2

G ood morning, Mr. Adair. Miss Ashford told us to expect you. She's in the office. If you'll come this way?"

Barnaby stepped over the threshold of the Foundling House and waited while the neatly dressed middle-aged woman who'd opened the heavy front door in response to his knock closed it and secured a high latch.

Turning away, she beckoned; he followed in her wake as she led him across a wide foyer and down a long corridor with rooms opening to left and right. Their footsteps on the black-and-white tiles echoed faintly; the unadorned walls were a pale creamy yellow. Structurally the house seemed in excellent order, but there was no hint of even modest ornamentation—no paintings on the walls or rugs upon the tiles.

Nothing to soften or disguise the reality that this was an institution.

A brief survey of the building from across the street had revealed a large, older-style mansion, painted white, three stories with attics above, a central block flanked by two wings, with large graveled yards in front of each wing separated from the pavement by a wrought-iron fence. A straight, narrow path led from the heavy front gate to the front porch.

Everything Barnaby had seen of the structure screamed solid practicality.

He refocused on the woman ahead of him. Although she wasn't wearing a uniform, she reminded him of the matron at Eton with her quick, purposeful stride, and the way her head turned to scan each room as they passed, checking those inside.

He looked into the rooms, too, and saw groups of children of various ages either seated at desks or in groups on the floor, listening with rapt attention to women, and in one case a man, reading or teaching.

Long before the woman he was following slowed, then halted before a doorway, he'd started making additions to his mental notes on Penelope Ashford. It was the sight of the children—their faces ruddy and round, features undistinguished, their hair neat but unstyled, their clothes decent but of the lowest station—all so very different from the children he or she would normally have any dealings with that opened his eyes.

In championing such powerless, vulnerable innocents from a social stratum so very far removed from her own, Penelope wasn't indulging in some simple, altruistic gesture; in stepping so far beyond the bounds of what society deemed appropriate in charitable works for ladies of her rank, she was—he felt certain knowingly—risking society's disapprobation.

Sarah's orphanage and her association with it wasn't the same as what Penelope was doing here. Sarah's children were country-bred, children of farmworkers and local families who lived, worked, or interacted with the gentry's estates; in caring for them, an element of noblesse oblige was involved. But the children here were from the slums and teeming tenements of London; in no way connected with the aristocracy, their families eked out a living however they could, in whatever way they could.

And some of those ways wouldn't bear polite scrutiny.

The woman he'd followed gestured through the doorway. "Miss Ashford is in the inner office, sir. If you'll go through?"

Barnaby paused on the threshold of the anteroom. Inside, a prim young woman was sitting, head down, at a small desk in front of a phalanx of closed cabinets, busily sorting through a stack of papers. Smiling slightly, Barnaby thanked his escort, then walked across the room to the inner sanctum.

Its door, too, stood open.

On silent feet, he approached and paused, looking in. Penelope's office—the brass plaque on the door read HOUSE ADMINISTRATOR —was a severe, undecorated, white-walled square. It contained two tall cabinets against one wall, and a large desk set before a window with two straight-backed chairs facing it.

Penelope sat in the chair behind the desk, her concentration fixed on a sheaf of papers. A slight frown had drawn her dark brows into an almost horizontal line above the bridge of her straight little nose.

Her lips, he noted, were compressed into a firm, rather forbidding line.

She was wearing a dark blue walking dress; the deep hue emphasized her porcelain complexion and the lustrous bounty of her richly brown hair. He took due note of the glints of red in the heavy mass.

Raising a hand, he rapped one knuckle on the door. "Miss Ashford?"

She looked up. For one instant, both her gaze and expression remained blank, then she blinked, refocused, and waved him in. "Mr. Adair. Welcome to the Foundling House."

No smile, Barnaby noted; she was all business. He told himself that was refreshing.

His own expression easy, he walked forward to stand beside one chair. "Perhaps you could show me around the place, and you could answer my questions as we walk."

She considered him, then glanced at the papers before her. He could almost hear her mentally debating whether to send him on a tour with her assistant, but then her lips—those ruby lips that had eased back to their natural fascinating fullness—firmed again. Laying aside her pen, she stood. "Indeed. The sooner we can find our missing boys, the better."

Coming around the desk, she walked briskly out of the room; brows rising faintly, he turned and followed—once again in a woman's wake, although this time his guide did not figure in his mind as the least bit matronly.

She nevertheless managed a commendable bustle as she crossed the outer office. "This is my assistant, Miss Marsh. She was once a foundling herself, and now works here ensuring all our files and paperwork are in order."

Barnaby smiled at the mousy young woman; she colored and bobbed her head, then refixed her attention on her papers. Following Penelope into the corridor, Barnaby reflected that the denizens of the Foundling House were unlikely to encounter many tonnish gentlemen within their walls.

Lengthening his stride, he caught up with Penelope; she was leading him deeper into the house, striding along almost mannishly, clearly dismissive of the currently fashionable glide. He glanced at her face. "Do you have many ladies of the ton involved in your work here?"

"Not many." After a moment, she elaborated. "Quite a few come—they hear of it from me, Portia, or the others, or our mothers and aunts, and call intending to offer their services."

Halting at the intersection with another corridor leading into one wing, she faced him. "They come, they look—and then they go away. Most have a vision of playing Lady Bountiful to suitably grateful urchins." A wicked light gleamed in her eyes; turning, she gestured down the wing. "That's not what they find here."

Even before they reached the open door three doors down the corridor, the cacophany was evident.

Penelope pushed the door wide. "Boys!"

The noise ended so abruptly the silence rang.

Ten boys ranging in age from eight or so to twelvish stood frozen, caught in the throes of a general wrestling match. Eyes wide, mouths acock, they took in who had entered, then quickly disengaged, jostling to line up and summoning innocent smiles that regardless appeared quite genuine. "Good morning, Miss Ashford," they chorused.

Penelope bent a stern look on them. "Where is Mr. Englehart?"

The boys exchanged glances, then one, the biggest, volunteered, "He just stepped out for a minute, miss."

"And I'm sure he left you with work to do, didn't he?"

The boys nodded. Without another word, they turned to their desks, righting the two that had been upended. Picking up chalks and slates, they sat on the benches and resumed their work; glancing over a few shoulders, Barnaby saw they were learning to add and subtract.

The sound of swift footsteps echoed down the corridor; an instant later, a neatly dressed man of about thirty appeared in the doorway.

He took in the boys and Penelope, then grinned. "For a minute I thought they must have killed each other."

A few smothered chuckles escaped from the class. With a nod for Penelope, and a curious look for Barnaby, Englehart moved to the front of the room. "Come along, lads—three more sets of sums and you can take your turn outside."

Muffled groans sounded, but the boys buckled down; more than one had his tongue clenched between his teeth.

One raised a hand and Englehart went to him, bending over to read what was on the boy's slate.

Penelope surveyed the group, then rejoined Barnaby just inside the door. "Englehart takes the boys of this age through their reading, writing, and arithmetic. Most gain at least enough to be employed as more than just basic footmen, while others become apprentices in various trades."

Noting the earnestness in the boys' interaction with Englehart, and the way he responded to them, Barnaby nodded.

He followed Penelope outside. Once she'd closed the door, he said, "Englehart seems a good choice for that job."

"He is. He's an orphan, too, but his uncle took him in and had him educated. He works in a solicitor's firm in a senior position. The solicitor knows of our work, so allows Englehart to give us six hours a week. We've other tutors for other subjects. Most volunteer their services, which means they truly care about their students and are willing to work to extract the best from what most would regard as less than ideal clay."

"It appears you've attracted considerable—and useful—support."

She shrugged. "We've been lucky."

Barnaby suspected that once she had a goal in mind, luck was incidental. "The relatives who give over their wards to this place—do they visit first?"

"Those who can usually do. But regardless we always visit the child and guardian in their home." She glanced up and met his eyes. "It's important we know what background they come from, and what they're used to. When they first come to stay, many are frightened—it's a new and often strange environment for them, with rules they don't know and customs that seem peculiar. Knowing what they're used to means we can help them settle in."

"You do the visiting." He didn't make it a question.

She raised her chin. "I'm in charge, so I need to know."

He couldn't think of any other young lady who would willingly go where she must; it was becoming obvious that making assumptions about her, or her likely behavior or reactions, based on the norm for young ladies of the ton was an excellent way to find himself wrong-footed.

She led him on, stopping in this classroom or that, showing him the dormitories, presently empty, and the infirmary and dining hall, lecturing him on their practices, introducing him to staff they met along the way. He drank it all in; he enjoyed studying people—he considered himself something of a connoisseur of character—and the more he saw, the more he found himself fascinated, most of all by Penelope Ashford.

Strong-willed, dominant as opposed to domineering, intelligent, quick-witted and mentally astute, dedicated and loyal; by the end of their tour he'd seen enough to be certain of those qualities. He could also add prickly when pushed, high-handed when challenged, and compassionate to her toes. The latter shone through every time she interacted with any of the children; he was prepared to take an oath that she knew every name and every history of the more than eighty children under the house's roof.

Eventually they returned to the main foyer. Penelope couldn't think of anything further she needed to show him to make her point; he was refreshingly observant and apparently able to deduce without having matters explained in minute detail. Halting, she faced him. "Is there anything further you need to know about our procedures here?"

He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. "Not at present. All appears straightforward, well thought out, and established." He glanced back into the house. "And on the basis of what I've seen of your staff, I agree that it seems unlikely any of them are involved, even in passing information to the…for want of a better word, kidnappers."

His blue gaze refixed on her face; she fought to appear unconscious as he studied her eyes, her features.

"So my next step will be to visit the scene of the latest disappearance, and to question the locals and learn what they know." His lips curved, beguilingly charming. "If you'll give me the address, I won't need to take up any more of your time."

She narrowed her eyes, let her jaw firm. "You needn't worry about my time—until we have our four boys back, this matter takes precedence over all else. Naturally I'll accompany you to Dick's father's lodgings—aside from anything else, the neighbors don't know you and are unlikely to readily speak to you."

He held her gaze. She wondered if they were going to have the argument she knew would eventually come then and there…but then he inclined his head. "If you wish."

His last word was drowned by the clatter of footsteps. Penelope swung around to see Mrs. Keggs, the matron, come hurrying up the corridor.

"If you please, Miss Ashford, I need a few minutes of your time before you go." Coming to a halt, Mrs. Keggs added, "About the supplies for the dormitories and the infirmary. I really should get the order out today."

Penelope hid her vexation—not for Mrs. Keggs, for the need was acute, but over the unfortunate timing. Would Adair try to use the delay as an excuse to cut her out of the investigation? She turned back to him. "This will take no more than ten…perhaps fifteen minutes." She didn't ask if he would wait, but forged on, "After that, we'll be able to set out."

He held her gaze steadily; she could read nothing in his blue eyes other than that he was evaluating, weighing. Then the line of his lips eased, not in a smile but as if he were inwardly amused.

"Very well." From beyond the now open front door the sound of boys' voices reached them; he tipped his head in that direction. "I'll wait outside, observing your charges."

She was too relieved to ask what he expected to observe. She nodded briskly. "I'll join you shortly."

Giving him no chance to change his mind, she turned and, with Mrs. Keggs, set off down the corridor to her office.

Barnaby watched her go, appreciatively noting the brisk sway of her hips as she strode so purposefully along, then he turned and, smiling more definitely, went out into the gloomy day.

Standing on the porch, he scanned the yard to the right; a bevy of children, boys and girls about five and six years old, were laughing and shrieking as they chased one another and threw soft balls. Looking to the left, he discovered a similar number of boys, all in the seven-to twelve-years-old age group into which the missing boys would have merged.

Stepping down, he let his feet take him in that direction. He wasn't looking for anything specific, yet experience had taught him that snippets of what at the time seemed extraneous information often turned out to be crucial in solving a case.

Leaning against the side of the house, he let his gaze range over the group. They came in all sizes and shapes, some pudgy, heavyset, and thuggish looking, others scrawny and thin. Most moved freely in their games, but a few limped, and one dragged one foot.

Any similar group of tonnish children would have been more physically homogenous, with similar features, similar long limbs.

The one element these children shared, with one another and with children from his sphere, was a certain carefreeness not normally found in pauper children. It was a reflection of confidence in their security—that they would have a roof over their heads and reasonable sustenance, not just today but tomorrow as well, and into the foreseeable future.

These children were happy, far more than many of their peers would ever be.

A tutor was seated on a bench on the opposite side of the playground, reading a book but glancing up every now and then at his charges.

Eventually one of the boys—a wiry, ferret-faced lad of about ten—sidled up to Barnaby. He waited until Barnaby glanced down at him before asking, "Are you a new tutor, then?"

"No." When more was clearly expected, he added, "I'm helping Miss Ashford with something. I'm waiting for her."

Other boys edged closer as the first mouthed an "Oh." He glanced at his friends, then felt emboldened enough to ask, "What are you, then?"

The third son of an earl . Barnaby grinned, imagining how his interrogators would react to that. "I help people find things."

"What things?"

Villains, generally. "Possessions or people they want to find."

One of the older boys frowned. "I thought bobbies did that. But you're not one of them."

"Nah," another boy cut in. "Bobbies are about stopping things getting nicked in the first place. Finding nicked stuff is another game."

Wisdom from the mouths of babes.

"So…" His first questioner eyed him measuringly. "Tell us a story about something you've helped find." His tone made the words a hopeful plea rather than a demand.

Glancing at the circle of faces now surrounding him, perfectly aware that every boy had taken note of his clothes and their quality, Barnaby considered. A movement across the yard caught his eye. The tutor had noticed his charges' interest; he raised a brow, wordlessly asking if Barnaby wished to be rescued.

Sending the tutor a reassuring smile, Barnaby looked down at his audience. "The first object I helped restore to its owner was the Duchess of Derwent's emerald collar. It went missing during a house party at the Derwents' estate…"

They peppered him with questions; he wasn't surprised that it was the house party itself, the estate, and how "the nobs" entertained themselves that was the focus of their interest. Emeralds were something beyond their ken, but people fascinated them, just as people fascinated him. Listening to their reactions to his answers made him inwardly chuckle.

Inside her office, Penelope noticed that Mrs. Keggs's attention had drifted from her and fixed on some point beyond her left shoulder. "I think that should hold us for the next few weeks."

She laid down her pen and shut the inkpot lid with a clap; the noise jerked Mrs. Keggs's attention back.

"Ah…thank you, miss." Mrs. Keggs took the signed order Penelope handed her. "I'll take this around to Connelly's and get it filled this afternoon."

Penelope smiled and nodded a dismissal. She watched as Mrs. Keggs rose, bobbed a curtsy, then, with one last glance out of the window at Penelope's back, hurried out.

Swiveling her chair, Penelope looked out of the window—and saw Adair held captive by a group of boys.

She tensed to rise, but then realized she had it wrong; he was holding the boys captive—no mean feat—with some tale.

Relaxing, she studied the scene, examining her surprise; despite all she'd heard of him she hadn't expected Adair to have either the necessary facility, or the inclination, to interact freely with the lower orders—certainly not to the extent of stooping to entertain a group of near-urchins.

Yet his smile appeared quite genuine.

A little more of the wariness she'd felt over consulting him eased. Her fellow members of the governing committee were all out of London; although she'd informed them of the first three disappearances, she hadn't yet sent word of the most recent—nor of her plan to enlist the aid of Mr. Barnaby Adair. In that, she'd acted on her own initiative. While she was certain Portia and Anne would support her action, she wasn't so sure the other three would. Adair had made a name for himself assisting the police specifically in bringing members of the ton to justice—endeavors that hadn't been met by universal approval within the ton.

Lips firming, she slapped her palms on the arms of her chair and pushed to her feet. "I don't care," she informed her empty office. "To get those boys back, I'd enlist the aid of the archfiend himself."

Social threats had no power to sway her.

Other sorts of threats…

Eyes narrowing, she studied the tall, elegant figure surrounded by the ragtag group. And reluctantly conceded that at some level he did, indeed, represent a threat to her.

To her senses, her suddenly twitching nerves—to her unprecedentedly wayward brain. No man had ever made her think distracting thoughts.

No man had ever made her wonder what it would be like if he…

Turning back to her desk, she closed the order ledger.

After leaving his house last night she'd told herself that the worst was over, that when next she saw him his impact on her senses would have faded. Waned. Instead, when she'd looked up and seen him filling her doorway, his blue gaze fixed so consideringly on her, all rational thought had flown.

It had taken real effort to keep her expression blank and pretend she'd been mentally elsewhere, somewhere he hadn't reached.

Clearly, if she wished to investigate by his side she was going to need the equivalent of armor. Or else…

The notion of him realizing how much he affected her, and smiling in that slow, arrogant male way of his, didn't bear thinking about.

She pressed her lips together, then firmly reiterated, "Regardless, I don't care."

Collecting her reticule and gloves from beneath the desk, chin rising, she headed for the door.

And the man she'd recruited as the Foundling House's champion.