16

L ate the next night, Smythe once again darkened the French door of the back parlor of the town house in St. John's Wood Terrace.

As before, Alert was waiting in the shadows of the unlit room. He waved Smythe in. "Well?" There was a sharpness in his tone Smythe didn't fail to notice. "What, might I ask, is the purpose of this visit?"

Smythe showed no emotion as he walked closer, all but looming over Alert as he sat, comfortably at ease in the armchair. "This." Pulling a folded sheet from his pocket, he presented it.

Alert let a moment pass, then took the single sheet. Spreading it open, he swung to the fire. Even by the poor light, just a glance was enough to take in the printed characters, and recognize the format. The word "reward" fairly leapt off the page.

Ensuring his face remained devoid of emotion, he assessed his options, then crumpled the sheet and tossed it onto the glowing embers. It caught, flared. In the sudden rosy light, he glanced at Smythe. "Inconvenient, but not of any great import, I would have thought."

A clear warning not to allow it to be of any import slid beneath his smooth tones. Smythe shrugged. "Only insofar as we can't risk training the little beggars by day."

"So train them by night. Is that a problem?"

Smythe grimaced. "Not so easy."

"But it can be done?"

"Aye."

"Then do it that way." Alert paused, his gaze on Smythe's face, then said, "This caper is too important—too lucrative—for us to simply give it up because of a minor threat. I take it you now have all the boys you need?"

"All bar one."

"Get that last one."

Smythe shifted. "We've got seven."

"You told me you need eight to do the job as I wish."

Smythe nodded. "To do that many houses all in one night I'll need eight to be sure. But if we do the same houses over two nights—"

"No." Alert didn't raise his voice, but his tone made the word final. "I told you—I know how the police operate. If we do all in one night, we'll run absolutely no risk—the chances are they won't even know we've been in and out until sometime next year. That's the way it has to be. You need eight boys, then get eight boys. Don't think to do this caper halfheartedly."

He let a moment tick by, then asked, "Will you—or should I say our mutual friend Grimsby—find your last boy, or do I need to rethink our connection?"

Smythe's lip curled. "We'll get the boy."

Alert smiled. "Good. The ton will start fleeing the capital later this week. If there are rumblings developing, we should move earlier rather than later. When can you be ready?"

Smythe considered. "A week, eight days."

Alert nodded a dismissal. "In that case, we'll have nothing to worry about. All will go forward as planned."

Smythe looked at him, then nodded back. "I'll tell Grimsby."

Alert watched Smythe go to the door and slip noiselessly out, shutting it behind him. He continued looking that way, fingers lightly drumming on the chair arm, then he turned his head and looked at the ashes littering the red glow of the embers—all that was left of the notice.

The printed notice.

Five minutes ticked past, then Alert smoothly rose, went to the French door and opened it. He stepped through, looked about, then closed the door behind him, slipped a key into the outside lock and turned it. Then he walked away in the opposite direction to the one in which Smythe had gone.

The following afternoon, Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard paced back and forth above a shop filled with feminine fripperies. He'd been pacing for what seemed like hours—an eternity; outside the day was waning, the light fading. The girls downstairs had told him their mistress had left that morning, dressed in her "old clothes." For the umpteenth time, Stokes cursed beneath his breath; if she didn't return soon he was going to—

The irritating tinkle of the bell on the front door halted him in his tracks. Scowling, listening even though, after numerous frustrations, he fully expected to hear some female inquire about the right shade of velvet ribbon to match her pelisse, he waited…and finally, finally, heard the voice he'd been aching to hear.

His relief was real but fleeting, drowned beneath emotions much more powerful.

Scowling ferociously, he stalked to the head of the stairs. He was waiting there, hands on hips, when, after reassuring her apprentices and setting them back to work, Griselda—in her down-at-heels East End disguise—came hurrying up.

Looking up, she saw his face, blinked, and slowed, but then, lips setting firmly, she continued up. "Inspector Stokes—I wasn't expecting you."

"Obviously." Jaw clenched, he fought to keep his voice low. "Where the devil have you been?"

Griselda blinked at him, studied him for a fraught moment—and bit back her instinctive reply: that that was none of his damned business. She did not appreciate being browbeaten by a towering, glowering hulk, in her own parlor, no less, but…

After a further moment of studying the storm roiling in his gray eyes, she instead—with entirely unfeigned curiosity—inquired, "Why do you want to know?"

He stared at her while the silence stretched…it seemed that with her perfectly reasonable question she'd pulled the rug out from under his temper, but then he glared. "Why? Why? You go out dressed like that"—he waved at her attire—"alone, and wander about the East End, and then you ask why I've been pacing about this damned room for the last hour imagining all manner of ghastly fates befalling you, torturing myself with images of you in the hands of one of our blackguards?"

He paused. Realizing his tirade had been rhetorical—buying himself time—she nodded. "Yes. Exactly. Why have you been doing that?"

He blinked at her. His anger—even the pretense of it—faded from his eyes. "Because…" His voice died. He raised one hand; she wasn't even sure he knew he did it. His fingers hovered by her cheek, close, but not touching. As if afraid to touch. Briefly he searched her eyes, as if he might find his answer there, then, failing, he swore softly and moved.

Caught her by the shoulders and hauled her to him, crushed her to him as he covered her lips with his.

She mentally gasped, grabbed his shoulder and clung, her fingers closing tightly in his coat as she hung on for dear life.

It was like being pulled into a whirlpool—of wants and needs, of desire and yearning.

And he called to her, effortlessly drew her until she was kissing him back, until she sank against him and gave him her mouth. And the turbulence within him eased.

Slackened as he controlled it, until instead of walking on the edge of a maelstrom, she found herself waltzing into pleasure.

The simple pleasure of a kiss tinged with something deeper, laced with banked desire, sweetened by caring.

Long minutes later, he lifted his head; he waited until she opened her eyes and met his to say, " That's why."

Further words were superfluous.

She blinked, struggling to reorient herself in a world that had canted. "Ah…" It was her turn to lose the power of speech. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, knew they'd be rosy.

Slowly, his lips curved—gently, reassuringly. "As you haven't yet slapped me, I take it you aren't…averse to my interest."

She blushed even harder, but forced her tongue to work. "No—I'm not…averse to any interest you might have."

His distracting smile deepened. "Good."

She wriggled and carefully eased out of his arms; he let her go, but reluctantly.

"Now," he said, once more assuming a stern fa?ade, "if you could answer my initial question?"

Griselda turned and walked to her favorite chair; she sat, frowning, trying to recall.

He sighed and sat in the armchair opposite. "Where the devil have you been?"

"Oh." She brightened. "Yes. I went into the East End. I stopped by to see my father, then looked in on the Bushels—Black Lion Yard is more or less on my way."

"How are they faring, the Bushels? And were the Wills boys there?"

She nodded. "Mary and Horry are well, although Mary is growing a trifle obstreporous over having to stay indoors. Two of the Wills boys were there. They were playing dice and teaching Horry. After that, I went on to visit old Edie, the button lady in Petticoat Lane. She promised to see if she could roust out old Grimsby, but she says he's like a crab—sticks close to home. She hasn't seen him in years, and hasn't been able to find anyone who has."

"So Grimsby remains on our list—the last of the names your father gave us." Stokes grimaced. "Unfortunately, that's no guarantee he's the one who has the boys."

"No." Dejected, Griselda shook her head. "There must be some way we can get word of them. Five boys. Surely someone must have seen them, heard them—noticed them."

"Our notices are out there." Stokes understood her frustration. "We'll have to be patient, and see if the promise of a reward shakes loose any useful information."

"Nothing as yet?"

He shook his head. After a moment of broodingly studying her, he shifted forward; reaching out, he took her hands, one in each of his. With his thumbs, he stroked her fingers, but kept his eyes on hers. "I realize you feel safe in the East End, that it's your home, and you need to go back to see your father. But…" He paused, lips compressing, but pride wouldn't keep him warm at nights. "Please, when you do go that way, can you tell me first? Or if that's not possible, at least leave a note—of where you're going and when you'll be back?"

He closed his lips on the urge to give more directions, even to or der. Hoped, prayed, that she would read the reason behind his request in his eyes.

After a moment she smiled softly, then cast a glance toward the head of the stairs. "I suppose, in the interests of preserving my rug, so you don't wear a track in it, I could do that."

Relief poured through him; he was sure it showed in his answering smile. "Thank you."

He continued to hold her hands. Continued to hold her gaze. She continued to return his steady regard.

They both opened their lips to speak—just as the bell below tinkled.

Both looked to the stairs, listened.

Penelope's clear tones drifted up from below, assuring Imogen and Jane that "we know the way."

Stokes met Griselda's eyes. "Later."

She held his gaze for one last moment, then nodded. "Yes. Later. After all this is over and we have time to think."

He nodded his agreement, released her hands, and rose as Penelope's dark head appeared on the stairs.

Looking up, Penelope saw them. She smiled. "Hello. Any news?"

Stokes shook his head. He looked at Barnaby as he followed Penelope to the sofa. "You?"

Barnaby grimaced. "Nary a whisper of any sort from anywhere."

Penelope dropped onto the sofa, a disgruntled expression on her face. Entirely unnecessarily she informed them, "Patience isn't my strong suit."

Griselda smiled commisseratingly. "I used to think it was mine, but over this…"

"What's worse," Barnaby said, "is that we're running out of time. Parliament rises at the end of this week."

Silence greeted that announcement. Griselda broke it. "It's time to shut the shop. Anyone for tea?"

The others all expressed an interest. Griselda went downstairs. Barnaby and Stokes fell to discussing one of the political intrigues currently affecting the police. Penelope listened to them, and the sounds of Griselda farewelling her apprentices, then locking the front door and pulling down the blinds.

She stood. "I'm going to help Griselda with the tea."

The men nodded absentmindedly; she made her way down the stairs and into the little kitchen.

Setting the kettle on the stove, Griselda looked up and smiled. She nodded to a tin on the table. "I've shortbread—you could set it out."

Penelope opened the tin, then looked around for a plate. Griselda handed one to her, then reached to a high shelf for a tray.

She blew dust from it, then wiped it with a cloth. Setting it on the table, she grinned. "I don't have much company."

Placing the plate neatly piled with biscuits on the tray, Penelope glanced up at her. "Neither do I, if it comes to that."

"Oh?" Griselda hesitated, then said, "I thought all ton ladies visited each other all the time. Morning teas, afternoon teas, high teas."

"Lots of teas," Penelope conceded. "But I only attend in my mother's train, and although ladies call on her, they never call on me."

Griselda tilted her head. "Why?"

Picking up a shortbread, Penelope nibbled. "Because I don't have any real friends among the younger ladies. The older ladies, yes, but they expect me to call on them, of course." Without waiting for Griselda to ask, she continued, "I think I scare them—the younger ladies, I mean."

Griselda grinned. "I can see how that might be."

"Hmm…perhaps." Penelope focused on her. "But I don't scare you."

Griselda looked at her, then shook her head. "No, you don't."

Penelope smiled. "Good." She waved the remnant of her biscuit. "These are excellent, by the way."

Griselda smiled, and the kettle chose that moment to sing.

They busied themselves filling the pot and collecting mugs, then Griselda hefted the tray, Penelope carried the biscuit plate, and they returned to the parlor above.

Supplied with tea and biscuits, the men left politics and policing and the talk returned to the one topic that exercised all their minds. They ate, drank, and racked their brains for some avenue they'd yet to pursue, some brilliant way to locate the boys that they'd failed to see—but there was nothing.

"Nothing," Penelope reiterated; she sounded disgusted. "We've notices out. We've offered a reward. We've people looking. We have a trap set." She glowered at the teapot. "You'd think something would happen. "

None of the others had anything to add; they sat, sipped, sharing her disgruntlement.

Griselda glanced around the small circle, conscious of how easy in one another's company they'd all grown in a short time. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined sitting in her small parlor entertaining the third son of an earl, the daughter of a viscount, and an inspector from Scotland Yard. Yet here they all were, linked by common cause…and friendship.

A friendship that had grown and deepened, that had come to be because they all shared one trait—a liking for justice, for seeing justice served. They differed in many ways, but that they all shared—it linked them and always would.

She felt Stokes's gray gaze. She met his eyes—held them for an instant, glorying in the connection, in what she could see and feel, then, knowing she'd blush if she looked too long, she looked down and sipped.

The conversation grew intermittent, desultory.

The tea had grown cold; she was contemplating refreshing the pot when a heavy pounding rattled her front door.

They all looked up. Then Stokes and Barnaby were on their feet, heading for the stairs. Penelope set down her mug and followed. Griselda brought up the rear.

The pounding didn't stop. Stokes reached the door first. He threw the bolts and hauled it wide.

The young boy who'd been thumping jumped back, eyes flaring wide.

Stokes pinned him with a hard stare. "What's going on?"

When that just elicited a frightened stare, he tried to soften his tone. "Who did you want to see?"

"Me, obviously." Griselda pushed past him. She recognized the lad. "Barry—what's happened?"

Reassured, relieved, the boy came closer. "Me brothers said fer you to come right away, miss—t' Black Lion Yard. Some beggar tried to kill Horry's gran'ma."

The four crowding the front door exchanged one glance, then Pe nelope fled to fetch her coat, Barnaby at her heels. Griselda turned back to Barry Wills. "Wait here—we'll be with you in an instant."

It was evening by the time they reached Black Lion Yard. Leaving the hackney at the entrance, they hurried across the cobbles, dodging the crates and boxes to reach Mary Bushel's home.

Stokes led the way in. None of them knew what they would find, but all were relieved to see Mary hale and whole in her chair by the fire, flanked by two burly Wills boys.

Both Wills brothers and the small room looked the worse for wear. Barnaby recognized Joe, now sporting a developing black eye and a split lip.

Joe nodded in greeting. "The blackguards came." He glanced at Mary, satisfaction in his eyes. "Didn't get Mary nor Horry, either." He looked at Stokes, and grimaced. "But we couldn't hold them—they got away."

Stokes looked grim, but nodded. "Mary's and Horry's safety comes first. What happened? Start at the beginning."

Joe glanced at Mary.

She looked up at him, perched on the arm of her chair, then reached out and patted his hand. "You tell it, dearie."

Joe nodded and faced them. "Ted and me were here keeping watch. Ted saw them coming—saw the way they looked around as they came. So he and I took Horry out back"—with his head he indicated a curtained doorway—"and listened and watched from there."

"They knocked," Mary put in, "polite as you please. Said they were from the bailiff."

"There were two of them?" Stokes clarified.

Mary nodded. "One was a big bruiser, the other just your average bloke."

Barnaby caught Stokes's eye; the description fitted the pair who'd taken Jemmie.

Mary went on, "Asked about me health, and about Horry, where he was. I got annoyed—well, anyone would—and told them they ought to leave. But they didn't. The big one picked up that cushion there, and…" Her gaze on the cushion, her voice faded away.

Joe put his arm around Mary's shoulders. He looked at Stokes. "He was going to smother Mary with the cushion. Held it in his hands and came toward her. That's when we came out."

Mary sniffed. "A right to-do it was, wrestling, crashing about."

Stokes frowned. He looked at Joe and his brother. "How did they get away? There's two of you, and three bobbies were outside."

Joe looked sheepish. "We thought they'd fight. That they'd try to get through us to Mary and Horry. Only they didn't. The instant they realized we were set on protecting them, and Horry blew the whistle you gave him, they scarpered. And Smythe's a big man—you'd need more than two to hold him. He shook us off, pushed the other bloke out, and then went through your bobbies like ninepins."

"Smythe." Barnaby couldn't keep the excitement from his voice. "You know him?"

Joe nodded. "That's why I wasn't all that bothered about him getting away. Least we know who he is."

"What's he like, this Smythe?" Stokes asked.

"He's a cracksman by trade, and word is he's not a man to cross." Joe frowned. "Never heard tell that he was one to get blood on his hands—cracksmen generally don't—but he sure as eggs was going to snuff out Mary."

"By cracksman, you mean burglar," Barnaby said. "Does he use boys?"

Joe nodded. "High-class burglar—he definitely uses boys."

"Do you know where he gets them from?"

Joe shook his head. "Smythe's a loner—most of the best cracksmen are. He gets his boys from schoolmasters in the slums, but he'll take them from whoever's got them. I've heard tell he's right fussy about his boys, but again, good cracksmen are. What makes them good, I suppose."

Ted, his brother, shifted. When everyone looked at him, he colored and ducked his head. Glancing at his brother, he said, "The other bloke—he works for Grimsby. Most like Smythe's getting his boys from ole Grimsby, else why'd he have Grimsby's lad with him to do the snatching?"

Joe was as stunned as the rest of them. "You know the bloke?"

Ted nodded. "Wally. Works for Grimsby."

Joe shook his head. He looked at Stokes. "I wouldn't know the geezer again if I saw him."

Grim-faced, Stokes nodded. "We've heard he's like that—ordinary."

"Aye, he's that," Ted said. "He's not all that clever, but he knows to follow orders. Been with Grimsby for years."

"Well—there you are then." Joe looked at them all. "It's Grimsby you're after—everyone knows he runs schools now and then."

"Where," Stokes asked, the intensity of the hunt in his voice, "can we find Grimsby?"

"More to the point"—Penelope spoke for the first time—"where can we find his school?"

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. The old saying threaded through Grimsby's mind as he stepped through the French door into Alert's parlor. As always, the room was wreathed in shadows. With the clouds heavy in the sky, there was little light to illuminate the room; he could just make out Alert, sitting in his usual armchair by the hearth.

Mentally cursing the man, Grimsby lumbered forward, Smythe at his back. They ranged before Alert, who remained seated, as he always did.

Neither he nor Smythe needed better light to know Alert was furious, although he hid it well.

"What happened?" Alert's flat tones cut through the silence.

Smythe told him, baldly and succinctly. He concluded with the most pertinent point. "They were waiting for us."

When Alert didn't respond, just sat there looking up at them, Grimsby shifted. "We have to back off. The rozzers know of your game. They're onto it. If you don't want to walk away, then at least put the business on hold until the interest dies down."

Alert studied him, but said nothing.

"Look." Grimsby tried to find words to convey the situation in all its danger. "There's those notices out there now, and people have heard about a reward. Next thing we know this boy and his grandma have protection— local protection—and bobbies on the watch, too. This has become too hot to handle." Expression hardening, he reiterated, "We need to back off."

The man they knew as Alert slowly shook his head. "No." He held their gazes and waited, letting the absolute finality of his refusal sink in. Unbeknown to them, he'd suffered a visit from his blood-sucking cent-per-cent earlier in the evening—just to remind him that reneging on his promise to repay wouldn't be a wise idea.

He'd assured the man that all was in place. Even if it was he who said so, his plan was brilliant. It would succeed. He'd be free of his debts once and for all; by the turn of the year, he'd have the fortune he'd for years pretended he had.

"We'll go ahead"—he looked at Smythe—"with the seven boys we have. As you've botched getting the eighth, you'll make do with seven."

Smythe gave no sign of agreement or disagreement. Which was good enough for Alert. Smythe wasn't his principal source of concern.

He looked at Grimsby. "You will continue to train and house the boys. You'll have them ready for Smythe. He'll complete their training as necessary. And in a few days, we'll make our move. All you have to do is play your part for a few more days." He let his voice soften. "That's all you need do to ensure you never hear from me again—never hear a whisper about what I know."

What he knew would see Grimsby transported, and, as Grimsby knew, he could make it happen. And he would if Grimsby didn't dance to his tune.

He wasn't at all surprised to see Grimsby's lips thin, but the man offered no further argument.

Shifting his gaze to Smythe, he arched a brow. "Any comments?"

Smythe stared back at him, then shook his head. "I'll do the job—jobs—with seven, then. They're not going to be as well trained as I'd like, but…" He shrugged. "With luck, we'll get by."

"Good." That was exactly what Alert had wanted to hear. Smythe, thank God, knew how to keep him happy.

Smythe tipped his head toward the door. "I've the most promising two with me tonight. I'll take them out on the streets, teach them how to move about the lanes and houses, how to get into and out of the mansions and to find their way around inside. I've found two empty houses in Mayfair. I'll train them there."

Alert let his approbation show. "Excellent. So despite this minor hiccup, we're on track. Our scheme goes forward as planned."

He looked from one to the other. "Any more questions?"

They shook their heads.

"Well, then." With a smile, he waved to the door. "Good luck, gentlemen."

He waited until Smythe had stepped outside and Grimsby was about to follow before saying, in quite a different tone, "Take care, Grimsby."

Grimsby glanced back at him, then turned and followed Smythe out, pulling the door shut behind him.

Alert sat in the dark and—for the umpteenth time—went over his plan. It was sound. It was necessary. In the silent dark, his need was very clear, the pressure to succeed tangible, real.

He didn't like to consider failure, but an escape route was an essential part of any careful plan. Sitting back, he looked around, then up, and smiled.

Even if the entire scheme went arse-over-tit, he would escape detection. He'd have to leave London to avoid the cent-per-cent, but he'd still be free.

Judging that sufficient time had elapsed, he rose and let himself out through the French door, carefully locking it behind him. An acquaintance, Riggs, scion of a noble house, owned the town house; Riggs's mistress, who lived there, was, most helpfully, addicted to laudanum. Riggs, of course, had left London for the delights of the country weeks ago, leaving his town house as the perfect place for the man known as Alert to indulge his alter ego.

As he walked away into the night, he smiled. If the scheme did, indeed, go all to pieces, there was nothing to connect him with it. No way whatever to trace any of it back to him.