessary to return them to their proper course.”

Watching her face, Barnaby understood that when she said “heaven and earth,” she meant it literally. The fierceness that lit her dark brown eyes and tightened her animated features bore testimony to her resolution, her unwavering determination.

Then she smiled, banishing the image of a warrior-goddess. “I hope you understand, Miss Martin, that I can’t simply sit at home and wait for news. If there’s any way at all I can help in locating these boys and rescuing them, as I believe there is, then I must be here, doing.”

Behind him, Barnaby heard Stokes shift restlessly. He clearly hadn’t anticipated Penelope’s appeal to Miss Martin, much less its fervor. Despite being able to see quite clearly just where Penelope’s persuasion was going to land them—with her going into the East End in disguise—Barnaby had to, albeit grudgingly, admire her honesty, as well as her strategy.

Miss Martin had remained silent throughout Penelope’s declaration. She was studying Penelope’s face; the frown on her own had faded, but remained in her eyes.

Barnaby was tempted to say something, to try to mute Penelope’s appeal, but sensed if he spoke, he might well achieve the opposite. He was sure Stokes felt the same; with her characteristic directness, Penelope had shifted the discussion onto a plane on which they, mere men, held much less clout.

Everything hinged on how Miss Martin reacted to Penelope’s words.

Penelope tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on Miss Martin’s face. “I hope you can set aside any reservations you might have over my social status, Miss Martin. No matter the relative quality of our gowns, we are women before all else.”

A smile slowly broke over Miss Martin’s face. “Indeed, Miss Ashford. So I’ve always thought. And please, call me Griselda.”

Penelope beamed. “If you will call me Penelope. Now!” She turned to survey Barnaby and Stokes, then glanced at Griselda. “To our plans.”

Barnaby exchanged a thin-lipped look with Stokes; Penelope had won that skirmish before they’d fired a shot. But the battle wasn’t yet over.

Miss Martin—Griselda—waved to the rear of the shop. “If you’ll come up to my parlor, we can sit and discuss how best to manage things.”

She led the way past the counter and through the heavy curtain. Beyond lay a small kitchen, the space all but filled with a large deal table on which feathers, ribbons, lace, and beads lay spread.

Penelope surveyed the feminine clutter. “Do you decorate all your bonnets yourself?”

“Yes.” Griselda turned to a narrow flight of stairs. “I have two apprentices, but they’re not working today.”

She climbed the stairs, Penelope followed close behind. Barnaby went next; the stairs were so narrow he and Stokes had to angle their shoulders.

At the top of the stairs, Barnaby stepped into a cozy room that extended in a bow window over the front of the shop. At the other end, opposite the bow window, a wall cut across the space. Through an open door he glimpsed a bedroom, with a narrow window looking over the rear yard.

He followed the ladies to where a sofa and two mismatched armchairs were arranged before the small fireplace. A mound of coals was still glowing, throwing off a little heat, just enough to ease the chill. Barnaby eyed Penelope’s pelisse; it was still done up—she was warm enough. He and Stokes had opened their heavy greatcoats, but kept them on as they sat.

Griselda Martin, a woolen shawl about her shoulders, sank into one armchair as Penelope claimed that end of the sofa. Barnaby sat next to her; Stokes took the other armchair. Barnaby caught Griselda’s eye. “Stokes has explained the situation, and that we need to gain information about the individuals he’s identified, but that we must do so without raising any suspicions, not those of the individuals nor indeed of anyone else, or we risk losing the boys forever.”

Griselda nodded. “What I was going to suggest…” She glanced at Stokes; he nodded for her to go on. She drew breath, then said, “There’s markets in Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane. Most of the men my father named work in and around those areas. Both markets will be in full swing tomorrow—if I go and pretend to look over the various wares, it won’t be hard to slip in a question about this man or that here and there. People ask after others they know all the time at the
market stalls. Because I have the right accent, no one will think twice about me asking—they’ll answer freely, and I know how to jolly them along to get anyone who knows something to tell me all.”

She glanced at Stokes. “The inspector has insisted that, as it’s a police matter I’m assisting with, he will accompany me.” She looked back at Penelope and Barnaby, and her expression was concerned. “But I honestly don’t think it would be wise for either of you to come with us. You’ll never pass. The instant people see you, they’ll know something’s afoot, and they’ll watch and say nothing.”

Barnaby glanced at Penelope. He intended to accompany Stokes and Griselda—Stokes had seen him in disguise and knew he could pull the transformation off. But if there was any chance Penelope would accept Griselda’s warning and agree not to go into the East End…there was no reason to mention his plans.