12

L ater that evening, Penelope paced the dark, deserted minstrel's gallery overlooking one end of Lady Griswald's ballroom, and wondered what had possessed her to fall for Adair's trap.

Just the look on his face… insufferable ! And she could just imagine how he would behave once he found her, which was why she was haunting the gallery. If she had any say in the matter, he wasn't going to find her at all.

In the ballroom below, Lady Griswald's party to celebrate her niece's betrothal was in full swing. Ladies and gentlemen were dancing, couples were conversing, dowagers seated on chaises were gossiping for all they were worth. As her ladyship was a close friend of her mother's, Penelope had had no option but to come; she'd done the pretty for half an hour, but the inevitable tension of keeping a constant watch for approaching gilded heads had taken its toll. Rather than snap any more direfully at her would-be suitors, she'd excused herself, swanned past the withdrawing room, and taken refuge in the gallery.

Safe from gentlemen who were entirely too arrogantly certain of themselves.

The problem was, while she might be safe, hiding was only putting off the inevitable—at some point she was going to have to deal with Barnaby Adair.

By falling for his ploy, she'd all but "invited his attention"; if he managed to find her, she'd have little grounds to dismiss him, at least not outright. Which, of course, had been his goal.

Regardless, her problem—how to deal with him—remained, and on that subject she was in a totally uncharacteristic dither.

One part of her mind was convinced that any closer acquaintance with him would be inimical to her future—to her continued independence.

Another part was insatiably curious.

And curiosity was, and always had been, her besetting sin.

Usually, her curiosities were intellectual rather than physical, notable exceptions being waltzing and skating, but Adair stirred a curiosity that was altogether more complex.

She was fascinated by all she was learning of his endeavors, of how he conducted investigations and interacted with Stokes and the police. Through no one but him could she learn of such things—and on that front there was much more she'd yet to learn. While such matters were primarily intellectual, there was a physical side, too; walking the edge of danger when they'd infiltrated the East End in disguise had been exhilarating.

So there were positives to their association, many reasons she wished to continue it, quite aside from rescuing her missing boys.

But it was curiosity of a different sort that fed the ambivalence she felt over him, prompting her to cut off all personal interaction despite her real and burgeoning fascination.

And that was even more out of character. She never backed away from challenging situations, and one part of her, the stronger, dominant, willful part of her, didn't want to back away now.

Reaching the end of the short gallery, she kicked her skirts about and paced back, wrapped in shadows and out of sight of the revelers below.

She'd thought at length over what he inspired in her, what he provoked. It was a form of curiosity, which was why she'd felt so comfortable exploring it, why she'd instinctively pursued it.

Emotional curiosity. Something she'd felt for no other soul, certainly for no man. Fascination with such a subject was, unquestionably, an intellectual exercise, yet for her, with him, it also possessed a definite physical side, a sensual side, one she couldn't deny, and—witness her continuing reaction to every little touch—patently couldn't avoid.

And therein lay the crux of her problem.

Unless she was reading the signs entirely wrongly, he wanted her—desired her—in a definitely physical way.

Other men had, or had said they had, but perversely she'd never been the least bit curious about them. But Barnaby Adair made her curious and fascinated, made her wonder about things she'd long ago deemed boring and had dismissed as entirely beneath her notice.

She was noticing now. And that was so strange she didn't know how to react—how to take charge and satisfy her fascination, how to find the answers to her multiplying questions safely . Without losing sight of that other reality and risking her future—her ability to continue to exercise her will and lead an independent life. She'd always intended to and still did; nothing whatever had changed on that front.

Halting by the railing, still safely wrapped in gloom, she looked out over the sea of heads and frowned. How long would she need to pace about up there, getting nowhere?

On the thought, a now familiar prickling awareness swept her nape, then spread southward. On a gasp, she whirled, and found a dark, mysterious, dangerous figure directly behind her.

A jolt of anticipation streaked through her. Her heart beat fast, then faster.

She opened her lips to berate him for startling her; before she could get a word out, he seized her waist and swung her around, away from the railing, into deeper shadow.

He stepped closer, hauled her into his arms.

Into a kiss that stole her breath.

Stole her wits.

Fiercely possessive, in no way tentative, he gathered her into his arms. Like steel, they banded her back, pressing her to him. His lips moved commandingly on hers. Hers had already been parted on the protest she'd never uttered; he'd taken advantage and laid claim to her mouth, to her senses.

To sensation, a weapon he wielded with consummate mastery, distracting her, beguiling her, seducing her.

And there was more, this time—more to feel, more to sense, more to learn. More heat, more scintillating pleasure, of a sort that sent thrilling little sparks dancing down her veins to settle beneath her skin, to ignite and burn.

Creating a host of little fires that spread and coalesced, and warmed her.

Heated her.

Until she surrendered to the growing heat, and him, and kissed him back.

She didn't understand why she so wanted to, what drove her to spear her fingers into his silky hair and plunge into a duel of kiss and retreat, of tangling tongues and voracious lips, of pleasure that bloomed and spread and filled her—and him.

She couldn't, in the distant recess of her mind that still functioned, that hadn't yet been suborned into the expanding pleasure of the kiss, comprehend why she felt such a surge of satisfaction at knowing—simply knowing in her soul—that her kiss, and she, brought him pleasure.

Why should that matter to her? It never had with any other man.

Why now? Or was it: why him?

Was it because—could it be because—he desired her? Truly desired her in a way no other man ever had?

She was no witless ninny; she knew what the hard ridge pressing against her stomach was. But he was a man; was that rock-hard bulge any real barometer of his emotions? Of what he felt for her beyond the purely physical?

She'd read extensively, the classics as well as more esoteric texts. When she used the word "desire," she meant something beyond the purely physical—something that transcended the physical, reaching onto that plane where the great emotions ruled.

Was her unconscious, and blatantly ungovernable, attraction to him somehow bound up in desire? Was her attraction a sign that with him, she could, if she chose, explore the elusive conundrums of desire?

Barnaby sensed through the kiss, through the subtle change in her lips, that she'd started to ponder something. But she was heated and pliant in his arms, neither defensive nor resistant, and she'd once again kissed him with a wanton lack of restraint; he was content enough, at least for the moment.

But he was curious, increasingly so, about what held the power to distract her at such a time. In the interests of his continuing campaign, it unquestionably behooved him to find out; given the circumstances, it was almost certainly connected with their exchange.

Drawing unhurriedly back from the honeyed depths of her mouth, reluctantly releasing her lips, he looked down into her face. The shadows cloaked them, but they'd both been in the semidark long enough for their eyes to adjust. He watched, fascinated, as clouds of desire swirled through her dark eyes; they cleared only slowly, her customary incisive, decisive expression only gradually replacing the dazed evidence of delight.

Eventually, she blinked; the expression in her eyes turned to a frown.

He felt his lips curve. "What are you thinking about?"

She studied his face, searched his eyes. "I was wondering…about something."

She was normally devastatingly direct. His curiosity only grew. "About what?"

Hands still clasped about his neck, head tilting, she narrowed her eyes fractionally—in undisguised challenge. "If I tell you honestly, will you answer honestly?"

Shifting his hands to her waist, supporting her against him, he didn't need to think. "Yes."

She hesitated a moment, then said, "I was wondering if you truly desire me."

Other women had asked the same thing, on occasions too numerous to count. He'd always understood that when women used the word, they meant far more than men assumed. Consequently, he knew the glib answers, the ways not to answer so he didn't have to lie. In this case, however…

And she'd asked for honesty.

He held her dark gaze steadily. "Yes. I do."

Head still tilted, she studied his face. "How do I know you're telling the truth? Men lie about that particular subject all the time."

She was perfectly correct; he had no grounds on which to defend his sex. And it didn't take a genius to see how any argument would go—around in circles.

But demonstrable fact spoke much louder than vows.

Reaching up, he caught one of her hands, and drew it down. All the way down between them, until he curved her palm about his erection.

Her eyes grew enormous.

His smile grew tight. "That doesn't lie."

Her eyes narrowed, but he noticed—very definitely noticed—that she made no move to pull her hand away.

Quite the opposite. The warmth of her palm seeping through his trousers, the light flexing touch of her fingers, instantly became an unsubtle torture that had him questioning his sanity.

It had seemed a good idea at the time.

Jaw clenching, he kept his eyes on hers, and prayed his wouldn't cross.

"I'm not so sure," she murmured, "about that, about its significance. It seems to happen rather often with men—perhaps, in this case, this"—her fingers curled lightly, making him inwardly jerk—"is merely a reflection, an outcome, of our setting, suggestive, illicit, shadowed."

"No." It required massive effort to keep his tone even, as if explaining some logical theory. "Atmosphere doesn't affect it at all. The company, however, does." Ignoring the interest seeping into her eyes, he forced himself to continue, biting the words off through clenching teeth, "And in the present company, that happens all the time. Regardless of time and place."

His will was weakening, seduced by the continued heat of her touch; grasping her wrist, he drew her hand away. Releasing it, he drew her nearer, his hands on her back urging her closer; trapped in his eyes, she permitted it. " That happens every time I see you. Whenever you're close."

He lowered his head, breathed against her lips as she instinctively tipped her head back, "Especially when you're close."

He covered her lips and kissed her, sensed her continuing question in the way she allowed him to explore, in the way she encouraged him to show her what she wanted to know—more.

Entirely willing, he gathered her more fully into his arms, held her captive, feeding both his senses and hers, building anticipation, letting desire rise up and take hold.

Once it had…once she was clinging to his shoulders, fingertips sinking in, once her breathing was rapid, tending ragged, he broke their embrace, swept her into his arms and carried her through the archway at the back of the gallery into the deserted parlor beyond.

He fell into a large armchair with her across his lap, surprising a laugh from her. But the laugh died as he leaned over her. She met his eyes through the dimness—for one pregnant moment studied them—then her lids lowered in blatant invitation; he closed the last inch and his lips covered hers once more.

Her hand slid from his nape to his cheek, cradling…as if holding him there while she kissed him back and flagrantly urged him on.

With her mouth, her tongue, with the pressure of her lips, urged him to show her more of desire—of what desire translated to between them. He had no reservations in fulfilling her wish, in letting his hand glide from her jaw, tracing down her throat, over her collarbone to the subtle swell of one breast.

He wasn't hesitant about claiming it; her flesh firmed beneath his palm, her nipple pebbling beneath the fine silk of her bodice. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to slip the tiny pearl buttons free so he could touch and taste her, but a warning, distant but insistent, sounded in his brain.

Trapped in the moment, in their heated, increasingly fiery exchange, in the way she responded, spine bowing, restlessly seeking to learn yet more, it took him a few seconds to recognize and decode the message.

Knowledge is Penelope Ashford's price. If he yielded too much, too quickly…

His way forward with her suddenly became a great deal clearer. She was a female for whom knowledge—both facts and even more experience—held a powerful appeal. And in this arena he was entirely willing to teach her anything and everything she wanted to learn.

But like any experienced teacher, he needed to exert some authority—to tempt her with answers to her first question, then tantalize her with the prospect of answering much more.

He needed to stagger her lessons—and ensure she left this one with both reason and eagerness to return for the next.

Beneath his lips, his hand, she was starting to grow demanding, sensing his momentary distraction with his thoughts.

He inwardly smiled, and gave her not what she wished, but more of what she had.

Through the silken screen of her gown he caressed her increasingly intimately, stroking down to her hip, shifting her so he could reach around and capture one firm globe of her bottom, and knead.

Possess. He didn't try to mute his desire—its direction, its goal. That was what she'd wanted to know. He let it color every touch, every possessive caress.

So that when he ran his hand down the front of her thighs, stroking, assessing, then cupped her through the froth of silk, she gasped and quivered.

Enough . The tactician in his brain stepped forward, reminding him of his aim, his true goal.

He drew back, drew her back.

Penelope understood what he was doing, that he was retreating from showing her more, too much, perhaps, at this point, in this place. Disgruntled but resigned, she followed his lead, letting their kisses grow less ravenous, letting the hunger driving them slowly subside.

It didn't, she noted, die, but, like a banked fire, settled to a smolder. Ready to burst into raging life at a touch.

The right touch. His.

That fact intrigued, as had the entire episode. Her skin felt flushed, her body warm, pleasured and strangely languid, yet ridden by an elusive, expectant urgency she'd yet to fully comprehend.

Their lips parted. He met her eyes as she opened them, studied them for an instant, then he sat up, and helped her up.

Once on her feet, she surveyed her gown, rather surprised to find it in passable state. She wriggled the bodice, brushed down the skirts, and tried—hard—not to dwell on the lingering sensation of his hands as he'd caressed her.

She'd wanted to know, had wordlessly asked, and had learned…a bit. Unfortunately, as her returning wits confirmed, not enough to unequivocally answer her burning question about him, about her in relation to him and vice versa.

She frowned, and turned to him as he adjusted his coat sleeves.

Before she could find words to ask, he volunteered, "That's a taste of what desire is, at least between you and me." Through the dimness, he caught her gaze. "If you want to know more, I'll be happy to teach you."

He moved closer, until he stood before her looking down into her face, but he didn't touch her. "However, like all subjects, if you truly want to understand, in depth, with all the ramifications, you have to be eager and willing to learn."

There was a very clear question in those last words. Penelope fought not to let her eyes narrow; she was far too fly to the time of day not to realize what he was doing.

However…

She did want to know. A great deal more.

Holding his gaze, she smiled, then swung about and headed for the stairs leading down. "I'll think about it."

Barnaby watched her retreating back through narrowing eyes, then started to follow—as ever in her wake. As she reached the stairs, he said, "The printing works is running our notices tonight—they'll be ready tomorrow morning."

She paused at the head of the stairs. Over her shoulder, she said, "We should discuss with Griselda how to distribute them."

He halted behind her. "I'll call for you in Mount Street at nine o'clock. We can pick up the notices and go on to her shop."

"Excellent." With an inclination of her head, she started down the narrow stairs.

He remained at their head, watching her descend—reminding himself that letting her go was a vital part of his greater plan.

As the wee hours of the night waxed and waned, Penelope tossed and turned in her bed, in her bedroom in Mount Street—such familiar surroundings she couldn't understand why she couldn't clear her mind and fall asleep.

She was such a disciplined thinker, she normally had no difficulty at all.

It was his fault, of course.

He'd set a particularly fascinating hare running in her mind, and she couldn't stop following it.

Sitting up, she thumped her pillow, then flung herself back down and stared at the ceiling.

That he was deliberately tempting her was beyond doubt. As for the price of the knowledge he was dangling, carrotlike, before her, she knew well enough what that was. Yet given she was already twenty-four, and had no desire for marriage, having long ago decided that, with its concordant restrictions, it wouldn't in any way suit her, then what was she keeping her virginity for? In light of what she had now come to regard as her unacceptable ignorance on the subject of desire, let alone passion, it seemed entirely appropriate she trade it—useless thing that it otherwise was—for the knowledge she now craved.

Added to that was the undeniable fact that he was the only male ever to have impinged on her consciousness in such a way—the only man who had ever succeeded in starting that aforementioned hare leaping across the fields of her mind.

Halting her thoughts at that point, she mentally looked over them. Assessed, evaluated. All of the above seemed logically unassailable; her reasoning thus far was sound.

The point that was rendering her too restless to sleep was the next step.

The notion of simply telling him yes, and blithely consigning her education in that sphere to him and his male whims, did not appeal. Not in the least.

She had no great opinion of male brains. Not even his, which seemed superior to the general run. She strongly suspected he did not have, or at least was not aware of it if he had, a logical basis for his desire for her—not beyond desire itself.

No—while she saw no reason not to go forward, albeit on her own terms, she certainly wouldn't be doing so in the misguided expectation that he—a male—would be able to fully elucidate his reasons for desiring her.

Luckily, learning his reasons wasn't her sole intellectual goal. Even more than his reasons, she wanted to know, to understand and comprehend, her own.

She had to know what made her want, what it was in his kisses, in his embrace, that stirred her to want so much more. She needed to learn what fueled her own desire.

That was her principal goal.

And Barnaby Adair was the man who could, and would, lead her to it.

The one real danger hadn't, yet, raised its head. Marriage. As long as matrimony remained absent from their equation, all would be well.

She mulled over that point. Considered it from various angles. Accepted that he might feel compelled, having seduced her, as he would see it, to offer for her hand, and even when she refused, continue to insist, seeing the matter as impinging on his honor, a subject over which men of his ilk had a tendency to be particularly pigheaded.

But she knew how to counter that; even if he did try to introduce the baneful prospect of marriage, she felt confident she would be able to prevail, to take a contrary stand and sway him to her way of thinking. If the matter arose, she would explain her views; she was sure he—being a logical, rational man—would understand her stance, and ultimately accept it.

That said…her position in any such discussion would be immeasurably strengthened if she was the one who instigated their affair. Not acquiesced to but dictated—that was obviously the most sensible way forward for them both. She needed to take charge and define their relationship as an affair, plain and simple, permitting no hint of matrimony to creep in and confuse the issue.

Her mind cleared. That was how it had to be. Obviously.

Lips curving, she sighed; turning onto her side, she snuggled her cheek into her pillow and closed her eyes.

All she needed to do was take control of the situation, and all would be well.

Confident, reassured, she slept.

"I'm so glad I came with you this morning." Penelope stood on the pavement outside Griselda's shop, waiting while Barnaby leaned back into the hackney and retrieved the large box containing their printed notices.

Hefting the box, he nudged the carriage door shut, then nodded to the jarvey. As the hackney pulled away, he turned to Penelope and struggled to hide his smile. From the moment they'd left the printing works off the Edgware Road, she'd entertained him with a steady flow of observations and suppositions.

She fell in beside him as he walked to Griselda's door. "Thank you—it's been a thoroughly informative and useful morning." She glanced at him as, balancing the box on his shoulder, he waved her ahead of him up the steps. "Over the last few years we've been investigating other trades for our orphans. We've had some success with merchants. After meeting Mr. Cole and being shown around his works, I believe we should investigate printing houses as possible places for our boys."

Following her into the shop, he said, "You should speak with Cole—I'm sure he'll be happy to trial some of your lads." Not only was the sister of Viscount Calverton the sort of lady Cole would trip over his toes to assist, but notwithstanding the box on Barnaby's shoulder, the man still owed him.

Nodding, Penelope swept deeper into the shop. "I believe I will." Smiling at the apprentices, she waved them back to their work. "No need to announce us—we'll go through to Miss Martin."

Pushing past the curtain, she halted. Barnaby just managed not to run her down. Griselda wasn't in the kitchen area.

"Up here, Penelope."

Glancing up the narrow stairs, Penelope beamed. "There you are."

She set off up the stairs. Barnaby shrugged the box from his shoulder, then carrying it before him, followed her up.

He emerged into Griselda's parlor to see Penelope shaking hands with Stokes, who was in his "East End" disguise, as was Griselda.

"Perfect." Setting the box on a side table, Barnaby folded back the flaps, pulled out the top sheet, and held it up for Stokes and Griselda to read.

Griselda beside him, Stokes did; he slowly smiled. "Perfect indeed." He took the notice, holding it so he and Griselda could better see. "We were about to head out to follow up the information Mr. Martin and others have gathered on our five remaining potential schoolmasters."

Handing the notice to Griselda, Stokes looked at the box. "How many do you have?"

"Two thousand." Barnaby thrust his hands in his pockets. "Enough to effectively flood the East End. What we need to know is the best way of distributing them—spreading them as far and wide as we can within that area."

"The markets." Griselda looked up from the notice. "We were going there again anyway, but there's no better way to spread these than to leave them with the stallholders. And today's Friday—the Friday and Saturday markets are the busiest. The only other worthwhile places to leave them would be the pubs and taverns, but the markets reach more people—women as well as men."

Stokes nodded. "We'll take them with us today. The sooner we can find the boys the better."

"What have you learned about the other possible schoolmasters?" Penelope looked from Stokes to Griselda. "Anything to suggest one of those names is the man we're after?"

Stokes grimaced. "Nothing definite. The difficulty with these five is that they don't move in wider circles—they keep close to their lairs and interact only with those they must. We think we've got directions for three—Slater, Watts, and Hornby. We'll check those today. The other two—Grimsby and Hughes—we've yet to get any certain news of. However, with both of them, what the local bobbies have got, and Griselda's father, too, are evasive answers, which makes me suspect that both are currrently involved in something illegal. Whether that something is running the school we're seeking is anyone's guess, but if the other three turn out to be law-abiding at present—which us so easily getting their locations makes more likely—then Grimsby and Hughes will become our best bets."

Griselda glanced at Stokes. "After we check the first three, if there's no sign of the boys there, we'll press harder to see what we can turn up on Grimsby and Hughes." She looked at Barnaby. "The problem is that no one knows—or at least is prepared to tell us—what areas they're lurking in, which makes locating them rather like searching for a needle in a massive haystack."

"It's possible the notices might gain us a clue," Barnaby said. "At least point to which area we should focus on."

"What about the Bushels? Mary and Horry?" Penelope looked at Stokes. "Have you visited yet?"

Stokes nodded; he glanced at Barnaby. "Your message reached me in good time—I got to Black Lion Yard late that afternoon. I spoke with Mary Bushel and the Wills boys. Between us, we've worked out a plan that should keep Mary and Horry safe, but leave the door invitingly open, so to speak, in the hope these blackguards will make a move."

Stokes's expression turned feral. "I just hope they do. Between the Willses and the local force, the villains won't find it easy to get out of Black Lion Yard."

Barnaby raised his brows. "I hadn't thought of it, but the yard does lend itself to being an excellent trap."

"Exactly. So Horry and his grandmother are as well protected as they could be, and our trap is in place." Stokes nodded. "Now we need to see if we can get a bead on who we're likely to catch in it."

He picked up the box of notices. "Griselda and I will hand these out as we pass the markets." He glanced at the other three. "We need to learn where this schoolmaster is keeping the boys, and get them out of his clutches, preferably before he sends them out to work."

Barnaby grimaced. "Parliament rises next week. A few days after that and Mayfair will be all but deserted. If our hypothesis of the reason this schoolmaster's training so many boys at once is correct, then we've only got until then to find them."

They all exchanged glances, then Griselda waved to the stairs. "We'd better get going then."

They all trooped down, then out of the shop, leaving the apprentices staring.

Once outside, they headed around the church to find hackneys in the street beyond. Stokes and Griselda took the first, Barnaby and Penelope insisting their task was the more urgent.

Standing on the pavement watching the carriage rattle away to the east, Penelope shifted restlessly.

Beside her, his gaze on the retreating carriage, too, Barnaby said, "If you think of anything you, I, or we can do to learn what we need to learn faster, let me know."

She glanced at his profile. "Do you promise to do the same?"

He looked down at her. "Yes. All right."

"Good." She nodded. "If I think of anything, I'll send word."