19

T he next day was Sunday. In the morning, Barnaby and Stokes met at his office and made a good start on their list. Penelope's observation eliminated a good few names without further examination; others—such as the commissioners and many on their staffs—Barnaby was going to have to inquire into more closely.

But Sunday afternoon wasn't a good time to go trawling through the ton. Leaving Stokes to his own devices—which he suspected would involve a visit to St. John's Wood High Street—Barnaby returned to Jermyn Street—to discover Penelope waiting, not patiently, in his parlor.

They didn't remain in the parlor for long.

The afternoon was fading into November twilight when, after a delightful, calming, and somehow reassuring afternoon of lovemaking interspersed with games of chess, Penelope followed Barnaby down the stairs and through the door at the back of his hall to the rear door of his lodgings.

On learning that she'd come in her brother's town carriage and it was waiting for her farther along the street, Barnaby had gone out and ordered her coachman to bring the carriage into the lane behind the house. Even in the gathering dusk of a November Sunday, Jermyn Street, the premier haunt of the ton's bachelors, was sure to have someone walking along. Someone to see her being helped into her carriage at that telltale hour, someone who might recognize her and talk.

She understood perfectly well why Barnaby had ordered the carriage to pull up in the lane. While she might be fairly cavalier with her reputation, that he was anything but made her feel cared for, rather than annoyed.

Being cared for was one of the emotional benefits of their interaction she was starting to grow quite fond of; she'd caught herself excusing behavior on his part, accepting and tolerating possessive or protective acts that from any other gentleman would have earned a harsh rebuke. With Barnaby, she found herself smiling with fond affection, both inwardly and outwardly.

The changes he and their relationship were making in her were a trifle unsettling. She didn't readily suffer fools, or any impinging on her will or her directions, yet with him…she felt not softer but less rigid, less defensive, and therefore willing and able to accommodate him within certain bounds. Within some structure she'd yet to define; she'd yet to decide whether their relationship would be—could be—compatible with marriage.

Whether marriage to Barnaby Adair might work.

Whether marriage to him was her true destiny.

Reaching the rear door, he glanced back at her. "Wait here while I check." Opening the door, he stepped out, partially closing it behind him, protecting her from the gust of chilly wind that tried to barrel into the house, and from any potentially curious eyes.

She contemplated the half-open door, and the calmness that held her. Her frustration with the investigation—her impatience, and the hurdles that seemed so insurmountable she had to consider that despite all they did they might not be able to rescue Dick and Jemmie—would normally have had her pacing and railing.

Uselessly, but she would still have railed, both silently and vociferously in turn. Which would have been a great waste of energy, and most likely would have given her a headache.

Instead, she'd come to Barnaby, and now felt calm and somehow stronger. Better able to deal with whatever demands the investigation made of her, more confident that, somehow, they—he, she, Stokes, and Griselda—would triumph.

That confidence had no firm basis, yet still it buoyed her, giving her hope and the resolve to go on.

Barnaby returned, pushing the door wider to offer his hand.

She smiled, placed her fingers in his—still felt that special thrill as his fingers closed around hers—and let him draw her over the threshold.

The carriage was waiting. She turned to farewell Barnaby. A distracted frown in his eyes, he reached for the hood of her cloak and lifted it over her loosely pinned hair; half of her pins still lay scattered about his bedroom floor.

Smiling, she raised a hand and laid her palm briefly against his cheek. "Thank you." For an afternoon that had meant more to her than she'd known any interlude could, for taking care of her and her complex needs unasked, spontaneously.

He caught her hand, kissed her fingers. "The instant Stokes or I learn anything relevant, I'll come and tell you."

She nodded. She was about to turn away when a movement in the corridor behind Barnaby caught her eye.

It was Mostyn. He must have returned early from his afternoon off. Like any experienced gentleman's gentleman, he made himself scarce when she was with Barnaby; he'd come out of the kitchen unaware they were at the rear door. He saw them, froze, then, after a moment's hesitation, to her considerable surprise—she was perfectly aware he didn't approve of her—he bowed. A very correct acknowledgment untainted by any hint of disrespect.

Before she could react, Barnaby, unaware of her distraction, grasped her arm and urged her to the carriage. Turning, she followed his direction.

Opening the carriage door, he helped her in. "Let me know if you hear—or think—of anything pertinent."

"I will." As he shut the door, she glanced back, but could no longer see into the corridor. "Good-bye."

Barnaby stepped back and saluted her, then signaled to her coachman. With a jingle of the harness, the carriage pulled away.

The following afternoon, Penelope was sitting on the chaise in old Lady Harris's drawing room, sipping tea and pretending to listen to the babble of conversations about her, when the select gathering of some of the ton's most influential ladies—those still in town because their husbands held senior posts within the government and were therefore not yet free to retreat to the country—was disrupted in spectacular fashion by the entrance of a policeman.

Few of the ladies had met one before. Consequently, Silas, Lady Harris's butler's announcement—"A member of the constabulary has called, ma'am"—was greeted with a profound silence little else could have achieved.

The constable, a middle-aged man in a tightly fitting uniform who had followed in the imposing Silas's wake, looked taken aback by the stares directed his way. But when Lady Harris in her sweet bemused way inquired as to his business, he collected himself and looked around the room. "I'm here to fetch Miss Ashford."

Penelope set down her cup and rose. "I'm Miss Ashford. I take it Inspector Stokes sent you?"

The constable frowned. "No, miss. I'm here because the ladies at the Foundling House said as you were the one in charge. My sergeant just executed a warrant against the house. You're wanted there to answer questions."

Penelope stared at him.

The constable waved to the door. "If you'll come along with me, miss?"

She went, leaving considerable consternation in her wake—and not a small amount of gossip. Her mother would smooth things over—as far as was possible—but Penelope gave thanks she was not the sort of young lady to be easily affected by the ton's opinion; her life and her happiness, thankfully, were not dependant on the ton's approbation.

The hackney the constable had had waiting pulled up outside the Foundling House. She forced herself to let the constable descend first and hold the door for her; such little things emphasized her rank, something she would very likely need to wield in dealing with the constable's sergeant.

She swept into the house, consciously drawing on the quiet superiority her mother and the Lady Harrises of the world used to command. Stripping off her gloves, she cast a critical glance around. "Where's your sergeant?"

"This way, miss."

"Ma'am." She allowed the constable to precede her down the long corridor.

He cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder. "Begging your pardon, miss?"

" Ma'am . Given my age, and that I run the Foundling House, a position of some responsibility, then regardless of marital status, the correct form of address is ‘ma'am.'" It never hurt to keep potentially annoying people in their places, and while the constable had yet to do anything to spark her ire, she doubted his sergeant—he who had executed a warrant on the Foundling House—would prove so innocuous, but the master would likely take his tone from his servant's.

"Oh." Frowning, the constable worked to digest the lesson.

They found the sergeant, one hip propped against the desk in her office, watching two constables searching through the tall cabinets that stood against one wall; one swift glance at her desk showed they'd already searched there. Two constables were likewise pawing through the files in the row of cabinets in the anteroom, much to Miss Marsh's evident distress.

Sizing up the sergeant in one sharp glance, and not liking what she saw—he was a swaggering braggart, she felt sure—Penelope swept around the desk, set her reticule upon it, and sat in her chair, pulling it up to the desk.

Reasserting control.

"I have been told you have a warrant, Sergeant." She'd yet to meet the man's eye, instead looking over her desk with a faint frown, as if noting the changes due to their search; she extended a hand, imperiously waggling her fingers. "If I could see it?"

Predictably, the man frowned; from the corner of her eye, she watched as he reluctantly straightened away from her desk. He glanced at his three subordinates; as she'd guessed, he spent a moment longer assessing the reaction of the constable who'd fetched her, before, regrettably, making the wrong decision. He hiked up his belt, and pugnaciously declared, "I don't know as that's proper. We're here in pursuit of the law, doing our job to ferret out—"

"The warrant, Sergeant." Her words cut coldly. Looking up, she met his gaze, this time reaching for the haughty arrogance of Lady Osbaldestone and the Duchesses of St. Ives—both the Dowager and Honoria; in dealing with such situations, those three were role models par excellence. "I believe that as the representative of the owners of this place, as well as in my capacity as administrator, that prior to any search being instituted, proper procedure dictates that I, the effective owner and occupier of the premises, should have been shown the warrant. Is that not correct?"

She was guessing, but she'd discussed police procedures with Barnaby and that sounded right.

From the way he shifted, and the glances he threw his three constables—the two searching had slowed, then stopped their rifling through the files, waiting—the sergeant suspected she was right, too.

Again, she held out her hand commandingly. "The warrant, if you please."

With a great show of reluctance, he reached into his coat and drew out a folded sheet.

Penelope took it, unfolded it. "How one is supposed to cooperate when one isn't even permitted to know what this nonsense is about…"

Her patter was designed to give her time to absorb the details of the warrant, but her voice faded, then died as, taking in the action for which the warrant was sworn—a search of all files and administrative papers of the Foundling House—she moved on to the reason behind the search. "What?"

All four men in the room straightened.

Staring at the warrant, literally unable to believe her eyes, Penelope declared, "This is outrageous!" Her tone set new benchmarks for feminine outrage.

When she glanced up, the sergeant took a step back. "Yes," he said, suddenly sounding anything but sure. "Outrageous it is, miss—which is why we're here. Can't have you selling boys to the burglary schools, now can we?"

Penelope made a heroic effort to hang on to her temper; to be accused of the very thing she'd been spending the last weeks fighting against…"What the devil put such a bacon-brained notion into your collective heads?"

Although her voice hadn't risen, the heat in her tone was enough to scorch.

Demonstrating a supreme disregard for self-preservation, the sergeant looked smug. He pulled another paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "Scotland Yard's been circulating these. They sent one with the order to search your files. Well, easy enough to put two and two together."

Holding the warrant in one hand, Penelope stared at the second paper—one of their notices describing the missing boys and offering a reward. "I drafted this notice. The reward, if any is ever claimed, will come from the Foundling House. The notice was printed by a Mr. Cole in his printing works in the Edgware Road, as a favor for Mr. Barnaby Adair, son of the Earl of Cothelstone, who is one of the commissioners overseeing the police force. Inspector Basil Stokes, of Scotland Yard, distributed the notices with a friend."

Raising her gaze to the hapless sergeant's face, with dreadful calm she continued, "I fail to see what, in those circumstances, you consider as in any way supporting or excusing, or even explaining this. " She brandished the warrant. "Would you care to enlighten me, Sergeant?"

The stupid man tried. At length, in a variey of ways.

The search had come to a complete halt, all attention diverted to the battle of wills occurring over Penelope's desk. Mrs. Keggs bustled in at one point, waiting only for a pause and an inquiring glance from Penelope to inform her that all classes had been suspended by order of the sergeant, and all teachers had been summoned to the office and were now gathered in the corridor.

That resulted in another incredulous "What?" from Penelope, and the opening of a second front in her verbal stoush with the sergeant. Only by threatening to hold him personally accountable for any damage or hurt caused by or inflicted on any of the children left so thoroughly unsupervised by his edict did she eventually force him to back down and allow the teachers to return to their classes.

She was still trying to establish what the sergeant was searching for—given the strange circumstances she wasn't prepared to simply sit back and allow the search to continue; who knew what might have somehow been slipped into the office files and left there to be found?—when Englehart came in and took up a position at her back.

When she paused in her harangue and sent a questioning look his way, he smiled reassuringly. "I gave my boys some exercises that will keep them busy for some time. I rather thought"—he lifted his gaze to the sergeant's face—"that having a senior clerk from a respected law firm present as a witness might be wise."

His expression had assumed the impassivity of all good legal personnel. Penelope nodded. "Indeed." She turned back to the sergeant.

In the end, she sent for Stokes. The sergeant continued to insist that it was Scotland Yard that had ordered the search. "In that case," she snapped, all patience long gone, "the inspector will support you, and the search will go ahead. But until I hear confirmation of this nonsensical order from someone directly associated with Scotland Yard, you and your men will touch not one thing in this place."

Folding her arms, she sat back in her chair, and waited.

She didn't invite the sergeant or his constables to sit; given the turmoil of her feelings, she felt she was letting them off lightly.

It took some time to fetch Stokes; the light was fading by the time she glimpsed him coming through the front gate.

A minute later, he stood beside her desk, looking from the warrant to the copy of their notice, then back again.

Frowning, he looked at the sergeant, now standing to attention before the desk. "I, myself, am in charge of the case of these missing boys, Sergeant. No order regarding the case would be issued by Scotland Yard without my knowledge, indeed, without my signature." He held up the warrant. "I have no knowledge whatever of any order regarding the Foundling House."

The sergeant blinked; his expression blanked. "But…I saw the order myself, sir. Came in last night in the satchel from the Yard."

"I see." Stokes's frown didn't ease. After a moment, he glanced at Penelope. "My apologies, Miss Ashford, to you and your staff. There appears to be someone playing games with our investigation."

He looked at the sergeant. "I accept, Sergeant, that you were only following orders. However, those orders were false. Indeed, fake. I'll return with you to"—he glanced at the warrant—"Holborn and explain to your superiors. I'd like a word with them, to see if they can shed any light on these spurious orders."

The sergeant's face had fallen, but in the circumstances he was happy to leave. He waited for Stokes to lead the way out; he started to follow, but then, with grudging respect, paused to nod to Penelope. "My apologies, too, Miss Ashford."

Penelope met his eyes, then inclined her head in acceptance.

The police presence withdrew in Stokes's wake.

It took another hour of calming and reassuring to settle the house and its occupants back into their regular routine. By the time she finally returned to her office, Penelope felt wrung out.

Miss Marsh was waiting in the anteroom. "I checked all the files—the ones in your office, too. I couldn't find anything amiss."

"Thank you." Penelope smiled tiredly. "That's one less thing to worry about."

Miss Marsh smiled shyly; she seemed about to say something, then apparently thought better of it. Bidding Penelope a good night, she left.

Glancing out the window, Penelope saw that evening had drawn in. It was already dark, the yellow flare of street lamps shining like moons through the encroaching fog.

Another day had gone by and they'd got no further; instead, she felt drained after dealing with the vexatious sergeant and his unfounded charges.

Walking into her office, she sighed—and saw Barnaby standing by her desk.

He opened his arms—without a word, she walked into them and let them close around her. Leaning her head against his chest, she sighed again. "It's been an awful day." After a moment, she asked, "How did you know to come?"

"Stokes sent word." He hugged her, then released her and urged her to sit in her chair. Pulling one of the other chairs around the desk, he set it near hers and sat close, studying her face. "Stokes's message was brief—just that there'd been some bother here arising out of a falsely sworn warrant. I want you to tell me everything you can remember about the warrant and anything else the constables here said."

"There was a sergeant in charge." She sat back and described the warrant, and how their notice had been put with it to lend the accusation credence.

"The sergeant said the notice was sent with the order for the search?"

She cast her mind back, then nodded. "Yes. Specifically with. He took it as an explanation for the search."

After a moment, she said, "I didn't want to risk taking the high moral ground and letting them search, just in case there was something in the files to be found." She caught his eye. "Something none of us here knew about."

Taking her hand, he gently squeezed. "That was good thinking. Did I hear Miss Marsh say she hadn't found anything?"

Penelope nodded.

"Regardless, you were wise not to take the risk. This was distressing enough—had someone planted some evidence of something nefarious, the scandal could have seriously damaged the standing of the Foundling House."

And her reputation. Barnaby studied her face, the unrelenting stubborness that masked her tiredness. "How did you learn of the search? Where were you?"

She grimaced and told him. "Despite there being so few ladies still in residence, the news that the Foundling House was the subject of a warrant will be all over town come morning."

"No it won't. Not if we act appropriately tonight. What did you have planned for this evening?"

Frowning, she took a moment to recall. "Lady Forsythe's dinner. I have to go because some of our major donors will be there. Mama was already promised to an old friend, Lady Mitchell—this is their last chance to get together before winter, so I'll be going to Lady Forsythe's alone."

Barnaby thought, then said, "I have an idea."

"What?"

He glanced at her, and smiled. "First, I need to speak with your mother."

Penelope was too tired to argue, to demand to be told; she uncharacteristically surrendered and let him take her home. It was an odd hour when they arrived in Mount Street—six o'clock; Minerva, the Dowager Viscountess Calverton, received them in her dressing room.

She listened patiently and sympathetically while Penelope related the outcome of her return to the Foundling House and the saga of the warrant.

"And now," Penelope concluded, "I have to appear at Lady Forsythe's and attempt to scotch the inevitable rumors."

"Which," Barnaby cut in, "is a point where I believe I can help." He spoke directly to Minerva. "Neither Inspector Stokes nor I am inclined to dismiss this false order as merely vexatious. We believe that our villain has attempted to use the police to his own ends, to strike back at Penelope and the Foundling House because they've largely thwarted his plans, at the very least made them much harder to carry out."

He paused, then went on, "To take that one step further, it's possible the villain, whoever he is, specifically intended to harm Penelope. Most ladies wouldn't have known to stand firm against the warrant, let alone known to contact Stokes. But as someone who lives within the ton, as our villain assuredly does, would know, rumors can cause a great deal of harm within our circle. With a view to ensuring that we quash all possible rumors before they gain hold, I believe it would be wise for me to accompany Penelope to Lady Forsythe's this evening. Even if Penelope denounces the warrant as having no validity, some may remain unconvinced, if not of her innocence then that all at the Foundling House is aboveboard. However, if I, with my known connections with the police, were to denounce the warrant as being falsely laid, few would not accept that as fact, absolving both Penelope and the Foundling House from all suspicion."

Minerva smiled warmly. "Thank you, Mr. Adair—that's a very kind offer, and one I, for one, would gladly accept." She turned her dark eyes on her daughter. "Penelope?"

Penelope had been studying Barnaby, a considering expression on her face; she shook free of her absorption and nodded. "Yes. I have to admit I'll feel much happier having some support in facing this down."

Barnaby noticed Minerva's blink, her surprise, quickly masked, at Penelope's ready acceptance of his assistance, and his escort.

"Well," Minerva said, "in that case I'll send a note to Amarantha Forsythe and beg her indulgence in adding you to her table at such short notice." She smiled. "Not that she won't be thrilled. At this time of year there are so few of us present, adding another leaf will be no trouble, and if I drop a hint of the reason for your presence, Mr. Adair, I guarantee she'll be delighted to welcome you."

Barnaby bowed. "Thank you, ma'am."

Minerva's dark eyes caught his; hers twinkled. "Indeed. I was just reading a letter from my son, conveying a few matters of interest from Leicestershire."

Penelope perked up. "What did Luc say?"

Barnaby inwardly swore, prayed…

Minerva's smile deepened a fraction. She glanced at her daughter. "Just the usual family matters, dear—and, of course, a strict injunction to watch over you."

"Oh." Penelope immediately lost interest. She glanced at the clock. "Look at the time. I have to get ready."

Barnaby rose as she did. He caught Minerva's eyes, held them for an instant, then bowed, a touch lower than the norm. "I'll take good care of Miss Ashford, ma'am. You may count on that."

Minerva nodded graciously. "Oh, I do, Mr. Adair. I do."

Somewhat relieved, Barnaby escaped in Penelope's train. He took his leave of her in the hall, and went off to get ready himself.

"It was true, wasn't it? What you told Mama?"

Much later that night, after they'd attended Lady Forsythe's dinner and slain all rumors with the truth, Penelope lay snuggled in Barnaby's arms, the shadowed billows of his bed a warm and comforting resting place, his arms and body even more so.

She'd never felt so safe and protected—had never previously wanted to feel so. Never previously appreciated the feeling. Even now, with the villainous Mr. Alert trying to maliciously damage her reputation, she doubted she would have found comfort, been able to take comfort, from any other man.

Barnaby Adair, third son of an earl, investigator of tonnish crimes, was different. Very different.

He didn't, for instance, need any further words to understand to what she was alluding. To know what her mind was dwelling on.

He moved his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Sadly, yes. I think Alert took a specific tilt at you, not just at the Foundling House. If you think of it in those terms, his message is plain: if you hurt me, I'll hurt you."

After a moment of frowning into the dark, she asked, "But how did he do it? We've realized he knows a lot about how the police operate, but to falsify orders from Scotland Yard? Surely there can't be many people who could do that."

"One would hope not." Without hesitation, Barnaby went on, "I spoke with Stokes before I came to fetch you for dinner. He and I will go to the Holborn watch house tomorrow and retrieve the original order sent from Scotland Yard—he was too late to get hold of it this evening. We'll trace it back to whoever issued it, if we can."

"He'll have covered his tracks, surely?"

"I would assume our backtracking will come to a halt at some point short of a single identity, but we might get far enough to greatly reduce the number of potential suspects."

Warm and snug, with the dramas of the day dealt with and all possible damage nullified, Penelope discovered she could view the events with a greater detachment. Wriggling around in Barnaby's arms, she rose up and leaned on his chest so she could look into his face. "How ironic if, in taking a tilt at me, Alert opened up an avenue through which you and Stokes could unmask him."

His hands cruising upward from her thighs, over her bottom, to glide, artfully caressing, up her sides, Barnaby raised his brows. "Ironic. And appropriate."

Sliding more fully over him, she smiled down into his eyes. "Have I thanked you for standing beside me tonight, through all the tedious questions?"

"I believe you did mention it once or twice—but that was, as it were, in the heat of the moment. I don't think I heard."

"Ah…" Sirenlike, she slid her body side to side over his, delighting in the instantaneous hardening of his powerfully muscled frame. Hers, all hers. "Perhaps," she purred, "I should thank you again. More definitely. To make sure you remember that I did."

Barnaby stared into the dark mysterious depths of her eyes. "Perhaps you ought."

She did. With a devastating thoroughness, an unswerving, unwavering commitment that had him shuddering, reduced to blind need.

After the first time she'd suggested a new position, he'd realized her intellectual curiosity had extended to this sphere, too; she was forever eager to explore, to learn more about things she'd clearly studied but had never experienced. Even so, as his hands fisted in her hair and he fought to breathe, her devotion to knowing all, experiencing all, was not something to be taken lightly.

No more than her hot mouth; initially untutored, she'd quickly learned how to drive him wild. How to, with excruciating exactitude, shred his control so he was wholly and completely in her power.

Her lips, those gloriously lush, ripe lips he'd fantasized about from the first, had become a wicked reality, pandering to his senses, caressing him with a wanton joy that sank to his bones. Being the absolute focus of her supremely sexual attentions cast a net over him, and held him effortlessly, made him her willing slave.

He gasped, spine bowing as she took him deep, as her small hands played, possessed.

Being hers, all hers, was in that moment all he wanted. Everything he wanted.

And when the heat and the passion, the fierce need that gripped them both became too much, she rose up and took him in, sheathed him in her body and rode him with a slow delicious languor that forced full awareness of every single sensation upon them both.

She had a will to match his, maintaining that slow pace even when their bodies, their ravenous senses, clamored for more. Hands spread on his chest, arms braced, she closed her eyes and rode him, steady and sure, deliberate and determined. Devoted, beyond question, to his delight and her own.

To pleasure—pleasuring him, and taking pleasure in doing so.

He watched her as she did, watched the concentration, the fierce intentness in her face. Even as the sight rocked him, held him in thrall, he felt enough—knew and acknowledged his own feelings enough—to understand that in his devotion to her, his need of her, he'd stepped far beyond the merely physical. As she tightened about him and made his world quake, he closed his eyes and prayed that, like him, sating their physical needs was no longer enough, prayed that, like him, she was learning that devotedly pandering to those other linked needs, of a different caliber on a different plane, brought an even deeper, more profound satisfaction.

She slowed even more, her control stretching thin; he sensed it in the flexing of her fingers on his chest as she struggled to rein their rampaging desires in. She still moved upon him, confident and assured, yet wanting more, fighting to stretch the moment out for one last while.

From beneath his lashes, he caught the glint of her dark eyes beneath her heavy lids; she was watching him as he watched her, drinking in the sight of him as under her control passion built and gripped him ever more tightly. She rode on again, more forcefully now, more definite; determined and divine, she drove him and herself steadily on.

But he had no intention of surrendering so easily, not in this. When the pressure built, when the hot tide started to rise and threatened to sweep through him, he fought to hold it back. His hands were at her waist, fingers curved over her hips, gripping and savoring the evidence of her body accepting his, taking him deep; releasing one hand, he slid it up her spine, drew her closer as he leaned up, and set his tongue and lips to her breast.

He licked, laved, then took the tight peak into his mouth and suckled, gently at first, then steadily more strongly as she gasped, tightened about him, and rode on.

Faster, tighter, hotter, wetter.

When the end came it shattered them both.

Sundered them from the mortal plane, leaving them drifting in a golden void of indescribable pleasure.

Together, sated, at peace.

She chuckled as she collapsed on his chest. Smiling, he closed his arms around her and held her close.

When it came time for Penelope to leave, they discovered it was raining. Leaving her at the front door, Barnaby took an umbrella and went to summon her carriage, waiting farther down the street; the coachman was no doubt dozing inside.

Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, Penelope stared out at the dark night. Then, over the patter of the rain, she heard a footstep—behind her.

She turned. In the faint light of the single candle Barnaby had left on the hall table, she saw Mostyn shrugging into his coat as he came hurrying from the nether regions.

He saw her, slowed, then halted.

Even in the poor light, she saw him blush.

"Ah…I heard the door…" Collecting himself, he drew breath, drew himself up, and bowed. "Pray excuse me, ma'am." He colored more definitely. "Miss."

He hesitated as if unsure whether to leave her; puzzled by what she sensed from the man, she did as she usually did and took the bull by the horns.

"Mostyn, I realize the situation is somewhat awkward, however…I'm confused. When I first called on your master—incidentally he's down the street fetching my carriage, too far away to hear—when we first met I was under the impression you disapproved of me. Yet you've now seen me leaving in illicit fashion twice, and—do correct me if I'm wrong, Mostyn, but instead of growing more disapproving, you seem to have unbent toward me." She frowned, curious not censorious. "Why is that? Why are you now more approving rather than less?"

As she spoke, Mostyn had looked increasingly conscious, which only strengthened her desire to understand. He didn't immediately reply, but she waited.

Eventually, shifting closer to where he could see out of the door, he cleared his throat. "I've worked for the master since he first came on the town. I know his ways." Having confirmed said master was nowhere in sight, Mostyn met Penelope's eyes. "He's never brought any other lady here." He colored again, but went on, "No other female of any degree. So when I saw you…well…"

Penelope caught his drift; she felt her expression blank. "Ah. I see." She looked away, out of the door—hoping to see Barnaby striding back. He still wasn't visible. She nodded. "Thank you, Mostyn. I understand."

The man thought she and Barnaby…

In some ways Mostyn knew his master better than she.

Her mind in a whirl, she waited for Mostyn to leave her.

He hovered beside her, a pace deeper into the hall. After a moment, he cleared his throat again. "May I say, ma'am—miss—that I hope my conjecture isn't unwelcome, nor that it's amiss."

His sincerity touched her. She turned to look at him. "No." She drew breath and went on, "No, Mostyn, your conjecture isn't unwelcome at all."

The sound of Barnaby's approaching footsteps reached them. She inclined her head to Mostyn, and turned to face the door, murmuring, "As for it being amiss, we'll have to see."

"Indeed, ma'am. I'll hope to hear good news soon. I'll bid you a good night."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mostyn bow, then silently withdraw, merging into the shadows at the rear of the hall.

Barnaby materialized out of the driving rain, and came quickly up the steps. She drew her cloak tighter and went out to meet him as her carriage rolled quietly up.