23

W ho is Alert?" Stokes paced slowly before the chair on which Smythe sat slumped. They'd brought him to Barnaby's rooms; not only had Jermyn Street been a lot nearer than Scotland Yard, but as Barnaby had been quick to point out, with Alert, whoever he was, connected with the police force, it was far preferable to keep the cards that had at long last fallen into their hands very close to their chests.

Even if Alert knew that something had gone wrong, even if he knew they had Smythe, the less he knew of what they learned from Smythe, the better.

They'd tied Smythe to the chair. He couldn't break free, and wasn't trying to. He'd tested his bonds once; finding them secure, he hadn't wasted effort trying to break them again.

He might be a massive hulk, a burglar and very likely a murderer, too, but he wasn't stupid; Stokes had every confidence Smythe would eventually tell them all he knew. He'd want something in return, but he had nothing to gain by keeping Alert's secrets.

They'd set Smythe's chair in the center of the room, facing the hearth; Stokes paced in the clear space before it. Penelope and Griselda were seated in the armchairs to either side of the now brightly burning fire. Barnaby stood beside Penelope's chair, one arm braced on the mantelshelf.

Dick and Jemmie were seated at a small table along one wall, wolfing down huge sandwiches Mostyn had produced. Mostyn hovered beside them, as interested as they in the scene being enacted in the room's center.

Stokes wasn't surprised when Smythe didn't immediately answer his question—Smythe was still thinking, his head bowed to his chest.

What surprised them both was Jemmie's reply. "He's a gentl'man—a nob. He's the one as planned all the burglaries. And he took all the things we stole from the houses."

Stokes turned to Jemmie; even Smythe lifted his head and looked at him. "You saw him?"

Jemmie squirmed. "Not to reckernize—it was always dark, and he wore a hat and muffler, pretending to be a coachman."

"The coachman!" Penelope sat up. "That's it!" She looked at Stokes. "I saw a carriage rolling slowly along while we were walking—I saw the same carriage three times tonight. The last time was as we started back down Bolton Street with the boys and Smythe—the carriage rolled along behind us, along Curzon Street. I couldn't get the sight of it out of my mind—there was something odd about it—and now I know what. I know what coachmen look like when they're on the box—they hunch a little. This man sat bolt upright. He was dressed like a coachman, but he wasn't a coachman—he was a gentleman pretending to be a coachman."

She looked at Jemmie and Dick. "Was that where the things you took from the other houses tonight went—into that carriage?"

Both boys nodded. "That's how it was set up," Jemmie said. "After we left every house, the carriage and Mr. Alert were waiting at the corner to take the thing from us."

Dick piped up, "Alert would give Smythe a purse, a down payment they called it, after we put each thing in the carriage's boot."

"Smythe was supposed to get more money later," Jemmie added. "After Alert sold the things."

Stokes glanced at Smythe, and could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. If he waited much longer, the boys might divulge enough for them to guess Alert's identity, leaving him with nothing to bargain with.

Smythe felt Stokes's gaze and looked back at him.

Stokes arched a brow. "Any thoughts?" When Smythe hesitated, he went on, "At present, you'll be charged with burglary, murder, and attempted murder. You're going to hang, Smythe, all because of your association with Alert and his schemes. As matters stand, he's got all except one of the items he wanted, and he looks set to get clean away, leaving you to face the wrath of the courts when it's finally realized just what you stole."

Smythe shifted. "I might have stolen things, but it was on Alert's behalf. Pretty obvious it's not my normal job—whoever heard of taking just one thing once you get in a house?" He looked down. "And I didn't murder anyone."

Stokes studied him, then asked, "What about Mrs. Carter?"

Smythe didn't look up. "You can't prove anything."

"Be that as it may"—Stokes's tone was granite hard—"we have witnesses aplenty that you tried to kill Mary Bushel in Black Lion Yard."

Smythe snorted. "But I didn't, did I?" He paused, then went on, still talking to Stokes's boots, "Murdering people's not what I'm good at. I'm an ace cracksman. If it hadn't been for bloody Alert insisting on doing this caper—all eight houses— his way, I'd never have even thought of murder."

Stokes let the silence stretch, then prompted, "So?"

Smythe finally looked up at Stokes. "If I give you all I know about Alert—and it's enough for you to identify him—what'll my charges be?"

After another long moment, Stokes replied, "If what you give us proves enough to identify Alert, and you agree to testify against him if need be, we'll keep the charges at burglary and attempted murder. If we could prove murder, you'd go to the gallows. Without it, and a recommendation on the grounds of cooperation, it'll be transportation." Stokes paused, then said, "Your choice."

Smythe snorted. "I'll take transportation."

"So who is Alert?"

Smythe glanced down. "There's a hidden pocket in this coat—in the lining off the left side seam, thigh level." Stokes crouched down, feeling through the coat. "There's three lists in there."

Stokes found the folded papers and drew them out. Rising, he smoothed them, then held them up to read. Leaving the hearth, Barnaby joined him.

"Those are the lists Alert gave me. The first is a list of the houses…" Smythe talked them through Alert's plan, describing their meetings, recounting what they'd said. As he went through the burglaries, the four of the previous night as well as the three they'd com pleted that night, Stokes and Barnaby cross-referenced the lists—the street addresses of the houses burgled and the items taken.

At one point Barnaby stopped and swore.

Stokes glanced at him. Smythe stopped speaking.

"What?" Stokes asked.

Grimly, Barnaby pointed to one address—that of the first house burgled that night. "That's Cothelstone House."

"Your father's house?"

Barnaby nodded. He took the descriptions of items to be filched and located the relevant entry. "Silver figurine of lady on the table in the library window…good Lord!" He met Stokes's eyes.

Stokes raised a brow. "It's valuable, I take it. How much are we talking about?"

Barnaby shook his head. "It's worth…I have no clue of the figure. The word generally used in reference to that statue is ‘priceless.' Literally priceless."

He looked again through the items listed. "We're not talking a small fortune here. If these other items are of the same caliber, Alert is setting himself up to rival the richest in the land."

Stokes shook his head. "You're telling me this statue—in the house of one of the peers overseeing the police, in a house you regularly visit—was sitting there on a table just waiting for some enterprising thief to make off with it?"

Barnaby glanced at him, then shrugged. "You'll have to take that up with m'mother, but I warn you you're unlikely to have much success. God knows the pater's been after her to lock it away for years—he gave up decades ago. As Penelope pointed out, these things have been around us since birth, and we don't even notice them all that much anymore."

"Until someone nicks them." Stokes looked disgusted. He turned back to Smythe. "So everything went smoothly, Alert picking up each piece in the carriage after every house, until the last. What went wrong?"

Smythe scowled and looked at the boys. "I'm not clear on that myself. Best you ask them."

Stokes turned to Dick and Jemmie. "The last house. What happened—how did you two break away?"

The boys exchanged glances, then Jemmie said, "The first night, Smythe didn't tell us where in the houses we had to go until we got to each house. So we couldn't plan when to make our move. But later that night, after the first four houses, Alert took us up in his carriage, all three of us, and then stopped at a park somewhere to talk to Smythe about tonight's houses. They left Dick and me in the carriage, but we listened."

"We heard that one of us would have to go through the kitchen at the third house—that turned out to be me," Dick said. "We arranged that whichever of us it was, we'd pick up a knife sharp enough to saw through the reins." He nodded to the reins Smythe had been carrying, which now hobbled the big man's feet. "He used them to keep hold of us when we were going between houses, and if one of us was left outside, he'd tie us to a fence or a post with them."

"We also heard that the last house tonight would be only one of us," Jemmie went on. "We was supposed to take a small picture off the wall in an upstairs room. Smythe put me in the scullery window at the back, and waited there for me to come out. Because I had to go upstairs, I knew he'd wait a while before getting suspicious—I went out the front door instead. But the front door bolt screeched."

"I was nearly done cutting through the reins when he came out," Dick said. "But Smythe heard the screech and guessed what it was. Jemmie helped me get free, but then we saw Smythe coming up the side of the house. We ran."

"You did very well," Penelope said, approval and admiration in her tone.

Smythe grunted. He looked back at Stokes. "So that's it—all I can tell you. You find a gent who knows all those houses, enough to know all the details written down there—where the things were and exactly how to get to them—you bring him to me, and I'll tell you if he's your man."

Stokes studied Smythe for a long moment. "You'll recognize him, but then it's your word against his. Is there anyone else who knows him?"

"Grimsby," Smythe said. "He's seen him more than I have."

Stokes grimaced. "Unfortunately, gaol didn't agree with Grimsby. He had a heart attack. He's dead. He can't help us."

Smythe glanced down and softly swore. Then he looked across at the boys.

Stokes, following his gaze, asked, "Boys, think hard—did you see Alert, anything about him, well enough to recognize if you saw him again?"

Both boys screwed up their faces, but then shook their heads.

Stokes sighed. He was turning back to Smythe when Jemmie said, "We heard him well enough to know him again, though."

Penelope beamed at them. "Excellent!" She caught Stokes's eye. "That's good enough, isn't it?"

He thought, then nodded. "It should be."

"So"—Barnaby had been concentrating on the lists—"all we need now—" He broke off at the sound of someone rapping on the door.

It was a polite rat-a-tat-tat . Barnaby looked at Mostyn, who with a bow went to answer it.

Mostyn left the parlor door ajar. Nobody spoke, the adults waiting to see who it was, the boys too busy polishing off their sandwiches to care.

The latch on the front door clicked; a second later, a rumbling voice, too indistinct to make out, greeted Mostyn.

Mostyn's reply was clearer. "My lord! We…er, weren't expecting you."

"I daresay, Mostyn, but here I am," an urbane voice declared. "And here's my hat, too. Now where is that son of mine?"

The parlor door swung open and the Earl of Cothelstone calmly walked in. He surveyed the company, and smiled benignly. "Barnaby, dear boy—you seem to have quite a gathering here."

Barnaby blinked. "Papa…" He broke off, frowning. "I thought you'd gone north."

"So did I." The earl sighed. "Unfortunately your mother decided I'd left something in London she was set on me bringing home, so she dispatched me back to fetch it."

The light in the earl's eyes as they rested on his son informed everyone what the countess's "something" was.

Smiling genially, the earl turned his attention to the others in the room, then raised his brows at Barnaby.

"Ah…" Barnaby had a sense of matters spinning out of his control. "You know Stokes, of course." The earl exchanged a nod with Stokes, whom he knew quite well. Barnaby turned to Penelope. "Allow me to present Miss Penelope Ashford."

Penelope rose, bobbed a curtsy, then shook hands with the earl. "My lord. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you, my dear. And you." Clasping her hand between both of his, the earl patted it. He smiled delightedly upon her. "I'm acquainted with your brother. He often mentions you."

Penelope smiled and returned a polite reply.

A sinking feeling assailed Barnaby. His father knew. How, he didn't know, but if his father knew…so did his mother. He inwardly swore. He managed to breathe a trifle easier when his father—at long last—released Penelope and turned to Griselda.

Barnaby made the introduction, then steered his father to the boys, giving him enough of their story to explain their presence.

"Brave lads!" The earl nodded approvingly, then turned to survey Smythe. "And this is our villain, I take it?"

"More his henchman." Eager to keep his father's attention away from Penelope, Barnaby handed him one of Alert's lists. He was about to explain what it was when Penelope touched his arm.

With a nod, she directed his attention to the boys, both yawning. "Perhaps Mostyn can take them to the kitchen for some milk, and then find them some beds. I can take them to the Foundling House tomorrow."

Mostyn nodded his understanding. Gathering up the boys, he herded them from the room.

Barnaby turned back to his father, to find him frowning at the list.

"What are you doing with one of Cameron's infernal lists?" His father looked at him. "What's this about?"

For one instant, Barnaby felt sure he'd misheard. " Cameron 's list?"

His father shook the list he'd given him—the one of the houses to be burgled. "This. I know Cameron wrote it." He looked at the sheet again. "It might be block capitals, but I'd recognize his style anywhere. As Huntingdon's secretary, Cameron writes up our agendas and minutes, all neatly laid out just like this." Puzzled, the earl looked at Barnaby. "What is this? I recognize our address, of course, and the others—this looks like one of Huntingdon's rounds."

Recalled from exchanging a stunned look with Stokes, Barnaby frowned. "Huntingdon's rounds?"

The earl snorted. "You need to pay more attention to politics. Huntingdon is extremely conscientious and regularly visits the power brokers in the party in his parliamentary capacity. Very dedicated, Huntingdon."

"And Cameron goes with him?" Stokes asked.

The earl shrugged. "Not every time but often, yes. If there's any business to be discussed, Cameron would be there to take notes."

Stokes caught Barnaby's eye. "All the stolen items were from libraries or studies—did you notice?"

Barnaby nodded.

The earl lost patience. " What stolen items?"

Barnaby handed him the rest of the sheets. "These items—the ones our principal villain arranged for Smythe to collect for him."

The earl took the papers and studied them. It didn't take him long to see the implications, especially when he came to the object stolen from his own house. "Your mother's great-aunt's statue?"

He looked up at Barnaby, who nodded. "Along with everything else."

There was nothing at all genial about the earl now. "He got them all?"

"All except the last, but he hasn't yet had time to dispose of them. And now, thanks to you and Smythe combined, we know who he is."

The earl smiled, this time predatorially. "Excellent."

It was Penelope who asked the most pertinent question. "Where does Cameron live?"

The earl knew. "He lives with his lordship at Huntingdon House."

Assured by the earl that Lord Huntingdon would still be up and about to receive them even though it was close to two o'clock, they all trooped around to Huntingdon House, which was luckily situated in nearby Dover Street.

Stokes pulled two constables from their patrol in St. James and put them in charge of Smythe, who Lord Cothelstone declared needed to come, too, so it was quite a procession that marched through the doors of Huntingdon House. But Huntingdon's butler drew himself up, and handled the matter with aplomb. Leaving the earl, a frequent visitor, to see himself and Barnaby into Lord Huntingdon's presence in his study, the butler bowed Penelope, Griselda, and Stokes into the drawing room, then whisked the boys, Mostyn, the constables, and Smythe to a set of straight-backed chairs lined up along the corridor leading from the front hall.

Within five minutes the butler was back, to conduct them all into his master's sanctum.

Huntingdon, a large, heavyset gentleman, was no fool. He listened without emotion as Barnaby and Stokes outlined the case as they knew it against the man Smythe and the boys had known as Mr. Alert, now believed to be his lordship's private secretary, Douglas Cameron.

When told that Smythe and the boys could identify Alert, Smythe by sight, the boys by his voice, Huntingdon studied all three carefully, then nodded. "Very well. Your story otherwise strains belief, but those lists are damning. That is his hand, and those are houses he has visited frequently in my train. I see no reason not to put Cameron to the test. If by some twist of fate he's innocent, no harm will be done."

Barnaby inclined his head. "Thank you, my lord."

"However"—Huntingdon held up one finger—"we will do this correctly." So saying, his lordship made his dispositions, directing everyone as to where they should stand, and what they should do.

Two doors, one on either side of the long study, led to adjoining rooms; a large oriental screen stood before each door. Huntingdon sent the two constables and Smythe to stand behind one screen. He dispatched Penelope, Griselda, and both boys to the room beyond the other screen.

"I want you to bring the boys out only when you receive word from me. Adair's man will stand by the main door here, and when I give him the signal, he'll go out into the hall and around to tell you to enter. I want you to keep the boys behind the screen, where they can hear us, but not see us." Huntingdon fixed Penelope with his weighty gaze. "I rely on you, Miss Ashford, to tell me if the boys correctly identify Cameron as the man they heard giving Smythe instructions. You'll know from my lead when to step out and tell me."

Penelope nodded. "Yes, sir." She gathered the boys; together with Griselda they went into the next room.

When everything was arranged to Huntingdon's liking, with the earl and Barnaby standing behind the desk to his right, and Stokes by the wall to his left, Huntingdon rang for his butler and instructed him to fetch Cameron. "And Fergus—no word to him regarding who is here."

The butler looked offended. "Naturally not, my lord."

Huntingdon glanced at Stokes, then at Barnaby. "Gentlemen, while I appreciate your interest in this, I will conduct this interview. I would take it kindly if, regardless of whatever Cameron may say, you maintain your silence."

Stokes looked unhappy, but nodded. Barnaby agreed more readily; he approved of his lordship's tactics, and saw no reason not to leave the interrogation in his clearly capable hands.

A minute ticked by, then the door opened and Cameron entered.

Barnaby studied him. His hair, an average brown, fashionably cut, was slightly ruffled, and there was a faint flush on his pale cheeks; Huntingdon had earlier stated that he hadn't asked Cameron to hold himself available that evening, and Fergus had confirmed that Cameron had been out since nine, returning only recently.

He was as well dressed as usual, not a cuff out of place; after an infinitesimal hesitation, excusable given the unexpected company, he closed the door and walked forward, surveying them with his usual arrogant air, significantly more deferential when it came to Barnaby's father and Huntingdon.

Barnaby noted that, along with Cameron's more evenhanded attitude toward himself. The man was supremely conscious of the lines of class; he treated everyone he considered beneath him with dismissive arrogance, all those above him—like Huntingdon and the earl—with toadying deference, while those he considered his equals—such as Barnaby—he acknowledged with an unruffled air. In Barnaby's experience, only those not secure in their place in the world expended so much effort reinforcing it.

Cameron halted a pace before the desk. Like any good secretary, his expression revealed nothing, not even curiosity. "Yes, my lord?"

"Cameron." Clasping his large hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed him with a level look. "These gentlemen have come to me with a disturbing tale. It seems they believe you have been involved…"

Huntingdon gave an expert summary of their case, omitting all unnecessary details, concentrating on the outcomes and conclusions.

Watching Cameron carefully, Barnaby thought he paled at mention of the lists, but that might have simply been his flush slowly fading.

Regardless, Barnaby—and he was quite sure Stokes, his father, and Huntingdon, too—had Cameron's guilt confirmed within minutes.

The man didn't react; even though Huntingdon's initial statement had told him he was suspected of being behind the crimes Huntingdon subsequently described, Cameron maintained his aloof composure. An innocent man, no matter his control, would have at least shown some sign of surprise, shock—at least perturbation—on being informed he was suspected of such acts.

Instead, Cameron simply waited patiently until Huntingdon reached the end of his recitation, concluding with, "Well, sir? Can you enlighten us as to the accuracy of this tale?"

Then Cameron smiled, an easy, gentlemanly smile inviting his lordship, and the earl, too, to join him in the joke. "My lord, this entire tale is nothing more than fabrication, at least as regards my supposed involvement." A wave of his hand dismissed the notion, along with the lists lying by Huntingdon's blotter. "I have no idea why suspicion has fallen on me, but I assure you I had nothing whatever to do with this…series of burglaries." He made the last words sound like an act he couldn't conceivably have been thought to perform—like cleaning out a fireplace.

With that, he simply stood there, the expectation, the absolute belief that Huntingdon would accept his word and dismiss the charges evident in his expression, his stance, his whole attitude.

Barnaby suddenly understood. Cameron, driving the coach, had seen them with Smythe, but he hadn't, even then, imagined they'd identify him. He hadn't remembered the lists, or hadn't thought anyone who might see them would recognize his style. He'd come to the study prepared to face down the worst accusations he'd thought might eventuate—vague ones not backed by any strong evidence—placing complete, overweening confidence in his position among the ton being sufficient to deflect any such charges.

Things weren't as he'd assumed, but now he was there all he could do was play out his scripted role. He had no other defense.

Looking down, Barnaby murmured, "It's a performance. He thinks he knows the rules."

He'd spoken quietly, but his father and Huntingdon would have heard, and they'd know what rules he meant.

Huntingdon studied Cameron, then unclasped his hands and eased back in his chair. "Come now, Cameron. You'll have to do better than that."

Anger flashed through Cameron's eyes. He was used to reading his employer; he now saw that, contrary to his expectations, Huntingdon wasn't going to join him in waving away the "fanciful" tale, let alone close ranks, gentleman siding with gentleman. "My lord." Cameron spread his hands. "I don't know what to say. I have no knowledge of these events."

From his position behind the desk, from the corner of his eye Barnaby saw movement behind the screen as Penelope and Griselda silently ushered the boys back in; Mostyn had unobtrusively left the room a few minutes before.

Cameron drew breath. "Indeed, I have to say I'm a little surprised to find myself a target of such allegations." His eyes flicked to Stokes. "One can only surmise that the investigating officers are at a loss for a culprit, and imagine that pointing a finger at one of their betters will cause sufficient consternation that their failure to protect the ton from such depredations will be overlooked."

A muscle leapt in Stokes's jaw; a slight flush tinted his cheekbones, but other than that, he didn't respond to the taunt, but continued to watch Cameron with a steady regard that somehow still managed to convey his contempt.

Cameron's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't say more on that front; turning from Stokes, he looked at his employer, and realized his words hadn't yet succeeded in deflecting the charge.

But Huntingdon appeared to be considering his suggestion. "Indeed?" His tone was encouraging, inviting Cameron to elaborate.

Cameron glanced at Barnaby, then met Huntingdon's eyes. "I'm also aware that, for some, solving crimes such as this, and pinning the blame on members of the upper class, has become something of a passion. One that carries a certain notoriety—even fame. Such considerations can cloud judgment when they're indulged to the point of obsession." Cameron allowed his lips to curve. "An addiction of sorts, if you will."

"Oh?" Huntingdon's response was cool.

Barnaby looked down to hide a smile; Cameron had just stepped over an invisible line. A gentleman did not make that sort of allegation about another gentleman other than in private.

"In short, my lord"—Cameron's voice hardened—"I suspect that these allegations, accusations, call them what you will, have been laid at my door as a matter of expediency. I don't imagine there was any truly personal aspect to the choice of me as scapegoat, but merely that I fit the bill as a suspect who, by virtue of my station and position as your secretary, will deflect attention from the woeful lack of evidence."

Looking up, Barnaby saw Cameron's now hard gaze fixed on Huntingdon's face. He had to give Cameron credit; had it been anyone with less backbone than Huntingdon, that last jibe—a reminder that should Cameron be charged, Huntingdon's personal standing would suffer—would have seen him walking free, at least of this room at this time.

Whatever he thought he saw in Huntingdon's face had Cameron's confidence returning. His expression eased. With a polite half-bow, he asked, "Will there be anything else, my lord?"

He'd misjudged Huntingdon badly. Once again clasping his hands on his blotter, Huntingdon fixed Cameron with a heavy look. "Indeed, there will. You have singularly failed to explain how lists of houses and items stolen from them, laid out in your distinctive style, came to be in the possession of the burglar who admits stealing the items. While you claim to know nothing about these lists, I myself can confirm that you've frequently visited every house listed, and that you're familiar with the libraries and studies therein, enough to have certain knowledge of the items stolen. Very few gentlemen would have such knowledge, not of all these houses. Likewise, you are one of the few with knowledge and access sufficient to have falsified the police order against the Foundling House.

"While lists composed in your peculiar style, your familiarity with the houses involved, and your ability to falsify police orders might individually be dismissed as circumstantial, taken together, they are highly suggestive. However, as you maintain you're entirely innocent, you can have no objection to allowing the burglar"—Huntingdon beckoned Smythe out from behind the screen—"to take a look at you and confirm whether or not you're the man for whom he's been working."

That Cameron had prepared for. Calmly, he turned and faced Smythe.

Smythe took one long look at him and snarled, "That's him. He called himself Mr. Alert."

Cameron merely raised his brows, then turned back to Huntingdon. "My lord!" His expression and tone were incredulous. "Surely you can't be intending to place any faith in the word of a man like this? He'd say anything." Gaze flicking to Stokes, Cameron added, "I daresay he's been offered an incentive to do so. No court would convict on his word."

Gravely, Huntingdon nodded. "Perhaps not. However, there are other witnesses." He looked to the other side of the room. "Miss Ashford?"

Penelope came out from behind the other screen. Hands clasped before her, she addressed his lordship. "Both boys reacted instantly to Cameron's voice. There can be no doubt that he was the man they overheard giving Smythe instructions"—she looked at Cameron—"of which houses to burgle and what to steal from each."

Cameron stared at her.

"Two innocent boys who are under no compulsion or threat, and therefore have no reason to lie." Huntingdon paused, then asked, "What say you now, Cameron?"

Cameron hauled his gaze from Penelope and her condemnatory stare—and glanced at his lordship.

All trace of the gentleman had vanished.

Barnaby swore and started around the desk.

Cameron didn't react like a gentleman; he lunged for Penelope.

Stunned, disbelieving, she found herself seized by the arms. Wild-eyed, Cameron swung her before him; he slung one arm across her shoulders, locking her against him. And brandished a knife before her face.

She focused on it; a chill slid down her spine. Cameron had to be insane. The knife looked sharp.

"Stay back!" Cameron shifted so his back was to the wall.

She could feel his head turning this way and that. Could feel the nervousness—the near panic—pouring off him.

"Back, I said! Or I'll slice open her cheek."

His hand shifted; the knife with its glinting edge was suddenly very close to her face.

Icy fear trickled down her spine. He was too strong for her to break from his hold, especially not with the knife so close. He'd widened his stance—she couldn't even kick his legs.

Hauling in a breath, she forced her gaze from the knife. She looked at the others; their faces were a blur. Then her gaze reached Barnaby and locked on his face, her focus sharpening.

He was pale, his face drawn, features tense. He stood poised beside the desk, held back by Cameron's threat.

He was watching Cameron, and her, closely; when Cameron glanced around the room, checking the others, Barnaby trapped her gaze—and opened his mouth and bit down.

She blinked, realized; pressing her head back against Cameron's chest, she focused on the hand holding the knife before her face. Because she was so short, the hand was in front of her mouth.

Opening her mouth wide, she sank her teeth into Cameron's hand.

He yelped.

Closing her eyes, she bit down as hard as she could and locked her jaw.

He yelled. He tried to pull his hand away, but couldn't. With that hand immobilized, he couldn't use the knife.

With her jaw in the way, he couldn't release it.

He flung this way and that, howling, furiously trying to dislodge her; for one crazy moment they waltzed around, but she refused to let go.

With a huge effort, he flung her away. The momentum forced her to release him; she sailed across the room and collided with Stokes and the earl. They went down in a tangle, tripping the two constables who'd rushed up to help.

Scrambling free of the melee, on her hands and knees, Penelope looked across the room and saw Cameron using the knife to keep Barnaby at bay. Huntingdon was on his feet, but he couldn't get around his desk without distracting Barnaby.

And from the look on Cameron's face, he was just waiting for a chance to slice Barnaby up.

Time slowed.

The knife flashed, then flashed again. Barnaby leapt back just in time.

Cameron snarled and lunged. Her heart in her mouth, Penelope started to call out. At the last instant, Barnaby twisted away; the knife glinted as it slid past his chest.

He reached for Cameron's arm, but Cameron saw the danger and flung himself back. Eyes wild, flicking over the men, the knife waving before him, he backed.

He'd forgotten—or perhaps never noticed—Griselda. Stealing out from behind the screen, she'd lifted a heavy statue from a side table and crept up behind Cameron, keeping close to the wall. Raising the statue, she'd been waiting for her moment; as he backed within reach, she brought it down on his skull.

Penelope scrambled to her feet as Cameron swayed on his. "Not hard enough." She waved at Griselda. "Hit him again."

Before Griselda could, Barnaby stepped forward, brushed aside the knife, and felled Cameron with a jaw-cracking punch.

The force of it lifted Cameron off his feet. His back hit the wall, then his eyes rolled up. His knees buckled; he slid down, ending in a crumpled heap.

Barnaby stood over him, grimacing as he shook out his hand.

Aghast, Penelope flew across the room to him.

Huntingdon clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Good work."

Penelope wasn't so sure. She caught Barnaby's hand—his beautiful long-fingered, elegant, and clever hand—stared at the redness already spreading across his scraped knuckles. "What have you done to your hand?"

To Barnaby's besmusement, the damage he'd done to his hand—minor, it would heal—consumed Penelope's mind. All else was relegated to second place. Nothing would do but for her to hurry him home to Jermyn Street so she could tend his wounds. Salve his scraped knuckles.

That Mostyn had taken the boys under his wing, volunteering to take care of them and deliver them tomorrow afternoon to the Foundling House, set the seal on her impatience to be away.

Something Barnaby decided was in his own best interests; aside from all else, he needed to speak with her—now, soon—before his father said anything to make his life more difficult.

Penelope was relieved when he agreed to leave matters in Lord Huntingdon's and the earl's capable hands. To her mind, there were capable people aplenty to take charge of the fiend Cameron and do all else that needed to be done. The constables would take Smythe and Cameron to Scotland Yard; Stokes would see Griselda home. Penelope's only responsibilities were to see to the welfare of the boys, and Barnaby.

The latter stood highest in her mind. When they reached his house, she dispatched the boys to bed in Mostyn's care and harried Barnaby up to his bedroom. She pushed him to sit on the bed, then bustled into the bathing chamber for a bowl of water.

Returning, setting the candelabra near so she had better light, she examined his hand, and hissed. "Men and their pugilistics." She felt thoroughly shaken; she wasn't sure why. "You didn't need to hit him at all—Griselda could have taken care of it if you'd given her another second."

"I needed to hit him."

She ignored the hard, flat tone of his voice. "I'm very fond of your hand, you know." She immersed the object in question in the cold water. "Both of them. I'm rather fond of lots of other parts of you, too, of course, but that's beside the point. Your hands—" She realized and stopped.

Drew in a huge breath. "I'm babbling." She heard the stunned amazement in her tone, but her tongue just ran on. "See what you've reduced me to? I never babble—ask anyone. Penelope Ashford has never babbled in her life, and here I am, babbling like a twit, all because you didn't think—"

He stopped her by the simple expedient of kissing her. Ducking his head, he covered her lips, slowed her racing tongue with his.

His arm slid around her and drew her to him.

Almost instantly, she relaxed against him.

It started off as a gentle kiss—a long, soothing, reassuring exchange for them both. But there was far more between them, more primitive reactions that needed to be assuaged, more powerful needs that rose up and unexpectedly caught them, taking over the kiss, infusing it with passions neither had intended showing, but both desperately needed to appease. To slake. To satisfy.

He angled his head and plundered her mouth, ravaged her senses—and she returned the favor. Shook the water from her hands and plunged them into his hair, spearing through the curling locks to grip his head. So she could hold him steady and kiss him back—claim him as her own just as avidly, as greedily, as hungrily as he claimed her.

As wildly. As unrestrainedly.

When they finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing rapidly, hunger and need—very definitely not just physical—pounding in their blood. The same beat, the same compulsion. She met his eyes, and saw all she felt roiling in the vivid blue—the same tumult of emotions.

The same reason behind it.

The same motive. The same power.

She dragged in a shuddering breath. She'd been meaning to speak; the time was clearly now.

Yet with the moment upon her, one doubt assailed her. He was a confirmed bachelor—everyone in the ton knew that. If she spoke—proposed—and he didn't agree…their time together would end. Regardless of her wishes, once he knew she was thinking of marriage, if she couldn't convince him to agree, he would kindly but definitely cut her out of his life…and she didn't think she could bear that. If she spoke and he didn't agree, she would lose all they, all she, now had.

If she didn't speak…she would lose all they might have.

Yet even if he felt the same emotions she did, that didn't mean he'd see marriage to her as the right path for him.

For the first time in her life, faced with a clear challenge, her courage wavered. Taking this one step…she'd never faced such a critical moment in her life. She searched his eyes for some hint, some clue, as to how he might react. And remembered…She frowned. "Why did you need to hit Cameron?"

He'd made it sound as if the action had held some greater significance beyond simply stopping the fiend.

He held her gaze, then his lips quirked wryly. He lowered his gaze to her lips. "You said I didn't think." His jaw firmed. "You were right—I didn't. It was…peculiar. I never ‘don't think'—just as you never babble. But from the instant Cameron seized you I…stopped thinking. I didn't need to. What I needed to do was perfectly clear without any requirement for thought."

He paused, drew in a long breath. "I had to hit him because he'd seized you. If he'd grabbed Griselda, I wouldn't have felt the same—although perhaps Stokes might have. But Cameron grabbed you, and"—his voice deepened—"some time in the past weeks you've become mine . Mine to protect. To have and to hold. To keep safe."

He met her eyes, and she saw truth shining in the blue. "That's why I hit him—why I didn't even have to think to know I had to. Needed to." He paused, then went on, "I've heard that's how things can be…with a certain woman. I didn't think such a thing would happen to me, but with you…it has. If you don't want to be mine…" He searched her eyes, then, his voice hardening, said, "It's too late. You already are."

She'd been looking for something to give her heart; it was there, shining in his eyes. "I think we should marry."

Barnaby felt elation surge through him; looking into her dark eyes, he inwardly exulted.

Before he could react, she frowned. "I know it's a startling suggestion, but if you'll listen to my reasoning I believe you'll see it's a sound one, with significant benefits for us both."

This was what he'd planned to achieve. He fought to keep his flaring triumph from his eyes; he wanted to hear all she had to say, all she was so willing to tell him. "You perceive me all ears."

She frowned more definitely, unsure how to read his tone, but then drew breath and went on, "I know—as do you—that there's a long list of logical, rational, socially dictated, and socially approved reasons we should wed." She fixed him with a direct look. "But neither you nor I allow ourselves to be influenced by such considerations—I mention them purely to dismiss them, noting only that a marriage between us would be socially welcomed."

His mother would be over the moon. He nodded and waited.

Her gaze lowered to his lips. "Weeks ago, you pointed out that we deal exceptionally well together. Privately, publicly, socially, and even more remarkably in the matter of our esoteric vocations. We can talk to each other about all subjects that interest us, and more, we enjoy doing so. We talk about things we never talk about with anyone else. We share ideas. We react to situations in the same way. We feel compelled by the same circumstances and to the same end." Raising her eyes, she met his. "As I said at the time, we're complementary. Everything that's happened since has only underscored how correct that assessment was."

She tilted her head, studied his eyes. "You, me—we're not the same, but we—our lives—somehow fit together."

You make me whole. She didn't say the words, but they rang in his mind, conveyed as effectively as if she'd spoken them.

"Together we're more—stronger than we are individually. If nothing else, these weeks have proved that." She paused, then went on, "So I think we should marry, and continue the partnership we've started. For us, marriage won't be a restriction, but instead will enable us to expand our partnership to encompass all the various aspects of our lives."

Her lips firmed; through his hands on her back, he sensed the steely purpose that infused her. "That's why I think we should marry. And that's what I would wish for, if I had my way and you wished for it, too."

Honest, direct, clearheaded, and determined; he looked into her eyes and saw all that and more. All he had to do was smile charmingly, pretend to be much struck by her proposition—her proposal—make some show of considering her arguments, and then gracefully accept.

And then she would be his and he'd have all he desired—without having to admit to, without having to reveal or acknowledge other than in his own mind, what drove him. What power had sunk its claws into his soul and now owned him.

Unfortunately…it seemed that power had other ideas.

Honest, direct, clearheaded, and determined…wasn't enough. Him simply accepting would never be enough.

"Yes, we should marry." The harshness of his voice made her eyes widen. Before she could start thinking, speculating, he said, "But…"

He tried, quite desperately, to censor his words, but with her in his arms, her dark eyes on his, it was suddenly imperative, more important than life, that she knew and understood, completely and utterly. "When we took our first steps into intimacy, if you'd been more experienced you would have realized that a man like me wouldn't have touched you if I wasn't thinking of marriage."

Her eyes widened. She stared at him. A finite moment passed before she managed to enunciate, "From then ?"

He nodded, jaw setting. "Very definitely from then. You were a gently bred virgin, your brother's sister—no honorable gentleman would have touched you, except that I wanted you as my wife and you—at that point—were set against marriage. So I fell in with your wishes, but only because I had every intention of changing your mind."

Her eyes narrowed. "You intended to make me change my mind ?"

Her tone made him snort. "Not even then, when I knew you less well, did I imagine I'd be able to do that. I couldn't make you change your mind, but I hoped, prayed, that you'd come to see that marrying me would be a good idea. That you'd convince yourself to change your stance. As you did."

He'd expected her to follow his comments forward in time, to the present; instead—as he should have known she would—she retreated to the point he'd revealed, but hadn't explained.

"Why did you want to marry me?" She frowned, genuinely puzzled. "Almost from the start of our association, before we grew to know each other well…what possessed you to decide you wanted to marry me?"

It took more than an inward squirm—more like an inner wrestle—to force the truth out. "I don't know."

When she stared at him, disbelief in her eyes, he reiterated, "I don't ." Jaw setting, he went on, "At that time, all I knew was that you were the one. I didn't understand it—but I knew it just the same."

"So definitely you acted on it?" She sounded…a touch fascinated.

A dangerous admission, but he forced himself to nod.

Her eyes, dark and luminous, softened. She tilted her head, her eyes on his. "And now?"

The ultimate question.

Looking into her eyes, he forced himself to speak. To confess and have done with it—to tell her all he'd never intended her to know. "I still don't understand why any man in his right mind would tell any woman this, but…I love you. Before you walked into my life, I had no clue what love was—I saw it in others, even appreciated it in them, but I'd never been touched by it. So I didn't know how it felt—would feel. Now I know."

He hauled in a huge, not entirely steady breath. "When Cameron grabbed you and he had that knife—I literally saw red. I knew nothing beyond the fact that you—around whom my life now revolves—were in danger. That if anything happened to you, I couldn't live—I might exist, but I wouldn't be truly alive as I have been with you over the last weeks."

He searched her eyes. "You didn't say it before, so I will— you make my life complete. I love you, I need you, and I want you as mine—mine for all the world to see and know."

To his surprise, the words had come easily. "I want us to marry. I want us to be man and wife."

She looked into his eyes, then slowly, she smiled. "Good." Reaching up, she drew his head down to hers. "Because that's what I want, too, because I love you, too. It's strange and unexpected, but fascinating and exciting, and I want to keep exploring it…with you." Their lips a bare inch apart, she paused. Her ripe, luscious lips curved deliciously. "And you might want to remember that arguing with me is never wise."

He would have laughed, but she kissed him. Kept kissing him when he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back.

Joined with him—more, urged him on. All barriers fallen, all hurdles overcome, there was no longer any reason not to celebrate to the fullest all they'd found, all they shared—the love, the desire, the passion.

They let all three loose—his and hers combined. Together, as one, they let the tumult rage and devour them.

Let it sweep them into a giddy, desperate, wild engagement driven by their needs. Who took whom, who could more evocatively demonstrate, more effectively convey their devotion—as ever they argued, wordlessly pressed, embraced the question and with abandon gave themselves up to pursuing the answer.

To their mutual delight, to their mutual pleasure and ultimate satisfaction.

To the culminating moment when he had her beneath him, when she arched and took him deep, when her hands clutched desperately as she crested the peak—in that moment, looking down on her face, on the rapture so starkly etched across her features, he couldn't doubt—didn't doubt—that her devotion, her commitment—her love—was the equal of his.

Then the maelstrom took her, shattered her, and glory poured through her—into him. Even as her hands slid limply from his shoulders, the tight clutch of her body drew him with her into the timeless void. Into that moment of exquisitely sharp sensation when nothing mattered but that they were one.

The moment fused them, wrapped them in warm clouds of bliss—in completion, in benediction, in the sureness that this was where fate had wanted them—slumped, helpless in the aftermath of something neither could deny.

Whole. Complete. In each other's arms.

They were married, not as they'd wished within days, but in late January. December arrived and with it came snow—feet and feet of it. Even though their respective ancestral homes weren't that far apart, their mothers jointly declared that too many others would have to brave the drifts to attend their nuptials; consequently, said nuptials had to be delayed until after the thaw.

As Penelope was heard to comment on the drive to the church, she and Barnaby had to count themselves lucky they'd been allowed to wed before April.

The weather did not similarly affect matters in the capital. Cameron was committed to Newgate, and left there to languish pending a full review of the charges to be laid against him; his trial would necessarily have to wait until those from whom he'd stolen so successfully returned to the capital to identify their possessions.

The day after Cameron had been arrested, Stokes and Huntingdon's staff had searched the house. Courtesy of a tweeny who had heard noises in the locked box room adjacent to her tiny room in the attic, they'd uncovered a cache containing the seven items Smythe and the boys had delivered into Cameron's hands.

Riggs had confirmed that Cameron was an acquaintance, one who knew of his house in St. John's Wood Terrace, and that his mistress, Miss Walker, was a slave to laudanum. Riggs had been confounded to learn of Cameron's actions. "He was always such a good fellow, you know. Would never have suspected him of any such thing."

That sentiment was echoed by many; it was Montague who eventually shed light on Cameron's motives.

Cameron hadn't been what he'd purported to be—not since his early schooldays. The son of a mill owner from the north who'd married the local squire's daughter, his gentry-born maternal grandfather had taken some delight in sending him to Harrow.

Unfortunately, courtesy of his schoolmates, his schooldays had given Cameron a glimpse into the world of the haut ton. It became his burning ambition not just to gain entry to that gilded circle, but to belong. So he'd hidden his lowly origins, and had zealously concealed his damning lack of funds.

He'd made ends meet by gambling, which had stood him in good stead, until he'd hit a losing streak. His life had gone downhill rapidly. He'd landed in the clutches of London's most notorious cent-per-cent, a usurer Stokes and his superiors would dearly like to see put out of business, but neither desperate debtors nor dead men tended to talk.

As Cameron's scheme had been all his own invention, he wasn't any help in that regard. Now that said scheme, and the fa?ade he'd constructed, had tumbled down about his ears, Cameron had retreated into himself and largely refused to speak.

Given the seriousness of the thefts he'd planned, and his exploitation of his position as Huntingdon's secretary to that end, knowing as he had that such actions would seriously damage the standing of the still-fledgling police force, and in light of the incitement he'd provided to Smythe and Grimsby to commit murder, kidnap innocent boys and induct them into lives of crime, transportation was the very best Cameron could expect; he would be lucky to escape the gallows.

On a happier note, Inspector Basil Stokes and Miss Griselda Martin were married early in the New Year. Having spent Christmas with their families, first at Calverton Chase, then at Cothelstone Castle, and then having journeyed—commanded by duchessly edict—to join the revels at Somersham Place, there to be subjected to another round of congratulations and teasing, Barnaby and Penelope pounced on the excuse to flee. Braving the roads, they reached the capital the day before the wedding. Just as well, as Barnaby was Stokes's best man, and Penelope stood beside Griselda as her maid of honor.

Penelope regarded the outcome as a triumph. She was quick to extract a promise from the happy couple that they in turn would attend her and Barnaby's nuptials in due course.

Finally, later that month, after she'd succeeded in dancing the wedding waltz at her own wedding—a waltz she'd enjoyed to the very depth of her soul—Penelope stood by the side of the Calverton Chase ballroom, and confessed to her sister Portia, who, with her older sister Anne, had been her matron of honor, "It was so very tempting, being in London, to have Barnaby get a special license and simply have done with the matter, but—"

"You couldn't face your mothers' consequent disappointment." Portia grinned. "Neither of you would have ever lived it down."

Looking down the ballroom to where their mother and Barnaby's sat, resplendent on a chaise surrounded by other ladies of similar degree, delightedly receiving the congratulations of their acquaintance, Penelope frowned. "I can't understand it—it's not as if they haven't presided over weddings of their children before. For Mama, this is her fifth time, and the countess's fourth —surely the gloss should have dimned by now."

Portia laughed. "You're forgetting one thing. For them, this wedding represents a triple triumph."

"How so?"

"First, you know perfectly well that the entire ton has considered you determinedly unweddable—by your own choice. Your change of mind is a huge triumph for Mama. And similarly for Barnaby—it was greatly feared he would join the ranks of the confirmed bachelors, so of course Lady Cothelstone is in alt. And last but not least, for both Mama and her ladyship, you two are their last. The youngest and last of their offspring." Portia looked down the room to where the two ladies sat. "As of this morning, their work is done ."

Penelope blinked; that certainly cast their mothers' happiness in a new light. "But surely," she said, thinking further, "they'll have a similar interest in their grandchildren's lives and marriages."

"Interest, yes, but at one remove—I suspect they'll leave most of the worrying about our offspring to us."

Something in Portia's voice made Penelope look at her more closely. After a moment she asked, "Is that the way the wind blows, then?"

Portia met her eye, and blushed—something she didn't readily do. "Possibly. It's too early to be certain, but…it's likely you'll be an aunt again in another seven or so months."

Emily had two children already, and Anne had recently given birth to her first, a son, whose advent had reduced her husband, Reggie Carmarthen, to a state of doting idiocy. "Excellent!" Penelope beamed. "I can't wait to see Simon fussing over someone else."

Portia grinned. "Neither can I."

They both dwelled on the vision, then Penelope substituted Barnaby for Simon…and wondered. Children were something she hadn't thought about; they either came or they didn't, but…the notion of holding an angelic little Barnaby with golden curls made her feel strange and fluttery inside.

She put the thought away for later examination—she'd barely grown accustomed to being so ridiculously and consumingly in love—as others came up to claim her attention. Everyone in both families, and all their connections, had attended; not only was the Chase full to overflowing, but many of the nearby houses and every inn within reach were crammed with guests.

The oldest was Lady Osbaldestone; despite her age, her black eyes were still sharp. She'd tapped Penelope's cheek and advised her she was a clever girl. Exactly what act had demonstrated her cleverness Penelope hadn't asked.

The afternoon wore on with music, dancing, and general gaiety. The grayness outside made the festive atmosphere inside only more pleasurable.

Eventually, having endured hours of ribbing on his change of heart regarding marriage—to which he had with perfect sincerity pointed out that, as Penelope was recognized as a unique young lady, his earlier dismissal of young ladies in general had never applied to her, which statement had given rise to unrestrained hilarity on Gerrard's, Dillon's, and Charlie's parts—Barnaby found Penelope, deftly ex cused them both from those with whom she'd been conversing, and whirled her into a waltz.

The dance floor was the one place she let him lead without challenge. Which brought him to his point. "I believe," he said, looking into her dark eyes, "that we should depart. Now."

"Oh?" She raised her brows, but she was smiling. "Where are we departing to? Are we following Stokes and Griselda back to town?"

"Yes, and no." Stokes and Griselda had remained for the first hours of the extended wedding breakfast, but Stokes had had to get back to London; they'd left a few hours ago. "We'll head to London, but by a different route."

He owned a cozy little hunting box not far distant; he'd had it for years, but rarely used it. For tonight, he'd made arrangements to ensure it would provide the perfect venue for their perfect wedding night. He smiled down into her eyes. Before her advent into his life, he'd assumed he was devoid of romantic inclinations. Apparently not so. "I think you'll like where we're going."

Her smile softened, deepened. "I know I will."

She couldn't have guessed; he raised his brows.

"Because all I need will be there—you."

It was his turn to feel the glow that had turned her expression golden. He felt his heart expand, swell.

She saw it in his eyes. "Can I make a suggestion, to improve this plan of yours?"

As he'd expected. "Suggest away."

"See that door over there—past the ornate mirror?" When he nodded, she continued, "If we sweep past after the next turn, we could simply halt, go out, close the door—and escape. If we don't…if we try for a formal exit, we'll be hours making our farewells and getting free. We've already thanked everyone for coming. I suggest we leave before we get trapped."

He studied her eyes, then looked ahead as he steered her around the turn. They drew parallel with the door, and he stopped, opened it, whirled her through, closed it behind them—swept her into his arms and kissed her witless.

Then they escaped.

As he'd already learned, regardless of the subject, their two minds were always better than one.