21

A s I feared"—Stokes slumped into what had become his usual armchair in Griselda's parlor—"my request to put more constables on the beat in Mayfair fell on deaf ears."

The others—Penelope and Barnaby on the sofa, Griselda in her chair—grimaced. They'd made no plans to meet that afternoon, but once her duties at the Foundling House had been completed, impatient and at loose ends, Penelope had come to call in the faint hope Griselda might have heard something from her East End friends—a hope Griselda, shutting her shop early, had dashed.

Barnaby had arrived shortly afterward; Stokes had been ten minutes behind him.

After a moment, Stokes went on, frustration ringing in his tone, "If I had some real threat—some proof of it—I'd get action without delay. However, the very fact that to us makes the burglaries much more likely, namely the absence of tonnish households from town and the resulting empty mansions, works against us in calling for more police on the streets—all the superintendents see is that with hardly any nobs in town, there's little chance of some tonnish head being cracked during a burglary, ergo, no need for any but the lightest police presence."

Accepting the mug of tea Griselda handed him, Stokes sipped, then rather glumly looked at Penelope. "When we were discussing Alert's plan, you mentioned that those not of the ton might not appreciate how many things of great value were left lying around in Mayfair mansions." He grimaced. "You were right. My superintendent simply can't imagine it. And none of the governors I know—like Barnaby's father—are still in town."

Stokes sighed. "I tried. I outlined what we believe Alert's plan to be, but the higher-ups think I'm being fanciful."

"Much as it suits us not at all, your superintendents are right—at least from their point of view." Barnaby slumped back in his corner of the sofa. "We have no proof—everything we're saying is conjecture and speculation."

Griselda shook her head. "Missing boys and murder aren't speculation."

"Exactly." Penelope's voice was a great deal more decisive, not to say belligerent. "I don't care about snuffboxes, or vases, or whatever Alert plans to steal, but we have to rescue those boys. If the police won't patrol the streets of Mayfair, we'll have to."

As one Stokes and Barnaby sat up. "No."

They'd spoken as one, too. Penelope looked from one to the other, a frown darkening her face. "But—"

"No." Barnaby trapped her gaze. "We cannot go wandering the streets at night in the hope of running into Smythe and Alert." And instead running into God knew who else. Pushing the image of Penelope stalking down dark deserted streets, cobbled mews, and dank lanes behind houses from his mind, he spoke quickly. "We'll have to think of some other way to approach this—for instance, looking at how Alert plans to sell the stolen items." He glanced at Stokes. "If these items are extremely valuable, they'll most likely be rare and highly identifiable. The usual sellers of nicked goods know better than to touch such things."

"True." Stokes frowned. "So how…?"

"He must have something organized. I wonder…" It took a moment for the notion to clarify in Barnaby's mind. "Could Alert be stealing on demand, as it were? Could he be stealing specific items that people he knew of wanted, and were ready to pay for if he delivered them?"

He looked at Stokes, who shrugged.

"Could be. But as we don't know the items, that doesn't get us much further."

But it had distracted Penelope from her notion of marching around Mayfair's streets; with any luck, she was now thinking of who might be Alert's "buyers." Barnaby was congratulating himself on having diverted her train of thought when Griselda spoke—demonstrating that she, at least, hadn't been diverted at all.

"Regardless, we'll need to avoid cornering Smythe while he has the boys with him." Griselda met Penelope's eyes. "When experienced burglars like him are on the streets, they keep their boys on leashes, so if we stumble upon Smythe on his way to a house, or from one, he'll have hostages. And he'll use them. He might not have been known as a killer before, but he smothered Jemmie's mother, and went after Horry's grandmother. If we corner him while he's got the boys tied to him…"

Penelope grimaced. She flopped back on the sofa. "You're right. Damn it. But we have to do something to get those boys back!"

No one had any suggestion to make. Barnaby glanced around their small circle. While Penelope and Griselda were primarily focused on rescuing the boys, with foiling any burglaries a very secondary concern, the reverse was true for Stokes. For him, the burglaries posed a professional threat, not solely to him but to the entire police force; to him, rescuing the boys was part of preventing the burglaries and catching Alert.

For himself…Barnaby felt both needs keenly; he wanted to rescue the boys for Penelope's and the boys' sakes, wanted to foil Alert's plans for Stokes and the police force in general. For the greater good of the general populace; for the first time, he could see himself more directly serving a wider cause. Could better appreciate what drove his father to give so much time to politics; for years he'd thought it merely an escape from his mother's constant social round.

He stirred, and looked at Penelope. "Come—I'll escort you home." He glanced at the others. "For the moment, there's nothing we can do. If anyone thinks of anything, or learns anything…"

Stokes rose as he did. "We'll send out a bugle call."

That evening, despite a great deal of inner railing, Penelope dutifully dressed in her best winter evening gown, an austere example of the modiste's art in heavy silk the color of dark garnets, and accompanied her mother to dinner with Lord Montford.

His lordship was a reclusive gentleman and a great philanthropist. He'd expressed an interest in the Foundling House, and was keen to speak further with her and her mother; that was the principal reason for the dinner.

Shown into his lordship's rooms off Piccadilly, she was greeted by Lord Montford, a rotund gentleman of genial good humor. She liked him instantly, replying to his polite inquiry into her health with genuine attention.

After greeting her mother, Lord Montford ushered them into his drawing room. "I believe you're acquainted with my other guests."

The twinkle in his eyes warned her an instant before she looked across the room and saw Barnaby uncoiling his long length from a chair. Lord and Lady Hancock were the only other guests; she and her mother knew them well.

Penelope was unsurprised when the older four gathered in a group, discussing children, grandchildren, and hunting, leaving her to Barnaby to entertain, and vice versa. She eyed him speculatively. "Have you known his lordship for long?"

He smiled. "He's an old friend of the pater's." He looked down at her. "Do you do a lot of this? Talking to donors, soliciting funds?"

"Not usually. Portia handles most of the fund-raising—she's good with people, as you put it, soliciting funds. But now she's in the country, she's landed me with these meetings, those held at this time of year. She'll return to town for the Season next spring, and will take back the fund-raising reins then, but meanwhile"—she spread her hands—"here I am."

Barnaby smiled. "You underestimate yourself. You can be very persuasive when you wish to be." When she let her passion for her work show.

She glanced at Lord Montford. "Any hints?"

"Just be yourself." He hesitated, then added, "He's very shrewd—much more so than he appears."

"I thought that might be the case."

They joined the others as Montford's butler announced that dinner was served. They went into the cozy dining room; despite the ambience created by costly furnishings, the room was conducive to more intimate, relaxed interaction. From the first, conversation flowed easily on all sides.

Penelope was seated at Lord Montford's right, with Barnaby be side her. Lady Hancock was on Lord Montford's other side, with Penelope's mother at the end of the table, opposite their host, with Lord Hancock between the two ladies. The Hancocks were already donors to the Foundling House; they and Lady Calverton became engrossed in discussing other subjects—leaving Lord Montford free to interrogate Penelope about the Foundling House.

Barnaby sat back and watched her deal with Montford; she avoided the trap of answering his questions too lightly, instead giving him the benefit of her considerable intelligence—something Montford, no fool, responded to. Indeed, watching Montford grow increasingly fascinated—both with the Foundling House's programs and Penelope and her role in them—he realized that being admitted into Penelope's intellectual confidence was a subtle honor. She patently did not consider many people, men especially, to be up to her considerable mental weight.

The thought made him smile. He watched her unknowingly seduce Montford, who, although most likely aware of it, was perfectly happy to be seduced in such a way.

When dessert arrived, Montford, transparently satisfied with all he'd learned about the Foundling House, directed the conversation to the police force and the recent and pending political manuevers affecting it, effectively turning the spotlight on Barnaby.

Somewhat to his surprise, Penelope followed Montford's lead, holding her own in what became an in-depth review of policing proposals, and the personalities and prejudices affecting the likely outcomes.

By the time they strolled back into the drawing room, they were engrossed. The topic carried them through the next hour, but after the tea had been served and consumed, the evening drew to a reluctant close.

Montford turned to Penelope. "My dear, I'll send a draft to the house tomorrow, but in addition, once we all return in the new year I'd like to call on you and discuss further options. I prefer to fund specific programs—practical ones that will achieve long-term gains. I'd like to consider some educational and training programs—perhaps more innovative ones—for specific funding."

Delighted, Penelope gave him her hand. "You will always be welcome at the Foundling House, my lord. I'll give some thought to possible programs in the interim."

Taking her hand in both of his, Montford patted it. "You—and your sisters, too—are a credit to your mother." Releasing her hand, smiling sincerely, he looked at Barnaby. "I have to say I find it heartening to discover a young couple such as yourselves, from families and circumstances where you've never had to—and will never have to—worry about your next meal, so devoted to helping others less fortunate. You"—he nodded at Penelope—"through your work with the Foundling House. And you"—he turned his gaze on Barnaby—"through your work with the police, through solving crimes and apprehending criminals regardless of the cut of their coats."

Smiling genially upon them, his next words were clearly intended as a benediction. "You make a remarkable couple—and I warn you, I fully expect to be invited to the wedding."

"John?"

Lord Montford turned away to attend Lady Hancock, and so missed the moment of complete and utter silence that followed his remark.

Barnaby glanced at Penelope. She glanced at him, but their gazes didn't, as they usually did, lock.

He didn't know what to say, couldn't think of anything; his brain had seized. She seemed similarly afflicted.

That they'd both been reduced to speechlessness—helplessness—by the single word "wedding"…that had to mean something.

Just what, he got no time to investigate. A loud rapping on the front door sent Montford's butler striding for it.

He returned a moment later, po-faced, to offer his salver and the folded note upon it to Barnaby. "An urgent message from Scotland Yard, sir."

Barnaby took the note, opened it, and read, in Stokes's bold hand: The game is on.

Shoving the note into his pocket, he nodded briefly to the others, then turned to Montford. "My apologies, my lord, but I must go."

"Of course, my boy." Montford clapped him on the shoulder, turning with him toward the hall. "The evening is at an end, anyway—Godspeed."

In the front hall, Montford shook his hand and released him without further questions.

Predictably Penelope wasn't so inclined. She'd followed at his heels and now caught his sleeve. "What's happened?"

Halting, Barnaby looked down at her, wondered if she realized how revealing her attitude, her question—and his inevitable response—would be to Montford and the others, who'd followed them from the drawing room and were now watching, too.

Not that it mattered. Seeing the worry and concern that had flared to life and now swam so clearly in the depths of her dark eyes, he couldn't not answer. He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve. "I don't know. Stokes wrote that the game was on—nothing more." He tipped his head toward the door. "The messenger will know where he is. I'll go and find out what's happened." He hesitated, then added, "If there's anything pertinent, I'll come and tell you tomorrow morning."

She seemed to realize that was all he could do. Pressing her lips together—he suspected to hold back unwise words—she nodded. "Thank you."

Drawing her hand from beneath his, she stepped back.

He bowed to her, and to the others behind her, then he turned and walked out of the door.

"Be careful with that thing!" Smythe hissed. He followed on Jemmie's and Dick's heels as they manuevered the heavy, ornate clock they'd just lifted from the fourth and last house on Alert's list for that night up the area steps.

Much taller than the boys, the instant his head cleared the street, he hissed again. "Hold up!"

The boys staggered to a halt; he could hear their panicked, increasingly labored breathing. Ignoring it, he scanned the street. Rozzers or passersby; with the heavy clock as booty he didn't want to run into anyone. The dark street seemed empty, the street flares burning low, their light diffused by the thick fog that had helpfully returned.

He strained his ears, but heard nothing. Not even the distant clop of a horse's hooves, but the street was a long one, the corner some distance away. He glanced at the boys. He hoped Alert was waiting. "Right then—move."

The boys staggered up the last steps, then angled the clock—all gilt, fancy dials, and ornate hands—through the gate at the top of the area steps. Smythe held it back until they got through, then joined them, resetting the latch.

He nodded down the street. "That way." His words were a thin whisper, but the boys heard and set off, eager to set the heavy clock down.

As at each of the previous three houses they'd hit, the unmarked black carriage was waiting around the corner.

Jemmie looked up, peering through the murky dark. The same man was on the box. He looked down, not at them but at the clock they were struggling with, and smiled. He nodded to Smythe. "Good work." Reaching down, he handed Smythe a pouch.

Without being told, the boys lugged the clock to the back of the carriage. Smythe followed. He opened the boot. There was a blanket waiting to wrap the clock in. Jemmie and Dick juggled the clock while Smythe swathed it in the blanket, then Smythe loaded the bundle into the boot, between the bundle that was the vase they'd nicked from the first house, and the tightly wrapped statue they'd taken from the third. The painting they'd lifted from the wall of the second house's library sat at the back of the boot.

Relieved of their burden, for an instant free of restraint, Jemmie looked at Dick, but before he could catch his friend's eye and give the signal to run, Smythe shut the boot and dropped a heavy hand on each of their shoulders.

Jemmie bit back a curse and hung his head. As under Smythe's guiding hand he trudged alongside Dick to the side of the carriage, he told himself—as he had for days, a week even—that a time would come.

When it did, he and Dick would run.

Unfortunately, the devil would be snapping at their heels; he held no illusions about Smythe. He would kill them if he caught them; they had to make sure that when they made their bid for freedom, they got clean away.

Smythe halted them beside the front of the carriage. "So we're done for tonight. You got the list for tomorrow?"

The man nodded. "I'll need to go over it with you." He tipped his head toward the carriage. "Climb in. I'll drive to somewhere we can talk."

Smythe nudged the boys back and opened the carriage door. "Get in." Once the boys had scrambled up, he joined them. Jemmie squished himself into the far corner of the seat; Dick did the same on the seat opposite. Smythe shut the door and dropped onto the seat beside Jemmie. The instant he did, the coach shifted and rolled off.

The driver drove slowly, as if his horse were plodding home. They left the big houses behind, then large trees appeared outside, enveloping the carriage in even deeper gloom.

A little way along, the carriage slowed, then halted. Smythe reached for the door handle, then paused; through the dimness he studied them. They heard the sounds of the driver climbing down. "Stay there," Smythe growled.

He climbed out, shutting the door behind him.

Jemmie looked at Dick, then they both sat up and peered out of the windows beside them. The scene that met their eyes wasn't encouraging; the trees the carriage had stopped beneath bordered a wide vista of open space. They'd left the worst of the fog behind; here it was little more than a veil, letting moonlight bathe the expanse, leaving them with nowhere to hide. To two urchins born and bred in the slums, the wide-open spaces weren't comforting. If they ran, Smythe would hear them leave the carriage. He'd be able to see them, and run them down. He'd catch them for certain.

Disappointed, Jemmie looked across at Dick. Lips tight, he shook his head. Swallowing his fear, he looked at the windows on the other side of the carriage; through them, he could see Smythe's shoulders, and those of the gentleman. They'd heard him speak; they knew he was a nob.

The pair had moved a few steps from the carriage; heads bent, their backs to the carriage, they were poring over something, presumably the list they'd wanted to discuss.

Exchanging another glance with Dick, Jemmie slid noiselessly from his seat and crept to that side of the carriage, ducking down by the door so he couldn't be seen. A second later, Dick joined him.

Heads resting against the door panel, they heard the gentleman explaining where a particular statue would be. From what followed, it seemed they were to burgle more houses the next night. At one point, Dick, eyes wide, looked at Jemmie and mouthed, "Four more?"

Jemmie nodded. Then they heard Smythe ask, "What about the police?"

The gentleman replied. His voice was lower, more mellow; they couldn't catch all his words. They did hear him say, "If any of your thefts tonight are reported, there might be more police on the streets tomorrow night. However, I'll know where they'll be, and they won't be near the houses we're interested in. Don't worry. You'll have a clear field. And as I said, those most interested in our activities will be distracted."

The man listened to Smythe's answering growl, then said, "If you pull off your end of things as well as you did tonight, all will go perfectly."

Hearing the note of finality in that cultured voice, the boys flashed each other frightened looks and scurried back to their corners, wedging themselves into their former positions as Smythe yanked open the door.

He surveyed them, then snarled, "Come out—we're leaving."

The boys scrambled out of the carriage. The instant they did, Smythe snagged a leading rein through a harness loop on the rope holding up each boy's baggy pants. Once both were secure, he shook the reins. "Come on—let's go."

They set off walking. Neither boy was silly enough to turn his head and look back at the carriage. They trudged on, over the open expanse, into the chilly night.

"I can't believe it!" Stokes paced back and forth in his office at Scotland Yard.

From his position lounging against the side of Stokes's desk, Barnaby watched him. Sergeant Miller hovered in the open doorway.

"There's no way to tell who else has been burgled!" Stokes flung up his hands. "Damn it—it's going to be hard enough to prove they've been burgled at all"—he flung a hand toward the door—"even when the staff are sure they have been."

Barnaby cocked a brow at Miller. "The old butler is sure the urn was there?"

Miller nodded.

"But," Stokes said, his tone vicious, "he can't be certain his master hasn't sold it. He—the old butler-cum-caretaker—knows it was a fabulously valuable piece that many others had admired, so it's possible his master sold it the day before leaving town and forgot to mention it. So we're going to have to check with the marquess first, before we put out any hue and cry for a thief. And the marquess is currently in Scotland for the shooting."

Halting, Stokes drew in a huge breath, struggling to master his temper.

Impassively, Barnaby stated the obvious to spare Stokes the aggravation. "It'll be days, more like a week, before we know."

Stokes nodded tersely, his features like stone. "And by then…we'll have no chance at all of recovering even such an identifiable piece." Rounding his desk, he dropped into his chair. He stared across the room. "The truth is, if the caretaker hadn't been the ex-butler, it's unlikely he'd have known anything was gone. The marquess would have returned in February or March, and then we'd have heard about it."

Relinquishing his position against the desk, Barnaby moved to one of the chairs facing it. He glanced at Miller. "The caretaker didn't see anything useful?"

Miller shook his head. "He lives in the basement rather than the attics, or he wouldn't have known anything at all. He's old and sleeps poorly. He heard light footsteps pattering overhead, so he went up to look. He saw nothing amiss, but then thought he may as well check the windows. He found one unlocked, yet he's sure he'd locked it. He didn't worry because the window was barred, so he relocked it and headed back to bed. But he passed his master's study on the way. He leaves the doors open when he's in the house alone, so he can glance into rooms easily. When he looked in tonight, he knew something was wrong. Took him a while to realize that the holland cover on the table was lying flat where it should have been peaked over this Chinese urn that as far as he knows should have been there, but isn't anymore."

Stokes groaned. He stared at his desk. After a moment, he asked without looking up, "Has the superintendent sent that note to the marquess yet?"

His voice had lowered. Barnaby looked around, and saw Miller glance along the corridor.

"Looks like he's still writing it," Miller reported, voice lower, too.

Stokes sighed. He waved Miller in the direction he'd looked. "Go and make sure it's sent off express. We have to cover ourselves at least that much."

Once Miller had gone, Barnaby said, "From which comment I take it your superiors are still unwilling to admit they might have a series of extremely upsetting burglaries being committed right now, under their noses?"

Stokes nodded. "They don't want to believe it. The thought sends them into a panic, and they don't know what to do—and the truth is there's precious little we can do, short of flooding Mayfair with constables, which is not only impractical but would cause a panic of its own."

Heaving a huge sigh, Stokes sat back. He met Barnaby's eyes. "The truth is we—the police force—are facing a political nightmare."

He didn't need to elaborate; if anything Barnaby could see the ramifications even better than Stokes. The police were going to appear inept fools, unable to protect the property of wealthy Londoners from the depredations of a single clever thief. In the current political climate, that was a setback the still youthful and evolving force didn't need. Holding Stokes's gaze, Barnaby flatly stated, "There has to be something we can do."

Wrapped in her cloak, Penelope climbed the steps to Barnaby's front door. Her brother's carriage dallied by the curb even though she'd given the coachman—an ally of long standing—instructions to drive home to the mews behind Mount Street; he'd go once he saw her safely within doors. Steeling herself, she eyed the door, then raised a hand and rapped smartly.

Mostyn opened the door. His eyes widened.

"Good evening, Mostyn. Has your master returned yet?"

"Ah…no, ma'am." Mostyn fell back, giving way as she walked in.

"Close the door. It's chilly outside." She pulled off her gloves and put back the hood of her cloak while he complied. When he turned to face her, she continued, "Your master and I were at Lord Montford's when he—Adair—was called away urgently on some matter pertaining to our current investigation." Turning, she walked toward the parlor. "I have to wait here for him to return."

A statement of fact, one Mostyn didn't question. He hurried to open the parlor door; she swept in and he followed. "Tea, ma'am?"

The fire was burning brightly. She walked to stand before it, warming her hands. "No, thank you, Mostyn." She glanced around, then moved to the chair she'd occupied weeks before, when she'd first come to ask for Barnaby's help. "I'll just sit here by the fire, and wait."

Sinking into the chair, she looked at Mostyn. "Please do retire—he may be quite late."

Mostyn hesitated, but then bowed. "Very good, ma'am."

He quietly withdrew, leaving the door ajar so she could see into the hall.

She listened to Mostyn's footsteps fading, then, with a sigh, settled deeper into the chair and closed her eyes; she wasn't content, but at least she was where she needed to be. She had no idea how long it might be before Barnaby came home, but she'd told Mostyn the unvarnished truth: she had to wait for him to return. She had to be there to see that he'd come to no harm—there was no point attempting to sleep until she knew he was safe.

The powerful, flaring need had hit her the instant he'd passed out of her sight at Lord Montford's, in the moment she'd realized she had no notion what he was going out to face. The game is on. Who knew what Stokes had meant by that? They might, at that very moment, be chasing that devil Alert through alleyways and slums, out across the docks, dodging who knew what dangers.

Equally, they might be sitting in Stokes's office, but how could she tell?

In the face of her need to know he was safe, the notion of falling asleep had been laughable. She'd traveled home with her mother, tipped her coachman the wink, waited for the house to quiet, then had slipped out the back door and into the mews.

She knew on some distant rational level that she was very likely worrying over nothing.

That didn't change anything; the worry was still there. Potent, powerful, forceful enough to ensure she accepted that this was where she had to be—waiting for him to come home so she could see with her own eyes that he was unharmed.

She didn't bother pondering why she felt so. The reason was no longer in question; it simply was. Undeniable, and obvious, as Lord Montford had made abundantly clear.

She would have to deal with that reason soon, but for tonight…it was enough to see him home safe and sound. The rest, the reason, could wait…for now.

It was the dead of night when Barnaby let himself in through his front door. He and Stokes had waited at Scotland Yard, hoping some other burglary would be reported, but none had been. Eventually accepting that nothing further would be known until morning, they'd left for their respective beds.

Sliding the bolt home, he headed for the stairs. The parlor door had been left open; he glanced in—and halted.

In the red glow of the dying fire, she was little more than a shapeless bundle in the chair, her face hidden, tucked to one side. But he knew it was she—knew it in his bones through some primitive sense that would recognize her anywhere, no matter the lack of detail.

Silently he went in, crossing to stand before the chair.

In that moment, he couldn't put a name to what he felt, to the emotions that swelled, welled, and poured through him. He held still, made no sound, let the moment stretch, savoring it, hoarding the feelings, and the emotions, greedily holding them to his heart.

No one had ever waited up for him; no one had ever been there waiting when he came home at night, often tired and dejected, disappointed, sometimes disillusioned. And of all the people in the world, she was the one he wanted to be there, to be waiting for his return. She was the one in whose arms, for him, comfort lay.

His first impulse was to scoop her into his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed. But then he thought of why she was there.

After a moment, he crouched down, found her hands amid the folds of her cloak, lightly chafed them. "Penelope? Wake up, sweetheart."

She roused at the sound of his voice. Eyes blinking, then opening wide, she stared at him, then flung herself into his arms. "You're all right!" She hugged him violently.

He laughed and caught her; rocked back on his heels, rather than sprawl on the rug he rose, drawing her with him.

The instant her feet touched the floor, she pulled back and looked him over; it took a second to realize she was checking for damage.

He smiled and tugged her back into his arms. "I'm unhurt—there wasn't any action. I've been at Scotland Yard all night."

She stared into his face. "So what happened?"

He looked down at her, then stooped, swung her up in his arms, turned and sat in the armchair, settling her on his lap.

She made herself comfortable, leaning against his arm so she could see his face. "So?"

He told her everything. He even described Stokes's frustration. She made him recount every tiny fact he'd learned of the single burglary reported, then with him hypothesized as to what had occurred—how one of the boys must have slipped in and out through the bars, taking the urn.

She frowned. "It must have been a small urn."

"It was. Stokes and I questioned the caretaker before he left. He described the urn—from the sound of it it wasn't just any Chinese urn, but a very old one made of carved ivory. God only knows how much it might be worth."

After a moment, she said, "He's targeted collector's pieces, hasn't he?"

He nodded. "Which fits with the idea of him thieving on demand—stealing specific items he knows certain individuals want and will pay for, without asking difficult questions about how he got them."

She grimaced. "Sadly, when it comes to the more avid collectors, there are quite a few unscrupulous enough to fit the bill."

He didn't reply. They'd covered all the known facts; no matter the urgency they both felt over finding the two missing boys, there was nothing else—no other avenue—for them to explore that night.

Not in terms of the investigation.

He could tell she was thinking, still mulling over all he'd told her. Absentmindedly she rubbed her cheek against his chest. The simple, unconscious caress sent warmth, not just of desire but of a deeper need, swirling through him.

She was quiet, at ease, at peace in his arms.

The opportunity was there if he wished to grasp it, yet…the moment still felt so special, so novel and quietly glorious, he couldn't bring himself to disrupt it, to cut it short.

After Lord Montford's comment, after her coming here—after his reaction to finding her waiting for him—there was no question of what lay between them. He'd wanted her to speak, to suggest that they marry, thus absolving him of having to, yet his need to have her as his wife and what drove that need, while still featuring in his mind as a vulnerability, was no longer something he sought to hide…or more accurately, hiding it was no longer reason enough to keep him from seizing what he needed, what he wanted, what he had to have.

If she didn't speak soon, he would.

But here, tonight, was not the time.

They were both tired, and the morrow looked set to make demands on them both. Tonight they needed respite—they needed what they would find in each other's arms. Pleasure, and an oblivion that healed.

Carefully, he stood, lifting her securely in his arms. He started for the door. "Is your poor coachman waiting outside?"

Penelope rested her head on his shoulder, her arms loosely circling his neck. "No. I sent him home. We'll have to find a hackney later." As he turned toward the stairs, she smiled and murmured, "Much later—at dawn."