20

T here was no way we could tell the order was fake, sir." The captain of the Holborn watch house leaned across the plain table and poked at the order he'd received from Scotland Yard. "It's on the right form, all filled out properly and signed, just like always."

The order sat in the center of the table. Barnaby, seated opposite the captain, Stokes beside him, studied it, as did the sergeant who'd executed the subsequent warrant to search the Foundling House.

"It certainly appears genuine," Stokes allowed. "Unfortunately, the signature isn't that of anyone at the Yard, or indeed, on the force."

The captain grimaced. "Aye, well, we couldn't have known that. If we checked with the Yard to see if every signature on every order was genuine, we'd never have time to carry the orders out."

Stokes nodded. "You're right. Which is what our villain counted on." He picked up the order, folding it.

The sergeant was frowning. "If I could ask, sir, who could this villain be, to be able to get hold of an order form and know just how to fill it out, and then get it sent to us in the official bag?"

Stokes smiled tightly. "That's what I, and Mr. Adair, intend to find out."

Leaving the watch house, Barnaby and Stokes emerged from Procter Street and turned into the mid-morning bustle of High Holborn. Halting at the curb, looking about for a hackney, Barnaby asked, "What was the signature? I didn't see it well enough to make out."

Stokes grunted. "Grimsby."

Barnaby turned to stare at him. After a moment, he looked away. "Our Mr. Alert has a sense of humor."

"He's playing with us."

"Obviously." Seeing a hackney approaching, Barnaby hailed it; the driver acknowledged him with a wave of his whip. While they waited for the carriage to tack through the press of traffic, he asked, "Tell me about this official bag. Is that how the orders get sent out to the different watch houses?"

Stokes nodded. "The orders associated with any major crime come from the officer in charge of the case at the Yard. Any officer has a stack of the forms—there's a stack in a drawer of my desk."

"So laying hands on a form wouldn't be difficult."

"No. Once filled out and signed, the forms get put in official dispatch pouches—leather satchels that hang in the dispatch office. There's one for each watch house."

"So this business of the fake order takes Alert's connection with the police one step further—he has to be someone with access to Scotland Yard, who knows the ropes well enough to fake an order and get it sent out with no one the wiser."

Stokes grunted as the hackney rocked to a halt before them. "There's one thing more—the dispatch office is never unmanned. There's always at least a sergeant there, and usually one or more runners ready to take urgent orders out."

"Oh-ho! So Alert is someone the dispatch sergeants are used to seeing put orders into the bags—he has to be someone who has access in the normal way of things. It has to be part of his usual job."

"Exactly." Stokes opened the hackney door. "Which is why we're heading straight to the dispatch office."

Barnaby climbed into the carriage. Stokes looked up at the jarvey. "Scotland Yard. As fast as you can."

While Barnaby and Stokes rattled through the traffic, at the Foundling House Penelope was applying herself to ensuring that in the aftermath of the police raid, everything was once again running smoothly.

Mrs. Keggs and the staff had rallied magnificently; even Miss Marsh, normally so timid, looked determined and resolute as she tidied the files the constables had disarranged.

"Ham-fisted louts." She clucked her tongue as Penelope swept through the anteroom. "Couldn't even leave things in order."

Penelope felt her lips twitch. She continued into her office. She was impressed by how strongly the staff, and even the older children, had reacted to the implied threat of the police raid. How firmly they'd stood against any panic, and refused to believe anything ill of the place—more, had strongly resented the implication that anything whatever was wrong with how the house—and she as its administrator—conducted its business.

Sinking into her chair, she entirely unexpectedly felt some good had come from the raid. The house had been in existence for five years; clearly in those five years they'd succeeded in becoming the sort of institution that those who worked in, and those who lived within, valued—enough to fight for.

She wouldn't have known that—how much the staff and the children valued what they'd achieved—if it hadn't been for the raid.

And now that everything was back to normal, all was calm and peaceful in this part of her world. All it lacked was Dick and Jemmie. Once she had them back, her life—this aspect of it—would be full and complete.

Whole.

Sitting back in her chair, she swiveled it and stared out at the gray day. A fine drizzle had set in; the children had stayed inside, warm and dry in the dining hall.

Her life—the question of its wholeness, its completeness—filled her mind. All she felt, all she thought, was progressively leading her down one particular path, one she'd never thought she'd tread. Mostyn's unexpected revelations added another layer—raised another question.

While she was increasingly certain of what she was thinking, what was Barnaby thinking?

She'd thought—assumed—she'd known, but in light of Mostyn's more informed observations, she was no longer so sure.

Of one thing she was certain: Barnaby Adair was every bit as intelligent, as quick-witted and clever as she. He'd proved surprisingly insightful when it came to her thoughts, her reactions. On more than one occasion he'd responded to her wishes without her making them known—sometimes even before she'd consciously been aware of them.

But…regardless of all she sensed between them, did she truly want to accept the risk inherent in following the path her instincts even more than her thoughts were pushing her down?

She stared out at the gray day as the minutes stretched, then with a sigh, turned back to her desk and forced her mind to business.

Despite all, she had reservations—questions to which she didn't yet have answers, and didn't, yet, know how to get them. Despite the compulsion of instincts and feelings, and even rational thought, her careful, logical side felt uncomfortable—unable to go on until those questions had been resolved.

How to resolve them was the issue.

Pulling a stack of official guardianship papers onto her blotter, she picked up the first and started to read.

The Dispatch Office in Scotland Yard was located on the ground floor, off a corridor from the front foyer heading toward the rear. Barnaby followed Stokes through the swinging double doors.

Pausing in the center of the room, he looked around and saw what Stokes meant; the dispatch sergeant, seated behind a long counter that filled the wall opposite the doors, and his minions working at raised desks behind him, couldn't miss seeing anyone who entered.

The walls to either side were lined with wooden pegs four rows high; a leather satchel hung from each peg. Above each peg was a plaque inscribed with the name of one of the London watch houses. Following Stokes to the counter, Barnaby noted there were even dispatch satchels for Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool—all the major towns across England.

The sergeant behind the counter, a veteran, greeted Stokes with an easy smile and a nod. "Morning, sir. How can we help you?"

"Good morning, Jenkins." Stokes showed him the order that had been sent to Holborn, explaining it was a fake.

"Holborn." Jenkins pointed to a section of pegs about ten feet from the counter. "That's just along there—second row from the top."

Given the distance between the door and the satchel in question, and its proximity to the desk, the notion that someone had surreptitiously crept in and slipped the order into the Holborn satchel unnoticed was instantly untenable.

"Right, then." Stokes turned back to Jenkins. "Who has access to the satchels? List all the types of people you normally see coming in here, placing orders—or papers of any kind—in those satchels."

Jenkins considered, then said, "There aren't that many, when all's said and done. There's the duty sergeants, and the watch sergeants—four each of them. The inspectors like yourself, and their senior investigators, the superintendent, and the governors—the commissioners—although of course they don't come in themselves. It's their secretaries we see popping in and out." The sergeant's eyes narrowed as he looked down the room. He lowered his voice. "Like Mr. Cameron there."

Both Stokes and Barnaby heard the creak of the door as it swung closed. Looking around, they saw a man both knew by sight sauntering up the room. Douglas Cameron, Lord Huntingdon's private secretary, was an arrogant sort; it showed in his long-legged walk, and the angle at which he held his head, the elevation of his long nose and pinched nostrils making him appear always to be smelling something noxious.

As if unaware of their presence, Cameron strolled to the satchel for Birmingham, on the opposite side of the room from the Holborn satchel and closer to the counter. Lifting the flap, he slid a folded sheet inside, then dropped the flap, and turned to face them.

He could hardly miss the fact they'd all been watching him. His hard hazel gaze passed over Jenkins and Stokes without a flicker of recognition; they, clearly, were beneath his notice. His gaze reached Barnaby, and stopped. Coolly, Cameron nodded. "Adair. Slumming again?"

Barnaby smiled tightly. "As you see."

With a faint lift of his brows, Cameron inclined his head and strolled out, every bit as unhurriedly as he'd strolled in.

"Stuck-up bastard," Barnaby muttered, turning back to the counter.

Lips twitching, Jenkins looked down, shuffling some papers. "Won't get much argument on that score from anyone here, sir."

Barnaby sighed. "Sadly, being a stuck-up bastard isn't any reason to imagine Cameron might be our man."

Stokes grunted in assent. He nodded to the sergeant. "Thank you, Jenkins." He hesitated, then said, "On the off chance, could you ask around among the dispatchers, just in case anyone noticed anything odd, anyone not normally in here stopping by, for whatever reason?"

Jenkins nodded. "I'll do that, sir."

Barnaby and Stokes left the Dispatch Office and climbed the stairs to Stokes's domain. Once inside, Stokes pointedly closed the door, something he rarely did, then circled his desk to drop into the chair behind it. Barnaby was already sprawled in one of the chairs facing the desk, a frown denoting deep thought on his face.

Stokes eyed it for several moments, then asked, "What do you think? Can we afford to discount people from the force itself—all those who aren't gentlemen?"

Barnaby met his eyes. "I think we're on solid ground concluding that Alert is a gentleman. Accepting that as fact, then, given he's been meeting with Grimsby and Smythe, I believe we can safely assume it was he, himself, who walked into the Dispatch Office and put that fake order in the Holborn satchel."

Stokes nodded. "Dealing with Smythe directly, face-to-face, is the biggest risk he's taken, and by all accounts he took it without the slightest reservation. He's never tried to distance himself from proceedings—why start with this, relatively minor, event?"

"More, it's a tangential act, not part of his main plan. Striking back at Penelope and the Foundling House was the act of a confident man, not one in a panic, or frightened of exposure. He's sure of himself, supremely confident—I can't see him bothering to get someone else to slip the order into the Holborn bag. Why complicate things?'

"And potentially have someone who might, if questions were asked, remember and volunteer his name?"

"Exactly." Barnaby nodded decisively. "We delete all nongentlemen from Jenkins's list. How many does that leave?"

Stokes was writing. "Aside from our friend Cameron, there's Jury, Partridge, Wallis, Andrews, Passel, Worthington, and Fenwick." He frowned. "There are a few more in the governors' offices, assistants whose names I don't know. But I can get them."

"Excellent." Sitting up, Barnaby looked at the list. "As our next step, I think we should see what we can learn about these gentlemen's finances."

Starting on a duplicate list, Stokes glanced at him. "You'll have to do most of that. I can check the pawnbrokers, but if it's gambling debts…"

Barnaby nodded. "I'll take care of it." He smiled and stood. "I know just who to ask."

"Good." Stokes handed him the copy of the list of names and rose. "Go and ask. I'll do the same." Following Barnaby out of the door, he added, "Time's running out on us—we need to find those boys."

That evening saw Penelope at another dinner, this one even more formal than Lady Forsythe's. Lady Carlingford was an astute political hostess; her guests included a number of donors who contributed to the Foundling House's coffers, making Penelope's attendance essential.

She arrived with her mother; after greeting Lady Carlingford, they circulated among the guests, gathered in groups in her ladyship's drawing room.

Penelope had parted from her mother, and was speaking with Lord Barford when Barnaby appeared beside her. Surprised, pleased, she gave him her hand. He greeted her suavely, then, tucking her hand in his arm, smiled at Lord Barford and asked him how his hunters were faring; his lordship was a keen rider to hounds.

In parting, his lordship assured her the Foundling House could count on his continuing support. "Don't forget to remember me to your brother, m'dear. Best hound I ever had, the bitch I got from him."

Smiling in reply, Penelope allowed Barnaby to steer her toward the next group. "I didn't expect to see you here." She glanced up at him.

The smile in his eyes warmed her. "M'father's left town. I often stand in for him at gatherings such as this, especially when it's to do with the police force, rather than his other concerns."

"Your eldest brother isn't interested in politics?"

"Not of the sort that involves the police. But anyway, both the other two, along with their wives, and my sister and her husband, are already at Cothelstone."

She thought about that as they chatted briefly with Mrs. Worley. When they moved on, she said, "Your mother must be expecting you home. Will you be leaving town soon?"

He nodded to Lady Wishdale, an urbane smile on his lips. "That depends."

"On our investigation?"

He met her eyes. "In part." He hesitated, then added, "On that, and on when you depart."

Their gazes locked—then Penelope was forced to look forward as Lady Parkdale swept up to them.

"My dears!" her ladyship exclaimed. "So lovely to see you both."

As for all her gossipy avidity, Lady Parkdale was a major donor to the Foundling House, and Penelope bore with her dramatic utterances and arch glances with good grace.

"At least she's never malicious," Barnaby murmured as, having parted from her exuberant ladyship, they moved on.

Penelope smiled in companionable understanding.

Barnaby continued to steer her around the guests, continued to stand by her side and field questions from the men about Peel's force and its workings. He knew everyone there, the ladies as well as the gentlemen; for all it masqueraded as a social gathering, the evening was, at its core, a serious affair.

In truth, he found such "entertainments" more to his liking than purely frivolous events; as he guided Penelope from one group to the next, he got the distinct impression that in that—as in so many things—they were as one.

Both of them were socially adept, and had more than enough wit to hold their own in the most demanding circles. And both preferred to have to use said wits while conversing; they enjoyed the challenge, the weightier repartee that in this setting, in this company, was the accepted norm.

He seized a moment between groups to tell her of their day's endeavors, and Stokes's subsequent decision to request permission to put more constables on the beat in Mayfair. "Unfortunately, Stokes holds out little hope. Equally unfortunately, learning the financial status of gentlemen isn't something that can be accomplished in a few days."

She was frowning. "There's that man the Cynsters and my brother use whenever they need to do financial investigations."

"Montague. I saw him this afternoon. He's agreed to learn what he can about the gentlemen on our list, but until we narrow the field, it's not feasible to do any in-depth searching."

"Hmm." He'd told her the names on their list. She shook her head. "I must admit I've never met any of them—but if they're in the habit of frequenting gambling hells, our paths would be unlikely to cross."

He thought of her in a gambling hell, and made no reply.

When they went in to dinner, he sent a special smile his hostess's way on discovering he and Penelope were paired. They sat side by side and traded quips and pointed banter in between entertaining their other partners. At one point, glancing up the table, he caught Lady Calverton's eye. Smiling in patent approval, Penelope's mother raised her glass to him in an unobtrusive toast.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, then lifted his own glass. Under cover of taking a sip, he glanced at Penelope—and wondered if she, like he, saw just how very compatible they were.

Too soon, the ladies rose and left the gentlemen to pass the port and discuss the state of the nation—the bills that hadn't made it through Parliament during the autumn session, and the expectations for the legislative calendar in the coming year.

Penelope took the opportunity of the gentlemen's absence to speak with all the ladies who, as administrator of the Foundling House, she should. Some were donors in their own right, while others were responsible for arranging their husband's generosity. Still others were valuable contacts in other respects, such as Lady Paignton, patroness of a service—the Athena Agency—that placed young women as maids, governesses, and the like in ton households. The agency was much patronized by the matrons of the haut ton. As many of the Foundling House's female charges left to make their way as maids of one sort or another, Penelope had known Lady Paignton for years.

An attractive matron with dark red hair, Lady Paignton smiled as Penelope joined her. "My husband is no doubt grilling Mr. Adair about this latest initiative of Peel's. Now we've taken to spending so much time in the country, he's taking his role as magistrate very seri ously. There's been talk, I gather, of setting up constables and watch houses in the larger towns."

"So I believe." The Paigntons had four children, two boys and two girls. Penelope said, "I met your eldest daughter a few weeks ago. I gather she takes an active interest in the agency."

"Indeed." Lady Paignton smiled fondly. "She's determined to eventually take over the reins. Quite gratifying, really…ah, here come the men, back at last." Her ladyship met Penelope's eyes. "Do tell your people to continue to send any girls they deem suitable our way. We've been very happy with the girls the house has sent us."

Smiling, Penelope inclined her head. "I'll remind them."

They parted; she watched as Lady Paignton swept up to a tall, well-set-up gentleman, extremely distinguished with silver wings in his dark hair. He was the first of the gentlemen to reappear in the drawing room. Viscount Paignton was one of the major landowners in Devon and had become increasingly influential, especially in Home Office affairs.

She hadn't intended to visually eavesdrop, but the light in Lord Paignton's eyes—a mixture of pride, joy, and happiness as he looked on his wife—was impossible to miss.

Impossible to mistake.

Entirely unexpectedly, Penelope was struck by a sudden, very specific yearning—that a man would, one day, look at her with just such a light in his eyes. Not the rather innocent and na?ve light, the untested light one saw in a newly married couple's eyes, but that deeper, mature, and abiding glow that spoke of an enduring love.

She blinked and looked away, and wondered where that thought—that want—had come from, from where within her it had suddenly sprung.

Lady Curtin paused beside her. "So very heartening, my dear, to see Adair dancing attendance on you." Before Penelope could correct her—Barnaby was there in lieu of his father—her ladyship rolled on, "I'm an old friend of Dulcie, his mother, and I have to tell you that boy—well, man as he now is—has driven her to distraction with his absolute refusal to engage with marriageable females, let alone properly look about him for a wife. The way he avoids ton females—well, the marriageable sort anyway—you'd think they carried the plague! According to Dulcie, he's elevated avoidance to an art form. Why, even when he appears as Cothelstone's deputy, as he has tonight, he usually refuses utterly to play the game."

Finally pausing to draw a longer breath, Lady Curtin studied her. "You aren't quite the normal run of young ladies, yet regardless you're entirely eligible. If an odd kick to your gallop is what's needed to fix his attention, then so be it—I know Dulcie will swoon at your feet."

With a brisk pat on Penelope's wrist, Lady Curtin swept on.

Leaving Penelope slightly dazed.

Unbidden, her gaze traveled to the doorway through which more gentlemen were ambling, those at the rear still caught in discussions. At the very back of the crowd, she saw a gilded head, bent to catch what Lord Carlingford was saying.

Alone for the moment on the other side of the room, she seized the chance to study him. To consider…her recent thoughts, Lady Curtin's revelations, Lady Parkdale's arch comments, the light in Lord Paignton's eyes.

Barnaby didn't look at her like that…but could he?

If she followed the path her heart was increasingly urging her down, would he, one day in the future?

He parted from Lord Carlingford; scanning the room, he saw her, smiled, and started toward her.

She watched him approach, his attention fixed on her. Recalled she'd heard Lady Curtin's comments echoed by others; the Honorable Barnaby Adair did not dance attendance on marriageable females.

Except her.

He smiled, reclaimed her hand and laid it on his sleeve. "I've said all I wish to about the police tonight. Have you any others you wish to speak with?"

Deciding to be wise, she smiled and directed him to Lord Fitchett.

Tonight she had to leave with her mother, which was, perhaps, just as well. She needed to think about Barnaby Adair. And thinking about him in a rational, logical manner was difficult, not to say impossible, while in his arms.

The man who called himself Mr. Alert stood in the shadows beneath the old tree at the center of the cemetery at the corner of St. John's Wood High Street. The fog clung close as a shroud; he heard Smythe approaching long before the man came into view, slipping between two large gravestones to reach the tree.

Eyes screened beneath the brim of an old cap pulled low over his forehead, Smythe halted and scanned the darkness under the tree.

Alert smiled to himself. "I'm here."

Smythe ducked beneath the canopy. "It's a poor night for walking—a much better night for burgling."

"I daresay tomorrow night will be the same. Are you ready?"

"Aye. The boys are as ready as I can make them, leastways in so short a time. Lucky they're quick and sharp enough to know it's in their best interests to work hard."

"Good." Pulling a set of folded papers from his pocket, Alert handed it to Smythe. "These are the details of the items to be lifted from the first four houses, in the order in which I want the burglaries performed. You don't need to read any of it now. I've described each item, well enough so any fool could recognize it. Also noted is the location, in detail, of the item inside the house, not just where it will be found but what doors and locks might be in the way. There's nothing the merest child couldn't handle in the way of locks."

Unfolding the pages, Smythe tilted them so they caught what light there was. He couldn't read anything, but could see the wealth of detail provided.

"As we discussed," Alert went on, "I'll be driving a small, black town carriage, unmarked, around the streets. I'll be dressed as a coachman. I'll rendezvous with you at the corner noted at the bottom of each description, close by each house, and relieve you of the item lifted. None are too big for the boys to get out of each house, but all are unwieldy enough that you won't want to chance walking any great distance with them."

Smythe's head came up. "And you'll hand over the down payment for each item as we deliver it?"

Alert nodded. "Then once I've passed the items onto buyers, and they've paid me, you'll get the rest of your share. As agreed."

"Good." Smythe stuffed the folded papers into the pocket of his heavy coat.

"One thing." Alert's voice grew cold. "As we also agreed, you are to ensure no other items are lifted from those particular houses by your boys. Once we've sold our items and have our cash, you can go back if you wish, but—and I can't stress this enough—only the item I've listed must be lifted from each house at this time."

Smythe nodded. "I agreed to that at the outset—I haven't forgotten. We'll run the job as you wish. But what about the police? You said you'd check."

"Indeed. And I have. There will be no extra police on the beat tomorrow night."

"And what about the second night—assuming you're still set on doing your other four houses on the following night?"

"Yes—that can't change. The explanation is complicated, but we can't risk anything more than two nights."

Smythe studied Alert for a moment, then nodded. "All right—but what about the police on the second night?"

Again Alert's voice grew arrogantly cold. "Now you see why I wanted all eight houses done on a single night. There is, of course, a chance—a possibility, no more—that the police will be alerted and move to increase patrols in Mayfair. However, they're unlikely to move fast enough to trouble us seriously on the second night. A third night would be foolhardly, but the second night will be only marginally more dangerous than the first.

"In addition, I've learned who's driving the police interest in our scheme. I've taken steps to ensure they won't be free to meddle in our activities on the second night. Through the first night, they'll remain blissfully ignorant—even now that we've had to reorganize to two nights, if luck is with us they won't even know we've struck until months from now."

Smythe studied him through the gloom. "So we won't be bothered—not by anyone?"

"Even if they're alerted, the most likely scenario is one we'll be able to work around." Alert straightened; confidence infused his voice. "I'll have the details of any extra forces out and about on the second night. And as for our interferring busybodies"—he smiled, a flash of white teeth in the darkness—"I've organized a distraction for them."