He paused, then went on, his tone pondering, “I actually enjoy talking with you—and that, I have to confess, isn’t the norm. Your mind doesn’t revolve about fashions, or weddings, or babies—not that I imagine you never think of those things, but you don’t feel compelled to discuss such matters with me, and instead have other ideas, other concerns, ones I can share.”
Penelope stared unseeing across the room, conscious not just of the warmth of his body cradling hers, of his hand idly stroking her breast, but of that other warmth that dervied from shared thoughts, shared endeavors.
“You’re not, thank heaven, shocked by my work.” He paused, then went on, “Then again, I’m not shocked by yours.”
She chuckled, then said, “We do seem to be rather complementary.”
He shifted behind her, reminding her of that. “As you say.”
She laughed at his dry tone, but her thoughts—driven by his—claimed her. They did seem to have a natural meeting of minds, one she—and it seemed he, too—had found with no other. They were from the same select social circle, one whose strictures neither he nor she felt overly bound by, yet that similar background made it easier for them to understand each other, how the other would react in any situation.
A slow swell of warm pleasure rolled up and through her, and she realized he was moving, very gently, within her. Realized he’d got his second wind, so to speak.
She glanced at the window; even though it appeared fuzzy, the light had faded even more. Ignoring the passion already wreathing through her, she forced herself to say, “I have to leave. We don’t have time.”
Her disappointment colored her tone.
In response, his hands tightened, holding her in place; he withdrew, but then thrust more forcefully in again, surprising a shivering gasp from her.
“We have time.” He withdrew and thrust again, hands gripping more definitely, anchoring her before him. “And then you can leave.”
A lick of delight slid up her spine. Her lips curved, but she forced out a sigh. “If you insist.”
He did, delighting her thoroughly once again before he allowed her up, allowed her to dress, then escorted her home to Mount Street.
Smythe appeared in Grimsby’s rooms late on Sunday night. Grimsby looked up—and Smythe was there, filling the doorway to his private chamber.
“Gawd almighty!” Trapped in his ancient armchair, Grimsby clapped a hand to his heart. “Give a bloke some warning, or you’ll likely be the death of me.”
Smythe’s lips twitched; walking in, he snagged an old straight-backed chair, swung it around so the back was facing Grimsby, then sat. “So—what’s the problem?”
Grimsby pulled a face. He’d left a message at the Prince’s Dog tavern, the only known way to contact Smythe. He had no idea when Smythe would get the message, much less when he would comply. “We’ve a spot of bother.” Shifting to reach into the pocket of his old coat, Grimsby hauled out the printed notice and handed it to Smythe. “Rozzers have got the word out.”
Smythe took the notice and read it. When he reached the announcement of the reward, his brows rose.
Grimsby nodded. “Aye—I didn’t like that part, either.” He went on to relate how he’d learned of the notice, and what Wally had told him. “So it’s too dangerous to take the boys out to train, leastways not during the day. I’m not about to ask Wally to do it—last thing we need is the rozzers catching him with two of them, and then coming around here and nabbing the lot of them.”
Smythe was gazing into the distance. He nodded.
Grimsby waited, eyeing him, unwilling with Smythe to push.
Eventually, Smythe murmured, “You’re right. No sense risking the whole, and I’ve no wish to be caught with the little beggars, either.” He refocused on Grimsby. “That said, I’m not inclined to let a prime job like this lapse—and I’ll warrant you’re not, either, not with Alert’s interest in you.”
Grimsby scowled. “You got that right. He’ll hold me to it no matter what. But with lads only partially trained, you’re bound to lose some—well, that’s why we have so many to begin with, but still.” He nodded at the notice in Smythe’s hand. “I’m thinking you should show him that, just so he can’t later say he didn’t know, or didn’t understand what it means, that we can’t fully train the boys as expected.”
Smythe studied the notice again, then rose. “I’ll do that.” Tucking the notice into his pocket, he looked at Grimsby. “Who knows? Alert may have some idea—or some way of learning—who set the rozzers onto his game.”
Grimsby shrugged; he didn’t get up as Smythe walked out. He listened to Smythe’s heavy footsteps descend the stairs, then heard the shop door shut.
Blowing out a breath, Grimsby wondered if he’d imagined it—Smythe’s unvoiced suggestion that if Alert learned who was stirring up the rozzers, interfering with his game, he would make that person regret it.
Then Grimsby thought of Alert—and decided he wasn’t imagining at all.
An hour later, Penelope settled down to sleep. She closed her eyes. She was in her own bed, in her own room in Calverton House in Mount Street, the same room in which she’d fallen asleep for fully half her life. Yet tonight she felt something was missing.
Something warm, hard, and masculine curving along her back.
She sighed. In lieu of his presence, she let her mind drift back over her blissful—bliss-filled—afternoon. Spending the entire afternoon in bed with Barnaby Adair had proved a very satisfying experience.
A horizon-expanding experience; she’d certainly learned more about desire, about how he evoked hers, about how she responded. And how he responded to her.
Lips spontaneously curving, she reflected that she was learning in leaps and bounds. And what she’d learned…was starting, to her surprise, to reshape her view of life.
She hadn’t anticipated any such thing. Hadn’t considered it possible that desire, the pursuit of it, the study of it, would lead to any fundamental rethinking on her part. Her views had been set in stone, immutable—or so she’d thought. Now…
Despite the stubborn streak that made it difficult to admit a change of mind, inside, in her mind, she had far fewer reservations over considering changing her stance—considering if her life might be better if she did. After her blissful afternoon, it was difficult not to question whether she’d been overhasty in thinking she didn’t, and never would, want some relationship with a man—even a long-term one. She knew she didn’t need such a relationship to be happy and satisfied with her lot, but the question wasn’t whether she needed it, but whether she wanted it. Whether such a relationship might offer benefits sufficient to tempt her to risk it.
Benefits such as the deep-seated contentment that still rode her veins. That was something she’d never felt before, but the glow was so rich, so warming, so addictive, she knew that if the chance offered, she’d opt to keep it in her life.
She didn’t entirely understand its source; it was part physical intimacy, part a different level of sharing, part the joy of being close—that closely joined—with another being with a mind so like her own. A male who understood her far better than her own sex ever had.
He understood her wants and needs—understood her desires, both the physical and intellectual, better than she did. And he seemed to truly revel in exploring those desires, his complementary ones, and her body.
All of which contributed to the pleasure he conjured, the pleasure she felt when she lay in his arms.
All of which was so very much greater than she’d ever imagined could be.
Her initial notion of indulging until she learned all, then calmly walking away, no longer fitted.
She had to reevaluate.
To reconsider her plan and change it. But change it to what? That was the bigger question. How far in altering her position should she go—was it safe, in her best interests, to go?
Did she even have a choice—long-term liaison or marriage?
There were numerous lon
g-term liaisons in the ton, but none involved ladies of her age and social standing. Given who she was, and who he was, any attempt at a long-standing affair was going to be seriously messy, at least until she reached an age where society deemed her truly on the shelf. In her case, that would be at least twenty-eight—four years more.
She tried to imagine breaking their liaison and then waiting four years before resuming it…the notion was risible, on more than one count.
Which left her with one option. Marrying him.
Considering the prospect, she still couldn’t see that marriage per se had anything to recommend it, not to her; the potential risks far outweighed the likely benefits. The reasons for her long-standing rejection remained sound.
However, when she added Barnaby Adair to the scales, the result was far less clear.
Marriage to Barnaby Adair. Could that be her destiny?
For long minutes she stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine, to pose and answer questions, to see how such a marriage might work. They were both considered eccentric already; while a union between them was guaranteed not to conform to the customary pattern, the ton wouldn’t expect it to.
Marriage to Barnaby Adair might possibly be a union she could live within; being his wife would most likely not impinge heavily on her freedoms, as being the wife of any other gentleman would.
Provided, of course, that he was amenable, both in allowing her, once she was his wife, the freedom to be herself, and, of course, in wanting to marry her.
Would he be amenable?
How could she learn if he was?
Many minutes later, when sleep finally crept over her, those questions were still circling, unanswered, in her brain.
16
Late the next night, Smythe once again darkened the French door of the back parlor of the town house in St. John’s Wood Terrace.
As before, Alert was waiting in the shadows of the unlit room. He waved Smythe in. “Well?” There was a sharpness in his tone Smythe didn’t fail to notice. “What, might I ask, is the purpose of this visit?”
Smythe showed no emotion as he walked closer, all but looming over Alert as he sat, comfortably at ease in the armchair. “This.” Pulling a folded sheet from his pocket, he presented it.
Alert let a moment pass, then took the single sheet. Spreading it open, he swung to the fire. Even by the poor light, just a glance was enough to take in the printed characters, and recognize the format. The word “reward” fairly leapt off the page.
Ensuring his face remained devoid of emotion, he assessed his options, then crumpled the sheet and tossed it onto the glowing embers. It caught, flared. In the sudden rosy light, he glanced at Smythe. “Inconvenient, but not of any great import, I would have thought.”
A clear warning not to allow it to be of any import slid beneath his smooth tones. Smythe shrugged. “Only insofar as we can’t risk training the little beggars by day.”
“So train them by night. Is that a problem?”
Smythe grimaced. “Not so easy.”
“But it can be done?”
“Aye.”
“Then do it that way.” Alert paused, his gaze on Smythe’s face, then said, “This caper is too important—too lucrative—for us to simply give it up because of a minor threat. I take it you now have all the boys you need?”
“All bar one.”
“Get that last one.”
Smythe shifted. “We’ve got seven.”
“You told me you need eight to do the job as I wish.”
Smythe nodded. “To do that many houses all in one night I’ll need eight to be sure. But if we do the same houses over two nights—”
“No.” Alert didn’t raise his voice, but his tone made the word final. “I told you—I know how the police operate. If we do all in one night, we’ll run absolutely no risk—the chances are they won’t even know we’ve been in and out until sometime next year. That’s the way it has to be. You need eight boys, then get eight boys. Don’t think to do this caper halfheartedly.”
He let a moment tick by, then asked, “Will you—or should I say our mutual friend Grimsby—find your last boy, or do I need to rethink our connection?”
Smythe’s lip curled. “We’ll get the boy.”
Alert smiled. “Good. The ton will start fleeing the capital later this week. If there are rumblings developing, we should move earlier rather than later. When can you be ready?”
Smythe considered. “A week, eight days.”
Alert nodded a dismissal. “In that case, we’ll have nothing to worry about. All will go forward as planned.”
Smythe looked at him, then nodded back. “I’ll tell Grimsby.”
Alert watched Smythe go to the door and slip noiselessly out, shutting it behind him. He continued looking that way, fingers lightly drumming on the chair arm, then he turned his head and looked at the ashes littering the red glow of the embers—all that was left of the notice.
The printed notice.
Five minutes ticked past, then Alert smoothly rose, went to the French door and opened it. He stepped through, looked about, then closed the door behind him, slipped a key into the outside lock and turned it. Then he walked away in the opposite direction to the one in which Smythe had gone.
The following afternoon, Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard paced back and forth above a shop filled with feminine fripperies. He’d been pacing for what seemed like hours—an eternity; outside the day was waning, the light fading. The girls downstairs had told him their mistress had left that morning, dressed in her “old clothes.” For the umpteenth time, Stokes cursed beneath his breath; if she didn’t return soon he was going to—
The irritating tinkle of the bell on the front door halted him in his tracks. Scowling, listening even though, after numerous frustrations, he fully expected to hear some female inquire about the right shade of velvet ribbon to match her pelisse, he waited…and finally, finally, heard the voice he’d been aching to hear.
His relief was real but fleeting, drowned beneath emotions much more powerful.
Scowling ferociously, he stalked to the head of the stairs. He was waiting there, hands on hips, when, after reassuring her apprentices and setting them back to work, Griselda—in her down-at-heels East End disguise—came hurrying up.
Looking up, she saw his face, blinked, and slowed, but then, lips setting firmly, she continued up. “Inspector Stokes—I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Obviously.” Jaw clenched, he fought to keep his voice low. “Where the devil have you been?”
Griselda blinked at him, studied him for a fraught moment—and bit back her instinctive reply: that that was none of his damned business. She did not appreciate being browbeaten by a towering, glowering hulk, in her own parlor, no less, but…
After a further moment of studying the storm roiling in his gray eyes, she instead—with entirely unfeigned curiosity—inquired, “Why do you want to know?”
He stared at her while the silence stretched…it seemed that with her perfectly reasonable question she’d pulled the rug out from under his temper, but then he glared. “Why? Why? You go out dressed like that”—he waved at her attire—“alone, and wander about the East End, and then you ask why I’ve been pacing about this damned room for the last hour imagining all manner of ghastly fates befalling you, torturing myself with images of you in the hands of one of our blackguards?”
He paused. Realizing his tirade had been rhetorical—buying himself time—she nodded. “Yes. Exactly. Why have you been doing that?”
He blinked at her. His anger—even the pretense of it—faded from his eyes. “Because…” His voice died. He raised one hand; she wasn’t even sure he knew he did it. His fingers hovered by her cheek, close, but not touching. As if afraid to touch. Briefly he searched her eyes, as if he might find his answer there, then, failing, he swore softly and moved.
Caught her by the shoulders and hauled her to him, crushed her to him as he covered her lips with his.
/> She mentally gasped, grabbed his shoulder and clung, her fingers closing tightly in his coat as she hung on for dear life.
It was like being pulled into a whirlpool—of wants and needs, of desire and yearning.
And he called to her, effortlessly drew her until she was kissing him back, until she sank against him and gave him her mouth. And the turbulence within him eased.
Slackened as he controlled it, until instead of walking on the edge of a maelstrom, she found herself waltzing into pleasure.
The simple pleasure of a kiss tinged with something deeper, laced with banked desire, sweetened by caring.
Long minutes later, he lifted his head; he waited until she opened her eyes and met his to say, “That’s why.”
Further words were superfluous.
She blinked, struggling to reorient herself in a world that had canted. “Ah…” It was her turn to lose the power of speech. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, knew they’d be rosy.
Slowly, his lips curved—gently, reassuringly. “As you haven’t yet slapped me, I take it you aren’t…averse to my interest.”
She blushed even harder, but forced her tongue to work. “No—I’m not…averse to any interest you might have.”
His distracting smile deepened. “Good.”
She wriggled and carefully eased out of his arms; he let her go, but reluctantly.
“Now,” he said, once more assuming a stern façade, “if you could answer my initial question?”
Griselda turned and walked to her favorite chair; she sat, frowning, trying to recall.
He sighed and sat in the armchair opposite. “Where the devil have you been?”
“Oh.” She brightened. “Yes. I went into the East End. I stopped by to see my father, then looked in on the Bushels—Black Lion Yard is more or less on my way.”
“How are they faring, the Bushels? And were the Wills boys there?”
She nodded. “Mary and Horry are well, although Mary is growing a trifle obstreporous over having to stay indoors. Two of the Wills boys were there. They were playing dice and teaching Horry. After that, I went on to visit old Edie, the button lady in Petticoat Lane. She promised to see if she could roust out old Grimsby, but she says he’s like a crab—sticks close to home. She hasn’t seen him in years, and hasn’t been able to find anyone who has.”