Muffled groans sounded, but the boys buckled down; more than one had his tongue clenched between his teeth.
One raised a hand and Englehart went to him, bending over to read what was on the boy’s slate.
Penelope surveyed the group, then rejoined Barnaby just inside the door. “Englehart takes the boys of this age through their reading, writing, and arithmetic. Most gain at least enough to be employed as more than just basic footmen, while others become apprentices in various trades.”
Noting the earnestness in the boys’ interaction with Englehart, and the way he responded to them, Barnaby nodded.
He followed Penelope outside. Once she’d closed the door, he said, “Englehart seems a good choice for that job.”
“He is. He’s an orphan, too, but his uncle took him in and had him educated. He works in a solicitor’s firm in a senior position. The solicitor knows of our work, so allows Englehart to give us six hours a week. We’ve other tutors for other subjects. Most volunteer their services, which means they truly care about their students and are willing to work to extract the best from what most would regard as less than ideal clay.”
“It appears you’ve attracted considerable—and useful—support.”
She shrugged. “We’ve been lucky.”
Barnaby suspected that once she had a goal in mind, luck was incidental. “The relatives who give over their wards to this place—do they visit first?”
“Those who can usually do. But regardless we always visit the child and guardian in their home.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “It’s important we know what background they come from, and what they’re used to. When they first come to stay, many are frightened—it’s a new and often strange environment for them, with rules they don’t know and customs that seem peculiar. Knowing what they’re used to means we can help them settle in.”
“You do the visiting.” He didn’t make it a question.
She raised her chin. “I’m in charge, so I need to know.”
He couldn’t think of any other young lady who would willingly go where she must; it was becoming obvious that making assumptions about her, or her likely behavior or reactions, based on the norm for young ladies of the ton was an excellent way to find himself wrong-footed.
She led him on, stopping in this classroom or that, showing him the dormitories, presently empty, and the infirmary and dining hall, lecturing him on their practices, introducing him to staff they met along the way. He drank it all in; he enjoyed studying people—he considered himself something of a connoisseur of character—and the more he saw, the more he found himself fascinated, most of all by Penelope Ashford.
Strong-willed, dominant as opposed to domineering, intelligent, quick-witted and mentally astute, dedicated and loyal; by the end of their tour he’d seen enough to be certain of those qualities. He could also add prickly when pushed, high-handed when challenged, and compassionate to her toes. The latter shone through every time she interacted with any of the children; he was prepared to take an oath that she knew every name and every history of the more than eighty children under the house’s roof.
Eventually they returned to the main foyer. Penelope couldn’t think of anything further she needed to show him to make her point; he was refreshingly observant and apparently able to deduce without having matters explained in minute detail. Halting, she faced him. “Is there anything further you need to know about our procedures here?”
He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Not at present. All appears straightforward, well thought out, and established.” He glanced back into the house. “And on the basis of what I’ve seen of your staff, I agree that it seems unlikely any of them are involved, even in passing information to the…for want of a better word, kidnappers.”
His blue gaze refixed on her face; she fought to appear unconscious as he studied her eyes, her features.
“So my next step will be to visit the scene of the latest disappearance, and to question the locals and learn what they know.” His lips curved, beguilingly charming. “If you’ll give me the address, I won’t need to take up any more of your time.”
She narrowed her eyes, let her jaw firm. “You needn’t worry about my time—until we have our four boys back, this matter takes precedence over all else. Naturally I’ll accompany you to Dick’s father’s lodgings—aside from anything else, the neighbors don’t know you and are unlikely to readily speak to you.”
He held her gaze. She wondered if they were going to have the argument she knew would eventually come then and there…but then he inclined his head. “If you wish.”
His last word was drowned by the clatter of footsteps. Penelope swung around to see Mrs. Keggs, the matron, come hurrying up the corridor.
“If you please, Miss Ashford, I need a few minutes of your time before you go.” Coming to a halt, Mrs. Keggs added, “About the supplies for the dormitories and the infirmary. I really should get the order out today.”
Penelope hid her vexation—not for Mrs. Keggs, for the need was acute, but over the unfortunate timing. Would Adair try to use the delay as an excuse to cut her out of the investigation? She turned back to him. “This will take no more than ten…perhaps fifteen minutes.” She didn’t ask if he would wait, but forged on, “After that, we’ll be able to set out.”
He held her gaze steadily; she could read nothing in his blue eyes other than that he was evaluating, weighing. Then the line of his lips eased, not in a smile but as if he were inwardly amused.
“Very well.” From beyond the now open front door the sound of boys’ voices reached them; he tipped his head in that direction. “I’ll wait outside, observing your charges.”
She was too relieved to ask what he expected to observe. She nodded briskly. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Giving him no chance to change his mind, she turned and, with Mrs. Keggs, set off down the corridor to her office.
Barnaby watched her go, appreciatively noting the brisk sway of her hips as she strode so purposefully along, then he turned and, smiling more definitely, went out into the gloomy day.
Standing on the porch, he scanned the yard to the right; a bevy of children, boys and girls about five and six years old, were laughing and shrieking as they chased one another and threw soft balls. Looking to the left, he discovered a similar number of boys, all in the seven-to twelve-years-old age group into which the missing boys would have merged.
Stepping down, he let his feet take him in that direction. He wasn’t looking for anything specific, yet experience had taught him that snippets of what at the time seemed extraneous information often turned out to be crucial in solving a case.
Leaning against the side of the house, he let his gaze range over the group. They came in all sizes and shapes, some pudgy, heavyset, and thuggish looking, others scrawny and thin. Most moved freely in their games, but a few limped, and one dragged one foot.
Any similar group of tonnish children would have been more physically homogenous, with similar features, similar long limbs.
The one element these children shared, with one another and with children from his sphere, was a certain carefreeness not normally found in pauper children. It was a reflection of confidence in their security—that they would have a roof over their heads and reasonable sustenance, not just today but tomorrow as well, and into the foreseeable future.
These children were happy, far more than many of their peers would ever be.
A tutor was seated on a bench on the opposite side of the playground, reading a book but glancing up every now and then at his charges.
Eventually one of the boys—a wiry, ferret-faced lad of about ten—sidled up to Barnaby. He waited until Barnaby glanced down at him before asking, “Are you a new tutor, then?”
“No.” When more was clearly expected, he added, “I’m helping Miss Ashford with something. I’m waiting for her.”
Other boys edged closer as the first mouthed an “Oh.” He glanced at his friends, then felt em
boldened enough to ask, “What are you, then?”
The third son of an earl. Barnaby grinned, imagining how his interrogators would react to that. “I help people find things.”
“What things?”
Villains, generally. “Possessions or people they want to find.”
One of the older boys frowned. “I thought bobbies did that. But you’re not one of them.”
“Nah,” another boy cut in. “Bobbies are about stopping things getting nicked in the first place. Finding nicked stuff is another game.”
Wisdom from the mouths of babes.
“So…” His first questioner eyed him measuringly. “Tell us a story about something you’ve helped find.” His tone made the words a hopeful plea rather than a demand.
Glancing at the circle of faces now surrounding him, perfectly aware that every boy had taken note of his clothes and their quality, Barnaby considered. A movement across the yard caught his eye. The tutor had noticed his charges’ interest; he raised a brow, wordlessly asking if Barnaby wished to be rescued.
Sending the tutor a reassuring smile, Barnaby looked down at his audience. “The first object I helped restore to its owner was the Duchess of Derwent’s emerald collar. It went missing during a house party at the Derwents’ estate…”
They peppered him with questions; he wasn’t surprised that it was the house party itself, the estate, and how “the nobs” entertained themselves that was the focus of their interest. Emeralds were something beyond their ken, but people fascinated them, just as people fascinated him. Listening to their reactions to his answers made him inwardly chuckle.
Inside her office, Penelope noticed that Mrs. Keggs’s attention had drifted from her and fixed on some point beyond her left shoulder. “I think that should hold us for the next few weeks.”
She laid down her pen and shut the inkpot lid with a clap; the noise jerked Mrs. Keggs’s attention back.
“Ah…thank you, miss.” Mrs. Keggs took the signed order Penelope handed her. “I’ll take this around to Connelly’s and get it filled this afternoon.”
Penelope smiled and nodded a dismissal. She watched as Mrs. Keggs rose, bobbed a curtsy, then, with one last glance out of the window at Penelope’s back, hurried out.
Swiveling her chair, Penelope looked out of the window—and saw Adair held captive by a group of boys.
She tensed to rise, but then realized she had it wrong; he was holding the boys captive—no mean feat—with some tale.
Relaxing, she studied the scene, examining her surprise; despite all she’d heard of him she hadn’t expected Adair to have either the necessary facility, or the inclination, to interact freely with the lower orders—certainly not to the extent of stooping to entertain a group of near-urchins.
Yet his smile appeared quite genuine.
A little more of the wariness she’d felt over consulting him eased. Her fellow members of the governing committee were all out of London; although she’d informed them of the first three disappearances, she hadn’t yet sent word of the most recent—nor of her plan to enlist the aid of Mr. Barnaby Adair. In that, she’d acted on her own initiative. While she was certain Portia and Anne would support her action, she wasn’t so sure the other three would. Adair had made a name for himself assisting the police specifically in bringing members of the ton to justice—endeavors that hadn’t been met by universal approval within the ton.
Lips firming, she slapped her palms on the arms of her chair and pushed to her feet. “I don’t care,” she informed her empty office. “To get those boys back, I’d enlist the aid of the archfiend himself.”
Social threats had no power to sway her.
Other sorts of threats…
Eyes narrowing, she studied the tall, elegant figure surrounded by the ragtag group. And reluctantly conceded that at some level he did, indeed, represent a threat to her.
To her senses, her suddenly twitching nerves—to her unprecedentedly wayward brain. No man had ever made her think distracting thoughts.
No man had ever made her wonder what it would be like if he…
Turning back to her desk, she closed the order ledger.
After leaving his house last night she’d told herself that the worst was over, that when next she saw him his impact on her senses would have faded. Waned. Instead, when she’d looked up and seen him filling her doorway, his blue gaze fixed so consideringly on her, all rational thought had flown.
It had taken real effort to keep her expression blank and pretend she’d been mentally elsewhere, somewhere he hadn’t reached.
Clearly, if she wished to investigate by his side she was going to need the equivalent of armor. Or else…
The notion of him realizing how much he affected her, and smiling in that slow, arrogant male way of his, didn’t bear thinking about.
She pressed her lips together, then firmly reiterated, “Regardless, I don’t care.”
Collecting her reticule and gloves from beneath the desk, chin rising, she headed for the door.
And the man she’d recruited as the Foundling House’s champion.
3
At the behest of Dick’s father, Mrs. Keggs and I visited two weeks ago.” Penelope gazed out of the hackney at the passing streetscape. They’d hailed the carriage from the rank outside the Foundling Hospital; the driver had happily taken them up, and rattled away to the east at a good pace.
Their progress had slowed once they’d turned into the narrow, crowded byways of what Londoners termed “the East End.” A conglomeration of ramshackle, cheek-by-jowl houses, tenements, shops, and warehouses originally built around long-ago villages outside the old city wall, over the centuries the rough buildings had merged into a mean, dark, often dank sprawl of hodgepodge, rickety habitation.
Clerkenwell, the area into which they were heading, wasn’t quite as bad—as overcrowded and potentially dangerous—as other parts of the East End.
“He—Dick’s father, Mr. Monger—had consumption.” She swayed as the hackney turned into Farringdon Road. “It was clear he wouldn’t recover. The local doctor, a Mr. Snipe, was there, too—it was he who sent us word when Mr. Monger passed away.”
On the seat opposite, Adair had been frowning—increasingly—ever since they’d ventured into the meaner streets. “You received Snipe’s message yesterday morning?”
“No. The previous night. Monger died about seven o’clock.”
“But you weren’t at the Foundling House.”
“No.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “But if you had been…”
She shrugged and looked away. “In the evenings, I never am.”
Of course, given the four missing boys, she’d now instructed that news of a guardian’s death be conveyed to her immediately wherever she might be. Next time there was an orphan to retrieve, she would take her brother’s carriage, and his coachman and a groom, and plunge into the East End regardless of the hour…but she saw no point in stating that in the present company.
She’d known Adair was at the very least acquainted with her brother—and guardian—Luc; she could guess what he was thinking—that Luc couldn’t possibly approve of her going into such areas, more or less by herself. And certainly not at night.
In that he was perfectly correct; Luc had little idea what her position as “house administrator” entailed. And she would very much prefer to keep him in ignorance.
Glancing out of the window, she was relieved to see that they’d almost reached their goal; distraction lay to hand. “In this instance, three of the neighbors saw and spoke with the man who took Dick away the morning after Monger died. Their description of the man matches that given by the neighbors in the previous three cases.”
The carriage slowed almost to a stop, then ponderously turned into a street so narrow the carriage could barely pass down it.
“Here we are.” She shifted forward the instant the carriage halted, but Adair was before her, grasping the carriage’s door handle, forcing
her to ease back to allow him to open the door and step down.
He did, then blocked the exit while he looked around.
She bit her tongue and battled the urge to jab him—sharply—between the shoulder blades. Very nice shoulders, encased in a fashionable overcoat, but they were in her way…she had to content herself with glaring.
Eventually, unhurriedly—oblivious—he moved. Stepping aside, he offered her his hand. Clinging to her manners, she steeled herself and surrendered her fingers; no, the effect of his touch—of feeling his long, strong fingers curl possessively around hers—still hadn’t waned. Waspishly reminding herself that it was at her request that he was there—taking up far too much space in her life and distracting her—she let him hand her down, then quickly slid her fingers free.
Without glancing at him, she started forward, waving at the hovel before them. “This is where Mr. Monger lived.”
Their arrival had naturally drawn attention; faces peered out through grimy windows; hands edged aside flaps where no glass had ever been.
She glanced at the building next door; a wooden table was set along its front. “His neighbor is a cobbler. He and his son both saw the man.”
Barnaby saw a shabby individual peering at them from beneath the overhang under which the cobbler’s table was set. Penelope started toward him; he followed at her heels. If she noticed the squalor and dirt that surrounded her, let alone the smells, she gave no sign.
“Mr. Trug.” Penelope nodded to the cobbler, who warily bobbed his head. “This is Mr. Adair, who is an expert in investigating strange occurrences, like Dick’s disappearance. I wonder if I can trouble you to tell him about the man who came and took Dick away.”
Trug eyed Barnaby, and Barnaby knew what he was thinking. What would a toff know of disappearing urchins?
“Mr. Trug? If you please? We want to find Dick as soon as we can.”
Trug glanced at Penelope, then cleared his throat. “Aye, well—it were early yesterday morning, barely light. Fellow came knocking on old Monger’s door. Me son, Harry, was about to head out to work. He stuck his head out and told the bloke Monger was dead and gone.” Trug looked at Barnaby. “The bloke was polite enough. He came over and explained he was there to fetch young Dick away. That’s when Harry yelled fer me.”