Where The Heart Leads (19 page)

Barnaby hid an approving smile. Penelope had judged that well; the Wills boys were all but bristling.

“We will,” Joe growled. “Least we would if it were Mary up and dying before her time, and Horry here going missing.”

“Yes,” Barnaby said, “but the villains don’t know that. So far they’ve snatched five East End boys, and murdered at least one woman, and other than Miss Ashford here and the Foundling House, no one has raised any alarm.”

Joe grimaced. “Aye, well—not all places are as tight as we are here.” He nodded at Mary. “Like a mum to us, she is. We wouldn’t let any blackguard harm her.” He glanced at his brother, who nodded, then turned to Barnaby. “No need for the police—we’ll keep watch. Day and night. Least we can do.”

Barnaby nodded. “Thank you. That will be a big help. But the police will want to watch, too.” He glanced at Mary. “As Mary said, there’s no harm in them watching as well, but if you and your brothers will stay close, then the police can watch from outside, and concentrate on being able to close in when the villains make their move.”

“D’you think they’ll do that soon?” Ned asked. “Make their move?”

Barnaby thought of how much longer it would be before the last of the ton quit the capital, balancing that against how long it might take to train a burglar’s boy. “They seem in a hurry to get more boys. They might wait a while, just to be safe—maybe a week or so.” He met Joe’s eyes. “I wouldn’t expect them to wait much longer.”

“Right then. No great difficulty for us to keep watch for a week or so. One or other of us’ll always be in here, within sight of the door.” Joe tipped his head to the right. “Walls are thin—a holler from whoever’s in here watching will bring the rest of us, and others, too.”

Barnaby nodded approvingly. “I’ll explain the situation to the officer in charge—an Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard. He’ll come and speak with you”—he included Mary and Horry in his glance—“probably later today, if I can get hold of him.”

“An inspector from Scotland Yard?” Joe’s real question—what would such a man know of them and the East End?—was echoed in the others’ eyes.

“He’ll be in charge of the police—he has authority over the local rozzers. Don’t worry he won’t understand; when you meet him, you’ll realize he won’t be any problem—not to you or Mary or Horry,
at least.” Barnaby met Joe’s eyes. “Wait until you meet him before you judge.”

Joe held his gaze, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

The odd thought of what his mother would say if she could see him and Penelope rubbing elbows with East End toughs flitted—distracting and entertaining—through Barnaby’s mind.

He glanced at Penelope and raised a brow. “I’d say that at present we can leave Mary and Horry in Joe’s and his brothers’ capable hands.”

Penelope nodded and stood. “Indeed.” She offered her hand to Joe. “Thank you.”

For a moment, Joe stared at the delicate, gloved hand. Then, blushing, he gently took it in his large paw and briefly shook it, quickly releasing it as if he feared he might damage it.

Behind him, Ned grinned.

Penelope smiled brightly at Ned, then swung to face Mary—thus failing to see the stunned look on Ned’s face.

“Take care, please.” Penelope patted Mary’s hand. “I’m quite keen to have Horry at the Foundling House”—she smiled at Horry encouragingly—“but not before the appointed time.”

Mary assured her she’d take care of herself and Horry. Barnaby got the impression the boy wouldn’t be going anywhere alone, not until Mary was convinced all threat had passed.

They left the Wills boys discussing their watch with Mary and Horry; steering Penelope out into Black Lion Yard, Barnaby breathed in—and felt truly hopeful for the first time since he’d learned of Mrs. Carter’s unnatural demise.

Penelope looked around. “It’s a relief to know that Horry at least will be well protected—that we’ve done all we can, got every possible defense in place.”

She glanced at Barnaby as he guided her around the piles of crates, steadying her over the uneven cobbles as they headed for the yard’s entrance and the waiting hackney. “The Wills boys are trustworthy, don’t you think? They won’t…oh, go off on a drinking spree and forget about keeping watch over Mary?”

Barnaby shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“While I appreciate your certainty, how can you be so sure?”

“You heard them refer to her as ‘like a mum’ to them?”

“Ye-es. Oh, I see.”

“So I don’t think we need to worry about Mary or Horry.”

“You’ll get word to Stokes?”

“I’ll hunt him up immediately after I’ve seen you back to the house.”

The next morning, Penelope was working at her desk at the Foundling House, catching up with myriad details she’d let slide while she’d been searching for the missing boys, when, quite suddenly, a prickling sensation ran over her skin.

She looked up—and discovered her nemesis lounging against the archway frame, looking both impossibly elegant and undeniably dangerous.

Or so she saw him.

Pen poised above the list she’d been making, with hauteur befitting a duchess she raised both brows.

He smiled, not charmingly but intently, and amused with it, for all the world as if he could read the contradictory impulses careening through her.

She had absolutely no idea what she was to do with him, what to make of him and his apparent fixation on her. She was starting to realize that the “her” he saw wasn’t the same “her” the rest of her tonnish would-be suitors saw. Presumably that was the crux of her difficulty in dealing with him, but how to retreat to any formal distance—especially with the investigation constantly throwing them together—she had no clue.

All she understood, as she saw his lips quirk, then watched him push away from the archway and come prowling into the room, eventually to subside with his customary ineffable grace into the chair before her desk, was that she really needed to find a solution.

Keeping her expression as uninformative as she could, she stated, coolly, “Good morning. And what can we do for you?”

His untrustworthy smile deepened. “It’s more a matter of what I thought to do for you.”

“Oh?” Setting down her pen, she folded her hands before her. “And what might that be?”

“I’ve come to suggest that we circulate notices throughout the East
End, with the names and descriptions of the five missing boys, and offering a reward for information on their whereabouts.”

Her reaction was immediate; there was no point trying to hide it. “That’s brilliant!” She beamed. Unable to contain her burgeoning enthusiasm, she asked, “How do we go about it?”

He smiled again, but the gesture wasn’t in any way threatening. “Simple. You give me a list of the names, with the best descriptions you can muster, and I’ll get the notices printed. I know a place that will do them overnight.”

A place that owed him no small favor, and would be happy to rebalance their account in however small a way.

Penelope was already pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. “Overnight? I thought there was usually a delay of days at least.”

When she glanced at him, he shrugged. “It won’t have all that much text, so won’t take long to set.”

She looked down at the sheet of paper, pen poised in her hand. “How should we word this?”

“List each name, with a description. Then at the bottom write…” He dictated the usual form of “Offer of a Reward.”

When he concluded with an instruction to contact Inspector Stokes at Scotland Yard, she paused, frowning. “Shouldn’t that be me, here, at the Foundling House?”

“No.” He was adamant about that, but couched his reply in a tone that suggested it was de rigueur to leave all contact to the police.

While Stokes would certainly prefer that, it was rarely done. However, the notion of a score of East Enders lining up to see Penelope and tell her all they knew—even if they knew nothing—wasn’t a scenario he had any wish to contemplate.

Luckily, she accepted his explanation with a shrug, and duly wrote down what he’d told her.

Consulting one of her lists, she filled in the names of the five boys, then rang for Miss Marsh and asked her to fetch Mrs. Keggs. As Miss Marsh departed, Penelope explained, “Keggs was with me when I did the visits. She might remember different aspects of the boys’ appearance.”

Mrs. Keggs duly arrived. Barnaby set the other chair for her, then retreated to the window, leaving her and Penelope to put together the descriptions.

Hands in his pockets, he stood looking out—watching the children play in the yard, smiling at their antics.

Once again an appreciation of just how much, not only in social terms but in terms of the individual lives of the boys and girls so unrestrainedly enjoying themselves in the yard, the Foundling House achieved rolled through him. And how much of that was directly fashioned, driven, brought to life, and kept in action by Penelope and her indomitable will.

Her independence, her will, were tangible things. Not to be taken lightly, nor to be tampered with, let alone opposed, without due consideration.

That could be—would be—an ongoing and ineradicable source of difficulty for any gentleman who married her. Not insurmountable, yet an issue that would need careful handling. The fruits of her independence, of her indomitable will, were too valuable for any man to quash, to squander. To deny.

The realization slid into his mind, and settled.

Behind him, chair legs scraped. Turning, he saw Mrs. Keggs bustling out.

Penelope was blotting the sheet. “Here you are.” She scanned it one last time, then held it out to him. “Five names, descriptions, and an announcement of a reward.”

He read through it swiftly. “Excellent.” Looking up, he met her eyes. “I’ll get this printed up overnight. And then I thought I’d ask Griselda about how best to distribute them throughout the East End.”

“Indeed—I’m sure she’ll know.” Penelope hesitated, but it was part of the investigation after all. “I’ll come with you when you pick up the notices—I’d like to see a printer’s works—and we can take them directly to Griselda.”

His smile was back, playing about his lips, but it wasn’t overt, not something she needed to frown at. He inclined his head. “If you wish.”

Folding the sheet, he placed it in his pocket. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

With a graceful half-bow, he turned and walked to the door.

She smelled a rat. She narrowed her eyes on his back—was he hiding something? Planning something? Something without her?

As he reached the archway, she called, “If you have any news tonight, I’ll be at Lady Griswald’s ball. You’ll be able to find me there.”

Lifting her pen, she watched as, in the archway, he glanced back. She’d made her announcement matter-of-factly, yet unholy amusement danced in his blue eyes.

And she suddenly, simply, knew. He hadn’t asked her where she’d be that evening—because if he had she wouldn’t have told him.

His smile deepened. He saluted her. “Excellent. I’ll come hunting for you there.”

She glared, then looked around for something to throw at him—but by then he was gone.

L
ater that evening, Penelope paced the dark, deserted minstrel’s gallery overlooking one end of Lady Griswald’s ballroom, and wondered what had possessed her to fall for Adair’s trap.

Just the look on his face…
insufferable
! And she could just imagine how he would behave once he found her, which was why she was haunting the gallery. If she had any say in the matter, he wasn’t going to find her at all.

In the ballroom below, Lady Griswald’s party to celebrate her niece’s betrothal was in full swing. Ladies and gentlemen were dancing, couples were conversing, dowagers seated on chaises were gossiping for all they were worth. As her ladyship was a close friend of her mother’s, Penelope had had no option but to come; she’d done the pretty for half an hour, but the inevitable tension of keeping a constant watch for approaching gilded heads had taken its toll. Rather than snap any more direfully at her would-be suitors, she’d excused herself, swanned past the withdrawing room, and taken refuge in the gallery.

Safe from gentlemen who were entirely too arrogantly certain of themselves.

The problem was, while she might be safe, hiding was only putting off the inevitable—at some point she was going to have to deal with Barnaby Adair.

By falling for his ploy, she’d all but “invited his attention”; if he managed to find her, she’d have little grounds to dismiss him, at least not outright. Which, of course, had been his goal.

Regardless, her problem—how to deal with him—remained, and on that subject she was in a totally uncharacteristic dither.

One part of her mind was convinced that any closer acquaintance with him would be inimical to her future—to her continued independence.

Another part was insatiably curious.

And curiosity was, and always had been, her besetting sin.

Usually, her curiosities were intellectual rather than physical, notable exceptions being waltzing and skating, but Adair stirred a curiosity that was altogether more complex.

She was fascinated by all she was learning of his endeavors, of how he conducted investigations and interacted with Stokes and the police. Through no one but him could she learn of such things—and on that front there was much more she’d yet to learn. While such matters were primarily intellectual, there was a physical side, too; walking the edge of danger when they’d infiltrated the East End in disguise had been exhilarating.

So there were positives to their association, many reasons she wished to continue it, quite aside from rescuing her missing boys.

But it was curiosity of a different sort that fed the ambivalence she felt over him, prompting her to cut off all personal interaction despite her real and burgeoning fascination.

And that was even more out of character. She never backed away from challenging situations, and one part of her, the stronger, dominant, willful part of her, didn’t want to back away now.

Reaching the end of the short gallery, she kicked her skirts about and paced back, wrapped in shadows and out of sight of the revelers below.

She’d thought at length over what he inspired in her, what he provoked. It
was
a form of curiosity, which was why she’d felt so comfortable exploring it, why she’d instinctively pursued it.

Emotional curiosity. Something she’d felt for no other soul, certainly for no man. Fascination with such a subject was, unquestionably, an intellectual exercise, yet for her, with him, it also possessed a definite physical side, a sensual side, one she couldn’t deny, and—witness her continuing reaction to every little touch—patently couldn’t avoid.

And therein lay the crux of her problem.

Unless she was reading the signs entirely wrongly, he wanted her—desired her—in a definitely physical way.

Other men had, or had said they had, but perversely she’d never been the least bit curious about them. But Barnaby Adair made her curious and fascinated, made her wonder about things she’d long ago deemed boring and had dismissed as entirely beneath her notice.

She was noticing now. And that was so strange she didn’t know how to react—how to take charge and satisfy her fascination, how to find the answers to her multiplying questions
safely
. Without losing sight of that other reality and risking her future—her ability to continue to exercise her will and lead an independent life. She’d always intended to and still did; nothing whatever had changed on that front.

Halting by the railing, still safely wrapped in gloom, she looked out over the sea of heads and frowned. How long would she need to pace about up there, getting nowhere?

On the thought, a now familiar prickling awareness swept her nape, then spread southward. On a gasp, she whirled, and found a dark, mysterious, dangerous figure directly behind her.

A jolt of anticipation streaked through her. Her heart beat fast, then faster.

She opened her lips to berate him for startling her; before she could get a word out, he seized her waist and swung her around, away from the railing, into deeper shadow.

He stepped closer, hauled her into his arms.

Into a kiss that stole her breath.

Stole her wits.

Fiercely possessive, in no way tentative, he gathered her into his arms. Like steel, they banded her back, pressing her to him. His lips moved commandingly on hers. Hers had already been parted on the protest she’d never uttered; he’d taken advantage and laid claim to her mouth, to her senses.

To sensation, a weapon he wielded with consummate mastery, distracting her, beguiling her, seducing her.

And there was more, this time—more to feel, more to sense, more to learn. More heat, more scintillating pleasure, of a sort that sent thrilling little sparks dancing down her veins to settle beneath her skin, to ignite and burn.

Creating a host of little fires that spread and coalesced, and warmed her.

Heated her.

Until she surrendered to the growing heat, and him, and kissed him back.

She didn’t understand why she so wanted to, what drove her to spear her fingers into his silky hair and plunge into a duel of kiss and retreat, of tangling tongues and voracious lips, of pleasure that bloomed and spread and filled her—and him.

She couldn’t, in the distant recess of her mind that still functioned, that hadn’t yet been suborned into the expanding pleasure of the kiss, comprehend why she felt such a surge of satisfaction at knowing—simply knowing in her soul—that her kiss, and she, brought him pleasure.

Why should that matter to her? It never had with any other man.

Why now? Or was it: why him?

Was it because—could it be because—he desired her? Truly desired her in a way no other man ever had?

She was no witless ninny; she knew what the hard ridge pressing against her stomach was. But he was a man; was that rock-hard bulge any real barometer of his emotions? Of what he felt for her beyond the purely physical?

She’d read extensively, the classics as well as more esoteric texts. When she used the word “desire,” she meant something beyond the purely physical—something that transcended the physical, reaching onto that plane where the great emotions ruled.

Was her unconscious, and blatantly ungovernable, attraction to him somehow bound up in desire? Was her attraction a sign that with him, she could, if she chose, explore the elusive conundrums of desire?

Barnaby sensed through the kiss, through the subtle change in her lips, that she’d started to ponder something. But she was heated and pliant in his arms, neither defensive nor resistant, and she’d once again kissed him with a wanton lack of restraint; he was content enough, at least for the moment.

But he was curious, increasingly so, about what held the power to distract her at such a time. In the interests of his continuing campaign, it unquestionably behooved him to find out; given the circumstances, it was almost certainly connected with their exchange.

Drawing unhurriedly back from the honeyed depths of her mouth,
reluctantly releasing her lips, he looked down into her face. The shadows cloaked them, but they’d both been in the semidark long enough for their eyes to adjust. He watched, fascinated, as clouds of desire swirled through her dark eyes; they cleared only slowly, her customary incisive, decisive expression only gradually replacing the dazed evidence of delight.

Eventually, she blinked; the expression in her eyes turned to a frown.

He felt his lips curve. “What are you thinking about?”

She studied his face, searched his eyes. “I was wondering…about something.”

She was normally devastatingly direct. His curiosity only grew. “About what?”

Hands still clasped about his neck, head tilting, she narrowed her eyes fractionally—in undisguised challenge. “If I tell you honestly, will you answer honestly?”

Shifting his hands to her waist, supporting her against him, he didn’t need to think. “Yes.”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “I was wondering if you truly desire me.”

Other women had asked the same thing, on occasions too numerous to count. He’d always understood that when women used the word, they meant far more than men assumed. Consequently, he knew the glib answers, the ways not to answer so he didn’t have to lie. In this case, however…

And she’d asked for honesty.

He held her dark gaze steadily. “Yes. I do.”

Head still tilted, she studied his face. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? Men lie about that particular subject all the time.”

She was perfectly correct; he had no grounds on which to defend his sex. And it didn’t take a genius to see how any argument would go—around in circles.

But demonstrable fact spoke much louder than vows.

Reaching up, he caught one of her hands, and drew it down. All the way down between them, until he curved her palm about his erection.

Her eyes grew enormous.

His smile grew tight. “That doesn’t lie.”

Her eyes narrowed, but he noticed—very definitely noticed—that she made no move to pull her hand away.

Quite the opposite. The warmth of her palm seeping through his trousers, the light flexing touch of her fingers, instantly became an unsubtle torture that had him questioning his sanity.

It had seemed a good idea at the time.

Jaw clenching, he kept his eyes on hers, and prayed his wouldn’t cross.

“I’m not so sure,” she murmured, “about that, about its significance. It seems to happen rather often with men—perhaps, in this case, this”—her fingers curled lightly, making him inwardly jerk—“is merely a reflection, an outcome, of our setting, suggestive, illicit, shadowed.”

“No.” It required massive effort to keep his tone even, as if explaining some logical theory. “Atmosphere doesn’t affect it at all. The company, however, does.” Ignoring the interest seeping into her eyes, he forced himself to continue, biting the words off through clenching teeth, “And in the present company,
that
happens all the time. Regardless of time and place.”

His will was weakening, seduced by the continued heat of her touch; grasping her wrist, he drew her hand away. Releasing it, he drew her nearer, his hands on her back urging her closer; trapped in his eyes, she permitted it. “
That
happens every time I see you. Whenever you’re close.”

He lowered his head, breathed against her lips as she instinctively tipped her head back, “Especially when you’re close.”

He covered her lips and kissed her, sensed her continuing question in the way she allowed him to explore, in the way she encouraged him to show her what she wanted to know—more.

Entirely willing, he gathered her more fully into his arms, held her captive, feeding both his senses and hers, building anticipation, letting desire rise up and take hold.

Once it had…once she was clinging to his shoulders, fingertips sinking in, once her breathing was rapid, tending ragged, he broke their embrace, swept her into his arms and carried her through the archway at the back of the gallery into the deserted parlor beyond.

He fell into a large armchair with her across his lap, surprising a laugh from her. But the laugh died as he leaned over her. She met his
eyes through the dimness—for one pregnant moment studied them—then her lids lowered in blatant invitation; he closed the last inch and his lips covered hers once more.

Her hand slid from his nape to his cheek, cradling…as if holding him there while she kissed him back and flagrantly urged him on.

With her mouth, her tongue, with the pressure of her lips, urged him to show her more of desire—of what desire translated to between them. He had no reservations in fulfilling her wish, in letting his hand glide from her jaw, tracing down her throat, over her collarbone to the subtle swell of one breast.

He wasn’t hesitant about claiming it; her flesh firmed beneath his palm, her nipple pebbling beneath the fine silk of her bodice. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to slip the tiny pearl buttons free so he could touch and taste her, but a warning, distant but insistent, sounded in his brain.

Trapped in the moment, in their heated, increasingly fiery exchange, in the way she responded, spine bowing, restlessly seeking to learn yet more, it took him a few seconds to recognize and decode the message.

Knowledge is Penelope Ashford’s price.
If he yielded too much, too quickly…

His way forward with her suddenly became a great deal clearer. She was a female for whom knowledge—both facts and even more experience—held a powerful appeal. And in this arena he was entirely willing to teach her anything and everything she wanted to learn.

But like any experienced teacher, he needed to exert some authority—to tempt her with answers to her first question, then tantalize her with the prospect of answering much more.

He needed to stagger her lessons—and ensure she left this one with both reason and eagerness to return for the next.

Beneath his lips, his hand, she was starting to grow demanding, sensing his momentary distraction with his thoughts.

He inwardly smiled, and gave her not what she wished, but more of what she had.

Through the silken screen of her gown he caressed her increasingly intimately, stroking down to her hip, shifting her so he could reach around and capture one firm globe of her bottom, and knead.