She—patently—saw no purpose in any leash. As their passions rose higher, as locked together, arms banding, hands grasping, they rode the moment wildly, far from falling back from him, she only grew more demanding.
Until he simply surrendered, let the leashes fall, and let them both revel in his—and her—unfettered desire.
She gasped; without direction, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his hips, and took him deeper. Urged him deeper still.
Until he felt as if he touched the very sun.
On a smothered scream, she shattered.
And took him with her, her contractions calling on his climax, her powerful, unrestrained release unchaining his, setting it—for what in that glorious instant felt like the first time in his life—totally and utterly free.
In the instant he emptied himself into her, he felt like he’d given her his soul.
Uncounted heartbeats later, he cracked open his eyes and looked down—at her, sprawled beneath him, eyes closed, features passion-blank, except for the glorious smile curving her lips.
He felt his own lips curve in similar sated delight. He withdrew and collapsed beside her, reaching for her to hold her close.
As satiation spread its soft wings about them, he prayed that if he had indeed surrendered his soul, she would agree, at some point soon, to reciprocate and surrender hers.
14
If it hadn’t been for a feline altercation on a nearby wall, it might have fallen to Mostyn to wake them.
Even as, alerted to the encroaching dawn, Barnaby hurried Penelope—who didn’t want to wake up, and wanted even less to leave his bed—to do both, and dress, and let him lead her downstairs, even as he let them both out of the front door and set out to walk her home, some small part of him was disappointed he hadn’t learned how his stultifyingly correct gentleman’s gentleman would have coped.
The chill of predawn penetrated his greatcoat. His brain growing more alert, he decided it was just as well he’d acted on instinct and got Penelope away; he wasn’t at all sure that, had Mostyn encountered her in his bed, his henchman wouldn’t have felt moved to write to his, Barnaby’s, mother.
And that would definitely not do.
Not because his mother might disapprove; what he feared—to his toes—was that she might decide he needed help and descend to offer hers.
Just the thought was enough to make him shudder.
He glanced at Penelope. Her arm linked with his, she was matching his stride—shortened to accommodate hers—but her thoughts were clearly far away. Despite the remarkable vigor of their coupling, she seemed unaffected, untroubled. Indeed, if she’d had her way they would still be in his bed, exploring further.
She’d actually pouted when he’d insisted they had to leave.
Her lips weren’t pouting now. They were relaxed, rosy red, as luscious as ever.
A few paces later, he realized he was staring, fantasizing again. Shaking the salacious images from his head, he faced forward, and focused his thoughts on where they now were, where he wished them to be, and how to get from one point to the other.
Which, as it happened, was also the route to converting his salacious fantasies to realities.
Concentrating wasn’t all that hard.
They’d decided against bothering trying to find a hackney; at this hour, it was likely to be just as fast to walk to Mount Street. In the small hours between the end of one day and the start of the next, there were few people on the streets of Mayfair, either on foot or in carriages.
The night was dark, moonless, at least beneath the November clouds. Although all was quiet, the silence wasn’t absolute; the sleeping rumble of the huge city at night, a blanket of distant, muffled sounds, enveloped them.
They were both used to such city silence; unperturbed, they walked along, wreathed in the drifting fog, both busy with their thoughts.
He had little idea what she might be pondering, or even if she was truly thinking at all. Regardless, he’d been left in no doubt of her response to the night’s developments, which was, in its way, comforting. He didn’t have to wonder if she’d enjoyed it, or if she would be interested in continuing their liaison; she’d already made her views on those matters absolutely clear.
Thinking back…he recalled where they’d been before she’d appeared on his doorstep. Or at least where he’d thought they’d been. He’d thought the next move in their game was his. She, clearly, had been following different rules.
Indeed, now he came to think of it, he didn’t know—had no idea—what had prompted her to call on him, let alone in such an eccentric fashion, cosh in hand.
He glanced at her, eyes narrowing as he pieced together what he knew: that she must have come in her brother’s town carriage—the plain black carriage that had pulled away just before she’d rushed at him—and instructed the coachman to leave her on the street, Jermyn Street at close to midnight. And the coachman had obeyed.
She was a menace; God only knew what potential dangers might have lurked.
“It occurs to me.” He paused until, alerted by the cool steel in his tone, she glanced at him; he caught her eyes. “That your brother clearly fails to exercise sufficient authority, let alone control, over you. Being let out of a carriage in Jermyn Street late at night, rushing up to me wielding a cosh—you had no idea what might have happened. Someone might have seen you, and rushed to my assistance—I might have seen you sooner and struck out with my cane.” The thought made him feel ill. He scowled at her. “Your brother has no business letting you run amok.”
She studied his eyes, then humphed and looked ahead. “Rubbish. My plan worked perfectly well. And as for Luc—he’s the very best of brothers. Even if he is sometimes priggish and stupidly overprotective. He’s always insisted that we could go our own ways, make our own decisions on how to live our lives. He’s allowed us to—even encouraged us to—make our own choices, and because of that you are not allowed to say so much as one word against him.”
He eyed the tip of her nose, which had risen significantly higher; he continued to frown. “That’s a…rather unconventional attitude. I’ve met Luc. He doesn’t seem the sort to be so lenient.”
“You mean he’s the sort who ought to have locked his four sisters in some tower—or at least confined us to Calverton Chase—to be allowed out only after our weddings?”
“To attend your weddings, but not before. Something along those lines.”
She smiled. “I daresay he would have been like that—you’re correct in thinking that’s more his true nature—but Luc himself was almost forced to marry to rescue the family fortunes years ago. He didn’t—he couldn’t—so he worked like the devil at finances and rescued us that way, and then Amelia proposed to him and he’d always wanted to marry her, so everything turned out perfectly in the end, but only because he stuck to his guns and did what he felt he should, not what society thought he ought.”
Barnaby’s frown remained. “Don’t you mean he proposed to Amelia?”
“No. She proposed.” They walked on a few paces, then she added, breaking into his bemusement, “If you must know, that was where I got the idea of rescuing you on your doorstep in order to end in your bedroom with you, alone. Amelia waylaid Luc one night as he was coming home.”
He stared at her. “Did she hit him with a cosh, too?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t have to. Luc was five sheets to the wind at the time, after celebrating freeing the family from debt.”
“Three sheets.”
“What?”
“It’s three sheets to the wind.” Looking ahead, he paced on. “That’s the saying.”
“I know. But Luc was definitely five sheets, or so Amelia says. He collapsed at her feet.”
Barnaby decided he now knew more than he needed to about Luc and his wife. Yet the man he knew as Viscount Calverton…had as sharp and shrewd a brain…as his sister. And according to Penelope, who could be trusted to know the truth, Luc had always wanted to
marry Amelia. So when Amelia had proposed…
Calverton, Barnaby decided, was a lucky dog.
Not having to go down on bended knee and beg, not even metaphorically.
Indeed…now he thought of it, having a lady propose marriage had a great deal to recommend it—specifically and importantly because it excused the gentleman involved from having to declare his lovelorn state.
The more he considered that, the more he saw it as a highly significant, indeed strategic, benefit—especially if the lady involved was Penelope.
As they left Berkeley Square and turned into Mount Street, he glanced at her face—serene, confident, the face of a lady who knew what she wanted and, as she’d had demonstrated on several occasions, that night being the most recent, wasn’t in the least reluctant to act to satisfy her needs.
Recalling his earlier assessment of where they now were, and where he wanted them to be, as, fingers tightening about her elbow, he turned with her up the Calverton House steps, it seemed that, courtesy of her most recent plan, he’d just discovered the very best way to realize his ultimate goal.
“Thank you, Mrs. Epps. I’ll let my da know.” With a smile, Griselda disengaged from the old lady who’d claimed her attention to ask about her widowed father.
Playing his part, Stokes grunted—a universal male “about time” sound—cast Mrs. Epps a frowning nod, and hand locked about Griselda’s elbow, hauled her away.
Five paces on, Griselda smiled. “Thank you. I thought I’d never get free.”
“So did I.” Continuing to frown, Stokes scanned the street along which they were walking. Although the original cobbled width was reasonable, the houses had encroached in myriad ways, deep overhangs above, enclosed and extended porches at street level; with the crates and boxes piled outside various abodes, the route was now little more than a winding passage. “You’re sure it’s this way?”
Griselda threw him another of her amused glances. “Yes, I am.” Looking ahead, she added, “It’s not that long ago that I used to live in the area.”
He snorted. “It has to be at least…ten years.”
Her smile grew. “How tactful of you. It’s sixteen. I left at fifteen to start my apprenticeship, but I’ve visited often enough so I’ve never completely lost touch—let alone lost my sense of direction.”
Stokes humphed; just as well—in the close, winding streets, with the smog above blocking the sun, he was having difficulty knowing which way was which. But he’d finally learned her age—fifteen plus sixteen equaled thirty-one—a few years older than he’d thought her. Which was excellent, given he was thirty-nine.
They were trudging away from the city, Aldgate and Whitechapel at their backs, Stepney ahead of them, in pursuit of one Arnold Hornby. On Friday, after distributing the printed notices among the stallholders of both Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane, they’d “visited” the addresses they’d been given for Slater, then Watts, in each case watching long enough to be sure neither man was involved in anything illegal.
Stokes had considered interviewing Slater and Watts, but the risk that even if they knew nothing they’d mention the interest the police had in whatever school was currently running, thus indirectly alerting the schoolmaster, who would then shift his school and hide the boys, was too great.
“And,” Griselda had said, “we’ve still got names to chase.”
Which was what they were doing today, Saturday—chasing down Arnold Hornby.
They seemed to be trudging awfully far, into increasingly dangerous territory. He glanced at Griselda, but if she was uncomfortable or growing nervous, she gave no sign; even though they were both once more in disguise, in the slums into which they were heading, they were starting to stand out as too well dressed.
But she kept walking confidently on. He strode beside her, at her shoulder, constantly scanning, alert, and growing ever more tense as the potential for danger increased.
He was very aware that had he been alone, he wouldn’t have felt anywhere near the same tension.
They reached a fork. Without hesitation, she took the lane on the left, still heading away from London.
“I thought,” he grumbled, “that the East End was defined as within hearing of Bow Bells.”
She chuckled. “It is—but that depends on how the wind is blowing.”
After a moment, she added, “It’s not far now. Just beyond that next alley on the left.”
He glanced ahead. “The building with the green door?”
She nodded. “And how convenient—there’s a tavern directly opposite.”
He took her arm and they made for the tavern, barely glancing at the green-doored hovel. Lowering his head, Stokes murmured in Griselda’s ear, “We might be able to learn all we need while we eat.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment, and let him steer her inside.
There were three bruisers lurking at a table toward the rear, but otherwise the small tavern was empty. It was nearing midday; presumably others would soon arrive. A table stood before the front window. The wooden shutters had been set wide, giving an unimpeded view of the residence opposite. Griselda headed for that table; Stokes followed.
There were rough chairs; he nearly pulled one out for her but stopped himself in time. She claimed a chair and sat, facing the window. He pulled out the one beside her, angled it half toward her and sat, draping his arm along the back of her chair. It was a gesture that screamed his view of her as his. He glanced at the bruisers in the shadows to make sure they’d got his message. They shifted their gazes away.
Satisfied, he turned to Griselda and the view beyond the window.
She leaned toward him, patted the arm he’d rested on the table, and whispered, “No need to scare the locals.”
He met her amused eyes, then humphed and looked across the road. He left his arm where it was.
A wan waitress came out from the rear; barely beyond girlhood, she asked what they wanted. Beyond growling an order for a pint pot of ale, he left the girl to Griselda. Somewhat to his surprise, she didn’t angle for information but confined herself to ordering food for them both.
When the girl went off, he turned to Griselda and raised a brow.
She grimaced lightly. “She was looking at my clothes. We may as well eat and give her time to decide we’re no threat.”
He grunted and looked away. Reflecting that through most of the days they’d spent together, she must have heard more grunts than anything else from him, he cast about, then ventured, “She’s right—you don’t belong here.”
He looked at her.
She inclined her head. After a moment, her gaze on the green door, she said, “I left. I knew if I stayed there was a good chance I’d turn out like her”—with her head she indicated the waitress—“with no real hope of anything better.”
“So you worked, and left, and worked still harder to establish yourself outside the East End.”
She nodded, lips curving. “And I succeeded. So now”—she glanced at him, met his eyes—“I’m betwixt and between—not of the East End any longer, yet I don’t belong anywhere else, either.”
He saw beyond her easy smile. “I know how that feels.”
She raised her brows, not disbelieving so much as curious. “Do you?”
He held her gaze. “I’m not exactly a gentleman, yet I’m not your average rozzer, either.”
She smiled. “I’d noticed.” She studied him, then asked, “So where do you hail from? And how did that—being betwixt and between like me—come about?”
He gazed at the green door. “I was born in Colchester. My father was a merchant, my mother a clergyman’s daughter. I was an only child, as my mother had been. My grandfather—her father—took an interest in me, and had me educated at the local grammar school.”
Looking back, he met Griselda’s eyes. “That’s where the ‘almost a gentleman’ part comes from, and that sets me apart from most of those in the force. I’m not one of the higher-ups, but I’m not one of the
men, either.” He held her gaze. “I’m not a gentleman.”
Her expression was serious as she studied his eyes, but then her lips curved; she leaned confidingly closer. “Just as well—I don’t know that I’d feel all that comfortable sitting here with a gentleman.”
The girl came out bearing a tray with their meal—two bowls of surprisingly appetizing stew and bread, a trifle hard but edible. The aroma of the stew gave Griselda a chance to compliment the girl sincerely. She thawed somewhat, but again Griselda let her go.
Stokes told himself to trust her instincts. He applied himself to his bowl and kept his gaze on the green door.
He and Griselda had finished their meal and were sitting waiting patiently for the waitress to come back when the green door opened and a blowsy brunette in her twenties stepped out. Leaving the door ajar, she strode for the tavern.
Hands on hips, she stopped just inside the door. “Here—Maida! Get me five pints, there’s a dear.”
Maida, the waitress, ducked her head and disappeared into the rear. She returned minutes later bearing a wooden tray with five brimming pint pots balanced on it.
“Ta.” The brunette hefted the tray. “Put it on our tab. Arnold’ll be around later to settle.”
Maida bobbed her head again. Standing in the doorway wiping her hands on a rag, she watched the brunette cross the narrow street and go in through the green door. It shut behind her.
“A bit of action across the way?” Griselda murmured.
Maida glanced at her, and pulled a face. “You could say that.” She looked back at the green door. “Wonder how many they have in there this morning.” She glanced back at Griselda. “Johns, I mean.”
Griselda’s brows rose. “That’s the way of it, is it?”
“Aye.” Maida settled her weight, disposed to chat. “There’s three of them there—girls, that is. Poor old Arnold. I thought, when he said they were his nieces come to stay, he was spinning a yarn, but I’ve heard them have at him. Reckon they must be related. Poor old codger—if he’s getting rent money from them, he’ll be lucky. But the girls are doing all right, and they’re good enough neighbors, all in all.”