Where The Heart Leads (15 page)

Seeing Stokes and Griselda on the opposite side of the street, Barnaby set his jaw, grasped her arm, and steered her in their direction, surprised to discover that, contrary to his expectations, he had something quite definite in common with Joe Gannon.

They found a hackney and piled in for the journey back to Griselda’s shop. Unfortunately the hackney was one of the smaller affairs, ensuring that Barnaby had to endure Penelope’s too-close proximity for the entire time.

Griselda and Stokes, seated opposite, spent the journey discussing how to tackle the five names remaining on Stokes’s list. The East End was large, and as yet they had no clue as to which area each man might be operating in. In the end it was decided that Griselda would visit her father again, to see if he’d gleaned any further details. Meanwhile Stokes would inquire more closely of his colleagues at the East End watch houses. They would gather again in two days’ time to assess what they’d learned, and make plans.

Penelope clearly chafed at the delay, but had little option but to acquiesce.

Eventually they reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Gaining the pavement, Barnaby left Stokes to hand the ladies down and went to deal with the driver.

When the carriage rattled off, he turned, and discovered Stokes taking his leave, first of Penelope, then of Griselda. Watching Stokes half bow over Griselda’s hand, watching her expression as she smiled into his eyes and bade him farewell, noting how Stokes held on to her
fingers for rather longer than necessary…for the first time Barnaby thought to ask himself whether Stokes might have had an ulterior motive in fixing on Griselda Martin as his guide into the East End.

Well, well.

Rejoining the group, he nodded a farewell to Stokes. “I’ll call by tomorrow.”

Stokes nodded in reply. “I’ll ask around at headquarters, too, in case anyone has any idea where these five might be lurking.” With a last salute to the group, he turned and walked away.

For a moment, Griselda watched him go, then she recalled herself, threw a quick smile at Penelope and Barnaby, and led the way into her shop.

Her apprentices were ready to leave.

“Go on upstairs,” Griselda urged Penelope. “I’ll close up, then join you.”

With a nod, Penelope headed up the stairs. Barnaby would have preferred to wait by the door until she’d changed into her own clothes and joined him—but he felt stifled by the weight of frills and bows. And he was clearly distracting Griselda’s apprentices.

“I’ll wait in the parlor.” Girding his loins, he climbed the stairs.

Reaching the upper room, he found that Penelope had already retreated behind the bedroom door. Slouching over to the bow window, he stood, hands sunk in his pockets, looking out.

He felt…not at all like himself. No, not true. He felt
entirely
like himself, but with his patina of sophisticated control abraded to a thin—too thin—veneer. He had no idea why Penelope Ashford so easily and consistently got within his shields, but there was no denying that she did—that he reacted to her, that she made him react, as no other female ever had.

It was disconcerting, disturbing, and beyond distracting.

She was driving him quietly insane.

The door to the bedroom opened. He glanced around to see her emerge, once again in her own clothes, restored to her customary severely stylish state.

She’d washed her face, removing the powder Griselda had applied to dim the glow of her porcelain skin. In the light of the fading day, it shone like the costliest pearl.

Eyeing him, clearly sensing his tension yet, he was perfectly aware,
unconscious of its cause, she tilted her head. “I take it Griselda is still downstairs. Shall we go?”

Turning, he waved her to the stairs. She preceded him down them; as he followed he sensed—how he didn’t know, but he knew—that she had determined not to comment on what she regarded as his continuing churlish behavior.

Stepping off the last stair, she swept forward, head high, to where Griselda was checking through her cashbox.

“Thank you so much for all your help today.” Warmth filled Penelope’s face and colored her words. “We would never have got as far as we did without you.” She held out her hands.

Griselda’s answering smile as she placed her hands in Penelope’s was equally warm. She assured Penelope she was pleased to have been asked.

Penelope squeezed her hands, then stretched up and touched her cheek to Griselda’s. It was a common form of affection between tonnish ladies; from the surprise Barnaby glimpsed in Griselda’s eyes, she recognized the gesture—and was utterly stunned that Penelope would bestow it on her.

If Penelope realized what she’d done, she gave no sign; still smiling warmly, she stepped back, drawing her hands from Griselda’s and turning to the door. “We’ll leave you then. Doubtless we’ll meet again once Stokes or you have more news.”

Griselda followed Penelope to the door. She opened it; with a last smile, Penelope went through. Barnaby summoned a smile for Griselda and saluted her as he stepped past. “Until next we meet.”

She smiled. “Indeed. Good night.”

Following Penelope down the steps, Barnaby halted beside her. As she had already done, he looked up and down the street. There was no hackney in sight.

He glanced around the roofline, getting his bearings. “We should be able to find a hackney on the next corner past the church.”

She nodded and fell into step beside him.

Whether it was the habit of the day, or more likely ingrained gallantry surfacing instinctively, he put his palm to the small of her back as they angled across the street.

She sucked in a breath and almost jumped away from him. “Oh, do stop that. The day is over. I’m not in disguise any longer.”

Caught entirely off guard, he frowned at her. “What the devil’s your disguise got to do with it?”

“My disguise.” With a dismissive flick of her hand, she started marching for the corner. “Your reason for behaving as you have been all day—all those little touches expressly designed to overset me.”

He blinked. Lengthening his stride, he quickly overhauled her. “My reason for deliberately oversetting you.” His temper started to slip its leash. “If I might ask, just how did you deduce that?”

They’d reached the church on the corner. She halted and swung to face him, the high stone wall at her back. Eyes narrowed, lit by sparks, she glared at him. “
Don’t
think to play the innocent with me. Pretending to be my disgruntled lover. Holding my hand—and me—as if you owned me. Pretending to kiss me in that doorway! As I told you at the time, I was perfectly aware you were only doing such things because you didn’t approve of me being there!”

She’d been serious?
He could only stare blankly in the face of her tirade, shocked, not by her anger, but by the response she sparked in him.

She continued, ire unabated, “No doubt you imagine such behavior will put me off going out in disguise again. Permit me to inform you that you’re sadly mistaken.”

“That wasn’t my intention at all.” Anyone who knew him would have taken warning from his far too even, impossibly mild tone.

Penelope didn’t know him that well. Eyes alight, locked on his, she drew in a huge breath. “Well, what
was
your intention then? What possessed you to behave as you have been all the damned day?”

For one tense moment, he held her gaze, then he raised his hands, captured her face, stepped close as he tipped it up and brought his lips down on hers.

And gave her her answer.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss.

He was furious that she would imagine him the sort of man who would play on her senses to punish her.

When in reality he’d spent the entire day fighting the urge to ravish her.

That she’d so misjudged his motives seemed utterly incomprehensible.

And equally unforgivable.

So he took her lips, then her mouth, then he stole her breath.

Then gave the same back to her, along with the raging need he’d kept pent up all the long day.

That and only that was what had possessed him, what had driven him in a way he’d never before been.

That ragged, desperate, hungry need welled and poured through him, and into the kiss. As kisses went, this one was…ungovernable. One step beyond control, edged with a wildness he’d never before felt. Her lips were as ripe and luscious as he’d imagined, the soft cavern of her yielded mouth a delectable delight.

One he plundered.

Without restraint.

And she let him.

Penelope’s wits weren’t reeling—they’d flown. Entirely. For the first time in her life she discovered herself hostage to her senses, wholly at their mercy. And they were merciless.

Or rather the effect he had on them was ruthless, relentless, and utterly consuming.

His lips moved on hers, steely and firm, masterfully commanding, demanding in a way that sent hot thrills down her spine. His arm had locked around her, holding her trapped; his hand anchored her head so she was his to devour.

And she didn’t care. All she cared about was experiencing more, tasting more, feeling more.

Her lips had somehow parted, letting him fill her mouth, letting his tongue lay claim in a manner she found exciting, thrilling, a dark, hot promise of pleasure.

The physical sensations wreathed her mind, fogged it, hazed her wits. The sensual temptation tugged in a way she couldn’t explain.

She wanted. For the first time in her life she felt desire stirring—something more powerful than simple will. Something addictive, that seethed with a demand she felt compelled to sate.

She wanted…to kiss him back, to respond in whatever way he wanted, in whatever way would appease and satisfy. Not just him, but her, too. The concept of giving in order to take bloomed in her mind, along with a growing certainty that in this arena, that was how exchanges worked.

Her hands had come to rest against his chest; easing their compul
sive grip, she sent them sliding upward, to his shoulders, broad and hard, then farther to his nape, and the silky curls that feathered over her fingers.

She played.

Her touch affected him; he slanted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers in heated persuasion.

A thrill shot through her. Emboldened, she hesitantly kissed him back—tentative, unsure.

His response was a revelation—a wave of passionate desire that seemed to come from his soul, that poured through him and infused the kiss, and rocked her to her toes.

The power, the hunger—the raw need she sensed behind it—should have shocked her to her senses, back into the grip of self-preservatory reason.

Instead, it lured her in.

On. Tempted her into kissing him back more definitely, into letting her tongue tangle with his, into sinking against him.

Into wanting to learn even more.

Through the kiss, through the hard lips pressed to hers, through the hard hands that held her tight against his unyielding body, she sensed a primitive male satisfaction—that she’d permitted, that she’d responded, that she’d invited.

The latter was unwise; even with her wits disengaged, she knew it well enough. Yet the moment, the here and now, held no threat.

No matter how her senses stretched, all she detected was heat and welling pleasure, and, elusively laced through all, underneath and between, a power that was addictive. That called to her at some feminine level she’d never before broached. Never before known was open to her.

Her response to
that
shocked her—opened her eyes to the woman within. And her yearnings.

She drew back, broke the kiss on a soft gasp. Stared, stunned, into his eyes.

Burning blue, lit by what she now understood was desire, he stared back.

The expression in his eyes, the way his jaw slowly firmed, told her he’d seen, and understood…too much.

With a spurt of fear-induced strength, she wrenched out of his
arms and spun around to walk on. She was not going to—absolutely refused to—discuss or even refer to the kiss. Even allude to it.

Not when she felt so shaken. So unlike herself.

So exposed.

So vulnerable.

He didn’t say anything. In two strides he’d ranged alongside her, keeping pace easily.

She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed ahead. Head up, she marched on.

They rounded the church and reached a more frequented thoroughfare. Barnaby hailed a hackney. He opened the door and she climbed in without taking his hand.

He followed her inside and shut the door.

Somewhat to her surprise, to her increasing consternation, he slumped on the seat beside her, with enough space between them that she didn’t feel crowded. Propping an elbow on the carriage windowsill, he stared out at the passing houses, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Leaving her to hers.

H
e’d parted from her on the steps in Mount Street with what Penelope had interpreted—correctly she was sure—as a warning, in the guise of a promise to meet with her that evening.

Throughout the journey from St. John’s Wood, they’d exchanged not a word—not a single observation on that kiss, let alone on what it had revealed.

But they’d thought of it.

In her case, she’d thought of nothing else.

Consequently, here she was, skirting Lady Carlyle’s drawing room, loins girded, determination whipped high and bolstered, waiting for him to appear so she could inform him just where she stood on the matter, and how they were going to proceed henceforth.

She wasn’t, definitely wasn’t, going to indulge in another such kiss.

Regardless of any arguments to the contrary—from either him or her own wretched curiosity—she was adamant, resolved beyond shifting, that she was not going to risk any closer acquaintance with that inner self the kiss had revealed.

While the engagement had demonstrated his interest—his intent—the reality of his motive that she’d transparently severely misjudged more than adequately for her to accept it as real, the aspect of herself that the kiss had exposed was far more disturbing.

Far more alarming.

She’d never known, had never guessed, that beneath her practical and prosaic exterior she harbored a panoply of feminine needs that had, it appeared, lain dormant—until he’d kissed her. Until he’d
hauled her into his arms and shown her senses what might be—and simultaneously awoken those latent needs.

They’d risen in response to him, stretched and unfurled, fed on the sensations he’d evoked. He and only him. No other man had affected her in the slightest, yet with Adair she’d sensed the connection from the first—from the instant she’d walked into the lion’s den and asked for his help.

If she indulged any further with Barnaby Adair she was perfectly sure those newly awakened needs would become a permanent and potent reality; she knew herself well enough to acknowledge that she never did anything by halves. Those needs would grow and gain a hold on her, one she would have to face and deal with.

And that was a path she wasn’t prepared to tread.

Although her habitual drive to know, to learn and understand, remained strong, propelling her forward, in this case it was countered by a consideration powerful enough, disconcerting enough, to make her step back.

To make her accept that there were some things she didn’t need to know, where the potential gain wasn’t worth the likely price.

She could only explore that inner self and her needs with Barnaby Adair, and she knew what sort of man he was. If she attempted to learn more with him, she might well have to sacrifice something she never could. Her independence. Her free will. The freedom to run her own life.

That was one thing she would never risk, not even put at risk. It wasn’t something with which she was willing to gamble.

Courtesy of her peripatetic progress, she’d managed to avoid those among her would-be suitors her ladyship had invited. When she saw Adair’s guinea-bright head enter the room, she muttered, “At last,” and, deftly avoiding Harlan Rigby’s eye, made her way to one corner of the room.

Reaching her goal, she waited for Adair to join her.

He didn’t keep her waiting; with what most ladies would no doubt have viewed as flattering speed, he threaded through the guests toward her.

Deciding she didn’t need to notice let alone acknowledge the focused intent in his eyes, she nodded in brisk greeting when he halted
before her. “I have something I wish to say to you. There’s a parlor through there”—with a wave she indicated the archway nearby—“where we can talk in private.”

So saying she swung around and swept through the archway.

After a fractional hesitation, and a swift glance around the room, Barnaby followed—as ever at her heels.

The small parlor she led him to was, as she’d intimated, perfect for private conversation. Perfect for seduction.

After that astonishing kiss that afternoon, he would, he felt, have been entirely justified in imagining that she, typically, was taking the lead in organizing for further exploration along those lines.

Of course, he wasn’t that stupid.

Given the way she’d drawn back—so abruptly he’d felt as if she’d hauled on a brake—and then immediately fallen to thinking far too hard, as he closed the parlor door he wasn’t imagining that she would turn, smile, and walk into his arms.

Halting in the center of the room, she swung to face him, head high, her hands clasped before her.

Her gaze as ever unflinchingly direct, she met his eyes. “I wish to make clear to you that, in the matter of the embrace we shared this afternoon, while I accept that you acted in response to remarks of mine which you clearly saw as goading, and I was equally clearly at fault in my reading of your motives—for which I unreservedly apologize—such an embrace cannot be permitted to occur again.”

She drew breath and, chin tilting even higher, continued with her obviously rehearsed speech. “As you know, I came to you for help in rescuing four missing boys, and my devotion is first and always to that task. In order to succeed, you and I must work together, side by side, and neither of us I’m sure would want personal awkwardness to interfere with that work.”

Still by the door, he arched a brow at her. “Personal awkwardness?”

Her eyes glinted with latent temper. “As would necessarily ensue should you pursue me, given
I
do not wish to develop any more personal relationship with you.”

He studied her for a long moment, then mildly said, “I see.” He’d been curious to learn what tack she would take. He’d spent hours trying
to speculate, but had eventually decided to let her surprise him. And she had. She’d been both more honest and more pigheaded than he’d expected.

Not that the former was going to help her adhere to the latter, even if, as he now suspected, she wouldn’t hesitate to use gentlemanly honor as a weapon to force him to keep his distance.

Much good would such a ploy do her. After that kiss, after all it had revealed, given his current status vis-à-vis her, he doubted there was much in this world that could readily turn him from his path.

He strolled the few steps to stand before her. He studied her eyes. “And if I don’t agree?”

She frowned. “There can be no benefit to you in pursuing any personal relationship with me—I would have thought that was obvious. I am
not
looking for marriage, for a husband to ensure a roof over my head—something I can well afford on my own—but into whose keeping I would pass, giving him the right to restrict and control me.”

He could appreciate her point. Doing so, however, wasn’t going to deter him.

Of his direction with her he no longer harbored the slightest doubt. It wasn’t what he would have predicted—or even chosen had he had any choice, but as he didn’t…

Indeed, he still did not fully comprehend how so much had changed simply because she’d walked into his life. He even saw the ton differently, as if she’d opened his eyes. Walking into Lady Carlyle’s drawing room, he’d seen himself with respect to the exalted circle into which he’d been born in a way he never had before.

He was both a part of it, yet not. Despite his protestations he was, still, the man his mother wanted him to be—a man defined by his birthright, by being the third son of the Earl of Cothelstone. He was who he was, and he couldn’t deny it. Penelope, her presence, stripped away his assumed aloofness, and exposed the man beneath—and that man was very much a true descendant of his conquering ancestors.

That, however, had never been enough for him—just as for Penelope being the daughter of Viscount Calverton was not enough, and did not define who she was, all of what she was. Of all the females in the ton, she understood what drove him, because the same fundamental motive—to find, take hold of, and shape their own destiny—drove her.

Today, for the first time, it hadn’t been him alone going back and forth from the slums to the drawing rooms. She’d been with him, by his side; their time in the lower circles had emphasized what was real and important in their lives—the glitter and sophistication of the ton disguised and screened such things, made them harder to discern. To know. To grasp.

He now knew what he wanted, that she was the lady he had to have by his side. He accepted unreservedly that that was the case.

Looking down into her rich, dark brown eyes, he was intrigued that he was starting to sense, to be sensitive to, not just her thoughts but also her feelings, her emotions. He’d already drawn closer to her than to any other female; their deepening connection was yet another indication that she was, indeed, the one for him.

And they were destined to draw closer still. Much closer. After that kiss, there could be no question, yet he accepted that he was considerably more experienced than she, that she would have no yardstick against which to judge what was growing between them, or to accurately appreciate the significance of milestones already passed.

She was a relative innocent. “Relative” being the operative word; with her intelligence, she wouldn’t be intellectually innocent…which, he hoped, would give him a weapon he could use. Her curiosity was a tangible thing, a force to be reckoned with—in this instance, possibly one he could exploit.

Penelope frowned even more; his continuing silence while he so steadily considered her bothered her. She had no idea what he was thinking—only that he was. Somewhat contrarily, she didn’t feel that boded well; the feeling prodded her to say, “Marriage, I long ago decided, is not for me.”

Even as she uttered the words, a warning surfaced in her mind. Portia had lectured her more than once that her directness would land her in difficulties with gentlemen. She’d dismissed the prophecy; to date, her straightforwardness had allowed her to repel untold numbers with brutal efficiency.

With Barnaby Adair, however, she might just have been too direct over the wrong subject. With a gentleman like him, setting herself up as a challenge was very definitely not the way to get him to desist.

“That is to say,” she hurriedly put in, even though she hadn’t a clue how to regroup, “I—”

He smiled and placed one long, strong finger across her lips. “No, don’t. I understand perfectly.”

She blinked up at him as he lowered his hand. Was he the exception to every rule? “You do?”

His smile deepened. “I do.”

She searched his eyes, then exhaled. “So you won’t kiss me again?”

The tenor of his smile changed. “Yes I will. Count on it.”

Her jaw dropped; she felt her eyes grow wide. “But—”

A tap on the door had them both glancing that way.

“What the devil?” she muttered, then more loudly called, “Come.”

The door opened and a footman entered. He bowed, and offered the salver he carried. “A message for Miss Ashford.”

Penelope continued to frown; nothing was progressing as she’d planned. Going forward, she lifted the note from the salver.

The footman was clearly unnerved by her expression. “Lady Calverton insisted I bring it to you directly, miss.”

Which answered the question of how he’d known where she was; very little escaped her mother’s eagle eyes.

She nodded. “Thank you.” Turning from the man, she broke open the plain note. Smoothing out the single sheet, she read the lines within.

Watching her, Barnaby saw the blood drain from her face. “What is it?”

She scanned the note again, her expression utterly stunned. “Mrs. Carter—Jemmie.” A second passed, then she raised horror-filled eyes to his face. “Mrs. Carter’s been found dead. The doctor found her—he doesn’t think she died naturally. He thinks she was smothered.”

A chill touched his soul. “And Jemmie?”

She swallowed. “Jemmie’s disappeared.”

Abruptly she swung around. “I have to go.”

He caught her elbow. “
We
have to go.” To the footman, he said, “Please convey my compliments to Lady Calverton. Tell her Miss Ashford and I have been called away on urgent business to do with the Foundling House.”

The footman bowed. “Immediately, sir.”

He departed; Penelope made to follow—Barnaby held her back.

“One moment.” He waited until she met his eyes. “We need to tell Stokes immediately—there’s no sense going to the Carter house now. It’s Stokes we need to alert, then we need to plan how best to search for Jemmie.”

For a moment, she stared into his eyes—as if confirming his commitment, matching it against her own, using both to anchor her in a suddenly whirling world—then she drew a tight breath, and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Stokes first—but I’m coming, too.”

He made no attempt to dissuade her; given the reason for her prejudice against marriage, in light of his avowed intent it would have been the height of lunacy to argue. Instead, he merely said, “Let’s hunt up Lady Carlyle and make our excuses.”

Stokes lived in lodgings in Agar Street, just off the Strand. Barnaby had visited often, but as he handed Penelope down he wondered how Stokes would react to having a lady invade his private quarters.

He bore no such reservations about what Penelope would think, that she might feel socially awkward; one thing of which he felt certain was that she would take any situation in her stride.

As he ushered her up the steps and into the building, he reflected that that was another trait that set her apart from other tonnish ladies.

Stokes’s rooms were on the first floor. Barnaby knocked; Stokes opened the door in his shirtsleeves and no collar, a comfortable well-worn woolen jacket of the sort gardeners wore slung over his shoulders.

He blinked at them in surprise.

“Inspector Stokes!” Penelope crossed the threshold and grasped Stokes’s hands. “A terrible thing has occurred. Mrs. Carter, whom I believe Adair has told you of, has been murdered—and the villains have stolen Jemmie.”

In the blink of an eye, Stokes transformed from bemused to alert. He glanced at Barnaby.

Who nodded in confirmation. “Let us inside and we’ll tell you the whole.”