Where The Heart Leads (20 page)

Possess. He didn’t try to mute his desire—its direction, its goal.
That was what she’d wanted to know. He let it color every touch, every possessive caress.

So that when he ran his hand down the front of her thighs, stroking, assessing, then cupped her through the froth of silk, she gasped and quivered.

Enough
. The tactician in his brain stepped forward, reminding him of his aim, his true goal.

He drew back, drew her back.

Penelope understood what he was doing, that he was retreating from showing her more, too much, perhaps, at this point, in this place. Disgruntled but resigned, she followed his lead, letting their kisses grow less ravenous, letting the hunger driving them slowly subside.

It didn’t, she noted, die, but, like a banked fire, settled to a smolder. Ready to burst into raging life at a touch.

The right touch. His.

That fact intrigued, as had the entire episode. Her skin felt flushed, her body warm, pleasured and strangely languid, yet ridden by an elusive, expectant urgency she’d yet to fully comprehend.

Their lips parted. He met her eyes as she opened them, studied them for an instant, then he sat up, and helped her up.

Once on her feet, she surveyed her gown, rather surprised to find it in passable state. She wriggled the bodice, brushed down the skirts, and tried—hard—not to dwell on the lingering sensation of his hands as he’d caressed her.

She’d wanted to know, had wordlessly asked, and had learned…a bit. Unfortunately, as her returning wits confirmed, not enough to unequivocally answer her burning question about him, about her in relation to him and vice versa.

She frowned, and turned to him as he adjusted his coat sleeves.

Before she could find words to ask, he volunteered, “That’s a taste of what desire is, at least between you and me.” Through the dimness, he caught her gaze. “If you want to know more, I’ll be happy to teach you.”

He moved closer, until he stood before her looking down into her face, but he didn’t touch her. “However, like all subjects, if you truly want to understand, in depth, with all the ramifications, you have to be eager and willing to learn.”

There was a very clear question in those last words. Penelope fought not to let her eyes narrow; she was far too fly to the time of day not to realize what he was doing.

However…

She did want to know. A great deal more.

Holding his gaze, she smiled, then swung about and headed for the stairs leading down. “I’ll think about it.”

Barnaby watched her retreating back through narrowing eyes, then started to follow—as ever in her wake. As she reached the stairs, he said, “The printing works is running our notices tonight—they’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

She paused at the head of the stairs. Over her shoulder, she said, “We should discuss with Griselda how to distribute them.”

He halted behind her. “I’ll call for you in Mount Street at nine o’clock. We can pick up the notices and go on to her shop.”

“Excellent.” With an inclination of her head, she started down the narrow stairs.

He remained at their head, watching her descend—reminding himself that letting her go was a vital part of his greater plan.

As the wee hours of the night waxed and waned, Penelope tossed and turned in her bed, in her bedroom in Mount Street—such familiar surroundings she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t clear her mind and fall asleep.

She was such a disciplined thinker, she normally had no difficulty at all.

It was his fault, of course.

He’d set a particularly fascinating hare running in her mind, and she couldn’t stop following it.

Sitting up, she thumped her pillow, then flung herself back down and stared at the ceiling.

That he was deliberately tempting her was beyond doubt. As for the price of the knowledge he was dangling, carrotlike, before her, she knew well enough what that was. Yet given she was already twenty-four, and had no desire for marriage, having long ago decided that, with its concordant restrictions, it wouldn’t in any way suit her, then what was she keeping her virginity for? In light of what she had now
come to regard as her unacceptable ignorance on the subject of desire, let alone passion, it seemed entirely appropriate she trade it—useless thing that it otherwise was—for the knowledge she now craved.

Added to that was the undeniable fact that he was the only male ever to have impinged on her consciousness in such a way—the only man who had ever succeeded in starting that aforementioned hare leaping across the fields of her mind.

Halting her thoughts at that point, she mentally looked over them. Assessed, evaluated. All of the above seemed logically unassailable; her reasoning thus far was sound.

The point that was rendering her too restless to sleep was the next step.

The notion of simply telling him yes, and blithely consigning her education in that sphere to him and his male whims, did not appeal. Not in the least.

She had no great opinion of male brains. Not even his, which seemed superior to the general run. She strongly suspected he did not have, or at least was not aware of it if he had, a logical basis for his desire for her—not beyond desire itself.

No—while she saw no reason not to go forward, albeit on her own terms, she certainly wouldn’t be doing so in the misguided expectation that he—a male—would be able to fully elucidate his reasons for desiring her.

Luckily, learning his reasons wasn’t her sole intellectual goal. Even more than his reasons, she wanted to know, to understand and comprehend, her own.

She had to know what made her
want,
what it was in his kisses, in his embrace, that stirred her to want so much more. She needed to learn what fueled her own desire.

That was her principal goal.

And Barnaby Adair was the man who could, and would, lead her to it.

The one real danger hadn’t, yet, raised its head. Marriage. As long as matrimony remained absent from their equation, all would be well.

She mulled over that point. Considered it from various angles. Accepted that he might feel compelled, having seduced her, as he would see it, to offer for her hand, and even when she refused, continue to
insist, seeing the matter as impinging on his honor, a subject over which men of his ilk had a tendency to be particularly pigheaded.

But she knew how to counter that; even if he did try to introduce the baneful prospect of marriage, she felt confident she would be able to prevail, to take a contrary stand and sway him to her way of thinking. If the matter arose, she would explain her views; she was sure he—being a logical, rational man—would understand her stance, and ultimately accept it.

That said…her position in any such discussion would be immeasurably strengthened if
she
was the one who instigated their affair. Not acquiesced to but dictated—that was obviously the most sensible way forward for them both. She needed to take charge and define their relationship as an affair, plain and simple, permitting no hint of matrimony to creep in and confuse the issue.

Her mind cleared. That was how it had to be. Obviously.

Lips curving, she sighed; turning onto her side, she snuggled her cheek into her pillow and closed her eyes.

All she needed to do was take control of the situation, and all would be well.

Confident, reassured, she slept.

“I’m so glad I came with you this morning.” Penelope stood on the pavement outside Griselda’s shop, waiting while Barnaby leaned back into the hackney and retrieved the large box containing their printed notices.

Hefting the box, he nudged the carriage door shut, then nodded to the jarvey. As the hackney pulled away, he turned to Penelope and struggled to hide his smile. From the moment they’d left the printing works off the Edgware Road, she’d entertained him with a steady flow of observations and suppositions.

She fell in beside him as he walked to Griselda’s door. “Thank you—it’s been a thoroughly informative and useful morning.” She glanced at him as, balancing the box on his shoulder, he waved her ahead of him up the steps. “Over the last few years we’ve been investigating other trades for our orphans. We’ve had some success with merchants. After meeting Mr. Cole and being shown around his
works, I believe we should investigate printing houses as possible places for our boys.”

Following her into the shop, he said, “You should speak with Cole—I’m sure he’ll be happy to trial some of your lads.” Not only was the sister of Viscount Calverton the sort of lady Cole would trip over his toes to assist, but notwithstanding the box on Barnaby’s shoulder, the man still owed him.

Nodding, Penelope swept deeper into the shop. “I believe I will.” Smiling at the apprentices, she waved them back to their work. “No need to announce us—we’ll go through to Miss Martin.”

Pushing past the curtain, she halted. Barnaby just managed not to run her down. Griselda wasn’t in the kitchen area.

“Up here, Penelope.”

Glancing up the narrow stairs, Penelope beamed. “There you are.”

She set off up the stairs. Barnaby shrugged the box from his shoulder, then carrying it before him, followed her up.

He emerged into Griselda’s parlor to see Penelope shaking hands with Stokes, who was in his “East End” disguise, as was Griselda.

“Perfect.” Setting the box on a side table, Barnaby folded back the flaps, pulled out the top sheet, and held it up for Stokes and Griselda to read.

Griselda beside him, Stokes did; he slowly smiled. “Perfect indeed.” He took the notice, holding it so he and Griselda could better see. “We were about to head out to follow up the information Mr. Martin and others have gathered on our five remaining potential schoolmasters.”

Handing the notice to Griselda, Stokes looked at the box. “How many do you have?”

“Two thousand.” Barnaby thrust his hands in his pockets. “Enough to effectively flood the East End. What we need to know is the best way of distributing them—spreading them as far and wide as we can within that area.”

“The markets.” Griselda looked up from the notice. “We were going there again anyway, but there’s no better way to spread these than to leave them with the stallholders. And today’s Friday—the Friday and Saturday markets are the busiest. The only other worthwhile
places to leave them would be the pubs and taverns, but the markets reach more people—women as well as men.”

Stokes nodded. “We’ll take them with us today. The sooner we can find the boys the better.”

“What have you learned about the other possible schoolmasters?” Penelope looked from Stokes to Griselda. “Anything to suggest one of those names is the man we’re after?”

Stokes grimaced. “Nothing definite. The difficulty with these five is that they don’t move in wider circles—they keep close to their lairs and interact only with those they must. We think we’ve got directions for three—Slater, Watts, and Hornby. We’ll check those today. The other two—Grimsby and Hughes—we’ve yet to get any certain news of. However, with both of them, what the local bobbies have got, and Griselda’s father, too, are evasive answers, which makes me suspect that both are currrently involved in something illegal. Whether that something is running the school we’re seeking is anyone’s guess, but if the other three turn out to be law-abiding at present—which us so easily getting their locations makes more likely—then Grimsby and Hughes will become our best bets.”

Griselda glanced at Stokes. “After we check the first three, if there’s no sign of the boys there, we’ll press harder to see what we can turn up on Grimsby and Hughes.” She looked at Barnaby. “The problem is that no one knows—or at least is prepared to tell us—what areas they’re lurking in, which makes locating them rather like searching for a needle in a massive haystack.”

“It’s possible the notices might gain us a clue,” Barnaby said. “At least point to which area we should focus on.”

“What about the Bushels? Mary and Horry?” Penelope looked at Stokes. “Have you visited yet?”

Stokes nodded; he glanced at Barnaby. “Your message reached me in good time—I got to Black Lion Yard late that afternoon. I spoke with Mary Bushel and the Wills boys. Between us, we’ve worked out a plan that should keep Mary and Horry safe, but leave the door invitingly open, so to speak, in the hope these blackguards will make a move.”

Stokes’s expression turned feral. “I just hope they do. Between the Willses and the local force, the villains won’t find it easy to get out of Black Lion Yard.”

Barnaby raised his brows. “I hadn’t thought of it, but the yard does lend itself to being an excellent trap.”

“Exactly. So Horry and his grandmother are as well protected as they could be, and our trap is in place.” Stokes nodded. “Now we need to see if we can get a bead on who we’re likely to catch in it.”

He picked up the box of notices. “Griselda and I will hand these out as we pass the markets.” He glanced at the other three. “We need to learn where this schoolmaster is keeping the boys, and get them out of his clutches, preferably before he sends them out to work.”

Barnaby grimaced. “Parliament rises next week. A few days after that and Mayfair will be all but deserted. If our hypothesis of the reason this schoolmaster’s training so many boys at once is correct, then we’ve only got until then to find them.”

They all exchanged glances, then Griselda waved to the stairs. “We’d better get going then.”

They all trooped down, then out of the shop, leaving the apprentices staring.

Once outside, they headed around the church to find hackneys in the street beyond. Stokes and Griselda took the first, Barnaby and Penelope insisting their task was the more urgent.

Standing on the pavement watching the carriage rattle away to the east, Penelope shifted restlessly.

Beside her, his gaze on the retreating carriage, too, Barnaby said, “If you think of anything you, I, or we can do to learn what we need to learn faster, let me know.”

She glanced at his profile. “Do you promise to do the same?”

He looked down at her. “Yes. All right.”

“Good.” She nodded. “If I think of anything, I’ll send word.”