Barnaby watched as she delved into her memory; her dark gaze turned inward, her features smoothed, losing some of their characteristic vitality.
She drew breath; her gaze fixed on the fire as if she were reading from the flames. “The first was from Chicksand Street in Spitalfields, off Brick Lane north of the Whitechapel Road. He was eight years old, or so his uncle told us. He, the uncle, was dying, and…”
Barnaby listened as she, not entirely to his surprise, did precisely as he’d requested and recited the details of each occurrence, chapter and verse. Other than an occasional minor query, he didn’t have to prod her or her memory.
He was accustomed to dealing with ladies of the ton, to interrogating young ladies whose minds skittered and wandered around subjects, and flitted and danced around facts, so that it took the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Jove to gain any understanding of what they actually knew.
Penelope Ashford was a different breed. He’d heard that she was something of a firebrand, one who paid scant attention to social restraints if said restraints stood in her way. He’d heard her described as too intelligent for her own good, and direct and forthright to a fault, that combination of traits being popularly held to account for her unmarried state.
As she was remarkably attractive in an unusual way—not pretty or beautiful but so vividly alive she effortlessly drew men’s eyes—as well as being extremely well connected, the daughter of a viscount, and with her brother, Luc, the current titleholder, eminently wealthy and able to dower her more than appropriately, that popular judgment might well be correct. Yet her sister Portia had recently married Simon Cynster, and while Portia might perhaps be more subtle in her dealings, Barnaby recalled that the Cynster ladies, judges he trusted in such matters, saw little difference between Portia and Penelope beyond Penelope’s directness.
And, if he was remembering aright, her utterly implacable will.
From what little he’d seen of the sisters, he, too, would have said that Portia would bend, or at least agree to negotiate, far earlier than Penelope.
“And just as with the others, when we went to Herb Lane to fetch Dick this morning, he was gone. He’d been collected by this mystery man at seven o’clock, barely after dawn.”
Her story concluded, she shifted her dark, compelling eyes from the flames to his face.
Barnaby held her gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded. “So somehow these people—let’s assume it’s one group collecting these boys—”
“I can’t see it being more than one group. We’ve never had this happen before, and now four instances in less than a month, and all with the same modus operandi.” Brows raised, she met his eyes.
Somewhat tersely, he said, “Precisely. As I was saying, these people, whoever they are, seem to know of your potential charges—”
“Before you suggest that they might be learning of the boys through someone at the Foundling House, let me assure you that’s highly unlikely. If you knew the people involved, you’d understand why I’m so sure of that. And indeed, although I’ve come to you with our four cases, there’s nothing to say other newly orphaned boys in the East End aren’t also disappearing. Most orphans aren’t brought to our attention. There may be many more vanishing, but who is there who would sound any alarm?”
Barnaby stared at her while the scenario she was describing took shape in his mind.
“I had hoped,” she said, the light glinting off her spectacles as she glanced down and smoothed her gloves, “that you might agree to look into this latest disappearance, seeing as Dick was whisked away only this morning. I do realize that you generally investigate crimes involving the ton, but I wondered, as it is November and most of us have upped stakes for the country, whether you might have time to consider our problem.” Looking up, she met his gaze; there was nothing remotely diffident in her eyes. “I could, of course, pursue the matter myself—”
Barnaby only just stopped himself from reacting.
“But I thought enlisting someone with more experience in such matters might lead to a more rapid resolution.”
Penelope held his gaze and hoped he was as quick-witted as he was purported to be. Then again, in her experience, it rarely hurt to be blunt. “To be perfectly clear, Mr. Adair, I am here seeking aid in pursuing our lost charges, rather than merely wishing to inform someone of their disappearance and thereafter wash my hands of them. I fully intend to search for Dick and the other three boys until I find them. Not being a simpleton, I would prefer to have beside me someone with experience of crime and the necessary investigative methods. Moreover, while through our work we naturally have contacts in the East End, few if any of those move among the criminal elements, so my ability to gain information in that arena is limited.”
Halting, she searched his face. His expression gave little away; his broad brow, straight brown eyebrows, strong, well-delineated cheekbones, the rather austere lines of cheek and jaw, remained set and unrevealing.
She spread her hands. “I’ve described our situation—will you help us?”
To her irritation, he didn’t immediately reply. Didn’t leap in, goaded to action by the notion of her tramping through the East End by herself.
He didn’t, however, refuse. For a long moment, he studied her, his expression unreadable—long enough for her to wonder if he’d seen through her ploy—then he shifted, resettling his shoulders against the chair, and gestured to her in invitation. “How do you imagine our investigation would proceed?”
She hid her smile. “I thought, if you were free, you might visit the Foundling House tomorrow, to get some idea of the way we work and the type of children we take in. Then…”
Barnaby listened while she outlined an eminently rational strategy that would expose him to the basic facts, enough to ascertain where an investigation might lead, and consequently how best to proceed.
Watching the sensible, logical words fall from her ruby lips—still lush and ripe, still distracting—only confirmed that Penelope Ashford was dangerous. Every bit as dangerous as her reputation suggested, possibly more.
In his case undoubtedly more, given his fascination with her lips.
In addition, she was offering him something no other young lady had ever thought to wave before his nose.
A case. Just when he was in dire need of one.
“Once we’ve talked to the neighbors who saw Dick taken away, I’m hoping you’ll be able to suggest some way forward from there.”
Her lips stopped moving. He raised his gaze to her eyes. “Indeed.” He hesitated; it was patently obvious that she had every intention of playing an active role in the ensuing investigation. Given he knew her family, he was unquestionably honor-bound to dissuade her from such a reckless endeavor, yet equally unquestionably, any suggestion she retreat to the hearth and leave him to chase the villains would meet with stiff opposition. He inclined his head. “As it happens I’m free tomorrow. Perhaps I could meet you at the Foundling House in the morning?”
He’d steer her out of the investigation after he had all the facts, after he’d learned everything she knew about this strange business.
She smiled brilliantly, once again disrupting his thoughts.
“Excellent!” Penelope gathered her gloves and muff, and stood. She’d gained what she wanted; it was time to leave. Before he could say anything she didn’t want to hear. Best not to get into any argument now. Not yet.
He rose and waved her to the door. She led the way, pulling on her gloves. He had the loveliest hands she’d ever seen on a man, long-fingered, elegant, and utterly distracting. She’d remembered them from before, which was why she hadn’t offered to shake his hand.
He walked beside her across his front hall. “Is your carriage outside?”
“Yes.” Halting before the front door, she glanced up at him. “It’s waiting outside the house next door.”
His lips twitched. “I see.” His man was hovering; he waved him back and reached for the doorknob. “I’ll walk y
ou to it.”
She inclined her head. When he opened the door, she walked out onto the narrow front porch. Her nerves flickered as he joined her; large and rather overpoweringly male, he escorted her down the three steps to the pavement, then along to where her brother’s town carriage stood, the coachman patient and resigned on the box.
Adair reached for the carriage door, opened it, and offered his hand. Holding her breath, she gave him her fingers—and tried hard not to register the sensation of her slender digits being engulfed by his much larger ones, tried not to notice the warmth of his firm clasp as he helped her up into the carriage.
And failed.
She didn’t—couldn’t—breathe until he released her hand. She sank onto the leather seat, managed a smile and a nod. “Thank you, Mr. Adair. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Through the enveloping gloom he studied her, then he raised his hand in salute, stepped back, and closed the door.
The coachman jigged his reins and the carriage jerked forward, then settled to a steady roll. With a sigh, Penelope sat back and smiled into the darkness. Satisfied, and a trifle smug. She’d recruited Barnaby Adair to her cause, and despite her unprecedented attack of sensibility had managed the encounter without revealing her affliction.
All in all, her night had been a success.
Barnaby stood in the street, in the wreathing fog, and watched the carriage roll away. Once the rattle of its wheels had faded, he grinned and turned back to his door.
Climbing his front steps, he realized his mood had lifted. His earlier despondency had vanished, replaced with a keen anticipation for what the morrow would bring.
And for that he had Penelope Ashford to thank.
Not only had she brought him a case, one outside his normal arena and therefore likely to challenge him and expand his knowledge, but even more importantly that case was one not even his mother would disapprove of his pursuing.
Mentally composing the letter he would pen to his parent first thing the next morning, he entered his house whistling beneath his breath and let Mostyn bolt the door behind him.
2
Good morning, Mr. Adair. Miss Ashford told us to expect you. She’s in the office. If you’ll come this way?”
Barnaby stepped over the threshold of the Foundling House and waited while the neatly dressed middle-aged woman who’d opened the heavy front door in response to his knock closed it and secured a high latch.
Turning away, she beckoned; he followed in her wake as she led him across a wide foyer and down a long corridor with rooms opening to left and right. Their footsteps on the black-and-white tiles echoed faintly; the unadorned walls were a pale creamy yellow. Structurally the house seemed in excellent order, but there was no hint of even modest ornamentation—no paintings on the walls or rugs upon the tiles.
Nothing to soften or disguise the reality that this was an institution.
A brief survey of the building from across the street had revealed a large, older-style mansion, painted white, three stories with attics above, a central block flanked by two wings, with large graveled yards in front of each wing separated from the pavement by a wrought-iron fence. A straight, narrow path led from the heavy front gate to the front porch.
Everything Barnaby had seen of the structure screamed solid practicality.
He refocused on the woman ahead of him. Although she wasn’t wearing a uniform, she reminded him of the matron at Eton with her quick, purposeful stride, and the way her head turned to scan each room as they passed, checking those inside.
He looked into the rooms, too, and saw groups of children of various ages either seated at desks or in groups on the floor, listening with rapt attention to women, and in one case a man, reading or teaching.
Long before the woman he was following slowed, then halted before a doorway, he’d started making additions to his mental notes on Penelope Ashford. It was the sight of the children—their faces ruddy and round, features undistinguished, their hair neat but unstyled, their clothes decent but of the lowest station—all so very different from the children he or she would normally have any dealings with that opened his eyes.
In championing such powerless, vulnerable innocents from a social stratum so very far removed from her own, Penelope wasn’t indulging in some simple, altruistic gesture; in stepping so far beyond the bounds of what society deemed appropriate in charitable works for ladies of her rank, she was—he felt certain knowingly—risking society’s disapprobation.
Sarah’s orphanage and her association with it wasn’t the same as what Penelope was doing here. Sarah’s children were country-bred, children of farmworkers and local families who lived, worked, or interacted with the gentry’s estates; in caring for them, an element of noblesse oblige was involved. But the children here were from the slums and teeming tenements of London; in no way connected with the aristocracy, their families eked out a living however they could, in whatever way they could.
And some of those ways wouldn’t bear polite scrutiny.
The woman he’d followed gestured through the doorway. “Miss Ashford is in the inner office, sir. If you’ll go through?”
Barnaby paused on the threshold of the anteroom. Inside, a prim young woman was sitting, head down, at a small desk in front of a phalanx of closed cabinets, busily sorting through a stack of papers. Smiling slightly, Barnaby thanked his escort, then walked across the room to the inner sanctum.
Its door, too, stood open.
On silent feet, he approached and paused, looking in. Penelope’s office—the brass plaque on the door read HOUSE ADMINISTRATOR—was a severe, undecorated, white-walled square. It contained two tall cabinets against one wall, and a large desk set before a window with two straight-backed chairs facing it.
Penelope sat in the chair behind the desk, her concentration fixed on a sheaf of papers. A slight frown had drawn her dark brows into an almost horizontal line above the bridge of her straight little nose.
Her lips, he noted, were compressed into a firm, rather forbidding line.
She was wearing a dark blue walking dress; the deep hue emphasized her porcelain complexion and the lustrous bounty of her richly brown hair. He took due note of the glints of red in the heavy mass.
Raising a hand, he rapped one knuckle on the door. “Miss Ashford?”
She looked up. For one instant, both her gaze and expression remained blank, then she blinked, refocused, and waved him in. “Mr. Adair. Welcome to the Foundling House.”
No smile, Barnaby noted; she was all business. He told himself that was refreshing.
His own expression easy, he walked forward to stand beside one chair. “Perhaps you could show me around the place, and you could answer my questions as we walk.”
She considered him, then glanced at the papers before her. He could almost hear her mentally debating whether to send him on a tour with her assistant, but then her lips—those ruby lips that had eased back to their natural fascinating fullness—firmed again. Laying aside her pen, she stood. “Indeed. The sooner we can find our missing boys, the better.”
Coming around the desk, she walked briskly out of the room; brows rising faintly, he turned and followed—once again in a woman’s wake, although this time his guide did not figure in his mind as the least bit matronly.
She nevertheless managed a commendable bustle as she crossed the outer office. “This is my assistant, Miss Marsh. She was once a foundling herself, and now works here ensuring all our files and paperwork are in order.”
Barnaby smiled at the mousy young woman; she colored and bobbed her head, then refixed her attention on her papers. Following Penelope into the corridor, Barnaby reflected that the denizens of the Foundling House were unlikely to encounter many tonnish gentlemen within their walls.
Lengthening his stride, he caught up with Penelope; she was leading him deeper into the house, striding along almost mannishly, clearly dismissive of the currently fashionable glide. He glanced at her face. “Do you have many l
adies of the ton involved in your work here?”
“Not many.” After a moment, she elaborated. “Quite a few come—they hear of it from me, Portia, or the others, or our mothers and aunts, and call intending to offer their services.”
Halting at the intersection with another corridor leading into one wing, she faced him. “They come, they look—and then they go away. Most have a vision of playing Lady Bountiful to suitably grateful urchins.” A wicked light gleamed in her eyes; turning, she gestured down the wing. “That’s not what they find here.”
Even before they reached the open door three doors down the corridor, the cacophany was evident.
Penelope pushed the door wide. “Boys!”
The noise ended so abruptly the silence rang.
Ten boys ranging in age from eight or so to twelvish stood frozen, caught in the throes of a general wrestling match. Eyes wide, mouths acock, they took in who had entered, then quickly disengaged, jostling to line up and summoning innocent smiles that regardless appeared quite genuine. “Good morning, Miss Ashford,” they chorused.
Penelope bent a stern look on them. “Where is Mr. Englehart?”
The boys exchanged glances, then one, the biggest, volunteered, “He just stepped out for a minute, miss.”
“And I’m sure he left you with work to do, didn’t he?”
The boys nodded. Without another word, they turned to their desks, righting the two that had been upended. Picking up chalks and slates, they sat on the benches and resumed their work; glancing over a few shoulders, Barnaby saw they were learning to add and subtract.
The sound of swift footsteps echoed down the corridor; an instant later, a neatly dressed man of about thirty appeared in the doorway.
He took in the boys and Penelope, then grinned. “For a minute I thought they must have killed each other.”
A few smothered chuckles escaped from the class. With a nod for Penelope, and a curious look for Barnaby, Englehart moved to the front of the room. “Come along, lads—three more sets of sums and you can take your turn outside.”