4

S tokes was on his feet behind his desk, tidying it before leaving for the day, when Barnaby strode in. Stokes looked up, took in his friend's features. "What?"

Penelope Ashford is going to be a problem. Barnaby drew in a controlled breath. "I asked Miss Ashford about the four boys."

Stokes frowned. "Miss Ashford?"

"Penelope Ashford, Portia's sister, currently the Foundling House's administrator. She said all four boys were thin, wiry, nimble, and quick—both in movement and wits. She considered them brighter than the norm. Other than that, they range in age from seven to ten years old, are of widely differing heights, totally unprepossessing, and have no other indicative characteristics in common."

"I see." Eyes narrowing, Stokes dropped back into his chair. He waited while Barnaby walked in and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, then said, "It sounds like we can cross all arms of the flesh trade off our list."

Barnaby nodded. "And one at least is far too tall to be useful as a chimney boy, so that's off the list, too."

"I ran into Rowland of the Water Police an hour ago—he was here for a meeting. I asked if there was any shortage of cabin boys. Apparently the opposite is the case, so there's no reason to imagine these boys are being pressed into service on the waves."

Barnaby met Stokes's gaze. "So where does that leave us?"

Stokes considered, then his brows rose. "Burglars' boys. That's the most likely use for them by far—thin, wiry, nimble, and quick as they are. The fact they're unremarkable is an added bonus—they wouldn't be looking for any boy too pretty or noteworthy in any way. And in that part of the city…"

After a moment, Stokes continued, "There have, on and off over the years, been tales—true enough by all accounts—of, for want of a better description, ‘burglary schools' run in the depths of the East End. The area is crowded. In some parts, it's a warren of tenements and warehouses that not even the local bobbies are happy going into. These schools come and go. Each doesn't last long, but often it's the same people behind them."

"They move before the police can close them down?"

Stokes nodded. "And as it's usually impossible to prove they—the proprietors—are involved in any citable crime, one we could take before a magistrate, then…" He shrugged. "By and large they're ignored."

Barnaby frowned. "What do these schools teach? What do burglars' boys need to be taught?"

"We used to think they were used as lookouts, and perhaps they are when the burglar operates in less affluent neighborhoods. But the real use of burglars' boys is in thieving from the houses of the more affluent, especially the ton. Getting into houses in Mayfair isn't that easy—most have bars on the ground-floor windows, or those windows are too small, at least for a man. Thin young boys, however, can often wriggle through. It's the boys who do the actual lifting of the objects, then pass them out to the burglar. The boys, therefore, need to be trained in creeping about silently in the dark, on polished wood and tiled floors, over rugs, and around furniture. They're taught the basic layout of ton houses, where to go, where to avoid—where to hide if they rouse the household. They learn how to tell good-quality ornaments from dross, how to remove pictures from their frames, how to pick locks—some are even taught to open safes."

Barnaby grimaced. "And if something goes wrong…?"

"Precisely. It's the boy who gets caught, not the burglar."

Barnaby stared at the window behind Stokes. "So we have a situation that suggests a burglary school is operating, training boys most likely for use in burgling the houses of the ton…" He broke off and met Stokes's eyes. "Of course! They're getting ready to commit burglaries over the festive season, while the ton is largely not in residence."

Stokes frowned. "But most ladies take their jewelery with them to the country—"

"Indeed." Barnaby's burgeoning enthusiasm remained undimmed. "But this lot—whoever they are—aren't after jewelery. The ton packs up house only in terms of clothing and jewelery, and staff—they leave their ornaments, many of which are treasures, behind. Those things remain with the houses, usually with a skeleton staff. Some houses are left with only a caretaker."

Barnaby's excitement had infected Stokes. His gaze drifted as he thought, then pinned Barnaby. "We're getting ahead of ourselves, but let's assume we're right. Why four? Why in the space of a few weeks snatch four boys for training?"

Barnaby grinned wolfishly. "Because this group is planning a succession of robberies—or has more than one burglar who's planning to be active over the coming months."

"While the ton is away from London." His features hardening, Stokes murmured, "It could be worth it. Worth the effort they've already invested to identify four likely lads—and there might be more—and organize to whisk them away."

A moment passed, with both men following their thoughts, then Barnaby met Stokes's eyes. "This could be big—a lot bigger than it appears at present."

Stokes nodded. "I spoke to the commissioner earlier. He gave me leave to investigate appropriately—the emphasis being on appropriately." Stokes's dark smile curved his lips. "I'll speak with him again tomorrow, and tell him what we now think. I believe I can guarantee having a free hand after that."

Barnaby smiled cynically. "So what's our next step? Finding this school?"

"It's most likely in the East End, somewhere not far from where the boys lived. You said it's unlikely the boys were identified as potential scholars by any of the Foundling House's staff. If so, then the most likely explanation for how our ‘schoolmaster' heard of the four, and more, knew exactly when and how to send a man to fetch them, is that the schoolmaster and his team are locals themselves."

"The neighbors were certain the man who fetched the boys was from the East End, and that he was merely an errand boy—someone trained in what to say to convince them to surrender the orphans to him."

"Exactly. These villains know the local ropes well because they're locals."

Barnaby grimaced. "I have no idea how to go about searching for a burglary school in the East End. Or anywhere else, for that matter."

"Looking for anything in the East End isn't easy, and I'm no more familiar with the area than you."

"The local force?" Barnaby suggested.

"I'll notify them, but I don't expect to get much direct help. The force is in its infancy and predictably not well established in that area." A minute passed, Stokes tapping one finger on the desktop, then he seemed to come to a decision. He pushed back from the desk. "Leave it with me. There's someone I know who knows the East End. If I can get them interested in the case, they might consent to help us." He rose.

Barnaby rose, too. He turned to the door. Stokes came around the desk, snagged his greatcoat from its hook, and followed.

Barnaby paused in the corridor; Stokes halted beside him. "I'll go off and rack my brains to see if there's some other way to advance our cause."

Stokes nodded. "Tomorrow I'll see the commissioner and tell him our news. And I'll see my contact. I'll send word if they're willing to help."

They parted. Barnaby went outside into the gathering dusk. Again he paused on the building's steps to take stock.

Stokes had something to do—an avenue to pursue. He, on the other hand…

The compulsion to act—to not simply sit waiting for Stokes to send word—rode like a goblin on his shoulders. Whispering in his ear.

If he spoke with Penelope Ashford again, now he had some idea of their direction, he might winkle more useful information from her. He had little doubt her brain was crammed with potentially pertinent facts. And he had more or less promised to let her know what Stokes thought.

Pushy female.

Difficult female…with lush, ripe lips.

Distracting lips.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he continued down the steps. The one problem with speaking with Penelope Ashford that night was that to do so he would have to meet her somewhere in the ton.

Evening had come, and with it Penelope had been forced to don what she considered a disguise. She had to convert from being herself to being Miss Penelope Ashford, youngest sister of Viscount Calverton, youngest daughter of Minerva, the Dowager Lady Calverton, and the only unmarried female in the clan.

That last designation grated, not because she had any desire to change her marital status but because it somehow set her apart. Set her on a pedestal that she cynically viewed as akin to an auction block. And while she never had the slightest difficulty dismissing the mistaken assumptions too many young gentlemen inevitably made, the need to do so irked. It was irritating to have to suspend her thoughts and find patience and polite words to send importuning gentlemen to the rightabout.

Especially as, while she might be standing by the side of a ballroom, she was usually mentally elsewhere. Thermopylae, for example. To her the ancient Greeks held a far greater allure than any of the youthful swains who tried to catch her eye.

Tonight's venue was Lady Hemmingford's drawing room. Fashionably gowned in green satin of such a dark hue it was almost black—having been forbidden by her family from wearing black, her color of choice—Penelope stood by the wall, a political soiree in full voice before her.

Regardless of her boredom with—indeed, antipathy to—such social events, she couldn't cry off. Her unfailing attendance with her mother at whatever evening functions the Dowager chose to grace was part of the bargain she had struck with Luc and her mother in return for Lady Calverton remaining in town when the rest of the family had departed for the country, thus allowing her to continue her work at the Foundling House.

Luc and her mother had flatly refused to countenance her remaining in London on her own, or even with Helen, a widowed cousin, as chaperone. Unfortunately, no one could see Helen, sweet tempered and mild, as being able to check her in any way, not even Penelope. Despite her brother's unhelpful stance, she could see his point.

She also knew that an unvoiced part of their bargain was that she would consent to being paraded before those members of the ton still in the capital, thereby keeping alive her chances of making a suitable match.

Within the family, she did her best to openly quash such thoughts; she saw no benefit in marriage at all—not in her case. When out in society, she, if not openly, then subtly and unrelentingly, discouraged gentlemen from imagining she might change her mind.

She was always taken aback when some young sprig proved too dense to read her message. I'm wearing spectacles, you dolt! was always her first thought. What young lady wishful of contracting a suitable match came to a ton event with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose?

In reality, she could see enough to get by without her spectacles, but things were fuzzy. She could manage within a restricted area like a room, even a ballroom, but she couldn't make out the expressions on people's faces. In her teens, she'd decided knowing what was going on around her—every little detail—was far more important than projecting the right appearance. Other young ladies might blink myopically and bumble about in an attempt to deny their shortcoming, but not her.

She was as she was, and the ton could simply make do with that.

Chin elevated, gaze fixed on the cornice across the room, she continued to stand by the side of the Hemmingfords' drawing room, debating whether among the more recently arrived guests there were any with whom she—or the Foundling House—might benefit from conversation.

She was distantly aware of music issuing from the adjoining salon, but resolutely ignored the tug on her senses. Dancing with gentlemen invariably encouraged them to imagine she was interested in further acquaintance. A sad circumstance given she loved dancing, but she'd learned not to let the music tempt her.

Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, her senses…ruffled. She blinked. That most curious sensation slid over her, as if the nerve endings beneath her skin had been stroked. Warmly. She was about to look around to identify the cause when a disturbingly deep voice murmured, "Good evening, Miss Ashford."

Blond curls; blue, blue eyes. Resplendent in evening black-and-white, Barnaby Adair appeared by her side.

Turning to face him, she smiled delightedly and, without thinking, gave him her hand.

Barnaby grasped her delicate fingers and bowed over them, seizing the moment to reassemble his customary suave composure, something she'd shattered with that fabulous smile.

What was it about her and her smiles? Perhaps it was because she didn't smile as freely as other young ladies; although her lips curved readily and she bestowed polite accolades as required, those gestures were dim cousins of her true smile—the one she'd just gifted him with. That was so much more—brighter, more intense, more openhearted. Unguarded and genuine, it evoked in him an impluse to warn her not to flash those smiles at others—evoked an underlying covetous desire to ensure she kept those smiles just for him.

Ridiculous. What was she doing to him?

He straightened, and found her still beaming, although her smile itself had faded.

"I'm so glad to see you. I take it you have news?"

He blinked again. There was something in her face, in her expression, that touched him. Shook him in a most peculiar way. "If you recall," he said, with a valiant attempt at a dry, arrogant drawl, "you insisted I inform you of Stokes's thoughts as soon as practicable."

Her cheeriness didn't abate. "Well, yes, but I had no hope you would brave this"—she flicked a hand at the fashionable gathering—"to do so."

She had, however, had the foresight to once again instruct her butler to tell him her direction. Barnaby hesitated, then glanced briefly at the groups conversing nearby. "I take it you would rather talk of our investigation than of the latest play at the Theatre Royal."

This time her smile was both smug and confiding. "Indubitably." She looked around. "But if we're to talk of kidnappers and crime, I suspect we should move to a quieter spot." With her fan, she indicated the corner by the archway into the salon. "That area tends to remain clear." She glanced at him. "Shall we?"

He offered his arm and she took it; only because he was watching her closely did he see the momentary girding of her senses. He affected them. He'd known that from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her—in that instant she'd walked into his parlor, and seen him—not in a crowd of others but alone.

Steering her across the drawing room, necessarily stopping here and there to exchange greetings with others, gave him time to consider his unusual reaction to her. It was understandable enough; his reaction was a direct consequence of her reaction to him. When she smiled so unguardedly, it wasn't because she was responding to him as a handsome gentleman—the glamour most young ladies never saw beyond—but because she saw and was responding to the man behind the fa?ade, the investigator with whom, at least in her mind, she was interacting.

It was his investigative self she smiled at, the intellectual side of him. That was what had made him feel so strangely touched. It was refreshing to have his manly attributes overlooked—dismissed as inconsequential—and instead be appreciated for his mind and his accomplishments. Penelope might wear spectacles, but her vision was a great deal more incisive than her peers'.

They finally reached the corner. There they were somewhat isolated from the main body of guests, cut off by the traffic into and out of the salon. They could talk freely, yet were in full view of the company.

"Perfect." Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him. "So! What did Inspector Stokes deduce?"

He suppressed the urge to inform her that Stokes hadn't been the only one deducing. "After considering all the possible activities in which boys of that age might be employed, it seemed that by far the most likely in this case would be burglary."

She frowned. "What do burglars want with young boys?"

He explained. She exclaimed.

Eyes sparkling behind her lenses, she categorically stated, "We must rescue our boys without delay."

Taking note of the determination ringing in her tone, Barnaby kept his expression impassive. "Indeed. While Stokes is assessing his contacts in order to search for this school, there's another route I believe we should consider."

She met his gaze. "What?"

"Are there any other similar boys who might be orphaned soon?"

She stared at him for an instant, her dark eyes wide. He'd expected her to ask why; instead, in a bare instant, she'd fathomed his direction and, from her arrested expression, was only too ready to follow it.

"Are there?" he prompted.

"I don't know, not off the top of my head. I go on all the visits, but sometimes a year can pass between a child being entered into our files and the guardian actually dying."

"So there's a list of sorts, of potential upcoming orphans?"

"Not a list, unfortunately, but a stack of files."

"But the files have an address, and a basic description of the boy?"

"Yes to the address. But the description we take is just age and eye and hair color—not enough for your purpose." She met his gaze. "However, I can often remember the children, certainly those I've seen recently."

He drew breath. "Do you think—"

"Miss Ashford."

They both turned to see a young gentleman bowing extravagantly.

He straightened and beamed at Penelope. "Mr. Cavendish, Miss Ashford. Your mama and mine are great friends. I wondered if you'd care to dance? I believe they're preparing for a cotillion."

Penelope frowned. "No, thank you." She seemed to hear the frost in her tone; she thawed enough to add, "I'm not especially fond of cotillions."

Mr. Cavendish blinked. "Ah. I see." He was clearly unaccustomed to being refused.

Although Penelope's discouraging mien didn't ease, he shifted as if to join their conversational group.

She reached out and seized his arm, and forcibly turned him about. "That's Miss Akers over there." She directed his attention down the room. "The girl in the pink dress with the rosebuds rioting over it. I'm sure she'd love to dance the cotillion." She paused, then added, "She's certainly dressed for it."

Barnaby bit his lip. Cavendish, however, meekly bobbed his head. "If you'll excuse me?"

He glanced hopefully at Penelope, who nodded, brisk and encouraging. "Of course." She released his arm.

With a nod to Barnaby, Cavendish took himself off.

"Now." Penelope turned back to Barnaby. "You were saying?"

He had to cast his mind back. "I was wondering—"

"My dear Miss Ashford. What a pleasure it is to find you gracing this event."

Barnaby watched with interest as Penelope stiffened, and turned, slowly, her expression hardening, to face the interloper.

Tristram Hellicar was a gazetted rake. He was also undeniably handsome. He bowed elegantly; straightening, he nodded to Barnaby, then turned his devastatingly charming smile on Penelope.

Who was demonstrably unimpressed. "Tristram, Mr. Adair and I—"

"Whatever you were, dear girl, I'm here now. Surely you wouldn't throw me to the wolves?" A leisurely wave indicated the other guests.

Behind her lenses, Penelope's rich brown eyes narrowed to slits. "In a heartbeat."

"But consider, sweet Penelope, my being here with you is making all those other bright young sprigs keep their distance, relieving you of the need to exert yourself to diplomatically dismiss them. Rigby has just arrived, and you know how exhaustingly devoted he can be. And Adair here is no real protection—he's far too polite."

Barnaby caught the glinting glance Hellicar threw him, well aware the man was assessing him and his possible connection to Penelope. There was a latent warning in that look, but Hellicar wasn't sure if he was a rival for Penelope's affections, and without proof would only go so far.

He could have given Hellicar some sign easily enough, but he was enjoying the exchange and what it was revealing too much to cut it short. Aside from all else he was absolutely certain Penelope had no idea that Hellicar, reputation aside, was seriously pursuing her.

What was equally fascinating was that Hellicar, while having the nous to recognize that she wasn't the usual sort of female, and therefore wouldn't respond to the usual sort of blandishments, had no real clue how to charm her.

And if half the tales told of Hellicar were true, he was a past master at charming ladies of the ton.

He'd failed dismally with Penelope.

Hellicar continued his lighthearted banter, seeming not to realize she only grew progressively more rigid. Eventually she cut through his prattle without compunction.

"Go away, Tristram." Her voice was even, and cold as steel. He'd clearly fallen entirely from grace. "Or I'll tell Lord Rotherdale what I saw in Lady Mendicat's parlor."

Hellicar blinked, then paled. "You saw…you wouldn't."

"Believe me, I saw, and I would. And I'd relish every moment of the telling."

Lips compressing, eyes narrowing, Hellicar studied her face—and her set expression—and decided she wasn't bluffing. Accepting defeat, he bowed, rather less fluidly than before. "Very well, fair Penelope. I'll retire from the lists. For now." He glanced at Barnaby, then looked at Penelope. "However, if your aim is to lead an unfettered existence, then chatting so animatedly to Adair here isn't a clever way to convince all those yearning puppies that you're uninterested in a stroll to the altar. Where one goes, others might venture."

Turning away, he said, "Be warned, Adair—she's dangerous."

With a salute, Hellicar departed.

Penelope frowned. Increasingly direfully. "Rubbish!"

Barnaby fought to suppress a smile. She was dangerous—dangerously unpredictable. He hadn't needed Hellicar's warning, yet for him her threat stemmed from his fascination; he'd never before encountered a gently bred lady who, intentionally and with perfect understanding, stepped entirely beyond society's bounds whenever she felt like it and knew she could get away with it.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was enjoying himself at a ton function. He was being entertained in a novel, entirely unexpected way.

"At least he's gone." Penelope turned back to him. "So"—she frowned—"where were we?"

"I was about to ask—"

"Miss Ashford."

She actually hissed in disapproval as she swung to face their latest interruption. Young Lord Morecombe. She dismissed him summarily, ruthlessly disabusing him of the notion that she had the least interest in hearing about the latest play, let alone his curricle race to Brighton.

Morecombe was followed by Mr. Julian Nutley.

Then came Viscount Sethbridge.

While she dealt with him, and then Rigby, who true to Hellicar's prediction proved the most difficult to dismiss, Barnaby had ample time to study her.

It wasn't hard to see why those hapless gentlemen were drawn to brave her sharp tongue. She was highly attractive, but not in any common way. The dark hue of her gown made her porcelain skin glow. Even her spectacles, which she no doubt assumed detracted from her appearance, actually enhanced it; the gold rims outlined her eyes, while the lenses faintly magnified them, making them appear even larger, emphasizing her long, curling dark lashes, the rich, dark brown irises, and the clear intelligence that shone from their depths.

With the vibrancy that infused her features, indeed, her whole being, she was a striking package, even more so when viewed against the pale, meek, pastel uniformity of the other young ladies on the marriage mart.

He seriously doubted she understood that, far from being a deterrent, her waspish nature and high-handed attitude to her would-be suitors was, in her case, having the opposite effect. Her behavior had established her as a prize to be won, and the gentlemen who circled her were perfectly cognizant of the intangible cachet attached to winning her hand.

Listening to her deal with—and in Rigby's case, drive off—all those who had dared to get in the way of her learning what he, Barnaby, had to say, it was perfectly obvious that she considered gentlemen, as a species, to be significantly less intelligent than she.

He had to admit that in the majority of cases she was correct, but not all gentlemen were dolts. A compulsion to point that out, to score at least one point for his sex, and perhaps along the way nudge her into some comprehension of her attractiveness to males and what underpinned that—thus rendering a service to her hapless would-be suitors—burgeoned, teased, and tempted.

"Finally!" With one last glare at Rigby's departing back, Penelope once again turned to him.

Before she could speak, he held up a staying hand. "I fear Hellicar was correct. If we stand here chatting, too many will see it as a continuing invitation to join us. Might I suggest, in pursuit of our common goal, that we take advantage of the waltz the musicians are apparently about to play?"

He half bowed, and offered his hand.

Penelope stared at it, then at him. The introductory bars of a waltz floated over the surrounding conversations. "You want to waltz?"

One brown brow quirked. "We'll be able to talk sufficiently privately without risk of interruption." He studied her eyes. "Don't you waltz?"

She frowned. "Of course I do. Not even I could avoid being taught to waltz." Girding her loins, steeling her senses, she put her fingers in his. She had to learn what he'd been trying to tell her, and in light of her annoying suitors, the dance floor held the most hope of success.

He turned her toward the salon. "From which comment I take it you tried."

Drawing in a slow breath past the constriction in her lungs, she looked up, puzzled…

"To avoid being taught to waltz."

She blinked. Prayed he wouldn't guess his touch had so scrambled her wits she'd lost track of his words. She looked ahead. "I didn't at first see any point in my mastering such a skill, but then…" Lightly, she shrugged, and let him steer her onto the floor, then turn her into his arms.

They closed around her—gently, correctly—yet still her senses quaked. She inwardly swore at them to behave. Despite her irritating reaction to him, this was, she told herself, an excellent idea.

She'd dropped her opposition to being taught to waltz when she'd discovered that waltzing could be exhilarating and exciting. She rarely indulged these days because so many partners had disappointed her.

She fully expected Adair to disappoint her, too—which would be a very good thing. Once she discovered he was a less-than-adequate dance partner, her swooning senses would immediately lose interest. There was no better way to cure them of their ridiculous obsession with him.

Head high, chin tilted to just the right angle, a confident smile curving her lips, she stepped out—and immediately found herself following, rather than leading.

It took a moment for her to adjust, but that was one point in his favor.

Then she recalled she didn't want him to impress her, not in this arena.

Unfortunately…

Her cause withered and died as, her gaze locked on his face, she felt herself being whirled effortlessly down the room, checking and swirling along with the other couples precessing around the floor. It wasn't simply the ease with which he moved her—she was slight enough that most gentlemen managed that—but the sense of power, of control, of harnessed energy he brought to the simple revolutions of the waltz.

Far from being freed, she was caught, trapped.

And despite it being precisely not what she'd wanted, she found her lips curving more genuinely, found herself relaxing into his loose embrace as she accepted that yes, he could waltz. That yes, she could give herself over to his mastery and simply enjoy.

It had been so long since she'd taken pleasure in a waltz.

His blue eyes searched her face, then his lips quirked. "You obviously changed your mind and paid attention to your dance master."

"Luc, my brother. He was a dictatorial taskmaster." She gave herself one more moment to enjoy the sensation of floating around the floor, of his strong thighs brushing her skirts as they whirled, before asking, "Now, at last, we can complete our conversation. So what was it you wanted to know?"

Barnaby looked down into her wide brown eyes, and wondered why she hadn't wanted to waltz. "I was going to suggest that if you could identify any other boys who might be orphaned in the near future and who met the kidnappers' criteria, we might put a watch on them, both to identify the kidnappers if they come calling and, ultimately, to protect the boys from being snatched."

She blinked. Her eyes widened. "Yes, of course. What an excellent idea!" She breathed the words as if being visited by revelation. Then she snapped free and briskly took charge. "I'll go through the files tomorrow. If I find any possible candidate—"

"I'll meet you at the Foundling House tomorrow morning." He smiled. Intently. If she thought he was going to let her loose on the hunt, she would need to think again. "We can go through the files together."

She eyed him as if evaluating her chances of dismissing his offer, yet he was quite sure she understood it was no offer, but a statement of fact. Eventually, her lips—forever distracting—eased. "Very well. Shall we say eleven o'clock?"

He inclined his head. "And we'll see what we can find."

Looking up, he whirled her through a turn, then started back up the room. Another glance at her face confirmed she was enjoying the dance as much as he.

She was, even in this, the antithesis of the norm. Most young ladies were tentative; even when they were excellent dancers they were passive, not just allowing but relying on a gentleman to steer them around the floor. Penelope had no truck with passivity—not even during a waltz. Even though, after those first few steps, she'd consented to him leading, the fluid tension that invested her slender limbs, the energy with which she matched his stride, made the dance a shared endeavor, an activity to which they both contributed, making the experience a mutual, shared pleasure.

He would happily dance half the night with her…

Abruptly, he hauled his mind off the track of considering what different dances they might indulge in. That wasn't why he was waltzing with her. She was Luc Ashford's sister, and his association with her was purely driven by his investigation.

Wasn't it?

He looked down at her face as he swirled her to a halt—at those ruby lips slightly parted, at her lovely eyes and the madonnalike face that no amount of severe grooming would ever disguise—and wondered just how truthful he was being.

How willfully blind.

She stepped out of his arms. He let them fall and smiled—charmingly. "Thank you."

Smiling in return, she inclined her head. "You waltz very well—much better than I'd expected."

He noted the dimple in her left cheek. "I'm delighted to have been of service."

She chuckled at the dry reply.

Taking her hand, he set it on his sleeve and turned her toward the drawing room. "Come—I'll return you to your mother. And then I must leave."

He did. As he walked from the drawing room, he felt a certain contentment from his evening's entertainment—something he very definitely hadn't expected, either.

Penelope watched his broad shoulders until he passed out of sight. Only then did she even bother to try to marshal her wits and assess the situation.

When she did… "Damn!" She muttered the word beneath her breath. She could find no fault with Barnaby Adair—not in his investigative capabilities, nor yet, and most surprisingly, in his gentlemanly attributes. That was not a good sign. Normally, certainly after she'd conversed with a gentleman twice, she'd already dismissed him from her mind.

Barnaby Adair she couldn't dismiss. Not least because he wouldn't be dismissed.

Quite what she was going to do about him she didn't know, but it was patently clear she would have to do something. It was either take some action to nullify his effect, or continue to suffer her wayward wits and wretchedly preoccupied senses.

The latter wasn't an option. And until she accomplished the former, she wasn't—clearly wasn't—going to be able to manage him as she wished.