10

A t eight o'clock the next morning, in the large room on the second floor of his rickety tenement in Weavers Street, deep in the slums east of the north end of Brick Lane, Grimsby in his guise as schoolmaster was preparing to address the latest group of inductees into Grimsby's Burglary School for Orphaned Boys.

Pacing slowly before the seven boys lined up before him, only one short of fulfilling Smythe's order and breaking free of Alert's clutches, Grimsby was pleased. He showed it with an expansive, avuncular smile; he'd long ago learned that boys responded to overt emotions—they quickly learned that when he was happy, they would be happy, too. And then they worked to keep a smile on his face.

Little light penetrated the grimy windows even in summer; today, with fog hanging heavy outside, a gray dimness pervaded the space, yet they were all—the boys, Grimsby, and his assistant, Wally—used to working in poor light. Old straw and the accompanying dust covered the bare plank floor; the dust eddied with every step Grimsby took.

Wally, a quiet, unremarkable sort in his mid-twenties who invariably did exactly as Grimsby told him, stood in the shadows by the stairs. He was of average height, average build, with bland features—a man everyone forgot an instant after seeing him. That, in Grimsby's eyes, was Wally's strength; it was why Smythe had taken Wally with him yesterday to fetch their latest recruit.

There was little furniture in the room, which took up the entire floor. A long narrow trestle at which the boys ate and sometimes worked had been pushed against one wall, the crude benches on which they sat stowed beneath. The unpolished tin bowls and spoons they ate with sat in a dark corner; the straw-filled pallets on which they slept were strewn on the floor of the attic above, which was reached by a wooden ladder.

The aids provided for the boys' education were both primitive and practical. Ropes of various thicknesses dangled from the rafters; a plethora of locks and bolts decorated the wooden walls. A section of iron fencing with spikes at the top rested against one wall; a similar section of bars used to protect windows leaned alongside. Rough wooden frames, all smaller than a man could pass through, lay stacked nearby.

Grimsby surveyed the accoutrements of his trade, then, halting at the center of the line, he looked over his pupils, and beamed. "I've already welcomed some of you to this fine establishment, but today we welcome another into our little group." He focused on the scrawny, brown-haired lad in the middle of the line. "Jemmie here is the second last to join us. There's one more coming—one more place vacant—but he's not here yet."

Grimsby pulled the sides of his woolen coat together; the room was drafty, not that the boys in their thin grimy clothes, or Wally, seemed to notice.

"However," Grimsby continued, "we're going to start your lessons proper from today. The last boy will have to catch up. Now, I've told you—each and every one of you—how lucky you are to get a place here. The authorities have handed you over to us to see to it that you have a trade."

He beamed even more brightly, meeting their wary eyes. None of those he selected were stupid; stupid boys never lasted more than one outing, which made them a waste of his time. "So I'm going to tell you what you'll do. You'll work, eat, and sleep here. You won't go out unless you're with Wally, or later, once you've mastered the basics and are ready fer on-the-job training, with my associate, Mr. Smythe.

"But first, our lessons here will teach you to how to break into houses, how to make your way around the mansions of the nobs in the dark without making a sound, how to slip bolts and pick locks, how to crawl through small spaces, and also how to keep watch. You'll learn how to scale walls, how to deal with dogs. You'll learn everything you need to know to become a burglar's apprentice."

He eyed the line of small watchful faces, and kept his smile genial. "Now, this school doesn't run all the time—only when we have places waiting fer our boys. I don't need to tell you what a piece of luck it is to be chosen to train in a field where there's a job waiting fer you to step into it. You're all orphans—just think of all those other orphans out there, struggling to earn a crust and likely sleeping in the gutter. You've been lucky!"

Leaning closer, smile fading, he met each boy's eyes. "Remember that—that you would have ended in the gutter, just like all the other orphans, if you hadn't been so lucky as to get a place here." He straightened and, features relaxing, nodded at them. "So you work hard, and make sure you're worthy. Now—what do you say to that?"

They shifted, but dutifully chorused, "Yes, Mr. Grimsby."

"Good. Good!" He looked at Wally. "Wally here will start your lessons today—you mark what he says and pay attention and you'll do well. Like I said, once you've grasped the basics, Mr. Smythe—he's a legend in this field—will start taking you out with him on the streets so you get to learn the ropes on the job."

Once again, he surveyed his small troop. "Right now—any questions?"

To his surprise, after a moment of wavering hesitation, their latest recruit tentatively raised his hand.

Grimsby studied him, then nodded. "Yes—what is it?"

The boy—Jemmie, that was it—bit his lips, drew breath, then mumbled, "You said the authorities sent us here to learn how to be burglar's apprentices. But burglary's against the law—why would the authorities send us to learn it?"

Grimsby smiled—he couldn't help it; he'd always approved of boys who could think. "That's a smart question, but the answer, lad, is simple. If there weren't any lads training as burglar's boys, then the burglars couldn't work, or not so much, and then who would the rozzers have to chase? It's a game, see?" He looked at the other faces, well aware the same question had been germinating under each thatch of grimy hair. "It's a game, lads—it's all a game. The rozzers chase us, but they need us. Stands to reason. If we weren't there, they'd be out of a job."

They swallowed the twisted truth whole; Grimsby saw a more certain light enter all seven pairs of eyes. Only natural; they were re lieved and reassured that their new life was an honorable one. Yes, there was honor among thieves—at least when they were young.

But as he'd told them, life was a game; they'd learn the truth of that soon enough.

"Well, now." He beamed genially upon them once more. "If that's all, then I'll hand you over to Wally, and he'll start you on your lessons."

As Wally came forward, Grimsby turned to the stairs. "Work hard!" he exhorted the class. "And make me proud to have you here."

"Yes, Mr. Grimsby."

This time the chorus was enthusiastic. Chuckling to himself, Grimsby stumped down the stairs.

"So you didn't see or hear anything last evening—or even during the afternoon?" Penelope wished she could cling to some hope, but the old woman's shaking gray head was the answer she'd expected.

"Nah." The woman lived across the narrow passage, two doors down from the rooms Mrs. Carter and Jemmie had occupied. "I had no inkling anything was wrong." The old woman met Penelope's eyes. "Jemmie would've come and found me if'n he'd needed help. Can't think why he didn't—they haven't been here that long, but me and Maisie Carter got along."

Penelope summoned a half-smile. "I don't think Jemmie had a chance to contact anyone. We think he was whisked away by whoever—"

"Whoever put a pillow over Maisie's face and held it down while she died." The old woman's tone spat venom. Again she met Penelope's eyes. "I heard tell that young man of yours is something to do with the rozzers—not one hisself, of course, but can get them to do things. You get him to make them find out who did this—no need fer any trial, just tip us the wink. We take care of our own around here, we do."

Penelope didn't doubt it; even though she couldn't approve of vigilante action, she fully understood, and shared, the old woman's anger. She'd met the emotion again and again over the past hour she'd spent questioning the inhabitants of the narrow lane.

"We're concentrating on finding and rescuing Jemmie—that has to come first. But when we find him, we'll very likely learn who killed Mrs. Carter." Eyes locked with the old woman's, Penelope made a decision; she nodded curtly. "If the police don't catch him, I'll send word."

The old woman's smile promised retribution. "You do that, dearie, and I can promise we'll take care of the bastard as he deserves."

Penelope stepped back from the woman's doorstep. Looking along the passage, she saw Barnaby talking animatedly to a middle-aged man some way up the lane. Barnaby glanced her way, saw her watching, and beckoned.

Instinct pricking, Penelope started toward him, then she picked up her skirts and hurried. The man Barnaby was speaking with appeared to have stumbled from his bed. He looked tousled and bleary-eyed, but also serious and sober.

Barnaby turned to her as she came up. "Jenks here is a shift worker. He works nights, so he leaves here at three in the afternoon."

Jenks nodded. "Regular as clockwork, or I miss the bell at the factory."

"Yesterday," Barnaby continued, "as he was coming out of his door Jenks saw—just glimpsed—two men going into Mrs. Carter's house."

"Knew she wasn't well, so I thought it were strange." Jenks's face fell. "Wish I'd stopped and asked, now, but I thought p'raps they was friends. Jemmie must'a been there, and there weren't no argy-bargy about them going in."

Penelope glanced at Barnaby, and saw he was waiting for her to ask the question. She turned to Jenks. "What did they look like?"

"The first one, he was big." Jenks looked at Penelope. "I'm big, but he was bigger—not the sort I'd want to face in a fight. Hard and mean, he'd be, but he was dressed neat and proper, and didn't look to be angling to cause any trouble. The second one, well, he was…just your average bloke. Brown hair, ordinary clothes." Jenks shrugged. "Nothing special about him."

"Would you know them if you saw them again?" Penelope asked.

"The first one?" Jenks frowned. "Yeah—I'm pretty sure I'd know him. The second…" His brow furrowed. "It's strange. I saw him for longer than I did the other, but I reckon I could pass him on the street today and not know him." Jenks met Penelope's eyes and grimaced. "Sorry. I can't tell you more."

"Not at all—you've told us more than anyone else. At least now we know there were two men, and one is identifiable." She smiled. "Thank you. You've given us our first real clue."

Jenks relaxed a fraction more. "Yeah, well, it's no surprise no one else knows anything. If you were going to do what those two did, the middle of the afternoon would be the time to do it. I doubt there'd be more'n a handful of others in this whole block when I leave for work—everyone's out and about their business, not home to see anything that might go on."

Barnaby nodded. "Whoever they were, they knew what they were about."

Penelope reiterated her thanks. Barnaby added his, then they turned and walked back toward Arnold Circus.

"That's it." Barnaby looked along the alley. "I've asked everyone down this side. I kept Jenks until last because they told me he'd be asleep."

"And I've asked everyone on the other side, with no luck." Reaching Mrs. Carter's door, Penelope halted, looked at it and sighed. "What next?" She met Barnaby's eyes. "There must be something else we can do—somewhere else, somehow else we can search for a clue."

He held her gaze for a moment, then raised a brow. "The truth?"

Frowning slightly, she nodded.

"There isn't anything more we can do here. We've spoken with everyone. We've learned what there is to learn. That's all there is. We have to go on—move on to the next chance."

She glanced around, her gaze coming to rest once more on the door behind which Jemmie should have been. "I just feel…like I've failed him. And even more her. I told him I'd see him safe—and I promised her I would." Looking up, meeting Barnaby's eyes, she read in them complete understanding. "A promise to a dying mother regarding her son's safety. What value can one put on that? I can't—just can't —rest with that on my conscience. There has to be more I can do."

His lips twisted, but he neither smiled nor laughed. Taking her arm, he turned her along the alley. "It's not just you involved. I made a promise, too, to Jemmie himself. And yes, I understand, and yes, we have to get him back and put him in the Foundling House where he belongs."

She found herself moving away from the door as he gently propelled her along.

He met her eyes as she glanced up, held her gaze as he said, "I made another promise if you recall—to you—that we will get Jemmie back. That's a promise I intend to keep, just as we'll both keep the promises we made to Jemmie and his mother. But we won't be able to keep any of those promises if we allow ourselves to become distracted through acting simply for the sake of it—to salve our consciences. We need to act, but sensibly, rationally, logically. That's the only way to defeat the blackguards and rescue the innocent."

She studied his eyes, then looked ahead as they emerged into murky daylight and the bustle of Arnold Circus. "You make it sound so straightforward."

He steered her to where their hackney waited. "It is straightforward. What it isn't is easy. It is, however, what we need to do. We have to set aside all emotion and focus on our goal."

Penelope blew out a breath; she would have loved to argue, simply because of the tortured way she felt, but…he was right. He swung open the hackney's door and handed her up; settling on the seat, she waited until he sat beside her and the carriage started rolling before saying, "All right. I won't indulge my conscience, at least not by acting impulsively. So what is our next sensible, logical, and rational step?"

Her tone was snippish, but Barnaby was content; while she was sniping at him, she wasn't letting the situation overwhelm her. The lost look in her eyes as she'd stared at the Carters' door had made him feel violent, even more so because he understood how she felt. But he'd been through such times with other investigations; he knew the way forward. "We need to tell Stokes what we've learned. It might not be much, but he'll know how to make the most of it. Jenks's description was meager, but it might make a connection in some sergeant's brain."

It was nearly noon. He'd given the jarvey orders to drive back to Mayfair. They'd called in at the Foundling House earlier, and didn't need to return. "We'll get something to eat, then we can go on to Scotland Yard."

Beside him, Penelope nodded. "And after we've seen Stokes, we really should tell Griselda the news."

Stokes had been visited by exactly the same thought. He arrived at the shop in St. John's Wood High Street just after two o'clock.

This time the girls smiled at him. One immediately bustled back to inform Miss Martin of his presence.

Griselda came to the curtain, a smile on her lips.

He returned the smile, he thought well enough, but she seemed to read his underlying tension. Her expression grew serious; she tilted her head, inviting him with her eyes. "Please—come through."

Passing the girls, he followed her into the kitchen, letting the curtain fall closed behind him. As before, the table was covered with feathers and ribbons; a fashionable bonnet, its decoration half-finished, sat in the center of the space. "I've interrupted you," he said.

She frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

He met her eyes, then glanced back at the curtain. "If you would feel comfortable permitting it, I'd prefer to speak upstairs."

"Of course." She moved around the table to the stairs. "Let's go up."

He followed her up the narrow flight, trying not to focus on her swaying hips, and failing. She led the way into the parlor; going to the armchair that was clearly her favorite, she waved him to its mate.

Dropping into it, he sighed; when he was there, with her, he literally felt as if some amorphous weight lifted from his shoulders. In reply to her raised brows, he said, "I can't remember if Adair and Miss Ashford mentioned they'd found a boy similar to those who'd gone missing, in similar circumstances, but as his mother was by all accounts some way from death's door there seemed little benefit in placing a constant watch on the house."

She shook her head. "What happened?"

Letting his head fall back, he closed his eyes. "Last night we heard the boy's mother had been found dead—murdered—and the boy's disappeared."

She said something beneath her breath he felt sure he wasn't supposed to hear. "In the East End?"

Opening his eyes, he nodded. "Near Arnold Circus." He watched her frown deepen. "Why?"

She glanced at him, then her lips firmed. After a moment, she said, "The East End is in many ways lawless, but they do take care of their own. There are certain boundaries no one crosses, and killing a mother to steal her son—that's one of them. No one's going to be happy with this—if there's any information to be had, it'll be readily given."

"So if we ask, we'll be told?"

She smiled cynically. "The rozzers will get whatever help can be given."

He studied her face. "You don't sound confident that help will be enough."

"Because I'm not. There might be enough information to suggest who took the boy, but finding the villain and getting the boy back will be another matter entirely." After a moment, she said, "There's still five names on your list. It's possible one of those five is the schoolmaster who's snatching the boys. The fastest way I can help you and the others to rescue them is by finding out about those five men."

The bell downstairs jangled. Griselda rose, then cocked her head, listening. Stokes got to his feet.

Griselda glanced at him. "Miss Ashford and Adair."

She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. "Yes, Imogen, I know. Please tell them to come up—they know the way."

A moment later Penelope appeared, followed by Barnaby.

Penelope's eyes widened when she saw Stokes. "There you are! We called at Scotland Yard, but you were out."

Stokes colored faintly. "I spent longer than I expected at Liverpool Street." He glanced at Barnaby. "We've put out an alert to all the watch houses in London, giving Jemmie's description. Soon everyone in the force will know we want him—if he's seen on the streets, there's a chance he'll be picked up."

Barnaby grimaced. "Unfortunately, if he's been snatched for a burglary school he may not be on the streets—not until he's sent out to work."

And once a boy participated in a crime, disentangling him from the legal system would become problematic.

Griselda waved them to sit. They did, all sober, not to say deflated.

Barnaby looked at Stokes. "We spoke with everyone up and down the street. We had one stroke of luck." He explained what Jenks had seen.

Stokes nodded. "It's not much to go on, but it's something. That fits with the time the doctor thinks she was killed, so they most likely are the villains responsible." He thought, then added, "I'll stop by Liverpool Street on my way back and get them to send that description out, too. Neither man may be all that recognizable on his own, but together…the description might be more useful than it sounds."

"True," Barnaby said, "but finding the boys is becoming urgent. They have five that we know of, but there may be more—boys we haven't heard about. We can't just wait for information to come in."

"Exactly the point I was making when you arrived." Griselda leaned forward. "I was intending to visit my father tomorrow to see if he'd heard anything more about the five names still on our list. I'll do that first thing, then depending on what he's heard, I'll ask around and see if I can learn anything definite." She looked at Stokes. "If I think I've found the school's location, I'll send word."

"You won't have to send word—I'll be with you." When Griselda opened her mouth, Stokes held up a staying hand. "As I told you before, if you're going out on police business and there's any risk attached—which there definitely is—then I have to be there, too."

Griselda narrowed her eyes, but then inclined her head. "Very well."

"We'll come, too." Penelope pushed up from the depths of the sofa. "We'll get through looking much quicker—"

"No." Barnaby laid a hand on her arm. When she looked at him, he met her eyes. "You have another avenue to pursue." When she looked puzzled, he said, "The files, remember?"

She blinked. "Oh. Yes." She looked at Stokes. "I'd forgotten."

Stokes frowned. "What files?"

"At the Foundling House," Barnaby said. "Remember our earlier thought about setting a trap using some boy who was the right sort and whose guardian was about to die?" When Stokes nodded, he con tinued, "That plan fell by the wayside because the only boy like that in the files was Jemmie, and it transpired his mother wasn't likely to die for months.

"However"—his tone hardened—"given what's happened with Jemmie, that suggests their need for boys is urgent, enough for them not to blink at bringing ailing guardians' lives to a premature end."

Stokes's expression sharpened. "So if you can find another boy of the right physical sort, with an ailing guardian who's expected to die at some date, there's a chance…" He paused, looking inward, then he focused on Penelope. "If you can find a boy like that in the East End, I'll guarantee the police will keep him safe. We'll have a constant watch placed on him—if these villains come calling, we'll have them. Even if I have to do the watching myself."

Penelope saw the commitment blazing in Stokes's eyes; she glanced at Griselda, saw a quieter version infusing her, and suddenly felt a great deal better. She was even prepared to leave the searching to them and Barnaby while she plowed through the mountains of files.

Barnaby sighed. "How many files are there?"

She glanced at him. "You saw the last lot—multiply by ten."

He looked at Stokes. "It might be a better division of labor if I helped Penelope go through the files. If we find a likely candidate, I'll send word."

Stokes met his eyes; after a moment, he nodded. "Yes, you're right. We'll search on the ground, you two search the files."

Penelope narrowed her eyes, first on Stokes, then on Barnaby, and wondered whether it was entirely her imagination that there'd been some other communication in that exchange, one that had run beneath their words.

Regardless, they now had their appointed tasks; leaving Stokes and Griselda making arrangements about where to meet, she and Barnaby went downstairs and out onto the street.

Again they had to walk around the church to find a hackney. As they passed the spot where they'd had their previous afternoon's altercation—and he'd kissed her—a wave of consciousness swept her. It felt like tingles spreading under her skin, leaving her nerve endings tantalized, sensitized.

It helped not at all that a gentleman chose that moment to walk along the same stretch in the opposite direction. As he neared, Barnaby steered her to the side—his large strong hand burning her back, his body a shield between her and the unknown.

She bit her lip and forced herself not to react. That simple touch was an instinctive act, one gentlemen like he performed for ladies such as she. Usually it meant nothing…yet to her it did. The courtesy might be a common one, but it wasn't one gentlemen used on her. She didn't normally allow it—because it smacked of protection and she knew where that led.

They continued around the corner, and his hand fell away. Lifting her head, she eased out the breath trapped in her lungs. She wasn't going to say anything, call any attention to the disturbing effect such little attentions from him had on her. While in light of their previous night's discussion she might wonder if he was doing it on purpose, to wear down her resistance, she had no proof that was so—and she would certainly appear irrational if she protested on such grounds.

He raised an arm and summoned a hackney. Waiting beside him, she cast him a sidelong glance. Another reason she wasn't going to say anything was because she needed him to help her rescue Jemmie.

That was her first and most important consideration, one that overrode any missish need to put distance between them. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, cutting off all contact was simply not possible.

When the hackney pulled up and he offered his hand, she calmly placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her in.

Sinking onto the padded seat beside her, Barnaby had no difficulty hiding his smile. She might be as transparent as glass, at least over her reaction to him and his touch, but he wasn't such a fool as to take her—or her indomitable will—for granted. She was skittish and so aware; to win her he would need to play the age-old game very carefully.

Luckily, he thrived on challenge.

The carriage rolled swiftly toward Mayfair. After some time, her uncharacteristic silence registered. He glanced at her; her face was half turned toward the window, but what he could see of her expression was serene…which meant she was planning something.

"What?"

She looked at him; when she didn't bother asking what he was referring to, he knew he'd read her abstraction correctly.

She considered him, then said, "Jemmie's out there somewhere, alone in a sense, and probably afraid. I'm not inclined to wait until tomorrow to start searching for the next boy they're likely to take. You said it yourself, there's clearly some urgency over getting more boys—every hour we wait is time we can't afford to waste." She met his gaze steadily. "Unfortunately, I'm committed to accompanying my mother to a musicale this evening."

The faint arching of one brow echoed the question in her tone.

Rather than appear too eager—too happy to fall in with her plans—he looked forward, then sighed. "I'll meet you there, and we can slip away. Lord knows they never notice who's there and who isn't once the caterwauling starts, but we'll have to keep an eye on the clock and get back before it ends."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her wave a dismissive hand. "No need." With a sangfroid to match his, she stared out of the window. "I'll develop a headache and claim your escort home. Mama won't make a fuss. I'll make sure she won't check on me when she gets home, either, and Leighton knows to leave the front door on the latch unless he sees me come in."

She turned her head and looked at him. "Once we leave Lady Throgmorton's we can spend all night searching the files."

As offers of how to spend an evening went, he'd had better, but her suggestion would allow him to advance his cause, both with her and in rescuing Jemmie Carter.

He nodded. "Lady Throgmorton's then, at eight o'clock."

By eight forty-five that evening they were sitting in Penelope's office at the Foundling House surrounded by files. Stacks and stacks of them. Barnaby eyed the teetering piles. "There has to be a faster way."

"Unfortunately there isn't."

"What about the files we looked through before—there weren't as many of them."

"Those were the files of children in cases where the guardian's death was considered imminent—in Mrs. Carter's case her health improved, but I'd already done the formal visit, which is why I remembered Jemmie."

Seated behind her desk, Penelope surveyed the files—there were over a hundred—that Miss Marsh had gathered and piled on the desk and alongside it. " These are the files of all children registered with us as possible candidates to come here at some point in the future. These represent our unculled waiting list. The last lot of files—there were only a few dozen, if you recall—were the accepted and imminent list."

Barnaby picked up the top file from the nearest stack. He started flicking through it. "These files are a lot thinner."

"Because they only contain the initial registration, and at most one note. We haven't yet followed up, got a doctor's report, anything—and I haven't been to visit these families, and neither has Keggs, so we won't have any physical description of the child to help us."

His expression grew wary. "What, exactly, are we searching for here?"

"For a boy between seven and eleven years old. One known as a potential orphan." She ticked the points off on her fingers. "He has to live in the East End. And then we need to check if there's any mention in the note about the guardian. How ill they are, whether they're incapacitated or not." She met his eyes. "I imagine that if they've a choice, these villains will target a guardian they can readily overcome."

"That's a reasonable guess."

"Well, then." She surveyed the files, then looked at him. "Shall we work out a plan of campaign?"

"Please."

"Let's work progressively, taking our points in order—you start, and check each file for whether it's a boy or a girl. Girls set aside, boys pass on to me." Leaning forward, she pointed to the top right corner of the file he'd reopened. "See there? Boy or girl?"

"Boy. One for you." He tossed the file on the desk in front of her and reached for the next.

"I'll check their age and the address." Pulling the file to her, she opened it. "East End or not." She frowned and looked up. "Is it likely they'll extend their reach outside the East End?"

"It's possible"—he dropped the second file to the floor beside his chair—"but only if they can't find a suitable boy on their own patch." He reached for the next file. "Villains tend to stick to specific neighborhoods—like a territory that's somehow their domain for whatever nefarious purpose."

She nodded, and checked the address on the file she had—Paddington. Closing the file, she dropped it to the floor by her chair just as Barnaby slid another her way.

They settled into a silent rhythm as the house quieted around them. When they'd arrived, the older children had been awake, and the staff had been about, overseeing them and tucking the younger ones into bed. The sounds of a bustling family, multiplied significantly, echoed along the corridors. But as the clock on top of the cabinet ticked relentlessly on, all such sounds faded, leaving the dry rustling of paper and the occasional slap of a discarded file the only punctuations in the enfolding silence.

When the clock chimed, signifying the half hour, Penelope glanced up and saw it was half past eleven. With a sigh, she dropped the last of the files to be discarded on the latest pile, then studied, as Barnaby was, the small pile that remained on her blotter.

Reaching out, she riffled the spines. "Fifteen." Fifteen East End boys aged between seven and eleven who were registered as potential foundlings.

Barnaby eyed the discarded files. "I hadn't any notion there would be so many potential orphans." He lifted his gaze to her face. "You can't take in all these."

She shook her head. "We'd like to, but we can't. We have to choose." After a moment, she added, "As it happens, we base our decision on some of the traits these villains look for—quickness of mind, and preferably of body. Size we don't take into account, but knowing we have to choose, we long ago decided that we had to take the children who would make the most of the opportunities we provide."

"And that means quick wits and reasonable health." He reached for the top file of the remaining fifteen. "So now we try to find some indication of the guardian's physical state."

Even with only fifteen files to assess, that took time; they had to read not only what was written, but also to some extent between the lines.

In the end, the pile reduced to three. Three boys they both agreed were the only likely targets among all the files they'd waded through.

Hands folded on her desk, Penelope looked at the three files. "I keep worrying that there will be others, boys who haven't been registered." She raised her eyes to Barnaby's face. "What if the villains go after one of them and leave these boys"—she nodded at the files—"alone?"

He grimaced. "That's a risk we'll have to take. But so far you've lost five of your registered candidates—chances are these boys are, or will become, targets of these villains." He paused, then added, "We have to assume that and go forward with our plan. There are no certainties, but it's the best we can do."

She studied his eyes as if reading his sincerity, then nodded. "You're right." Looking down at the files, she sighed. "There's nothing in these to say if the boys themselves are physically suitable. They might be too big, or clumsy, or…I'll have to visit them tomorrow and see."

The clock chimed—one o'clock.

Barnaby rose, rounded the desk, took her hand and drew her to her feet. "We'll go together tomorrow morning, and take a closer look at these three."

Reaching across, he turned down the desk lamp they'd set high to give them light enough to read, then capturing both her hands, he drew her to face him. "We've accomplished all we can for tonight…on that front."

She heard his change of direction in his tone. Her eyes widened, searching his. "What…?"

Lips curving, he drew her into his arms, bent his head, and kissed her confusion from her lips. Tasted them, making it clear just what subject he was intent on investigating.

Her. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

How she felt in his arms, how she fitted so snugly against him.

He'd anticipated some resistance; instead, all he sensed was a moment of blankness—as if her mind had seized, simply frozen.

Then her lips, already parted when he'd covered them, firmed beneath his—but she didn't try to clamp them shut and deny him; she pressed them more firmly to his and kissed him back.

Definitely—no tentativeness this time. Her sudden change in tack left him mometarily following rather than leading.

Then her hands, braced against his chest, slid up over his shoulders to slip beneath his curls and caress his nape. He had to fight to suppress a shudder, surprised that such a simple touch from her slim fingers on his exposed skin could be so evocative.

But then she stepped into him—and his world quaked.

She pressed against him and yielded her mouth—and he lost touch with his immediate world, transported in a heartbeat to one where his civilized guise was gone and his primitive nature ruled.

He spread his hands on her back, pulled her flush against him. The heat of her response, the offered heat of her mouth, the wanton stroke of her tongue urged him on; he angled his head, laid claim to all she offered, and blatantly, flagrantly, molded her hips to his.

She uttered a soft sound—neither moan, sob, nor gasp but an expression of all three, a sound of encouragement he had no difficulty interpreting; he responded by letting his hands, clamped about her hips, ease and slide down, around, filling his palms with her firm curves. Fingers flexing, he moved her against him, suggestively, provocatively.

And felt her melt.

Felt all resistance, even that telltale tension in her spine, evaporate.

She was his for the taking, and they both knew it.

One small hand slid from his nape to his cheek, pressing along it as she kissed him—every bit as wantonly, as blatantly, as he wished.

Turning, he trapped her against the desk; the edge hit the backs of her thighs. The files littering the expanse were no longer relevant; he reached out to push them away—

Click, click, click.

The clack of heels approaching along the tiled corridor jerked them both back into the world—the one encompassed by her office with its open archway, and the anteroom beyond with its open door.

They broke apart. Barnaby stiffly rounded the desk and dropped into the chair he'd earlier occupied.

Penelope pulled her chair—which had rolled away—back to her desk and sat in it, and grabbed the three files left on her blotter.

She looked up as Mrs. Keggs appeared in the archway.

Mrs. Keggs took in the restacked files, then the three in Penelope's hand. "Well, you have worked like Trojans if you've got through all those. Only three?"

Penelope nodded. "We've just finished." Locating her reticule on the floor by her feet, she picked it up and rose. "And yes, there's only three. I'll have to visit them and see if they're possible targets for these villains." She glanced at the clock. "I'll take the files with me and do that tomorrow."

Barnaby got to his feet.

Mrs. Keggs smiled brightly. "Indeed. You'll be wanting your beds, I've no doubt. I'll lock up after you."

Penelope didn't meet Barnaby's eyes as she walked past him. She paused by the hook on which she'd hung her evening cloak; before she could lift it down, his hand appeared and did so.

Behind her, he shook it out and draped it over her shoulders. "Have you got everything?"

His breath brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Her senses skittered; she grimly hauled them back.

"I believe so." She managed a smile for Mrs. Keggs—her unwitting savior. The three files in one hand, her reticule in the other, her cloak over her shoulders—and Barnaby Adair at her heels—she walked calmly up the long corridor to the foyer, farewelled Mrs. Keggs, then, head high, walked out into the night.

Throughout the subsequent journey back to Mount Street, she remained silent. There was absolutely nothing she could think of to say. She wasn't sure she appreciated his tact in not saying one damned word, either—especially as she sensed he was amused by her silence.

She did, however, have a great deal to think about courtesy of that thoroughly unwise kiss. Not the one he'd given her, initiating the episode, but the one she—witlessly and wantonly—had pressed on him.

That and what had followed were definitely things she needed to analyze.

Exchanging minimal words, they parted at the door in Mount Street, after he'd verified it had, indeed, been left on the latch, allowing her to enter without rousing the household. The last sight she had of him as she closed the door revealed a certain knowing smile on his face; she would have loved to wipe it off, but decided ignoring it was the wiser course.

Lighting the candle left for her on the hall table, she picked it up and trailed up the stairs…wondering when her wits were going to return to her enough for her to decide where she now stood with respect to Barnaby Adair.