18

I nvestigations are often like pulling teeth." Barnaby reached for another crumpet from the tray before Griselda's parlor fire. "Painful and slow."

Munching on her own crumpet, Penelope swallowed, then humphed. "A slow torture, you mean."

Barnaby grimaced, but didn't deny it.

Three days had passed since they'd raided Grimsby's school; despite the best efforts of everyone involved, they hadn't heard so much as a whisper about Smythe and the boys he'd spirited away. Jemmie and Dick were still out there somewhere, hence their somber mood.

Griselda slipped from her chair and retrieved the teapot she'd left on the hearth. Prosaically, she refilled their mugs. "How are the boys settling in at the Foundling House?"

"They're doing very well." Penelope had spent most of the previous two days smoothing the boys' way and dealing with the formalities of assuming the guardianship of the two extra boys they'd found. "Of course, being rescued in a police raid on a notorious East End burglary school means they've become heroes of sorts, but one can scarcely begrudge them their moment, and it has made finding their feet among the other boys easier."

It was Saturday afternoon. She'd come to ask Griselda if she'd heard anything from her East End contacts, which, unfortunately, she hadn't. They'd settled in to console themselves with tea and crumpets by the fire in her parlor, then Barnaby had arrived; he'd looked for her first in Mount Street, and been redirected to St. John's Wood by the redoubtable, unruffleable Leighton.

The day after the raid, he—Barnaby—had hied off to Leicester-shire to speak with the Honorable Carlton Riggs, in the hope Riggs might know who Alert was. As both Barnaby and Griselda knew Riggs by sight, they'd known he wasn't Alert himself—Alert was, apparently, very fair-haired.

All very well, but instead of immediately and comprehensively satisfying her and Griselda's curiosity the instant he'd appeared, on spying the crumpets Barnaby had declared himself in dire need of sustenance, refusing to say a word about his findings until his hunger was assuaged.

Which had led her to make a tart comment on the wretched slowness of their investigation, which had resulted in his comment about pulling teeth.

Curled up in one corner of the sofa, she watched him polish off the crumpet. "That's your second." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You aren't going to faint—so talk."

His lips curved in a teasing smile. He reached for his mug, sipped, then sat back in the other corner of the sofa.

She looked at him expectantly; drawing breath, he opened his mouth—only to close it as a sharp knocking sounded on the front door.

Penelope closed her eyes and groaned, then quickly opened them and sat up. "That must be Stokes." Griselda went past her to the stairs. "Perhaps he's learned something." She glared at Barnaby. "Something useful."

If he'd made any advance, he would have been eager to share it.

Stokes climbed the stairs two at a time, then came to an abrupt halt at the top as he saw them. Penelope smiled and waved. Smiling herself, Griselda welcomed him, then led him to join them.

Subsiding into the armchair opposite Griselda's, Stokes accepted the mug she offered him. He reached to snag a crumpet, but Penelope shot from the sofa and grabbed the plate. Stokes looked at her in surprise as she retreated to the sofa, shielding the plate within one arm. She caught his eye. "Report first. Then you can eat."

Stokes looked from her to Barnaby, then shook his head. He sipped his tea, then sighed. "You may as well hand over that plate. I've nothing to report—nothing positive anyway."

Penelope sighed, too, and stood again to put the plate back down on the hearth within Stokes's reach. "Nothing?"

"Not a peep. Smythe has gone to ground. He's not been seen at any of his regular haunts. The locals are helping as much as they can. We found where he'd been staying, but he's moved—God knows where to." Stokes helped himself to a crumpet.

"The watch on the house in St. John's Wood Terrace," Griselda prompted. "Have they seen anyone?"

Stokes shook his head. He chewed, then swallowed. "No one's been near the place. All I can think of is that Smythe must have been somewhere outside in Weavers Street—he saw us take Grimsby and knew Grimsby would tell us about the house. Smythe knows how to contact Alert, so Smythe warned him off and went into hiding, taking the boys with him."

Stokes looked at Barnaby. "Did Riggs have any clue?" He didn't sound hopeful.

Which proved just as well.

"Not the slightest inkling." Barnaby's voice altered, slipping into mimickry. "Indeed, the notion that someone was using the back parlor of his love nest to meet with criminals in the dead of night positively appalled him."

Penelope snorted.

"Exactly." Barnaby inclined his head. "Riggs was that sort—pompous and blustering. I asked who else knew about the house, which of his friends he'd entertained there. The list was too long to contemplate. He's had the place for over a decade and never made any secret of it to his male acquaintance. And of course, that means their gentlemen's gentlemen, and his man's friends, and various other servants, and so on and so forth—which is to say, there's absolutely no way forward via Riggs."

They didn't all sigh, but it felt like it. A general moroseness settled over the room, until Griselda glanced around and said, "Buck up. We'll keep looking. And the one good piece of news is that if we've heard nary a whisper about Smythe, that means he's actively hiding, which means he's most likely still looking to use the boys for his burglaries, which means he'll keep them safe and well fed. By all accounts, he's one to keep his tools in prime condition."

Penelope blinked. "So he'll take good care of them because it's in his own best interests?"

"Exactly. So there's no sense imagining they're in danger of being knocked about, or spending their nights shivering under a bridge somewhere. Smythe will most likely take better care of them than Grimsby. He wanted eight, but now he's only got two—he's not going to risk them."

Both Barnaby and Stokes slowly sat up; both were frowning.

"He's still planning to do these burglaries, isn't he? The ones with Alert." Stokes looked at Barnaby. "I assumed he'd give it up after we raided the school."

Barnaby nodded. "I assumed the same. But as Griselda so sagely points out, he hasn't given up the plan—because if he had, he'd just let the boys go, and with so many in the East End eager to claim that reward, we'd have heard of it by now. And he would let them go—they're no threat to him yet, and entirely unnecessary baggage—unless he has a use for them, and the only use would be…" Eyes lighting, he raised his cup in a toast. "The game is still on."

Stokes leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "So what's his plan—which houses, and why?"

"It's not Smythe doing the planning, at least not the where, when, or what for. That's all coming from Alert. He's providing the details, Smythe is providing the expertise. And Alert, we know, is a gentleman."

Penelope raised her brows, wondering what that last fact might imply.

After a moment Barnaby continued, "I've been thinking about what Grimsby said about Smythe needing so many boys because he was to hit a whole string of houses in one night." He looked at Stokes. "That's not Smythe's—or any burglar's—usual modus operandi. The ‘all in one night' is being dictated by Alert. But why ? Why would a gentleman insist on a series of burglaries being done all in one night?"

Stokes stared back at him. Eventually he offered, "The only thing I can think of, as Grimsby also said, is that they'll get no trouble from the police if the whole series—and one assumes there has to be some reason behind doing a series of burglaries in the first place—is done in one night. Once a burglary is discovered, it takes a day, more usually two, to organize more men on patrol, that sort of thing."

Barnaby nodded. "Which leaves us with two points. One—correct me if I err, but increased police patrols and so on would only happen if the houses burgled are in Mayfair." When Stokes nodded, Barnaby continued, "That confirms what we've suspected given Smythe's need for burglary boys—that these burglaries are of a series of houses in Mayfair. However, to my second point, his insistence on the burglaries being done all in one night suggests that once the burglaries—even one of them—are discovered, the outcry will be significant, enough to make any further burglaries in Mayfair too risky."

Stokes's face blanked. "Hell."

"Indeed." Barnaby nodded. "The only scenario that makes sense of Alert's plan—a string of houses in Mayfair that must be burgled all in one night—is that the items to be stolen are extremely valuable."

Stokes focused on Barnaby. "Any chance of us getting the word out through the ton—putting households on alert? Possibly identifying households that have extremely valuable items of the sort a boy could lift?"

Barnaby looked at him, then glanced at the window and the louring sky beyond. "As to your first question, Parliament rose on Thursday. It's now late Saturday afternoon." He met Stokes's eyes. "We're too late for any general alert—most ton families will have left town by now. More than that, in the current political climate I don't think it would be wise for Peel to suggest, however obliquely, that the police weren't able to protect the mansions of Mayfair from the depredations of one burglar."

Stokes pulled a horrendous face and looked away.

"As for identifying households containing smallish items that are extremely valuable," Penelope said, "the entire ton is littered with such things. Every house in Mayfair would have at least one, and in many cases more than one." She grimaced, looking from Stokes to Griselda, then back again. "I know it seems absurd, but generally those things have been in our families for generations. We don't think of them as valuable, but as Great-aunt Mary's vase that she got from her Parisian admirer. That sort of thing. The vase might be priceless Limoges, but that's not why it's sitting on the corner table, and it's not how we think of, or remember, it."

"She's right." Barnaby met Stokes's gaze. "Forget any idea of identifying which houses." He grimaced. "While we might now know the sort of item Alert is after, that sadly doesn't get us much further."

After a moment, Stokes said, "Perhaps not. But there is one other thing." He looked at Barnaby. "If, as seems certain, Alert's plan was designed to avoid police interference, then Alert, whoever he is—"

"Knows a damned sight more than the average gentleman about the workings of the Metropolitan Police." Barnaby nodded. "Indeed."

After a moment, he went on, "We can't find Smythe, and we can't identify the houses he's targeting well enough to set any trap. By my reckoning, that leaves us with only one avenue worth exploring."

Stokes nodded. "We go after Alert."

She'd told herself it was frustration, disappointment, and simple impatience with the investigation that had driven her to seek distraction—but the truth was, she'd missed him.

Later that night, Penelope lay propped in Barnaby's big bed. He lay beside her, on his back, one arm crooked above his head. The glow of candlelight fell over them. She let her gaze wander, and smiled with, she had to admit, possessive delight.

For the moment at least he was hers, all hers, and she knew it.

Reaching out, she laid one hand on his chest, then slowly slid it down—over the heavy muscle bands, down over his ridged abdomen to the indentation of his navel, then lower, to that part of him that always seemed eager for her touch. That despite their recent couplings, still grew beneath her hand.

The fact sent a sense of power shivering through her.

Not that the rest of him—all of him—hadn't been glad to see her. Even though they'd made no assignation, when she'd knocked on his door earlier that night, he'd been waiting to open it; Mostyn had been nowhere in sight. He'd escorted her upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door behind them—all with an intent alacrity that had warmed her. That had set her heart pounding, set her senses stretching in anticipation.

She'd turned into his arms—all but flung herself at him—and simply let her hunger free. Let it burn. For him. And he'd reciprocated. They'd wrestled, as they always did, control first his, then hers, then his again. He'd finally pinned her, naked, beneath him on the bed, and joined with her in a frenzy that had left them both wrung out, deliciously sated.

Content again.

It had seemed that he'd missed her, too.

That had been the first time. The second…she had an excellent memory; she could recall in vivid detail the various positions described in the esoteric texts she and Portia had studied years before in their drive to educate themselves on all aspects of life. Those texts had been quite illuminating.

And clearly accurate. When she'd risen up on her hands and knees and asked whether they could try it that way, he'd been stunned—for all of a heartbeat. Then he'd been behind her, and inside her, joining with her through long, deep, excruciatingly controlled thrusts; he'd demonstrated very thoroughly just why that position had featured in most texts.

Afterward, they'd collapsed in a tangled heap, mutually sated to their toes.

Now…after the heady glow of aftermath had faded, she'd been left with a pervasive warmth, her body thrumming with a steady, purring content and a quiet joy she hadn't known it was possible to feel.

She was lightly, gently, stroking his chest, fascinated as always by the contrasts. Her hand looked so tiny, so puny, against the muscled, inherently powerful expanse; he was hard to her soft, heavy to her slight, large to her small—yet they seemed, in so many ways, complementary.

And not just physically.

On the surface, interludes such as this were all about satisfying physical cravings, yet before and beneath, what gave rise to the cravings in the first place and what, in achieving true satiation, was the more powerful and dominant hunger assuaged, was very definitely not physical. At least not for her.

And, she was starting to believe, not for him, either.

Possessiveness, protectiveness, need, and care were all part of what now lay between them, and at least within the confines of his bed acknowledged as such—there in his touch, investing his loving and hers—evidence of an emotional connection that was only growing stronger and more profound with every day that passed.

After spending the last three days apart, the notion of losing that connection, of ending it…suffice it to say that her mind was assessing ways and means of ensuring that connection continued indefinitely.

She was aware he was watching her, studying her face from beneath heavy lids. Shifting her head on the pillows, she met his blue, blue gaze; after a moment, she arched a brow.

He smiled. Raising one hand to her cheek, he brushed back a lock of hair, setting it behind her ear. "Stokes and I will start first thing tomorrow…" He glanced at the window. "Today. But unless we're lucky, it'll take time to identify Alert—if we even can. And time is a commodity that for us is limited."

She turned on her side so she could look into his face. "If you can't find Alert before the burglaries take place, we won't be able to rescue the boys before they're…implicated."

Barnaby grimaced. "As long as we rescue them before Alert's plan is complete, we'll be able to argue them free of the courts, but if his plan is successful, once it's over and done and time passes, the boys will be held to be as criminally responsible as Smythe and Alert." After a moment, he went on, "There's also the not insignificant consideration that if Alert's plan is successful, the police force is going to be severely discredited, and Peel and the commissioners are going to have the devil of a time defending its existence."

He met Penelope's eyes. "There are many who would be perfectly happy to see the force disbanded."

She humphed disapprovingly and lay back. Staring at the ceiling, she asked, "What sort of person could Alert be? Where are you and Stokes going to start?"

Perfectly content with the conversation's direction, he settled to tell her. He'd deliberately distracted her, and himself, by mentioning the investigation; there were only two subjects currently in his mind, and the way the moment between them had been evolving, the weight of it just before he'd spoken…the temptation had been great and burgeoning, but he didn't want to risk speaking of that other subject too soon.

Not before she'd made up her own mind and reached the conclusion he'd already reached.

Interviewing Carlton Riggs had been a God-given excuse he'd seized with both hands. Riggs's family estate was in Leicestershire, not all that far from Calverton Chase. After questioning Riggs, he'd declined an invitation to stay the night, and had instead driven across to drop in on Luc, Viscount Calverton, Penelope's elder brother and guardian.

Luc and his wife, Amelia, had welcomed him; they'd met him on numerous social occasions within their wider family, and Luc had interacted with him on a previous investigation. Luckily, with three children demanding Amelia's attention, it hadn't been difficult to engineer time alone with Luc in his study.

He'd lost no time declaring his hand and making a formal offer for Penelope's. After swallowing his surprise, after shaking his head in disbelief, then commenting that Barnaby was the last man he'd have expected to lose his head—which comment had prompted Luc to ask just how well Barnaby knew his sister, to which Barnaby had tersely replied, "Too well," which had led to a moment of tension—Luc, by that time narrow-eyed, very much the shrewd, sharp gentleman-with-four-sisters, had nodded, and given his permission for Barnaby to pay his addresses to Penelope—if she would let him.

Barnaby knew well enough not to take that last for granted—even with her lying naked and sated beside him in his bed.

But at least he no longer felt guilty about having her lying naked and sated beside him in his bed. Her being in that state might have come about through her own very deliberate instigation, yet he'd been waiting, ready, and very willing to accommodate her.

"Stokes and I…we'll probably start by making a list of all gentlemen known to be associated with the police. The commissioners and their staffs, and those involved with the force through other authorities, like the Home Office and the Water Police."

"Hmm." Her eyes narrowed in thought. "Given what we've assumed is his plan, Alert must be someone who not only knows other gentlemen of the ton—through his club, for instance—but who visits their homes. How else could he know which houses he wants to tar get?" She met Barnaby's eyes. "So Alert must be someone with a certain social standing."

He frowned, nodded. "You're right. Once we have our list, we can use that to refine it, to eliminate those not likely." After a moment, he added, "Very few clerks would have the social entrée Alert must have. We'll have to see who turns up in our net."