11

P enelope had expected to spend at least a few hours of what had remained of the night reassessing her position with Barnaby Adair. Instead, the instant her head had made contact with her pillow, she'd fallen deeply asleep. Unfortunately, waking with a smile on her lips hadn't improved her mood.

But it had lent steel to her decision.

She was increasingly certain that all those little touches that might initially have been instinctive were now deliberate. That he knew the effect he had on her and was intentionally playing on her senses.

That he was, in fact, hunting her.

That conclusion had deepened her resolve. After the previous night's kiss—which shouldn't have occurred at all, and how she'd come to be so brainless as to recklessly let herself enjoy it she didn't know—had proved beyond doubt that the only way to deal with him henceforth was to avoid him.

As far as she was able while continuing to work with him on the investigation.

Hurrying down the stairs, juggling the three files while pulling on her gloves, she reflected that at least today she wouldn't have to exercise any great ingenuity to stick to her plan. She'd already taken steps to ensure he wouldn't be with her; she didn't need an escort to look over three boys.

Smiling at Leighton, waiting by the front door to swing it wide, she paused to check her bonnet in the hall mirror. It was barely eight-thirty, far too early for any tonnish gentleman to be up and about, and as she had three addresses to call at, even when he realized she'd left him behind the chances of him correctly guessing which one she was headed for were slim to none.

For today, she was safe. Turning from the mirror, she nodded her thanks to Leighton as he opened the door. Stepping over the threshold, a satisfied smile curving her lips—

She froze, stopped in her tracks by the sight of the bright curly head atop the pair of broad shoulders, from which a modish greatcoat hung, that were presently leaning against the railing above the area steps.

Behind her, Leighton murmured, "Mr. Adair said he was happy to wait outside for you, miss."

So she would have no warning that her plan had been sprung. "Indeed."

The morning was chilly and damp; mist wreathed the street, wisps draping the hackney and its horse by the curb. It would certainly have been warmer to wait indoors.

Eyes narrowing, she went down the steps.

He heard and turned, and smiled—an easy, charming smile that held no hint of triumph. Pushing away from the railing as she reached the pavement, he strolled to the carriage, opened the door, and held out his hand.

Her eyes couldn't get any narrower. She thrust the three files into his hand, grabbed up her skirts, and clambered into the carriage unaided.

If he chuckled, at least she didn't hear it. Dropping onto the seat in the far corner, she quickly arranged her skirts, then looked out of the window.

He climbed in and shut the door; she felt the seat give as he settled beside her.

The carriage started off. She hadn't heard him give the driver any directions; she frowned, glanced at him. "Where are we going?"

He didn't meet her gaze, merely settled his head against the squabs and made himself comfortable. "The driver's from the East End—he knows the area well. We discussed the best route—he'll take us to Gun Street first, then North Tenter, and then around to Black Lion Yard."

It would be childish to sniff disparagingly just because he'd arranged things so well. "I see." Turning her head, she looked out at the passing streetscape, and told herself she shouldn't sulk.

By the time they reached the first address, in Gun Street opposite Spitalfields Market, her irritation had largely evaporated. He'd left her with no excuse to protest, and being with him, simply being near him, tended to erode her resistance.

Regardless, she sternly lectured herself to concentrate on the matter at hand—identifying any other boy who might be at risk from their villains—and to ignore her senses' giddy preoccupation with Barnaby Adair and all his works.

Steeling herself, she let him hand her down at the corner of Gun Street.

Gun was a short street, and within a second of setting eyes on the boy they'd come to see, it was plain he wasn't a candidate for a burglary school. He was squat and heavy-bodied; one glance at his father, consumptive though he was, suggested the boy would only grow larger with every month.

Penelope excused their visit on the grounds of checking details in their file. Barnaby stood by her side as she spent a few minutes easing the father's concern over the Foundling House having questions.

She'd worn a garnet-red pelisse for the excursion; it set off her pure complexion and brought out the red in her sleek dark hair. The gown possessed no frills, no furbelows. While he would have wagered that anything she wore beneath would be silk, he was increasingly intrigued by the question of whether her private garments would be weighed down by the usual ribbons and lace, or if, like the rest of her wardrobe, they would be severely plain.

He wasn't sure which option he would find more arousing; while the former would be a surprise—suggesting she was, beneath her outer screens, much like other ladies—the latter…in the same way that her severe gowns somehow emphasized her vivid allure, would severe undergarments also emphasize the…glory of what they concealed?

It was a point that understandably exercised his mind.

A sharp prod recalled him to the present; he blinked, and discovered Penelope regarding him with a frown.

"Mr. Nesbit has answered all our questions. It's time to leave."

He smiled. "Yes, of course." With a nod to Nesbit, he followed her from the cramped hovel, and helped her back into the carriage.

Settling beside her on the seat, he continued to smile.

Their next stop, in North Tenter Street, was equally brief.

Back in the carriage, Penelope remarked, "No burglar would ever take such a simpleton as a helper. He'd most likely forget what he was supposed to fetch, and go and wake the housekeeper to ask if she could help him."

The boy hadn't been quite that bad, but he'd been waited on hand and foot all his life by his doting aunt, and no longer believed it was necessary to think for himself.

Barnaby looked out of the window as they made the turn into Leman Street. "That leaves only one more to check."

"Indeed." After a moment, Penelope echoed his thoughts. "I don't know whether to hope this last boy is a likely candidate—which would put him at risk, but also give us a chance to set a trap to catch these villains—or whether I'd rather he was…too fat, too slow, too sluggish to interest them, and therefore he and his"—she consulted the file on her lap—"grandmother will not be under any threat at all."

The light glinted off her spectacles as she turned her head and looked at him.

He was tempted to reach for her hand and squeeze it reassuringly—either that or pluck her spectacles from her nose and kiss her senseless, effectively distracting her from such troubling thoughts. Instead, he said, "All we can do is let fate roll her dice, and then deal with whatever turns up."

Black Lion Yard was a small cramped space ringed by a collection of old tenements. The yard, such as it was, was cobbled like a street, but there was no thoroughfare; boxes and crates were haphazardly piled both in the corners and elsewhere across the yard, so anyone entering had to tack and weave to reach their destination.

Their destination was the ground-floor rooms in the building at the center of one side of the yard. Mary Bushel and her grandson Horace—known as Horry—lived there.

Within two minutes of making Horry's acquaintance, both of them knew which way fate's dice had fallen. Horry—small and slight, quick and bright—was unquestionably an outstanding candidate for a burglary school.

When Penelope glanced his way, Barnaby didn't need any words to know what she was thinking. What question she was wordlessly asking. But with Jemmie's disappearance and his mother's too-early death weighing on them both, and on the investigation in general, there was no question over what they should do.

He nodded, a slight but definite movement.

As she had in the previous two instances, she'd excused their visit on the grounds of the Foundling House needing more details for its files. Now she turned back to Horry's grandmother—who, every bit as quick as her grandson, had seen the look he and Penelope had shared. Sudden worry infused Mary's features.

Seeing it, Penelope reached out and placed her hand over Mary's. "There's something we must tell you—but first let me assure you that we will definitely be waiting to take Horry into our care when the time comes."

A large part of Mary's anxiety subsided. "He's a good lad—quick and useful. He's got a good nature—you'll never have any trouble with him."

"I'm sure we won't." Penelope spared a smile for Horry, who, sensing the change in atmosphere, had sidled closer to his grandmother, until he was leaning against her arm where she sat in her chair, his thin hand gripping her bony shoulder. Mary reached up and patted his hand.

Once again meeting Mary's eyes, Penelope said, "Horry is exactly the sort of candidate we at the Foundling House look for. Unfortunately, there are some other men about who also want boys like him—boys who are small, slight, and quick-witted. Good boys who'll do what they're told."

Dawning comprehension narrowed Mary's eyes. After a moment, she said, "I've lived in the East End all me life. I know all the larks—and unless I miss me guess, you're talking of a burglary school."

Penelope nodded. "Yes, that's right." She went on to explain about the four boys who'd gone missing, and then about Jemmie and his mother. Her anger resonated in her voice, something Mary Bushel, sharp as two pins, didn't fail to notice.

But when Penelope mentioned the police, and the notion of having them protect Mary and Horry, Mary's comprehension failed. Astonished, she stared at Penelope, then glanced at Barnaby. "'Garn—you don't mean that. The perlice worrying about folks like us?"

Barnaby met her washed-out blue eyes. "I know it's not what you're used to around here, but…" He paused, realizing that he needed to couch the truth in a way she, and anyone else she asked for advice, would accept. "Think of it this way—this burglary school is training boys, quite a few of them, to burgle…which houses?"

Mary blinked. "If they're training boys up, it's usually the houses of the nobs they've got in their sights."

"Precisely. So while Miss Ashford and I might be more concerned over rescuing the missing boys, and making sure no other boys are dragooned into a life of crime, the police are keen to find the villains and shut down the school, so there won't be a string of burglaries in Mayfair to upset the commissioners."

Mary slowly nodded. "Aye—that makes sense."

"And that's why the police will set a watch on this house—both to protect you and Horry, because they don't want more boys going into this school, and also to keep watch for and catch these villains when they come for Horry, as it seems likely they will." Barnaby paused. "It's unusual, I know, but in this case the police's interests and yours are the same. We all want the same things—you and Horry safe, and the villains caught."

Mary nodded again, but then her gaze grew distant. She rocked slightly, then refocused on Barnaby's face. "I don't know about the perlice—I don't know as I'd trust 'em with me and Horry's lives." She held up a hand, halting any comment Barnaby might have thought to make. "However, they can come and keep watch if they please. But fer me peace of mind, I want people I trust about me."

Lifting Horry's hand from her shoulder, she squeezed, then released it. "Get you round next door, Horry, and see if any of the Wills boys are in. Tell 'em I'd like a word."

Horry nodded, cast a glance at Barnaby and Penelope, then quickly went out of the door.

Mary looked at Barnaby and Penelope. "The Wills boys may be rough and ready, but they're honest lads."

Horry returned in less than a minute, two brawny, dark-featured men in tow. Horry went to stand by Mary's shoulder as she nodded in greeting to the newcomers. "Joe, Ned." To Penelope and Barnaby, she said, "These are two of the Wills boys—they're me neighbors. Joe here is the oldest—there's four of 'em, all told."

Joe Wills, taking in Barnaby and Penelope, clearly didn't know what to think. "Horry spun us a bit of a tale, Mary, something about the perlice wanting to come and stop some beggars killing you and snatching him away to do burglaries?"

Clearly Horry had understood the gist of things well enough.

Mary nodded. "Not so much of a tale as it sounds. But I'll let them tell it." She looked to Barnaby and Penelope; the Wills boys followed her lead.

Penelope leapt in. "I'm from the Foundling House in Bloomsbury. Mrs. Bushel here—Mary—has asked us to take Horry in when she passes on."

With the occasional interjection from Mary, Penelope told their tale to the point where they'd learned that Mrs. Carter had been murdered and Jemmie spirited away.

Both Wills boys shifted, and exchanged a dark look.

Barnaby picked up the tale. "As I explained to Mary, despite the usual way of things, in this case the police have a real interest in capturing these villains." Once again he cast the official interest in terms of protecting the "nobs"—it was what the Wills boys would expect; the comprehension in their eyes and the way they nodded as they followed his tale suggested he'd judged their prejudices correctly.

He went on to explain why the police needed to put a close watch on Mary and Horry, "indeed, on Black Lion Yard, so that they can catch these villains when they come for Horry."

Joe Wills's eyes were hard. "You're saying these blackguards might come here and hold a pillow over Mary's face until she's dead, then scarper with Horry?"

Barnaby hesitated, then nodded. "That's precisely what we believe they'll do."

Penelope sat forward. "They think that because with Mary gone Horry will be an orphan, there'll be no one who cares—no one who'll raise a fuss that he's gone. They're assuming—and counting on—Mary and Horry having no friends, at least not nearby. No one who'll pay any attention." She spread her hands. "Well, you can see it, can't you? An old woman in the East End dies and an orphan disappears—who's going to raise a dust?"

Barnaby hid an approving smile. Penelope had judged that well; the Wills boys were all but bristling.

"We will," Joe growled. "Least we would if it were Mary up and dying before her time, and Horry here going missing."

"Yes," Barnaby said, "but the villains don't know that. So far they've snatched five East End boys, and murdered at least one woman, and other than Miss Ashford here and the Foundling House, no one has raised any alarm."

Joe grimaced. "Aye, well—not all places are as tight as we are here." He nodded at Mary. "Like a mum to us, she is. We wouldn't let any blackguard harm her." He glanced at his brother, who nodded, then turned to Barnaby. "No need for the police—we'll keep watch. Day and night. Least we can do."

Barnaby nodded. "Thank you. That will be a big help. But the police will want to watch, too." He glanced at Mary. "As Mary said, there's no harm in them watching as well, but if you and your brothers will stay close, then the police can watch from outside, and concentrate on being able to close in when the villains make their move."

"D'you think they'll do that soon?" Ned asked. "Make their move?"

Barnaby thought of how much longer it would be before the last of the ton quit the capital, balancing that against how long it might take to train a burglar's boy. "They seem in a hurry to get more boys. They might wait a while, just to be safe—maybe a week or so." He met Joe's eyes. "I wouldn't expect them to wait much longer."

"Right then. No great difficulty for us to keep watch for a week or so. One or other of us'll always be in here, within sight of the door." Joe tipped his head to the right. "Walls are thin—a holler from whoever's in here watching will bring the rest of us, and others, too."

Barnaby nodded approvingly. "I'll explain the situation to the officer in charge—an Inspector Stokes from Scotland Yard. He'll come and speak with you"—he included Mary and Horry in his glance—"probably later today, if I can get hold of him."

"An inspector from Scotland Yard?" Joe's real question—what would such a man know of them and the East End?—was echoed in the others' eyes.

"He'll be in charge of the police—he has authority over the local rozzers. Don't worry he won't understand; when you meet him, you'll realize he won't be any problem—not to you or Mary or Horry, at least." Barnaby met Joe's eyes. "Wait until you meet him before you judge."

Joe held his gaze, then nodded. "Fair enough."

The odd thought of what his mother would say if she could see him and Penelope rubbing elbows with East End toughs flitted—distracting and entertaining—through Barnaby's mind.

He glanced at Penelope and raised a brow. "I'd say that at present we can leave Mary and Horry in Joe's and his brothers' capable hands."

Penelope nodded and stood. "Indeed." She offered her hand to Joe. "Thank you."

For a moment, Joe stared at the delicate, gloved hand. Then, blushing, he gently took it in his large paw and briefly shook it, quickly releasing it as if he feared he might damage it.

Behind him, Ned grinned.

Penelope smiled brightly at Ned, then swung to face Mary—thus failing to see the stunned look on Ned's face.

"Take care, please." Penelope patted Mary's hand. "I'm quite keen to have Horry at the Foundling House"—she smiled at Horry encouragingly—"but not before the appointed time."

Mary assured her she'd take care of herself and Horry. Barnaby got the impression the boy wouldn't be going anywhere alone, not until Mary was convinced all threat had passed.

They left the Wills boys discussing their watch with Mary and Horry; steering Penelope out into Black Lion Yard, Barnaby breathed in—and felt truly hopeful for the first time since he'd learned of Mrs. Carter's unnatural demise.

Penelope looked around. "It's a relief to know that Horry at least will be well protected—that we've done all we can, got every possible defense in place."

She glanced at Barnaby as he guided her around the piles of crates, steadying her over the uneven cobbles as they headed for the yard's entrance and the waiting hackney. "The Wills boys are trustworthy, don't you think? They won't…oh, go off on a drinking spree and forget about keeping watch over Mary?"

Barnaby shook his head. "Not a chance."

"While I appreciate your certainty, how can you be so sure?"

"You heard them refer to her as ‘like a mum' to them?"

"Ye-es. Oh, I see."

"So I don't think we need to worry about Mary or Horry."

"You'll get word to Stokes?"

"I'll hunt him up immediately after I've seen you back to the house."

The next morning, Penelope was working at her desk at the Foundling House, catching up with myriad details she'd let slide while she'd been searching for the missing boys, when, quite suddenly, a prickling sensation ran over her skin.

She looked up—and discovered her nemesis lounging against the archway frame, looking both impossibly elegant and undeniably dangerous.

Or so she saw him.

Pen poised above the list she'd been making, with hauteur befitting a duchess she raised both brows.

He smiled, not charmingly but intently, and amused with it, for all the world as if he could read the contradictory impulses careening through her.

She had absolutely no idea what she was to do with him, what to make of him and his apparent fixation on her. She was starting to realize that the "her" he saw wasn't the same "her" the rest of her tonnish would-be suitors saw. Presumably that was the crux of her difficulty in dealing with him, but how to retreat to any formal distance—especially with the investigation constantly throwing them together—she had no clue.

All she understood, as she saw his lips quirk, then watched him push away from the archway and come prowling into the room, eventually to subside with his customary ineffable grace into the chair before her desk, was that she really needed to find a solution.

Keeping her expression as uninformative as she could, she stated, coolly, "Good morning. And what can we do for you?"

His untrustworthy smile deepened. "It's more a matter of what I thought to do for you."

"Oh?" Setting down her pen, she folded her hands before her. "And what might that be?"

"I've come to suggest that we circulate notices throughout the East End, with the names and descriptions of the five missing boys, and offering a reward for information on their whereabouts."

Her reaction was immediate; there was no point trying to hide it. "That's brilliant!" She beamed. Unable to contain her burgeoning enthusiasm, she asked, "How do we go about it?"

He smiled again, but the gesture wasn't in any way threatening. "Simple. You give me a list of the names, with the best descriptions you can muster, and I'll get the notices printed. I know a place that will do them overnight."

A place that owed him no small favor, and would be happy to rebalance their account in however small a way.

Penelope was already pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. "Overnight? I thought there was usually a delay of days at least."

When she glanced at him, he shrugged. "It won't have all that much text, so won't take long to set."

She looked down at the sheet of paper, pen poised in her hand. "How should we word this?"

"List each name, with a description. Then at the bottom write…" He dictated the usual form of "Offer of a Reward."

When he concluded with an instruction to contact Inspector Stokes at Scotland Yard, she paused, frowning. "Shouldn't that be me, here, at the Foundling House?"

"No." He was adamant about that, but couched his reply in a tone that suggested it was de rigueur to leave all contact to the police.

While Stokes would certainly prefer that, it was rarely done. However, the notion of a score of East Enders lining up to see Penelope and tell her all they knew—even if they knew nothing—wasn't a scenario he had any wish to contemplate.

Luckily, she accepted his explanation with a shrug, and duly wrote down what he'd told her.

Consulting one of her lists, she filled in the names of the five boys, then rang for Miss Marsh and asked her to fetch Mrs. Keggs. As Miss Marsh departed, Penelope explained, "Keggs was with me when I did the visits. She might remember different aspects of the boys' appearance."

Mrs. Keggs duly arrived. Barnaby set the other chair for her, then retreated to the window, leaving her and Penelope to put together the descriptions.

Hands in his pockets, he stood looking out—watching the children play in the yard, smiling at their antics.

Once again an appreciation of just how much, not only in social terms but in terms of the individual lives of the boys and girls so unrestrainedly enjoying themselves in the yard, the Foundling House achieved rolled through him. And how much of that was directly fashioned, driven, brought to life, and kept in action by Penelope and her indomitable will.

Her independence, her will, were tangible things. Not to be taken lightly, nor to be tampered with, let alone opposed, without due consideration.

That could be—would be—an ongoing and ineradicable source of difficulty for any gentleman who married her. Not insurmountable, yet an issue that would need careful handling. The fruits of her independence, of her indomitable will, were too valuable for any man to quash, to squander. To deny.

The realization slid into his mind, and settled.

Behind him, chair legs scraped. Turning, he saw Mrs. Keggs bustling out.

Penelope was blotting the sheet. "Here you are." She scanned it one last time, then held it out to him. "Five names, descriptions, and an announcement of a reward."

He read through it swiftly. "Excellent." Looking up, he met her eyes. "I'll get this printed up overnight. And then I thought I'd ask Griselda about how best to distribute them throughout the East End."

"Indeed—I'm sure she'll know." Penelope hesitated, but it was part of the investigation after all. "I'll come with you when you pick up the notices—I'd like to see a printer's works—and we can take them directly to Griselda."

His smile was back, playing about his lips, but it wasn't overt, not something she needed to frown at. He inclined his head. "If you wish."

Folding the sheet, he placed it in his pocket. "I'll leave you to your work."

With a graceful half-bow, he turned and walked to the door.

She smelled a rat. She narrowed her eyes on his back—was he hiding something? Planning something? Something without her?

As he reached the archway, she called, "If you have any news tonight, I'll be at Lady Griswald's ball. You'll be able to find me there."

Lifting her pen, she watched as, in the archway, he glanced back. She'd made her announcement matter-of-factly, yet unholy amusement danced in his blue eyes.

And she suddenly, simply, knew. He hadn't asked her where she'd be that evening—because if he had she wouldn't have told him.

His smile deepened. He saluted her. "Excellent. I'll come hunting for you there."

She glared, then looked around for something to throw at him—but by then he was gone.