Barnaby knew the instant she snapped free; he had to fight the urge to shift his lips to the left—so they could meet hers, those lush, ripe lips that haunted him. Instead, with his lips he brushed the rim of her ear—and felt a sensual shiver sweep through her, sensed her momentary pause, that instant when he succeeded in resuborning her wits.
The feel of her in his arms, soft, feminine, yet vibrantly alive, curvaceous yet supple, was distracting, a revelation he hadn’t expected. The way she fitted so snugly against him as if she were made just for him fed that notion hovering at the edge of his consciousness, giving it more substance, more life.
Given their disguises, the relative roles they’d claimed, and that notion, he had to fight the compulsive urge to take what his alter ego would have—her lips, her mouth. Her.
While a part of his brain watched the activity across the lane, most was engaged in battling his instincts, in holding them down, keeping them back. Leashed. Controlled.
Predictably, she didn’t stay distracted for long. “Don’t,” he hissed, sensing she was about to struggle.
She dragged in a breath, then hissed back through clenched teeth, “You’re only doing this to pay me back for insisting on coming today.”
As if he needed the internal turmoil. “Think what you will,” he growled. “All that matters is that they believe our performance.”
He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her more fully against him; bending his head farther, he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear—and heard her gasp. Felt the resistance in her hands, pressed against his chest, ease, fade.
He inhaled, and the fragrance that was her wreathed through his brain. Sank to his bones. Her hair, sleek, dark, and silken, smelled of sunshine. He gritted his teeth against the inevitable effect, and whispered, “Someone’s coming out.”
He spread his hands on her back, shifted his head so that it appeared as if he were devouring her. At the very least kissing her witless, into submission—as the more primitive side of him wished he was.
She didn’t struggle. After a moment, he murmured, his tone dry, “It appears we can cross Sid Lewis off our list.”
“Why?”
Lifting his head, he eased his hold on her, setting her back on her feet but keeping her facing him. He studied the three men who’d come out of the hovel. “Unless I miss my guess, Sid Lewis is looking to shore up his position with God. Unlikely he’d be running a burglary school while entertaining the local vicar.”
She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, then faced him again. “Sid Lewis is the short bald one.” She’d extracted a description from one of the stallholders. “He looks ill.”
“Which explains his sudden interest in religion.” The man was leaning heavily on a cane. They could hear his wheezing from where they stood.
“Come on.” Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he nudged her out of the doorway and started back up the lane. “Let’s find Stokes. We’ve still got three others to investigate today.”
They came up with Stokes and Griselda close to the southern end of the market. On hearing their report on Sid Lewis, Stokes grimaced. “Figgs is out of contention, too. He’s in Newgate. That leaves us with Jessup and Joe Gannon in this area. Jessup, by all accounts, is a dangerous customer.”
He met Barnaby’s eyes.
“In that case, we’ll just have to exercise greater caution.” Penelope was glancing around. “Where should we try next?”
Stokes looked at Griselda. “How about stopping at a tavern for some lunch?”
The suggestion met with approval all around. Griselda suggested a public house she knew of on the corner of Old Montague Street and Brick Lane. “It’s supposed to have more reliable food, and we have to head up Brick Lane anyway—the market stalls there are the most likely place for us to learn about Jessup and confirm Gannon’s address.”
They trooped back to Wentworth Street and cut across to Brick Lane, to the Delford Arms. The door to the taproom was set wide; after one glance inside, Stokes and Barnaby drew Griselda and Penelope on a few paces past the door. There were rough-hewn trestles with benches set on the pavement on either side of the entrance; most were occupied, but people were coming and going constantly.
“You two wait here,” Stokes said. “We’ll get the food and come back.” He looked at the tables. “With luck, one will be free by then.”
Griselda and Penelope nodded and dutifully waited, watching as their two cavaliers turned and entered the pub. Having seen the jostling throng in the tap, neither had been keen to brave it. Nevertheless…“They seem to share a penchant for giving orders,” Penelope observed.
“Indeed,” Griselda replied, distinctly dry. “I’ve noticed.”
They both smiled, and continued to wait.
Having spent the last hours immersed in a constant babel of East End accents, Penelope’s ear had improved significantly. She was indulging her skill, idly listening to the conversation of the four old but still hulking men hunched over the nearest trestle, empty plates spread before them, pint pots in their gnarled hands, when she heard the name “Jessup.” She blinked, and listened harder.
After a moment, she nudged Griselda. When Griselda glanced at her, she indicated the table with her eyes. Griselda looked, then looked back at her, brows rising; the men were still talking, but no longer about anything relevant.
Penelope was about to turn and whisper when Barnaby reappeared, two plates piled with steaming shells in his hands. Just behind him, Stokes balanced a jug and four glasses on a tray.
At that moment, two men who’d been seated at the table next to the men who’d mentioned Jessup rose and shuffled away. Two others, in the dark, dusty coats of clerks, were still seated close by the wall.
Penelope grabbed Barnaby and steered him to that table. He glanced at her, but did as she wished. While he set down the plates and then slid along the bench, leaving the open end for her, she turned to Stokes and Griselda and whispered, “Those men”—surreptitiously she pointed at the next table—“mentioned Jessup. They were talking about something illegal, but I couldn’t make out what.”
Griselda glanced at the men again, then looked at Stokes. “I know one of them. I think he’ll talk to me. Don’t interrupt, or even look across. He’s a leery sort, but he’s known me and my family all my life.”
Stokes hesitated, then, features hardening, nodded. He went to the bench and slid along it, opposite Barnaby, leaving the position at the end, closest to the men in question, for Griselda.
Both she and Penelope sat.
Griselda glanced around as she settled her skirts, as if checking who was at her back. She started to turn back, but then stopped. Leaning to the side, she openly peered around the man directly behind her at the older man sitting opposite. “Uncle Charlie?”
The man she’d addressed stared at her for a moment, then his face creased in a smile. “Young Grizzy, ain’t it? Haven’t seen you in a good long while. Heard tell you’d moved up town and taken up making hats for the nobs.” Shrewd eyes took in her less-than-prosperous attire. “Not doing so well these days?”
Griselda grimaced. “Fashions come and go. Turned out it wasn’t such a good lark as I’d thought.”
“So you’re back home, then. How’s yer da? Heard he’s not so well these days.”
“He’s so-so. Doing well enough.” Smiling easily, she asked after his family—the perfect way to ease into the world of local crime. The other men joined in, throwing information her way when she explained she’d only recently returned to the area; talking about crime was a local sport.
She bided her time; if at all possible, she didn’t want to ask about Jessup directly. Remembering the man’s reputation, his status among local criminals, and the fact they’d mentioned him at all, she eventually ventured, “So have there been any changes among the bigger villains recently?”
Charlie scrunched up his face as if thinking. “Only recent change would be Jessup. You’ll remember h
im. Used to be big in burglary and such like. Taken himself off to Tothill Fields, he has, and set himself up in the usual trade.” The “usual trade” in Tothill Fields meant prostitution.
It required no effort to look suitably interested. Especially as the information allowed her to say, “That must leave a bit of a hole hereabouts. Any word on who’s filling it?”
Charlie laughed. “You’re right about the hole, but there’s no word of anyone rushing in to take advantage. Then again, it’s the off-season. No doubt there’ll be more activity come next year.”
Stokes, beside her, roughly nudged her. Without looking around, he growled, “You’d best get to this, if you want any.”
She shot him a glance, realized he was telling her to stop her questioning. Turning back to Uncle Charlie and the other three men, she smiled. “I’d best eat, or I’ll miss out.”
They all chuckled and bobbed their heads in farewell.
Still smiling, Griselda swiveled back to face the others. “Well,” she said, “that was interesting.”
“Eat.” Stokes pushed the plate of steaming mussels and whelks toward her.
She glanced at him, aware of the dark tension still gripping his large frame, curious over what had caused it. But there was nothing—no clue—to be found in his face. With a mental shrug, she reached for a mussel. Lifting her spoon, she deftly opened the shell and scooped the mollusk in its warm juices into her mouth.
From across the table, Penelope watched, through narrowed eyes, admiring Griselda’s confident wielding of the spoon. If anyone had told her, survivor of countless ton dinner parties that she was, accustomed to dealing with courses and cutlery of every conceivable type, that one day she’d be defeated by a simple spoon and a shell, she’d have scoffed.
But so it had proved.
Her fingers just didn’t seem large enough, or strong enough, to hold the shell and insert and twist the spoon, at least not simultaneously.
She’d been reduced to accepting food from Barnaby’s hand—a fact he, and Stokes, found amusing. They hadn’t actually grinned, but she’d detected the expressions in their eyes, and she knew. Men!
Holding out her hand palm up, she waited until Barnaby set another opened mussel into it. Gripping the shell, she had to concentrate to scoop the flesh up and into her mouth without disaster, but that, at least, she could manage; if she’d had to let Barnaby feed her with a spoon, she would have lost her appetite.
Which would have been a pity. She’d never eaten such fare in her life—never sat outside in a crowded street to dine—but the little morsels of seafood were delicious, and she’d discovered she was seriously hungry.
She’d only taken a tiny sip of the ale; to her it tasted very bitter. Barnaby and Stokes, however, between them drained the jug.
Griselda quickly accounted for her share of the mussels and whelks. There were no napkins; Penelope noted the others wiped their mouths with their cuffs. Tugging the cuff of her shirt down so she could grip it, she did the same.
“You missed a drop.”
She glanced around, and found Barnaby studying her face. Before she could ask where, he raised a hand and brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth.
The frisson that raced through her shocked her. Had she been standing, it would have brought her to her knees.
“There.” His eyes slowly rose and met hers. There was heat in the blue orbs, more than enough to steal her breath.
He held her gaze for a moment, and there was nothing remotely soft or gentle in his eyes.
Then his lids lowered; he smiled and eased back. With a wave, he encouraged her off the bench and to her feet.
She found herself upright, blinking, trying to get her bearings in what suddenly seemed a shifting landscape.
Stokes and Griselda—who glanced back and waved at her uncle Charlie and his mates—led the way up the street; his hand burning her back, then sliding around to rest possessively at her hip, Barnaby steered her in their wake.
She reminded herself that he was only doing it—all those unnerving, disconcerting touches—to make her regret insisting on participating in the day’s events.
Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t diminish the effect of said actions on her nerves, her senses.
They wended their way through Brick Lane market in much the same manner as in Petticoat Lane, but while the cheery stallholders in Petticoat Lane had offered a wide variety of wares for sale, fabrics and leather goods predominating, the Brick Lane stalls were peopled by sly-eyed characters, and fully half their goods remained concealed beneath the counter. Said goods were mostly ornaments or jewelry, or tatty furniture and bric-a-brac. Many of the trestles set out on the pavement were intended to lure customers into the gloomy sheds behind. Curious, Penelope ventured into one, and found it piled to the rafters with what appeared to be generations of musty old furniture, none of which would fare well in the light of day.
The owner, spotting her, came hurrying toward her, unctuously smiling. Looming at her shoulder, Barnaby scowled, grabbed her arm, and hauled her away.
It was Griselda who learned more of Joe Gannon, confirming that his present business premises were located in a building on Spital Street. He apparently specialized in “selling old stuff.” He was the last of the four sure to be known by those in the markets; although they kept their ears peeled, and Griselda did ask, they learned nothing of the other five men on Stokes’s list.
The afternoon was waning when they regrouped at the north end of Brick Lane.
Stokes looked at Barnaby. “We’ve learned all we can from around here.” He tipped his head to the east. “Spital Street’s not far. I’m going to go and check that address we have for Gannon. He might be there. He might have moved.” Stokes shrugged. “I’ll go and see.”
“I’ll come with you.” Griselda waited for Stokes to meet her eyes. “We can see what the place is like—if it’s a shop it’ll be easy enough to walk in and look around.”
“I’ll come, too,” Penelope stated. “If there’s any chance the missing boys are there, I should be present.”
She looked not at Stokes but at Barnaby. His expression hard, lips compressed, he met her gaze. He wanted to argue, but recognized the futility. Curtly, he nodded, then looked at Stokes. “We’ll all go.”
They turned off Brick Lane into narrower streets that were more like passages with the upper stories of the buildings frequently meeting overhead. Reaching Spital Street, they walked along, Stokes with Griselda, her arm linked with his, in front, Penelope and Barnaby, his arm around her shoulders, following a few yards behind.
The directions they’d been given led them to an old wooden house. Narrow, its timbers faded, the windows shuttered, it fronted directly onto the street. There were two rickety stories and an attic above, no basement; an alley, just wide enough to allow a man to pass, ran down one side. There was no sign declaring it a shop of any kind, but the door was wedged ajar.
They strolled past, but saw no signs of life.
Stokes halted farther on. He and Griselda spoke, then he waited for Barnaby and Penelope to reach them. “We’ll go inside. Why don’t you two wait out here, just in case our inquiries lead to any action.”
Barnaby nodded. He moved to lounge against a nearby wall, taking Penelope with him, his hand gripping her waist, anchoring her beside him. She rolled her eyes, but forbore to comment.
Stokes and Griselda crossed the street and disappeared into the house.
A minute ticked past. Penelope shifted her weight from one foot to the other—and immediately decided not to do so again. The movement had rubbed her hip against Barnaby’s thigh. She studiously ignored the resultant wash of heat beneath her skin, and sternly lectured her witless senses to stop swooning.
They stood directly opposite the alleyway alongside the building. Staring down the length of the side wall, she noticed an irregularity.
She stepped forward. “There’s a side door.”
Whether she’d surprised Bar
naby, or had simply broken his grip, his hand slipped from her waist. Taking advantage, she hurried across the lane and plunged into the alley. She heard him swear as he followed her. But the alley was clearly empty; she was patently not rushing into danger, so while he quickly closed the gap between them, he didn’t try to catch her and pull her back.
Nearing the side door, she slowed, wondering if it led into the shop, or was another premises entirely. Caution had already laid its hand on her spine when the door cracked open, then quietly swung wide enough to allow a man to slip out. His back was to them. Peering into the building, he started to shut the door, easing it closed.
“Mr. Gannon?”
The man jumped and swore. He whirled around, flattening himself against the side of the house.
Penelope frowned at him. “I take it you are Mr. Joe Gannon, and that being so, we have some questions for you.”
Gannon blinked. He looked at Penelope, and regained some of his color. But then he looked past her at Barnaby, looming at her shoulder, and transparently didn’t know what to think. Warily, he asked, “Oo might be asking?”
Penelope replied without hesitation, “I’m asking with the full weight of the Metropolitan Police.”
Gannon’s eyes went wide. “The perlice?” He tried to see past them, then glanced the other way, to the other end of the alley. “’Ere—I ain’t done nuthin’.”
“That would be physically impossible.” Penelope planted her hands on her hips; she’d dropped her disguise, and was now very much the haughty, demanding, commanding lady, which was what was confusing Gannon so much. “Don’t lie to me, sir.” Leaning forward, she all but wagged her finger in his face. “What do you know of Dick Monger?”
Gannon blinked, thoroughly rattled. “Oo?”
“He’s about this tall”—Penelope held a hand at shoulder height—“a towheaded lad. Do you have him in your employ?”
She rapped the question out; Gannon all but recoiled.
“No! Only lad I got is me sister’s—me nevvy. Right layabout he is, too. What would I want wif another? ’Specially if he’s wanted by the rozzers.” Clearly out of his depth, Gannon looked to Barnaby as if he were a lifeline. “’Ere—if you’re one of them rozzers in disguise, you shouldn’t let a female like this loose. She’s dangerous.”