Relinquishing his position against the desk, Barnaby moved to one of the chairs facing it. He glanced at Miller. “The caretaker didn’t see anything useful?”
Miller shook his head. “He lives in the basement rather than the attics, or he wouldn’t have known anything at all. He’s old and sleeps poorly. He heard light footsteps pattering overhead, so he went up to look. He saw nothing amiss, but then thought he may as well check the windows. He found one unlocked, yet he’s sure he’d locked it. He didn’t worry because the window was barred, so he relocked it and headed back to bed. But he passed his master’s study on the way. He leaves the doors open when he’s in the house alone, so he can glance into rooms easily. When he looked in tonight, he knew something was wrong. Took him a while to realize that the holland cover on the table was lying flat where it should have been peaked over this Chinese urn that as far as he knows should have been there, but isn’t anymore.”
Stokes groaned. He stared at his desk. After a moment, he asked without looking up, “Has the superintendent sent that note to the marquess yet?”
His voice had lowered. Barnaby looked around, and saw Miller glance along the corridor.
“Looks like he’s still writing it,” Miller reported, voice lower, too.
Stokes sighed. He waved Miller in the direction he’d looked. “Go and make sure it’s sent off express. We have to cover ourselves at least that much.”
Once Miller had gone, Barnaby said, “From which comment I take it your superiors are still unwilling to admit they might have a series of extremely upsetting burglaries being committed right now, under their noses?”
Stokes nodded. “They don’t want to believe it. The thought sends them into a panic, and they don’t know what to do—and the truth is there’s precious little we can do, short of flooding Mayfair with constables, which is not only impractical but would cause a panic of its own.”
Heaving a huge sigh, Stokes sat back. He met Barnaby’s eyes. “The truth is we—the police force—are facing a political nightmare.”
He didn’t need to elaborate; if anything Barnaby could see the ramifications even better than Stokes. The police were going to appear inept fools, unable to protect the property of wealthy Londoners from the depredations of a single clever thief. In the current political climate, that was a setback the still youthful and evolving force didn’t need. Holding Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby flatly stated, “There has to be something we can do.”
Wrapped in her cloak, Penelope climbed the steps to Barnaby’s front door. Her brother’s carriage dallied by the curb even though she’d given the coachman—an ally of long standing—instructions to drive home to the mews behind Mount Street; he’d go once he saw her safely within doors. Steeling herself, she eyed the door, then raised a hand and rapped smartly.
Mostyn opened the door. His eyes widened.
“Good evening, Mostyn. Has your master returned yet?”
“Ah…no, ma’am.” Mostyn fell back, giving way as she walked in.
“Close the door. It’s chilly outside.” She pulled off her gloves and put back the hood of her cloak while he complied. When he turned to face her, she continued, “Your master and I were at Lord Montford’s when he—Adair—was called away urgently on some matter pertaining to our current investigation.” Turning, she walked toward the parlor. “I have to wait here for him to return.”
A statement of fact, one Mostyn didn’t question. He hurried to open the parlor door; she swept in and he followed. “Tea, ma’am?”
The fire was burning brightly. She walked to stand before it, warming her hands. “No, thank you, Mostyn.” She glanced around, then moved to the chair she’d occupied weeks before, when she’d first come to ask for Barnaby’s help. “I’ll just sit here by the fire, and wait.”
Sinking into the chair, she looked at Mostyn. “Please do retire—he may be quite late.”
Mostyn hesitated, but then bowed. “Very good, ma’am.”
He quietly withdrew, leaving the door ajar so she could see into the hall.
She listened to Mostyn’s footsteps fading, then, with a sigh, settled deeper into the chair and closed her eyes; she wasn’t content, but at least she was where she needed to be. She had no idea how long it might be before Barnaby came home, but she’d told Mostyn the unvarnished truth: she had to wait for him to return. She had to be there to see that he’d come to no harm—there was no point attempting to sleep until she knew he was safe.
The powerful, flaring need had hit her the instant he’d passed out of her sight at Lord Montford’s, in the moment she’d realized she had no notion what he was going out to face. The game is on. Who knew what Stokes had meant by that? They might, at that very moment, be chasing that devil Alert through alleyways and slums, out across the docks, dodging who knew what dangers.
Equally, they might be sitting in Stokes’s office, but how could she tell?
In the face of her need to know he was safe, the notion of falling asleep had been laughable. She’d traveled home with her mother, tipped her coachman the wink, waited for the house to quiet, then had slipped out the back door and into the mews.
She knew on some distant rational level that she was very likely worrying over nothing.
That didn’t change anything; the worry was still there. Potent, powerful, forceful enough to ensure she accepted that this was where she had to be—waiting for him to come home so she could see with her own eyes that he was unharmed.
She didn’t bother pondering why she felt so. The reason was no longer in question; it simply was. Undeniable, and obvious, as Lord Montford had made abundantly clear.
She would have to deal with that reason soon, but for tonight…it was enough to see him home safe and sound. The rest, the reason, could wait…for now.
It was the dead of night when Barnaby let himself in through his front door. He and Stokes had waited at Scotland Yard, hoping some other burglary would be reported, but none had been. Eventually accepting that nothing further would be known until morning, they’d left for their respective beds.
Sliding the bolt home, he headed for the stairs. The parlor door had been left open; he glanced in—and halted.
In the red glow of the dying fire, she was little more than a shapeless bundle in the chair, her face hidden, tucked to one side. But he knew it was she—knew it in his bones through some primitive sense that would recognize her anywhere, no matter the lack of detail.
Silently he went in, crossing to stand before the chair.
In that moment, he couldn’t put a name to what he felt, to the emotions that swelled, welled, and poured through him. He held still, made no sound, let the moment stretch, savoring it, hoarding the feelings, and the emotions, greedily holding them to his heart.
No one had ever waited up for him; no one had ever been there waiting when he came home at night, often tired and dejected, disappointed, sometimes disillusioned. And of all the people in the world, she was the one he wanted to be there, to be waiting for his return. She was the one in whose arms, for him, comfort lay.
His first impulse was to scoop her into his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed. But then he thought of why she was there.
After a moment, he crouched down, found her hands amid the folds of her cloak, lightly chafed them. “Penelope? Wake up, sweetheart.”
She roused at the sound of his voice. Eyes blinking, then opening wide, she stared at him, then flung herself into his arms. “You’re all right!” She hugged him violently.
He laughed and caught her; rocked back on his heels, rather than sprawl on the rug he rose, drawing her with him.
The instant her feet touched the floor, she pulled back and looked him over; it took a second to realize she was checking for damage.
He smiled and tugged her back into his arms. “I’m unhurt—there wasn’t any action. I’ve been at Scotland Yard all night.”
She stared into his face. “So what happened?”
He looked down at her, then stoo
ped, swung her up in his arms, turned and sat in the armchair, settling her on his lap.
She made herself comfortable, leaning against his arm so she could see his face. “So?”
He told her everything. He even described Stokes’s frustration. She made him recount every tiny fact he’d learned of the single burglary reported, then with him hypothesized as to what had occurred—how one of the boys must have slipped in and out through the bars, taking the urn.
She frowned. “It must have been a small urn.”
“It was. Stokes and I questioned the caretaker before he left. He described the urn—from the sound of it it wasn’t just any Chinese urn, but a very old one made of carved ivory. God only knows how much it might be worth.”
After a moment, she said, “He’s targeted collector’s pieces, hasn’t he?”
He nodded. “Which fits with the idea of him thieving on demand—stealing specific items he knows certain individuals want and will pay for, without asking difficult questions about how he got them.”
She grimaced. “Sadly, when it comes to the more avid collectors, there are quite a few unscrupulous enough to fit the bill.”
He didn’t reply. They’d covered all the known facts; no matter the urgency they both felt over finding the two missing boys, there was nothing else—no other avenue—for them to explore that night.
Not in terms of the investigation.
He could tell she was thinking, still mulling over all he’d told her. Absentmindedly she rubbed her cheek against his chest. The simple, unconscious caress sent warmth, not just of desire but of a deeper need, swirling through him.
She was quiet, at ease, at peace in his arms.
The opportunity was there if he wished to grasp it, yet…the moment still felt so special, so novel and quietly glorious, he couldn’t bring himself to disrupt it, to cut it short.
After Lord Montford’s comment, after her coming here—after his reaction to finding her waiting for him—there was no question of what lay between them. He’d wanted her to speak, to suggest that they marry, thus absolving him of having to, yet his need to have her as his wife and what drove that need, while still featuring in his mind as a vulnerability, was no longer something he sought to hide…or more accurately, hiding it was no longer reason enough to keep him from seizing what he needed, what he wanted, what he had to have.
If she didn’t speak soon, he would.
But here, tonight, was not the time.
They were both tired, and the morrow looked set to make demands on them both. Tonight they needed respite—they needed what they would find in each other’s arms. Pleasure, and an oblivion that healed.
Carefully, he stood, lifting her securely in his arms. He started for the door. “Is your poor coachman waiting outside?”
Penelope rested her head on his shoulder, her arms loosely circling his neck. “No. I sent him home. We’ll have to find a hackney later.” As he turned toward the stairs, she smiled and murmured, “Much later—at dawn.”
22
Penelope spent the next morning struggling to concentrate on running the Foundling House. There was nothing on her plate that was unusual, and issues such as which supplier to use for the next order for towels were not demanding enough to pull her mind from the treadmill of her thoughts.
When she’d discovered Dick missing, she’d felt in some way personally responsible. Logically she knew no blame attached to her, yet still she’d felt as if somehow she should have prevented it.
Losing Jemmie had only intensified the feeling. In murdering his mother and taking the boy, Smythe and Grimsby—and by extension Alert—had struck directly at her. At that point, the investigation had become very personal.
Now, with so many avenues exhausted or closed to them for one reason or another, a species of frustration laced with dread rode her, consuming her mind.
They had to—simply had to—find and rescue Jemmie and Dick.
Yet rack her brain though she might, she couldn’t think of anything they could do, couldn’t see any way forward.
“Any news of those two boys, ma’am?”
She looked up, finding a smile, albeit a brief one, for Mrs. Keggs. “Unfortunately not.”
That redoubtable matron sighed and shook her gray head. “It’s a worry—two innocents like that in the hands of a murderer.”
“Indeed.” Knowing she had to for the sake of staff morale, Penelope summoned a confident expression. “We—myself, Mr. Adair, Inspector Stokes, and others—are doing all we can to locate Dick and Jemmie.”
“Aye, and it’s a relief to know they haven’t been forgotten.” Mrs. Keggs clasped her hands. “We’ll all be praying you succeed, and soon.”
With a nod, Mrs. Keggs departed.
All confidence fading, Penelope grimaced at the empty doorway. “As will I, Keggs. As will I.” Praying, it seemed, was all she could do.
“I can’t think of anything.” Stokes, pacing across his office, shot a sharp glance at Barnaby, perched once again on the edge of his desk. “Can you?”
Barnaby shook his head. “We’ve been through it a hundred times. Smythe has the boys, and unless the Almighty decides to take a hand we’ve no prospect of locating him in the short term.”
“And the short term is all we’ve got.”
“Indeed. Alert…now we have a better feeling for the game he’s playing, I’m more confident we’ll identify him—in time.” Barnaby’s voice hardened. “Again, it’s ‘in time.’ Montague sent a message this morning—he’s checked enough to learn that every one of our eleven gentlemen suspects is in debt to some degree. Given their ages, and that they’re all bachelors, that’s not particularly surprising. However, how significant that debt might be will depend on their individual circumstances, and that Montague hasn’t yet had time to assess. He says that’ll take days, at least.”
Stokes grimaced. “None of my contacts has come up with any hint of any of the eleven being involved in shady dealings.”
Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t think Alert will have stooped to petty crime, or even associated with criminals in the past. He’s clever and careful, even if he is growing increasingly cocky.”
Stokes grunted, still pacing. “He has the right to feel cocky. So far, he’s trumped us at every turn.”
Barnaby made no reply. For the first time in his investigative career he was truly stumped, at least on the subject of locating the boys. Alert he would pursue and eventually catch, but rescuing the boys…
He’d made a promise to Jemmie’s mother, and to the boy himself. Losing Jemmie—having the boy snatched away so that he couldn’t fulfill his promises—lay like a leaden weight on his soul, on his honor.
On top of that, the loss of Dick and Jemmie was making Penelope fret, more than he’d dreamed possible.
Like him, she didn’t deal well with failure.
And this time failure was staring them in the face.
Stokes continued to pace. For all of them, being forced to wait without anything to do, knowing the boys were out there somewhere, was eating at their nerves. And time was running out. Now the boys had burgled houses alongside Smythe, he, knowing they were being looked for, might well view them as potential threats.
Now that Alert had executed his plan and pulled off his burglaries, even if they’d only learned of one…
Abruptly Barnaby refocused on Stokes. “Could Smythe have done eight burglaries in one night?”
Halting, Stokes blinked at him. “With two boys? No.”
“No? Definitely no?”
Stokes saw what he meant. His face lit. “No, damn it—it’s not physically possible. Which means if Alert is adhering to his original series of eight burglaries—”
“And why wouldn’t he be, given his scheme appears to be working perfectly?”
Stokes nodded. “Then he has…at least three more burglaries to do.”
“Five’s the maximum in one night?”
“Four’s more like it. Especially if
he’s having to use boys for them all, which according to Grimsby is the case.”
“So Alert’s series of burglaries are currently a work in progress. He’s not finished—which means we have at least one more night, and possibly four more burglaries during which they might be caught.”
Stokes grimaced. “I wouldn’t count on Smythe making a mistake.”
“It doesn’t have to be him.”
Stokes raised his brows. “The boys?”
“There’s always a chance. And if there’s a chance, there’s hope.” Barnaby thought for a minute, then stood and picked his coat up off the chair. “I’m going to see a man about another sort of chance.”
“That’s all he told you? And you let him go?” Penelope looked at Stokes with transparent disgust.
Stokes shrugged and reached for another pikelet. “He’ll tell me if anything useful comes from whatever hare he’s gone to chase. Meanwhile, with more burglaries pending, I’ve enough to think about.”
Penelope humphed. They—she, Stokes, and Griselda—were once again gathered in Griselda’s parlor. Today, Griselda had made pikelets, which Penelope hadn’t had since she’d been in the nursery. It was comforting to sit curled on Griselda’s sofa, a mug of tea in her hand, and nibble and sip.
And share her despondency.
“Joe and Ned Wills dropped by this morning,” Griselda said. “No news, but they said the whole East End has its eyes and ears open. Once Smythe lets the boys go, we’ll have them within hours.”
Stokes sighed. “He won’t.”
“He won’t let them go?” Penelope stared at him.
His expression grim, Stokes shook his head. “He knows we’re searching for them. He’ll either keep them and use them in more burglaries, or he’ll get rid of them in such a way that they won’t pose any threat to him. Perhaps take them to Deptford or Rotherhithe, make them apprentices, or cabin boys on coal haulers. He’ll get money for handing them over, and at the same time ensure they won’t be telling tales to anyone who’ll listen any time soon.”