“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?”
“Aye. He knows the ropes, and I’ve used boys from him before.”
“Indeed. But this time you’re working for me. As I believe I’ve stressed, this is a game with high stakes, far higher than any you’ve played for previously.” Alert held Smythe’s gaze. “You need to be sure—indeed, you need to be able to assure me—that your tools will be up to the task.”
Smythe didn’t blink, didn’t shift. “They will be.” When Alert’s expression made it clear he expected more, he grudgingly added, “I’ll make sure of it.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“I know where he’s getting the boys. With the date you’ve given me, we’ve time to make sure we have the right number, and have them properly trained.” Smythe hesitated, as if—finally—considering the eventualities, then went on, “I’ll stop by Grimsby’s and make sure he understands how…serious we are about this.”
Alert permitted himself a small smile. “Do. I see no reason for us to find ourselves in difficulties because Grimsby didn’t adequately comprehend, as you put it, the seriousness of our endeavor.”
Smythe’s gaze dropped to the list in Alert’s hand. “I’ll need those addresses.”
The addresses were Alert’s primary contribution to their game, together with the list of items to be stolen—he prefered the term “liberated”—from each house. “Not just yet.” Lifting his gaze, he met Smythe’s frown. “I’ll hand it over in good time for you to do the necessary reconnoitering, but as you said, we’ve plenty of time.”
No fool, Smythe understood that Alert didn’t trust him. A moment passed, then he stood. “I’ll get moving, then.”
Remaining seated, Alert nodded a dismissal. “I’ll arrange our next meeting as I did this one. Unless I leave word otherwise, we’ll meet here.”
With a curt nod, Smythe retraced his steps to the French door, and let himself out.
Wreathed in shadows, Alert smiled. All was going according to plan. His need for money had in no way eased—indeed, courtesy of the visit he’d endured yesterday from the fiend into whose clutches he’d unwittingly fallen, and the latest arrangement for repayment to which he’d been forced to agree, that need would only escalate with every passing day—yet his salvation was at hand. There was, he’d discovered, a certain satisfaction—a thrill, in fact—in cheating fate, and society, through the simple application of his admittedly devious brain.
He had no doubt that with his knowledge and Smythe’s talents—and Grimsby’s tools—he would come about, and that handsomely. As well as freeing him from the shackles of London’s most notorious cent-per-cent, his scheme would significantly bolster his nonexistent fortune.
Fate, as he well knew, favored the bold.
Glancing down at the list of houses he still held, he considered it—and saw superimposed the other, even more important list that was its mate, the list of the items to be liberated from each house.
He’d chosen carefully. Only one item from each address. Chances were they wouldn’t even be missed, not until the families returned in March, and possibly not even then. And once they were…the staff of the houses would be the obvious suspects.
By all accounts, Smythe was a master of his trade. He—or rather the boys he used—would be in and out without leaving any trace.
And there wouldn’t be any fences involved to later assist the authorities. He’d eliminated the need. Knowing the world of the ton as he did—and the Lord knew he’d studied it avidly—he’d appreciated that a judicious choice of items would ensure immediate resale, and on his terms.
He already had collectors keen to acquire the items, no questions asked. Selling to such people would ensure they never even contemplated exposing him. And the prices they were willing to pay would easily free him of the debt currently weighing him down, even with the constantly increasing load.
Slipping the list of houses back in his pocket, he smiled even more broadly. Of course, the items were much more valuable than he’d intimated to Smythe, but he couldn’t imagine that a burglar from the East End would ever guess their true worth.
He would need to be careful, but he could handle Smythe, and Smythe would handle Grimsby.
All was going precisely as he wished. And soon he would be as wealthy as everyone in his life thought him to be.
7
The following morning, on Barnaby Adair’s arm, Penelope climbed the steps of a nondescript building on Great Scotland Yard.
Her curiosity was running high. She’d heard all the commonly told tales of Peel’s Police Force, the tonnish rumblings that had accompanied its establishment and consequent development over the last years, but this was the first time she’d come into contact with members of said force. More, other than Adair, she knew of no one who had visited its headquarters; she was agog to see what the place was like.
As he ushered her into the front foyer—a depressingly ordinary area in uninspiring shades of gray—she looked around, keen to see whatever there was to be seen. Quite aside from appeasing her natural inquisitiveness, concentrating on absorbing all she could about the police force helped avoid absorbing more about Adair—his nearness, his strength, his unfailing handsomeness—items from which her misbehaving senses steadfastly refused to be distracted.
Inwardly lecturing herself, she studied the only distraction the foyer offered—a little man in a dark blue uniform seated on a high stool behind a raised counter along one side. He glanced up, saw her—but then saw Adair. Raising a hand in an acknowledging salute, the man returned to his ledgers.
She frowned and looked about. Other than some clerk disappearing into the nether regions there was no one else around. “Is this where they deal with criminals? It seems awfully quiet.”
“No. This building houses the senior investigating officers. There are bobbies in the building next door and a watch house down the street.” She felt Adair’s gaze touch her face. “We won’t be running into any villains today.”
Inwardly she grimaced, and prayed Stokes proved better fodder for distraction. After last night and the two reckless waltzes she’d shared with Adair, she needed something to focus on—something other than him. The increasing intensity of her reaction to him was disturbing in a way that tantalized as much as bothered her.
He steered her to the stairs at the end of the foyer. As they climbed, she reminded herself that thinking of him as Adair, rather than Barnaby, would help in keeping him at a sensible distance. Despite her earlier resolution, she’d yet to define a way forward—a way of dealing with him that would nullify the effect he had on her nerves, her senses, and, to her supreme irritation, sometimes her wits.
Unfortunately, her failure to devise an effective plan had left her wayward senses free to seize the day and slip their leash, and wallow as they would. As they had during those waltzes last night. As they had this morning when he’d arrived as promised to escort her there.
As they still were.
Mentally gritting her teeth, she vowed that the instant she had a moment to spare, she was going to find some way to make them stop.
At the head of the stairs Adair guided her to the right, down a long corridor. “Stokes’s office is down here.”
He led her to an open door; his hand brushed the back of her waist as he ushered her through, sending unwelcome awareness streaki
ng through her.
Luckily, the man—gentleman?—seated behind the desk gave her something else to think about. He glanced up as she entered, then laid aside his pen and rose.
To his full, imposing six-foot height.
After returning from Glossup Hall, Portia had described Stokes to her, but as Portia had, by then, been engaged to Simon Cynster, her description had, Penelope now realized, lacked a certain depth.
Stokes was, to her eyes, quite fascinating. Not in the same way Adair, close by on her right, was, thank heaven; Stokes engaged her curiosity and piqued her interest on quite a different plane. She immediately sensed he was something of an enigma; while her mind instantly latched on to that promising fact, her senses and her nerves remained entirely unaffected.
Walking forward, she smiled and held out her hand. “Inspector Stokes.”
He studied her for a heartbeat, then reached across the desk and shook her hand. He shot a quick glance at Adair. “Miss Ashford, I presume?”
“Indeed. Mr. Adair and I are here to consult with you on the matter of our missing boys.”
Stokes hesitated, then looked at Barnaby, who had no difficulty reading the questions in his friend’s eyes.
“This Miss Ashford is even less conventional than her sister.” He let Stokes read his resignation—that he hadn’t brought her there willingly—then moved to position one of the chairs before the desk for her.
She sat, smiling amiably. Stokes resumed his seat. Setting another chair beside Penelope’s, Barnaby sat and crossed his legs. He harbored not a single doubt that Penelope was set on immersing herself in all aspects of the investigation. He and Stokes would have to, at some point, draw a line and curtail her involvement, although he’d yet to fathom exactly how.
Regardless, until she reached the point beyond which it was unsafe for her to go, he saw no real benefit in attempting to rein her in.
Stokes focused on him. “I got your note about the Carters. I had cause to visit Aldgate watch house this morning, and discussed the situation with the sergeant there.” He glanced at Penelope. “We have to exercise caution so that we don’t alert those involved to our interest in them—if we do, we’ll lose all chance of rescuing the boys already taken. If Mrs. Carter’s death is imminent, then mounting an around-the-clock watch would possibly be worth the risk—possibly.” He locked eyes with Penelope. “Do you know if she’s expected to die soon?”