She studied him for a moment, then gave a soft sniff and looked away.
He felt fairly certain the dismissive sniff had been directed at women who wouldn’t get involved, not at him.
After further cogitation, he decided silence was the better part of valor. At least after their exchange, however brief, she was no longer clutching her bag quite so nervously.
As directed, the hackney halted at the corner of Whitechapel Road and New Road. Stokes descended first. Griselda found herself being handed down with the same care he’d used to help her into the carriage. It wasn’t a courtesy to which she was accustomed, but she rather thought she could get used to it.
Unlikely as that was to be; Stokes and she were here on business, nothing else.
He ordered the driver to wait for them. Dragging a breath into lungs that seemed suddenly tight—she must have laced her walking gown too tightly—she lifted her chin and waved down the street. “This way.”
During the drive she’d surreptitiously watched him, studying his dark-featured face for any sign of him turning up his nose as they’d penetrated deeper into the old neighborhoods. She wasn’t ashamed of her origins, but she knew well enough how the East End was viewed. But she’d detected no hint of contempt, no turning up of his arrogant, bladelike nose.
Then, as now, he looked about him with a certain detached interest. He strode easily, effortlessly, by her side, scanning the ramshackle houses pressed tight together, holding one another up. He saw all there was to see, but evinced no sign of passing judgment.
She felt just a little easier—less tense—as she led the way down Fieldgate Street, then took the second turning on the left, into familiar territory. She’d been born and raised in Myrdle Street. They drew level with her father’s house; she paused beside the single front step and met Stokes’s eyes. “I was born here. In this house.” Just so he’d know.
He nodded. She looked, closely, but saw nothing in his face or his changeable gray eyes but curiosity.
Feeling rather more confident as to how the next half hour would go, she raised a hand and tapped on the door—three sharp raps—then opened the door and went in.
“Grizzy-girl! That you?” Her father’s voice was scratchy with age.
“Yes, Da, it’s me. I’ve brought a visitor.” Setting down her bag in the tiny front room, she led the way into the room beyond.
Her father was propped up in his bed-cum-chair, an old ginger cat curled up in his lap, purring under his hand. He looked up as she entered, eyes brightening as they met hers, then widening as they moved on to fix on the presence at her back.
She was relieved to see that her father was wide awake, and also reasonably pain-free. “Did the doctor call this morning?”
“Aye.” Her father’s reply was absentminded. “Left another bottle of tonic.”
She saw the bottle on the scarred dresser.
“Who’s this?” Narrow-eyed, her father was studying Stokes.
Griselda sent Stokes a brief, warning look. “This is Mr. Stokes.” She drew a deep breath, then said, “Inspector Stokes—he’s an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“A rozzer?” Her father’s tone made it clear that wasn’t an occupation he held in high regard.
“Yes, that’s right.” She pulled up a chair and sat, taking one of her father’s hands in hers. “But if you’ll let me explain why he’s here—”
“Actually,” Stokes cut in. “It might be better, sir, if I explain why I’ve prevailed on your daughter to arrange this meeting.”
She glanced at Stokes, but he was looking at her father.
Who grumped, but nodded. “Aye—all right. What’s this about then?”
Stokes told him, simply, directly, without any embellishment.
At one point her father cut him off to wave him to a stool. “Sit down—you’re so damned tall you’re giving me a crick.”
She caught the flash of Stokes’s smile as he complied, then continued his tale. By the time he’d completed it, her father had lost all suspicions of this rozzer at least. He and Stokes were soon engrossed in evaluating the likely local villains.
Feeling unexpectedly redundant, Griselda rose. Stokes glanced up, but her father reclaimed his attention. Nevertheless, as she left the room, she felt the weight of Stokes’s attention. In the cramped lean-to kitchen, she raddled the stove, then boiled the kettle and made tea. Returning to the front room, she extracted the biscuits she’d remembered to stuff in her bag, then laid them out on a clean plate.
Arranging the teapot, three mugs, and the plate on a wooden tray, she carried it into the small bedroom. Her father brightened at the sight of the biscuits; she felt her heart constrict when Stokes noticed, reached over, lifted the plate, and offered it to him. Delighted, her father helped himself, then returned to their discussion.
After handing out the mugs, Griselda sat. She didn’t listen, but instead let the cadence of her father’s voice wash over her, watched his face, more animated than she’d seen it in years—and silently gave thanks that she’d agreed to bring Stokes to see him.
Having an interest in life kept old people living; she wasn’t yet ready to let her father go.
They finished their tea, and the biscuits. She rose, tidied the tray, and carried it back to the kitchen. She returned in time to see Stokes get to his feet, tucking his black notebook into his pocket while he thanked her father for his time.
“And your help.” Stokes smiled easily; he had, she’d noticed, a smile that, although he didn’t flash it often, inspired confidences. “Your information is exactly what I needed.” His gaze locked with her father’s, his smile grew wry. “I know assisting the rozzers with their inquiries isn’t something that’s encouraged around here, so I doubly value your help.”
Her father, she could tell, was inwardly preening, but he hid it behind a manly nod and a gruff, “You just find those boys and get them back.”
“If there’s any justice in this world, with your help, we will.” Stokes glanced at her.
She went to her father and fussed, straightening the blanket over his legs, reminding him that Mrs. Pickles next door would bring his dinner in an hour, then she kissed him on the cheek and bade him good-bye. He was settling down for a nap, an unusually contented smile on his face, when she joined Stokes in the tiny front room. Picking up her bag, she led the way to the door.
Stokes held it for her, then followed her out, making sure the latch caught behind them.
They were walking up the street when he asked, “Is he your only family?”
She nodded. Hesitated, then added, “My three brothers were killed in the wars. My mother died when we were young.”
Stokes nodded.
He said nothing more, merely strode along by her side, yet within a few paces she felt compelled to add, “I wanted him to move to St. John’s Wood with me.” She gestured about them. “There’s no call for a milliner around here. But he was born in this street, too, and this place is his home, with all his friends around, so here he’ll stay.”
She felt Stokes’s glance, sharper, more assessing, but even now not judgmental. “So you come and visit him often.”
Not a question, but she nodded. “I come as often as I can, but that’s usually only once a week. Still, he has others—like Mrs. Pickles and the doctor—to keep an eye on him, and they all know how to reach me if there’s any need.”
He nodded again, but said nothing more. The obvious question leapt to her tongue; she bit it, then decided there was no reason she should. “Do you have any family living?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. She was wondering if she’d stepped over some invisible line when he replied, “Yes. My father’s a merchant in Colchester. I haven’t seen him…not for a while. Like you, my mother died some time ago, but I was an only child.”
He said no more, but she got the impression that he hadn’t just been an only, but also a lonely child.
The jarvey was where they’d left him. When
they were in the hackney heading back to St. John’s Wood, she asked, “So what now with your investigation?”
Stokes glanced at her; his hesitation suggested he was considering whether he should tell her or not, but then he said, “Your father gave me eight names of possible schoolmasters. He had directions for some, but not all. I’ll need to check each one to see if they might be the villain behind our lads’ disappearances, but any inquiries will have to be made very carefully. The last thing we want is for the schoolmaster, whoever he is, to realize we’re taking an interest. Once he does, he’ll up stakes and disappear into the slums, taking the boys with him—we’ll never catch him and we’ll have scuppered our chance to rescue the boys.”
She nodded. After a moment she said, “You can’t just wander in and ask, you know.” Catching his eye, she wondered why she was doing this—why she was about to get further involved in a police investigation. “The locals will know who—and what—you are. No matter what disguise you put on, you’ll still not be ‘one of us.’”
He grimaced. “There’s little option beyond using the local rozzers, and they—”
“Won’t be spoken to, either.” She paused, then said, “I, however, can still move among the locals. They know who I am—they trust me. I’m still one of them.”
He’d tensed. A dark turbulence came into his eyes. “I can’t let you do that. It’s too dangerous.”
She shrugged. “I’ll dress down, let my accent come through. And there’ll be far less danger for me than for you.”
He held her gaze, and she knew he was torn.
“You need my help—those boys need my help.”
Lips compressed, he stared at her, then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I’ll agree to you asking questions on one condition, and one condition only. I go with you.”
She opened her mouth to point out the obvious.
He silenced her with an upraised hand. “I can pass well enough in disguise, as long as I don’t have to talk. You can do the talking. I’ll be there purely for your protection—but I must be there, or you don’t go.”
She longed to ask him how he intended to stop her, but if her father heard she was asking questions about schoolmasters he would worry, and there was no question but that having Stokes at her shoulder would, even in the roughest sections of the East End, count as very good protection.
Relaxing back against the seat, she nodded. “Very well. We’ll go together.”
Some of the tension holding him eased.
She glanced out, and realized they were back in St. John’s Wood High Street. The carriage rocked to a halt before her door. Stokes descended, and handed her out. She could, she decided, get used to being treated like a lady.
Shaking out her skirts, she glanced at her door, then turned and met his gaze. “So when should we go back?”
He frowned. “Not tomorrow. I should share the information we’ve uncovered with a colleague—the one who brought the case to my attention. He might have news that will help us to fix on which of our possible villains is the most likely.”
“Very well.” She inclined her head. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
He fell in beside her as she walked the few feet to her front steps. As she climbed them, then hunted for her key and unlocked the door, she was aware of him looking at the shop, as if with new eyes.
The door open, she turned and regarded him, brows lifting faintly in query.
His elusive smile flashed. He looked down for a moment, then lifted his head. “I was just thinking you must have worked very hard to get from the East End to here.” His eyes trapped hers. “That in itself is a significant accomplishment. That you’ve retained the ability to move in your original circles—while I’m grateful for the benefits that brings my investigation”—he paused, then continued, his voice lower, softer—“I also find that admirable.”
He held her gaze for a breathless instant, then inclined his head. “Good evening, Miss Martin. I’ll be in touch in a day or so, once I have news.”
He turned and made his way unhurriedly down the steps.
It took a moment and more to shake free of her surprise, to register that yes, he had indeed paid her a compliment, and no little one at that. Feeling suddenly exposed, she stepped inside and shut the door, then hesitated. With one fingertip she eased aside the blind—and watched his departing back, savoring the elegant lines, the muscular grace of his stride, until he climbed into the hackney and shut the door.
With a mental sigh, she let the blind fall and listened to the clop of hooves slowly fade.
That evening, Barnaby did something he’d never done. He propped one shoulder against a fashionable matron’s wall and over the heads of the assembled throng studied a young lady across the room.
For once he was grateful that the matron in question, Lady Moffat, had a drawing room whose small size was at odds with her extensive acquaintance. Despite the continuing exodus of ton families from the capital, enough remained to ensure that the crowd packed into the limited space gave him adequate cover.
Within the ton, such cover was thinning by the day. Just when, for the first time in his life, he had need of it. His mother, he felt sure, would laugh herself into stitches if she learned of his predicament.
She’d laugh even more if she could see him.
He didn’t have any question to ask Penelope yet here he was, watching her. He’d decided he may as well obsess over her in person, rather than sit at home staring into the fire and seeing her face in the flames. Alone, by himself, he would think of nothing but her; no other subject, not even the puzzling case she’d brought him, served to break her spell.
The saner, more rational part of him felt he should be stubbornly resisting her lure. The rest of him, led by a more primitive side he hadn’t previously thought he possessed, had already surrendered.
As if the notion flitting about the corners of his mind were inevitable.
As if it were a truth he couldn’t—wouldn’t be able to no matter how hard he tried—deny.
His sophisticated self scoffed, and assured him he was merely intrigued by a lady so very different from all others he’d met.
His more primitive self wasn’t listening.
His more primitive self was observing the men gathering about her through ever-narrowing eyes. When Hellicar swanned into contention, he inwardly swore, pushed away from the wall, and headed in her direction.
Penelope was holding her own against an annoying clutch of would-be suitors when she glimpsed Barnaby through the crowd. The whirl of emotions that afflicted her when she realized he was heading her way was a warning; excitement, trepidation, and a seductive thrill were a novel and unsettling mix.
Sternly ordering her stupid senses to bear up, she refocused on Harlan Rigby’s aristocratic countenance. He was presently holding forth on the pleasures of the chase, something she was well acquainted with having grown up in Leicestershire with hunting-mad brothers. Unfortunately it was beyond Rigby’s comprehension that a mere female might know anything about anything. Even more unfortunately, as he was possessed of a sizable fortune along with passable looks, not even Hellicar at his most pointed had succeeded in puncturing Rigby’s self-assurance, let alone opened his eyes to the simple fact that the route to her favors did not lie in belittling her intelligence.
Rigby was an afflicting ailment she had yet to learn how to treat.
Barnaby appeared, by some magic convincing the younger gentlemen to make space for him beside her. That left her flanked by him and Hellicar, but still facing Rigby.
Smiling welcomingly, she gave Barnaby her hand. Rigby paused in his ponderous discourse while Barnaby bowed and he and she exchanged greetings, but then Rigby drew breath, opened his large mouth—
“It seems rather stuffy in here.” Apparently oblivious of Rigby, Barnaby trapped her gaze. He’d kept hold of her hand; he lightly squeezed her fingers. “It’s too cold to stroll the terrace, but perhaps you’d care to take a turn i
n the salon.” He raised his brows. “I believe that’s a waltz commencing, if you’d care to indulge?”
She beamed delightedly. Anyone who saved her from Rigby and his views on the best way to husband hounds was worthy of her undying gratitude. “Thank you. It is rather oppressive. A waltz will be just the thing.”
Inclining his head, Barnaby set her hand on his sleeve, covering her fingers with his.
Nerves clenching at the subtle touch, she turned to her circle of unwanted admirers. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?”
Most had watched the byplay between her and Barnaby with interest, much along the lines of where he went, they might soon follow.
All except Rigby. Frowning, he fixed her with a puzzled look. “But, Miss Ashford, I’ve yet to tell you of my success with the latest round of crossbreeding with whippets.” His tone made it clear he couldn’t believe she didn’t want to hear every last detail.
She wasn’t sure how to answer; the very thought she might want to know such a thing made her brain seize.
Her white knight stepped in. “I find it hard to believe, Rigby, that you’re unaware that Calverton, Miss Ashford’s brother, is a renowned breeder of prize hounds.” Barnaby’s lips curved. “Are you smothering her with your procedures in the hope of winkling family secrets from her?”
Rigby blinked. “What?”
A snort sounded on Penelope’s right—Hellicar smothering a bark of laughter. The other gentlemen fought to hide smiles.
Barnaby’s smile turned apologetic. He glanced at Penelope, then nodded to Rigby. “I’m desolated to cut short your time for interrogating Miss Ashford, old man, but the lady desires to waltz.” With a general nod, he drew her out of the circle. “If you’ll excuse us?”
All the others bowed, amused. Rigby simply stared as if he couldn’t believe she was deserting him.
But she was, for a much more challenging proposition. Barnaby led her to the archway separating the drawing room from the salon beyond, in which couples were dancing. A string quartet was crowded into an alcove at one end, laboring to be heard over a hundred conversations. They’d just played the opening bars of a waltz.