He looked at Stokes, who shrugged.
“Could be. But as we don’t know the items, that doesn’t get us much further.”
But it had distracted Penelope from her notion of marching around Mayfair’s streets; with any luck, she was now thinking of who might be Alert’s “buyers.” Barnaby was congratulating himself on having diverted her train of thought when Griselda spoke—demonstrating that she, at least, hadn’t been diverted at all.
“Regardless, we’ll need to avoid cornering Smythe while he has the boys with him.” Griselda met Penelope’s eyes. “When experienced burglars like him are on the streets, they keep their boys on leashes, so if we stumble upon Smythe on his way to a house, or from one, he’ll have hostages. And he’ll use them. He might not have been known as a killer before, but he smothered Jemmie’s mother, and went after Horry’s grandmother. If we corner him while he’s got the boys tied to him…”
Penelope grimaced. She flopped back on the sofa. “You’re right. Damn it. But we have to do something to get those boys back!”
No one had any suggestion to make. Barnaby glanced around their small circle. While Penelope and Griselda were primarily focused on rescuing the boys, with foiling any burglaries a very secondary concern, the reverse was true for Stokes. For him, the burglaries posed a professional threat, not solely to him but to the entire police force; to him, rescuing the boys was part of preventing the burglaries and catching Alert.
For himself…Barnaby felt both needs keenly; he wanted to rescue the boys for Penelope’s and the boys’ sakes, wanted to foil Alert’s plans for Stokes and the police force in general. For the greater good of the general populace; for the first time, he could see himself more directly serving a wider cause. Could better appreciate what drove his father to give so much time to politics; for years he’d thought it merely an escape from his mother’s constant social round.
He stirred, and looked at Penelope. “Come—I’ll escort you home.” He glanced at the others. “For the moment, there’s nothing we can do. If anyone thinks of anything, or learns anything…”
Stokes rose as he did. “We’ll send out a bugle call.”
That evening, despite a great deal of inner railing, Penelope dutifully dressed in her best winter evening gown, an austere example of the modiste’s art in heavy silk the color of dark garnets, and accompanied her mother to dinner with Lord Montford.
His lordship was a reclusive gentleman and a great philanthropist. He’d expressed an interest in the Foundling House, and was keen to speak further with her and her mother; that was the principal reason for the dinner.
Shown into his lordship’s rooms off Piccadilly, she was greeted by Lord Montford, a rotund gentleman of genial good humor. She liked him instantly, replying to his polite inquiry into her health with genuine attention.
After greeting her mother, Lord Montford ushered them into his drawing room. “I believe you’re acquainted with my other guests.”
The twinkle in his eyes warned her an instant before she looked across the room and saw Barnaby uncoiling his long length from a chair. Lord and Lady Hancock were the only other guests; she and her mother knew them well.
Penelope was unsurprised when the older four gathered in a group, discussing children, grandchildren, and hunting, leaving her to Barnaby to entertain, and vice versa. She eyed him speculatively. “Have you known his lordship for long?”
He smiled. “He’s an old friend of the pater’s.” He looked down at her. “Do you do a lot of this? Talking to donors, soliciting funds?”
“Not usually. Portia handles most of the fund-raising—she’s good with people, as you put it, soliciting funds. But now she’s in the country, she’s landed me with these meetings, those held at this time of year. She’ll return to town for the Season next spring, and will take back the fund-raising reins then, but meanwhile”—she spread her hands—“here I am.”
Barnaby smiled. “You underestimate yourself. You can be very persuasive when you wish to be.” When she let her passion for her work show.
She glanced at Lord Montford. “Any hints?”
“Just be yourself.” He hesitated, then added, “He’s very shrewd—much more so than he appears.”
“I thought that might be the case.”
They joined the others as Montford’s butler announced that dinner was served. They went into the cozy dining room; despite the ambience created by costly furnishings, the room was conducive to more intimate, relaxed interaction. From the first, conversation flowed easily on all sides.
Penelope was seated at Lord Montford’s right, with Barnaby beside her. Lady Hancock was on Lord Montford’s other side, with Penelope’s mother at the end of the table, opposite their host, with Lord Hancock between the two ladies. The Hancocks were already donors to the Foundling House; they and Lady Calverton became engrossed in discussing other subjects—leaving Lord Montford free to interrogate Penelope about the Foundling House.
Barnaby sat back and watched her deal with Montford; she avoided the trap of answering his questions too lightly, instead giving him the benefit of her considerable intelligence—something Montford, no fool, responded to. Indeed, watching Montford grow increasingly fascinated—both with the Foundling House’s programs and Penelope and her role in them—he realized that being admitted into Penelope’s intellectual confidence was a subtle honor. She patently did not consider many people, men especially, to be up to her considerable mental weight.
The thought made him smile. He watched her unknowingly seduce Montford, who, although most likely aware of it, was perfectly happy to be seduced in such a way.
When dessert arrived, Montford, transparently satisfied with all he’d learned about the Foundling House, directed the conversation to the police force and the recent and pending political manuevers affecting it, effectively turning the spotlight on Barnaby.
Somewhat to his surprise, Penelope followed Montford’s lead, holding her own in what became an in-depth review of policing proposals, and the personalities and prejudices affecting the likely outcomes.
By the time they strolled back into the drawing room, they were engrossed. The topic carried them through the next hour, but after the tea had been served and consumed, the evening drew to a reluctant close.
Montford turned to Penelope. “My dear, I’ll send a draft to the house tomorrow, but in addition, once we all return in the new year I’d like to call on you and discuss further options. I prefer to fund specific programs—practical ones that will achieve long-term gains. I’d like to consider some educational and training programs—perhaps more innovative ones—for specific funding.”
Delighted, Penelope gave him her hand. “You will always be welcome at the Foundling House, my lord. I’ll give some thought to possible programs in the interim.”
Taking her hand in both of his, Montford patted it. “You—and your sisters, too—are a credit to your mother.” Releasing her hand, smiling sincerely, he looked at Barnaby. “I have to say I find it heartening to discover a young couple such as yourselves, from families and circumstances where you’ve never had to—and will never have to—worry about your next meal, so devoted to helping others less fortunate. You”—he nodded at Penelope—“through your work with the Foundling House. And you”—he turned his gaze on Barnaby—“through your work with the police, through solving crimes and apprehending criminals regardless of the cut of their coats.”
Smiling genially upon them, his next words were clearly intended as a benediction. “You make a remarkable couple—and I warn you, I fully expect to be invited to the wedding.”
“John?”
Lord Montford turned away to attend Lady Hancock, and so missed the moment of complete and utter silence that followed his remark.
Barnaby glanced at Penelope. She glanced at him, but their gazes didn’t, as they usually did, lock.
He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t think of anything; his brain had seized. She seemed similarly afflicted.
r /> That they’d both been reduced to speechlessness—helplessness—by the single word “wedding”…that had to mean something.
Just what, he got no time to investigate. A loud rapping on the front door sent Montford’s butler striding for it.
He returned a moment later, po-faced, to offer his salver and the folded note upon it to Barnaby. “An urgent message from Scotland Yard, sir.”
Barnaby took the note, opened it, and read, in Stokes’s bold hand: The game is on.
Shoving the note into his pocket, he nodded briefly to the others, then turned to Montford. “My apologies, my lord, but I must go.”
“Of course, my boy.” Montford clapped him on the shoulder, turning with him toward the hall. “The evening is at an end, anyway—Godspeed.”
In the front hall, Montford shook his hand and released him without further questions.
Predictably Penelope wasn’t so inclined. She’d followed at his heels and now caught his sleeve. “What’s happened?”
Halting, Barnaby looked down at her, wondered if she realized how revealing her attitude, her question—and his inevitable response—would be to Montford and the others, who’d followed them from the drawing room and were now watching, too.
Not that it mattered. Seeing the worry and concern that had flared to life and now swam so clearly in the depths of her dark eyes, he couldn’t not answer. He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve. “I don’t know. Stokes wrote that the game was on—nothing more.” He tipped his head toward the door. “The messenger will know where he is. I’ll go and find out what’s happened.” He hesitated, then added, “If there’s anything pertinent, I’ll come and tell you tomorrow morning.”
She seemed to realize that was all he could do. Pressing her lips together—he suspected to hold back unwise words—she nodded. “Thank you.”
Drawing her hand from beneath his, she stepped back.
He bowed to her, and to the others behind her, then he turned and walked out of the door.
“Be careful with that thing!” Smythe hissed. He followed on Jemmie’s and Dick’s heels as they manuevered the heavy, ornate clock they’d just lifted from the fourth and last house on Alert’s list for that night up the area steps.
Much taller than the boys, the instant his head cleared the street, he hissed again. “Hold up!”
The boys staggered to a halt; he could hear their panicked, increasingly labored breathing. Ignoring it, he scanned the street. Rozzers or passersby; with the heavy clock as booty he didn’t want to run into anyone. The dark street seemed empty, the street flares burning low, their light diffused by the thick fog that had helpfully returned.
He strained his ears, but heard nothing. Not even the distant clop of a horse’s hooves, but the street was a long one, the corner some distance away. He glanced at the boys. He hoped Alert was waiting. “Right then—move.”
The boys staggered up the last steps, then angled the clock—all gilt, fancy dials, and ornate hands—through the gate at the top of the area steps. Smythe held it back until they got through, then joined them, resetting the latch.
He nodded down the street. “That way.” His words were a thin whisper, but the boys heard and set off, eager to set the heavy clock down.
As at each of the previous three houses they’d hit, the unmarked black carriage was waiting around the corner.
Jemmie looked up, peering through the murky dark. The same man was on the box. He looked down, not at them but at the clock they were struggling with, and smiled. He nodded to Smythe. “Good work.” Reaching down, he handed Smythe a pouch.
Without being told, the boys lugged the clock to the back of the carriage. Smythe followed. He opened the boot. There was a blanket waiting to wrap the clock in. Jemmie and Dick juggled the clock while Smythe swathed it in the blanket, then Smythe loaded the bundle into the boot, between the bundle that was the vase they’d nicked from the first house, and the tightly wrapped statue they’d taken from the third. The painting they’d lifted from the wall of the second house’s library sat at the back of the boot.
Relieved of their burden, for an instant free of restraint, Jemmie looked at Dick, but before he could catch his friend’s eye and give the signal to run, Smythe shut the boot and dropped a heavy hand on each of their shoulders.
Jemmie bit back a curse and hung his head. As under Smythe’s guiding hand he trudged alongside Dick to the side of the carriage, he told himself—as he had for days, a week even—that a time would come.
When it did, he and Dick would run.
Unfortunately, the devil would be snapping at their heels; he held no illusions about Smythe. He would kill them if he caught them; they had to make sure that when they made their bid for freedom, they got clean away.
Smythe halted them beside the front of the carriage. “So we’re done for tonight. You got the list for tomorrow?”
The man nodded. “I’ll need to go over it with you.” He tipped his head toward the carriage. “Climb in. I’ll drive to somewhere we can talk.”
Smythe nudged the boys back and opened the carriage door. “Get in.” Once the boys had scrambled up, he joined them. Jemmie squished himself into the far corner of the seat; Dick did the same on the seat opposite. Smythe shut the door and dropped onto the seat beside Jemmie. The instant he did, the coach shifted and rolled off.
The driver drove slowly, as if his horse were plodding home. They left the big houses behind, then large trees appeared outside, enveloping the carriage in even deeper gloom.
A little way along, the carriage slowed, then halted. Smythe reached for the door handle, then paused; through the dimness he studied them. They heard the sounds of the driver climbing down. “Stay there,” Smythe growled.
He climbed out, shutting the door behind him.
Jemmie looked at Dick, then they both sat up and peered out of the windows beside them. The scene that met their eyes wasn’t encouraging; the trees the carriage had stopped beneath bordered a wide vista of open space. They’d left the worst of the fog behind; here it was little more than a veil, letting moonlight bathe the expanse, leaving them with nowhere to hide. To two urchins born and bred in the slums, the wide-open spaces weren’t comforting. If they ran, Smythe would hear them leave the carriage. He’d be able to see them, and run them down. He’d catch them for certain.
Disappointed, Jemmie looked across at Dick. Lips tight, he shook his head. Swallowing his fear, he looked at the windows on the other side of the carriage; through them, he could see Smythe’s shoulders, and those of the gentleman. They’d heard him speak; they knew he was a nob.
The pair had moved a few steps from the carriage; heads bent, their backs to the carriage, they were poring over something, presumably the list they’d wanted to discuss.
Exchanging another glance with Dick, Jemmie slid noiselessly from his seat and crept to that side of the carriage, ducking down by the door so he couldn’t be seen. A second later, Dick joined him.
Heads resting against the door panel, they heard the gentleman explaining where a particular statue would be. From what followed, it seemed they were to burgle more houses the next night. At one point, Dick, eyes wide, looked at Jemmie and mouthed, “Four more?”
Jemmie nodded. Then they heard Smythe ask, “What about the police?”
The gentleman replied. His voice was lower, more mellow; they couldn’t catch all his words. They did hear him say, “If any of your thefts tonight are reported, there might be more police on the streets tomorrow night. However, I’ll know where they’ll be, and they won’t be near the houses we’re interested in. Don’t worry. You’ll have a clear field. And as I said, those most interested in our activities will be distracted.”
The man listened to Smythe’s answering growl, then said, “If you pull off your end of things as well as you did tonight, all will go perfectly.”
Hearing the note of finality in that cultured voice, the boys flashed each other frightened looks and scurried back to their corn
ers, wedging themselves into their former positions as Smythe yanked open the door.
He surveyed them, then snarled, “Come out—we’re leaving.”
The boys scrambled out of the carriage. The instant they did, Smythe snagged a leading rein through a harness loop on the rope holding up each boy’s baggy pants. Once both were secure, he shook the reins. “Come on—let’s go.”
They set off walking. Neither boy was silly enough to turn his head and look back at the carriage. They trudged on, over the open expanse, into the chilly night.
“I can’t believe it!” Stokes paced back and forth in his office at Scotland Yard.
From his position lounging against the side of Stokes’s desk, Barnaby watched him. Sergeant Miller hovered in the open doorway.
“There’s no way to tell who else has been burgled!” Stokes flung up his hands. “Damn it—it’s going to be hard enough to prove they’ve been burgled at all”—he flung a hand toward the door—“even when the staff are sure they have been.”
Barnaby cocked a brow at Miller. “The old butler is sure the urn was there?”
Miller nodded.
“But,” Stokes said, his tone vicious, “he can’t be certain his master hasn’t sold it. He—the old butler-cum-caretaker—knows it was a fabulously valuable piece that many others had admired, so it’s possible his master sold it the day before leaving town and forgot to mention it. So we’re going to have to check with the marquess first, before we put out any hue and cry for a thief. And the marquess is currently in Scotland for the shooting.”
Halting, Stokes drew in a huge breath, struggling to master his temper.
Impassively, Barnaby stated the obvious to spare Stokes the aggravation. “It’ll be days, more like a week, before we know.”
Stokes nodded tersely, his features like stone. “And by then…we’ll have no chance at all of recovering even such an identifiable piece.” Rounding his desk, he dropped into his chair. He stared across the room. “The truth is, if the caretaker hadn’t been the ex-butler, it’s unlikely he’d have known anything was gone. The marquess would have returned in February or March, and then we’d have heard about it.”