Griselda glanced at him. “Miss Ashford and Adair.”
She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. “Yes, Imogen, I know. Please tell them to come up—they know the way.”
A moment later Penelope appeared, followed by Barnaby.
Penelope’s eyes widened when she saw Stokes. “There you are! We called at Scotland Yard, but you were out.”
Stokes colored faintly. “I spent longer than I expected at Liverpool Street.” He glanced at Barnaby. “We’ve put out an alert to all the watch houses in London, giving Jemmie’s description. Soon everyone in the force will know we want him—if he’s seen on the streets, there’s a chance he’ll be picked up.”
Barnaby grimaced. “Unfortunately, if he’s been snatched for a burglary school he may not be on the streets—not until he’s sent out to work.”
And once a boy participated in a crime, disentangling him from the legal system would become problematic.
Griselda waved them to sit. They did, all sober, not to say deflated.
Barnaby looked at Stokes. “We spoke with everyone up and down the street. We had one stroke of luck.” He explained what Jenks had seen.
Stokes nodded. “It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. That fits with the time the doctor thinks she was killed, so they most likely are the villains responsible.” He thought, then added, “I’ll stop by Liverpool Street on my way back and get them to send that description out, too. Neither man may be all that recognizable on his own, but together…the description might be more useful than it sounds.”
“True,” Barnaby said, “but finding the boys is becoming urgent. They have five that we know of, but there may be more—boys we haven’t heard about. We can’t just wait for information to come in.”
“Exactly the point I was making when you arrived.” Griselda leaned forward. “I was intending to visit my father tomorrow to see if he’d heard anything more about the five names still on our list. I’ll do that first thing, then depending on what he’s heard, I’ll ask around and see if I can learn anything definite.” She looked at Stokes. “If I think I’ve found the school’s location, I’ll send word.”
“You won’t have to send word—I’ll be with you.” When Griselda opened her mouth, Stokes held up a staying hand. “As I told you before, if you’re going out on police business and there’s any risk attached—which there definitely is—then I have to be there, too.”
Griselda narrowed her eyes, but then inclined her head. “Very well.”
“We’ll come, too.” Penelope pushed up from the depths of the sofa. “We’ll get through looking much quicker—”
“No.” Barnaby laid a hand on her arm. When she looked at him, he met her eyes. “You have another avenue to pursue.” When she looked puzzled, he said, “The files, remember?”
She blinked. “Oh. Yes.” She looked at Stokes. “I’d forgotten.”
Stokes frowned. “What files?”
“At the Foundling House,” Barnaby said. “Remember our earlier thought about setting a trap using some boy who was the right sort and whose guardian was about to die?” When Stokes nodded, he continued, “That plan fell by the wayside because the only boy like that in the files was Jemmie, and it transpired his mother wasn’t likely to die for months.
“However”—his tone hardened—“given what’s happened with Jemmie, that suggests their need for boys is urgent, enough for them not to blink at bringing ailing guardians’ lives to a premature end.”
Stokes’s expression sharpened. “So if you can find another boy of the right physical sort, with an ailing guardian who’s expected to die at some date, there’s a chance…” He paused, looking inward, then he focused on Penelope. “If you can find a boy like that in the East End, I’ll guarantee the police will keep him safe. We’ll have a constant watch placed on him—if these villains come calling, we’ll have them. Even if I have to do the watching myself.”
Penelope saw the commitment blazing in Stokes’s eyes; she glanced at Griselda, saw a quieter version infusing her, and suddenly felt a great deal better. She was even prepared to leave the searching to them and Barnaby while she plowed through the mountains of files.
Barnaby sighed. “How many files are there?”
She glanced at him. “You saw the last lot—multiply by ten.”
He looked at Stokes. “It might be a better division of labor if I helped Penelope go through the files. If we find a likely candidate, I’ll send word.”
Stokes met his eyes; after a moment, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. We’ll search on the ground, you two search the files.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes, first on Stokes, then on Barnaby, and wondered whether it was entirely her imagination that there’d been some other communication in that exchange, one that had run beneath their words.
Regardless, they now had their appointed tasks; leaving Stokes and Griselda making arrangements about where to meet, she and Barnaby went downstairs and out onto the street.
Again they had to walk around the church to find a hackney. As they passed the spot where they’d had their previous afternoon’s altercation—and he’d kissed her—a wave of consciousness swept her. It felt like tingles spreading under her skin, leaving her nerve endings tantalized, sensitized.
It helped not at all that a gentleman chose that moment to walk along the same stretch in the opposite direction. As he neared, Barnaby steered her to the side—his large strong hand burning her back, his body a shield between her and the unknown.
She bit her lip and forced herself not to react. That simple touch was an instinctive act, one gentlemen like he performed for ladies such as she. Usually it meant nothing…yet to her it did. The courtesy might be a common one, but it wasn’t one gentlemen used on her. She didn’t normally allow it—because it smacked of protection and she knew where that led.
They continued around the corner, and his hand fell away. Lifting her head, she eased out the breath trapped in her lungs. She wasn’t going to say anything, call any attention to the disturbing effect such little attentions from him had on her. While in light of their previous night’s discussion she might wonder if he was doing it on purpose, to wear down her resistance, she had no proof that was so—and she would certainly appear irrational if she protested on such grounds.
He raised an arm and summoned a hackney. Waiting beside him, she cast him a sidelong glance. Another reason she wasn’t going to say anything was because she needed him to help her rescue Jemmie.
That was her first and most important consideration, one that overrode any missish need to put distance between them. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, cutting off all contact was simply not possible.
When the hackney pulled up and he offered his hand, she calmly placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her in.
Sinking onto the padded seat beside her, Barnaby had no difficulty hiding his smile. She might be as transparent as glass, at least over her reaction to him and his touch, but he wasn’t such a fool as to take her—or her indomitable will—for granted. She was skittish and so aware; to win her he would need to play the age-old game very carefully.
Luckily, he thrived on challenge.
The carriage rolled swiftly toward Mayfair. After some time, her uncharacteristic silence registered. He glanced at her; her face was half turned toward the window, but what he could see of her expression was serene…which meant she was planning something.
“What?”
She looked at him; when she didn’t bother asking what he was referring to, he knew he’d read her abstraction correctly.
She considered him, then said, “Jemmie’s out there somewhere, alone in a sense, and probably afraid. I’m not inclined to wait until tomorrow to start searching for the next boy they’re likely to take. You said it yourself, there’s clearly some urgency over getting more boys—every hour we wait is time we can’t afford to waste.” She met his gaze steadily. “Unfortunately, I’m committed to accomp
anying my mother to a musicale this evening.”
The faint arching of one brow echoed the question in her tone.
Rather than appear too eager—too happy to fall in with her plans—he looked forward, then sighed. “I’ll meet you there, and we can slip away. Lord knows they never notice who’s there and who isn’t once the caterwauling starts, but we’ll have to keep an eye on the clock and get back before it ends.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her wave a dismissive hand. “No need.” With a sangfroid to match his, she stared out of the window. “I’ll develop a headache and claim your escort home. Mama won’t make a fuss. I’ll make sure she won’t check on me when she gets home, either, and Leighton knows to leave the front door on the latch unless he sees me come in.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “Once we leave Lady Throgmorton’s we can spend all night searching the files.”
As offers of how to spend an evening went, he’d had better, but her suggestion would allow him to advance his cause, both with her and in rescuing Jemmie Carter.
He nodded. “Lady Throgmorton’s then, at eight o’clock.”
By eight forty-five that evening they were sitting in Penelope’s office at the Foundling House surrounded by files. Stacks and stacks of them. Barnaby eyed the teetering piles. “There has to be a faster way.”
“Unfortunately there isn’t.”
“What about the files we looked through before—there weren’t as many of them.”
“Those were the files of children in cases where the guardian’s death was considered imminent—in Mrs. Carter’s case her health improved, but I’d already done the formal visit, which is why I remembered Jemmie.”
Seated behind her desk, Penelope surveyed the files—there were over a hundred—that Miss Marsh had gathered and piled on the desk and alongside it. “These are the files of all children registered with us as possible candidates to come here at some point in the future. These represent our unculled waiting list. The last lot of files—there were only a few dozen, if you recall—were the accepted and imminent list.”
Barnaby picked up the top file from the nearest stack. He started flicking through it. “These files are a lot thinner.”
“Because they only contain the initial registration, and at most one note. We haven’t yet followed up, got a doctor’s report, anything—and I haven’t been to visit these families, and neither has Keggs, so we won’t have any physical description of the child to help us.”
His expression grew wary. “What, exactly, are we searching for here?”
“For a boy between seven and eleven years old. One known as a potential orphan.” She ticked the points off on her fingers. “He has to live in the East End. And then we need to check if there’s any mention in the note about the guardian. How ill they are, whether they’re incapacitated or not.” She met his eyes. “I imagine that if they’ve a choice, these villains will target a guardian they can readily overcome.”
“That’s a reasonable guess.”
“Well, then.” She surveyed the files, then looked at him. “Shall we work out a plan of campaign?”
“Please.”
“Let’s work progressively, taking our points in order—you start, and check each file for whether it’s a boy or a girl. Girls set aside, boys pass on to me.” Leaning forward, she pointed to the top right corner of the file he’d reopened. “See there? Boy or girl?”
“Boy. One for you.” He tossed the file on the desk in front of her and reached for the next.
“I’ll check their age and the address.” Pulling the file to her, she opened it. “East End or not.” She frowned and looked up. “Is it likely they’ll extend their reach outside the East End?”
“It’s possible”—he dropped the second file to the floor beside his chair—“but only if they can’t find a suitable boy on their own patch.” He reached for the next file. “Villains tend to stick to specific neighborhoods—like a territory that’s somehow their domain for whatever nefarious purpose.”
She nodded, and checked the address on the file she had—Paddington. Closing the file, she dropped it to the floor by her chair just as Barnaby slid another her way.
They settled into a silent rhythm as the house quieted around them. When they’d arrived, the older children had been awake, and the staff had been about, overseeing them and tucking the younger ones into bed. The sounds of a bustling family, multiplied significantly, echoed along the corridors. But as the clock on top of the cabinet ticked relentlessly on, all such sounds faded, leaving the dry rustling of paper and the occasional slap of a discarded file the only punctuations in the enfolding silence.
When the clock chimed, signifying the half hour, Penelope glanced up and saw it was half past eleven. With a sigh, she dropped the last of the files to be discarded on the latest pile, then studied, as Barnaby was, the small pile that remained on her blotter.
Reaching out, she riffled the spines. “Fifteen.” Fifteen East End boys aged between seven and eleven who were registered as potential foundlings.
Barnaby eyed the discarded files. “I hadn’t any notion there would be so many potential orphans.” He lifted his gaze to her face. “You can’t take in all these.”
She shook her head. “We’d like to, but we can’t. We have to choose.” After a moment, she added, “As it happens, we base our decision on some of the traits these villains look for—quickness of mind, and preferably of body. Size we don’t take into account, but knowing we have to choose, we long ago decided that we had to take the children who would make the most of the opportunities we provide.”
“And that means quick wits and reasonable health.” He reached for the top file of the remaining fifteen. “So now we try to find some indication of the guardian’s physical state.”
Even with only fifteen files to assess, that took time; they had to read not only what was written, but also to some extent between the lines.
In the end, the pile reduced to three. Three boys they both agreed were the only likely targets among all the files they’d waded through.
Hands folded on her desk, Penelope looked at the three files. “I keep worrying that there will be others, boys who haven’t been registered.” She raised her eyes to Barnaby’s face. “What if the villains go after one of them and leave these boys”—she nodded at the files—“alone?”
He grimaced. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take. But so far you’ve lost five of your registered candidates—chances are these boys are, or will become, targets of these villains.” He paused, then added, “We have to assume that and go forward with our plan. There are no certainties, but it’s the best we can do.”
She studied his eyes as if reading his sincerity, then nodded. “You’re right.” Looking down at the files, she sighed. “There’s nothing in these to say if the boys themselves are physically suitable. They might be too big, or clumsy, or…I’ll have to visit them tomorrow and see.”
The clock chimed—one o’clock.
Barnaby rose, rounded the desk, took her hand and drew her to her feet. “We’ll go together tomorrow morning, and take a closer look at these three.”
Reaching across, he turned down the desk lamp they’d set high to give them light enough to read, then capturing both her hands, he drew her to face him. “We’ve accomplished all we can for tonight…on that front.”
She heard his change of direction in his tone. Her eyes widened, searching his. “What…?”
Lips curving, he drew her into his arms, bent his head, and kissed her confusion from her lips. Tasted them, making it clear just what subject he was intent on investigating.
Her. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue.
How she felt in his arms, how she fitted so snugly against him.
He’d anticipated some resistance; instead, all he sensed was a moment of blankness—as if her mind had seized, simply frozen.
Then her lips, already parted when he’d covered them, firmed beneath his—but she didn??
?t try to clamp them shut and deny him; she pressed them more firmly to his and kissed him back.
Definitely—no tentativeness this time. Her sudden change in tack left him mometarily following rather than leading.
Then her hands, braced against his chest, slid up over his shoulders to slip beneath his curls and caress his nape. He had to fight to suppress a shudder, surprised that such a simple touch from her slim fingers on his exposed skin could be so evocative.
But then she stepped into him—and his world quaked.
She pressed against him and yielded her mouth—and he lost touch with his immediate world, transported in a heartbeat to one where his civilized guise was gone and his primitive nature ruled.
He spread his hands on her back, pulled her flush against him. The heat of her response, the offered heat of her mouth, the wanton stroke of her tongue urged him on; he angled his head, laid claim to all she offered, and blatantly, flagrantly, molded her hips to his.
She uttered a soft sound—neither moan, sob, nor gasp but an expression of all three, a sound of encouragement he had no difficulty interpreting; he responded by letting his hands, clamped about her hips, ease and slide down, around, filling his palms with her firm curves. Fingers flexing, he moved her against him, suggestively, provocatively.
And felt her melt.
Felt all resistance, even that telltale tension in her spine, evaporate.
She was his for the taking, and they both knew it.
One small hand slid from his nape to his cheek, pressing along it as she kissed him—every bit as wantonly, as blatantly, as he wished.
Turning, he trapped her against the desk; the edge hit the backs of her thighs. The files littering the expanse were no longer relevant; he reached out to push them away—
Click, click, click.
The clack of heels approaching along the tiled corridor jerked them both back into the world—the one encompassed by her office with its open archway, and the anteroom beyond with its open door.
They broke apart. Barnaby stiffly rounded the desk and dropped into the chair he’d earlier occupied.