5

T he next morning at nine o'clock, Inspector Basil Stokes stood on the pavement in St. John's Wood High Street, staring at the door of a small shop. After a moment, he squared his shoulders, walked up the two steps, opened the door, and went inside.

A bell above the door jangled; two girls working at a bench at the rear of the narrow rectangular space looked up. They blinked, then exchanged quick glances. One—Stokes took her for the elder—laid aside the bonnet she was trimming and came forward to the small counter.

Hesitantly she asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

He could understand her confusion; he wasn't the usual run of customer for a milliner's establishment. Glancing around, he almost winced at the feathers, lace, ribbons, and fripperies draped over pegs and adorning hats of various shapes. He felt comprehensively out of place, as if he'd stepped uninvited into a lady's boudoir.

Returning his gaze to the girl's round face, he stated, "I'm here to see Miss Martin. Is she in?"

The girl eyed him nervously. "Who shall I say wants her, sir?"

He was about to give his title, then realized Griselda—Miss Martin—would likely not appreciate her staff knowing she was being visited by the police. "Mr. Stokes. I daresay she'll remember me. I'd like a moment of her time, if she can spare it."

Like many others, the girl couldn't decide his social status; she bobbed a curtsy just to play safe. "I'll ask."

She disappeared through a heavy curtain that cut off the back of the shop. Stokes looked around. Two mirrors hung along one wall. He caught sight of himself in one, framed by confections of feathers and lace, fake flowers and spangles displayed on the wall behind him. He quickly looked away.

A mumble of voices came from beyond the curtain, drawing nearer. He locked his gaze on the curtain as it parted—and a vision every bit as lovely as he recalled walked through.

Griselda Martin was neither tall nor short, neither plump nor slender. She had a round face with pleasant features—large cornflower-blue eyes framed by lush black lashes, a wide brow, an upturned nose across which a band of freckles marched, rosy cheeks, and rosebud lips. Her thick, sable hair, secured in a knot at the back of her neck, framed her face. Although her style was a far cry from tonnish beauty, she was, to Stokes, perfect in every way.

Her eyes were the sort that should have been twinkling, but when she looked at him they were serious, careful—a trifle wary. "Mr. Stokes?"

She, too, avoided using his title. He inclined his head. "Miss Martin, I wonder if you could spare me a moment—I'd like to discuss a business matter."

She appreciated his sensitivity in not mentioning the police before her staff. She thawed slightly; after a second's consideration, she turned to her assistants. "Imogen, Jane—you can take the deliveries around now."

Both girls, who'd been listening and watching avidly, looked deflated. But, "Yes, Miss Martin," they chorused, and set aside their work.

"If you'll wait just a moment," Griselda murmured to Stokes.

He nodded and moved to one side, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, not easy given he was over six feet tall and broad shouldered to boot. He watched as the girls assembled various parcels and hatboxes, then donned cloaks and hats. Sharing their bundles, they headed for the door, glancing at him curiously as they passed.

The instant the door shut behind them, Griselda asked, "Is this about that business in Petticoat Lane?"

Anxiety threaded through her voice; Stokes hurried to reassure her. "No, not at all. The villain was transported, so you have nothing to fear from him."

She exhaled. "Good." Banked curiosity appeared in her eyes. She tilted her head slightly. "To what, then, do I owe this visit, Inspector?"

To the fact that I can't get you out of my head. Stokes cleared his throat. "As I mentioned before, the force, and I, were very grateful for your assistance in the matter of the Petticoat Lane attack." She—along with a host of others—had seen a man beat a woman nearly to death. Of all the onlookers, only she and an old, almost blind crone had been willing to stand witness to the crime; without Griselda's testimony, the case would have been impossible to prosecute. "That, however, isn't the matter that brought me here."

Putting his hands behind his back, he crossed his fingers. "When I saw your statement about Petticoat Lane, I learned that, although you live and work in this area now, you grew up in the East End. Your father still lives there, and you yourself are widely known, at least within a certain pocket."

She frowned. "I might have improved my speech to better deal with my customers, but I've never hidden my origins."

"No—which in part is what has brought me here." He glanced at the front of the shop, confirming they were not about to be disturbed by any customers, then turned back to her. "I have a case involving boys disappearing from the East End. Young boys, seven to ten years old, born and bred in that area. These boys are newly made orphans. On the morning after their parent or guardian dies, some man has been appearing, saying he's been sent by the authorities to fetch the boy. In the cases we know of, the parent or guardian had made arrangements for the orphan to be admitted to the Foundling House, so the neighbors have been handing the boys over, only to discover mere hours later, when the Foundling House people arrive, that the man has no connection with them."

Frown deepening, she nodded, encouraging him to continue.

He drew breath, battling an odd constriction banding his chest. "I don't have any contacts in the East End. The police force there is not well established. I wondered…I know it's asking a lot of you—I do understand how the authorities are viewed—but…I wondered if you would be willing to lend your aid, in whatever way you felt able to. We believe these boys are being snatched to be trained for use as burglars' boys."

Her eyes widened. "A burglary school?" From her tone she knew precisely what that was.

He nodded. "I need to find someone who can tell me whether there's been any talk of some particular villain setting up a school recently."

Folding her arms, she softly snorted. "Well, there's no point asking your rozzers. They'd be the last to know."

"Indeed. And please believe that I don't intend to imply that you would know, either, but I hoped that you might know someone who might know a name, or an address."

She studied him, her blue gaze steady and candid. He fell silent, feeling that if he pushed she would refuse.

Griselda felt torn. She did know the East End; that was why she'd been so determined—and worked so long and hard—to leave it. She'd completed an arduous apprenticeship, then slaved, scrimped, and saved to be able to rent her own premises, and then she'd worked all but around the clock to establish herself.

She'd been successful, and had largely left the East End behind. Now here was this handsome police inspector asking if she was willing to go back into the stews. For him and his case.

No, she corrected herself—he wasn't asking for himself. He was trying to help four young boys who hailed from the same slums she'd left. She knew of the Foundling House by reputation; those boys would have had a chance to better themselves if they'd gone there, as their dying relatives had arranged.

Four young boys' futures. That was what was at stake here.

She no longer had brothers; she'd lost all three in the wars years ago. The oldest had been twenty when he'd died; they'd never truly had a chance to live their lives.

Eyes narrowing, she asked, "These four lads. How long ago were they taken?"

"It's been happening over the past few weeks, but the last was only two days ago."

So there was a chance they might be saved. "You're sure it's a burglary school?"

"That seems the most likely." Without prompting, Stokes described the boys, thus eliminating the other likely scenarios. He didn't elaborate on those alternatives; he didn't need to—she knew the realities of the world she'd left.

He fell silent again. He didn't press her; he waited…a predator nonetheless, but he was taking great care not to let that side of himself show.

She considered not helping, and inwardly sighed. "I can't tell you what I don't know, but I can ask around. I visit my father every week. He doesn't get about much these days, but he hears everything, and he's lived in the area all his life. He might not know who's set up a school recently, but he'll know who's run schools in the past, and who might still be in that line of business."

The tension that had held him eased. "Thank you. I'll be grateful for anything we can learn."

"We?"

He shifted. "Given I've asked you to revisit the area, I must insist that I go with you. As protection."

"Protection?" She gave him a bemused, intentionally faintly patronizing look. "Inspector—"

She broke off, rethinking what she been about to say: that in the East End, it would not be she but he who would need protection. She swallowed the words because she'd finally allowed herself a proper look at him as he stood there taking up too much space in her little shop.

She'd seen him—briefly met him—before, but that had been in a watch house in a milling throng of big men; they'd camouflaged him. Today he was by himself, and she couldn't miss his lean hardness, nor the way he moved, both sending a clear message that he could handle himself—easily—in a brawl.

Some gentlemen of the ton had that same dangerous edge—one that glinted through their polished exteriors, reminding the wise that underneath the sophistication beat a heart not civilized at all.

She'd been staring. Clearing her throat, she said, "I really don't need any guard, Inspector. I visit my father regularly."

"Perhaps, but the incident in Petticoat Lane could still have repercussions, and as in this instance you would be venturing into the area at my behest, I hope you can see that I couldn't in all conscience allow you to proceed unescorted."

"But—"

"I really must insist, Miss Martin."

She frowned. His tone might imply he was requesting, but the expression on his dark-featured face, the flat gray of his eyes, stated unequivocally that, for whatever convoluted male reason, he wasn't going to shift his stance. She knew that look; she'd seen it on her brothers' and father's faces often enough.

Which meant arguing would be futile. And Imogen and Jane would return soon, and she'd rather he was gone before they did.

Inwardly she sighed—again. In reality it would be no skin off her nose to walk into the East End with a man of his ilk at her heels. More than one woman would give a great deal for the privilege, and here he was offering, for free. She nodded. "Very well. I'll accept your escort."

He smiled.

She suddenly felt unsteady. Was this what it felt like to go weak-kneed?

Just because he'd smiled at her?

Second thoughts about the wisdom of allowing him any closer crowded into her brain.

"So…" He was still smiling. "I assume your girls will be back soon?"

She blinked. Then she met his eyes—gray, changeable, stormy. "I can't go now—I've only just opened."

"Ah." He sobered; his smile faded. "I'd hoped—"

"This afternoon," she heard herself say. "I'll close early—at three o'clock. We can go and see my father then."

He held her gaze, then nodded. "Thank you. I'll return here at three o'clock."

He didn't smile again; she told herself she was grateful. But his lips did ease as he inclined his head politely. "Until then, Miss Martin." He turned and walked to the door. Opening it, he glanced back, then went out.

The instant the door shut, her feet moved of their own accord, taking her down the shop to the door. She reached up to still the tinkling bell.

Watching Stokes's greatcoat-swathed shoulders retreat along the street, she wondered what she was doing.

And why. It wasn't like her to react to a handsome face, although his held a darkly rugged appeal that was difficult to ignore.

When he'd disappeared from her sight, she frowned, then turned and headed back to the bonnet she'd been feathering. If, thanks to him, she was going to be closing early, she needed to get back to work.

At ten o'clock that morning, Barnaby walked unheralded into Penelope's office in the Foundling House—surprising her in the act of searching through a stack of files.

Glancing up and seeing him, she blinked.

He smiled, all teeth. She was standing beside her desk. He strolled to her side. "Any luck?"

After a fraught second of simply staring at him, her distracting lips compressed and she returned her attention to the papers she was leafing through. Rather tightly, she said, "There's one boy I remember, but I can't recall his name. He lives with his mother somewhere in the East End, and she's dying."

He nodded at the files. "Are all these of about-to-be-orphaned children?"

"Yes."

There had to be dozens, a sobering thought.

After a moment, she paused, then reached out and pushed the stack across the desk toward him. "You could weed out the girls, and those under six years of age, or not in the East End. The details, unfortunately, are scattered throughout the pages."

He dutifully opened the next file, and scanned. They settled into a rhythm, he discarding the files of girls, younger children, and those outside the East End, while she studied the details of the remaining files, searching presumably for some feature that would tell her she'd found the likely lad she recalled.

Ten minutes passed in silence; her stiffness gradually eased. Eventually, without looking up, she stated, her tone almost accusing, "You got here an hour early."

Scanning the contents of the next file, he murmured, "You didn't seriously think I'd let you hie off on your own?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw her lips tighten. "I was under the impression gentlemen of your ilk lay abed until noon."

"I do." When I have female company in said bed, and —"When not chasing villains."

He thought he heard her humph, but she said nothing more. He continued to eliminate files; she continued to read.

"This is it—him." Holding up the file, she read, "Jemmie Carter. His mother lives in a tenement between Arnold Circus and Bethnal Green Road."

She glanced through the file again, then laid it on the pile.

He watched while she rounded her desk, picking up her reticule, and wondered if any purpose would be served by attempting to dissuade her.

Chin high, she swept past him on her way to the door. "We can get a hackney across the street."

She didn't even glance back to see if he was following. He turned and stalked in her wake.

Fifteen minutes later, they were rocking side to side in an ancient hackney as it rolled deeper and deeper into the stews. Barnaby eyed the decaying and decrepit fa?ades. The Clerkenwell Road had been bad enough; he wouldn't have brought any lady into this area, not by choice.

Leaning back against the seat, he studied Penelope. Holding tight to a strap, she was gazing steadily out at the dismal streets.

He couldn't put his finger on what, but something had changed. He'd expected some resistance, yet on walking into her office he'd encountered an amorphous yet steely barrier, effectively shielding her from him. When he'd taken her hand to help her into the hackney, she'd tensed as usual, but as if his effect on her was now muted to the point of triviality.

As if she'd dismissed it, and him, as inconsequential.

It was one thing to have his mental acuity rated more highly than his personal attributes; it was quite another to have said attributes entirely ignored.

He'd never considered himself vain—he was quite sure he wasn't—and he certainly wasn't the sort of gentleman who expected ladies to fall swooning at his feet, yet her refusal to acknowledge him as a man, her refusal to acknowledge the effect he had on her, was definitely starting to grate.

The carriage entered Arnold Circus, then drew in to the side of the narrow street.

"Far as I can go," the jarvey called down.

Meeting Penelope's gaze with a narrow-eyed look, Barnaby opened the door and stepped down. He glanced around, then moved to the side, giving her his hand as she descended and joined him. He looked up at the jarvey. "Wait here."

The man met his eye, read the message therein, and tapped the bill of his cap. "Right, sir."

Releasing Penelope's hand only to grip her elbow, he faced south. "Which street?"

"Which miserable alley" would have been more accurate.

She pointed to the second opening yawning on their right. "That one."

He guided her to it, then escorted her along, ignoring her narrow eyes and the thin-lipped looks she cast him. He wasn't letting go of her, not in this area; if he did she'd sweep ahead, expecting him to follow in her wake—from where he wouldn't be able to see trouble looming until after she walked into it.

He felt positively medieval.

She couldn't complain; the cause lay at her door.

It had been gloomy in Bloomsbury, but as they entered the narrow passage a depressing darkness closed in. The air hung oppressively close; no sun could reach between the overhanging eaves to warm the dank stones and rotting timbers. No breeze stirred the heavy miasma of smells.

The street had once been cobbled, but few stones remained. He steadied Penelope as she picked her way along.

Teeth gritted against the sensation of his fingers—long, strong, and warm—wrapped about her elbow, his grip, firm and uncompromisingly male, distracting her in ways she hadn't imagined possible, Penelope uttered a small prayer of relief when she recognized Mrs. Carter's door.

"This is it." Halting before it, she raised her free hand and rapped smartly.

While they waited for a response, she swore she would—without further delay—find some way to overcome Barnaby Adair's effect on her. It was that or succumb, and that she'd never do.

The door cracked open with a protesting creak. At first she thought it had come unlatched of its own accord, but then she glanced down and spotted the narrow, pinched face of a child peering out from the darkness within.

"Jemmie." She smiled, pleased her memories had been accurate.

When he didn't respond—didn't open the door wider—but remained staring warily up at her—and at Barnaby beyond—she realized that with the lack of light, he couldn't see her well enough to recognize her.

Smile brightening, she explained, "I'm the lady from the Foundling House." Waving at Barnaby, she added, "And this is Mr. Adair, a friend. We wondered if we might speak with your mother."

Jemmie studied her and Barnaby with large unblinking eyes. "Mum's not well."

"I know." Her voice softened. "We know she's not very well at all, but it's important that we speak with her."

Jemmie's lips quivered; he pressed them tight to still them. His small face tightened, holding worry and fear close. "If'n you're here to tell her you can't take me after all, you can just go. She don't need to hear anything more to worry her."

Moving slowly, Penelope crouched down so her face was level with Jemmie's. She spoke even more gently. "It's not that at all—just the opposite. We're here to reassure her—to tell her that we're definitely going to be looking after you, and that she's not to worry."

Jemmie stared into her eyes, then blinked rapidly. He studied her face, then glanced up at Barnaby. "Is that right?"

"Yes." Barnaby left it at that, the simple truth.

The boy heard it, accepted it. After examining him for a moment more, Jemmie edged back from the door. "She's in here."

Penelope rose, eased the door wider, and followed Jemmie into the short hall. Barnaby followed, ducking beneath the lintel. Even inside, if he stood straight the top of his curls came uncomfortably close to the peeling ceiling.

"This way." Jemmie led them into a room that was cramped, but infinitely cleaner than Barnaby had expected. Someone—he glanced at Jemmie—was making a huge effort to keep the place tidy and passably clean. More, there was a tattered bunch of violets perched in a pot on the windowsill, the splash of intense color incongruously cheery in the drab room.

A woman lay on a makeshift bed in one corner. Penelope moved past Jemmie and went to her side. "Mrs. Carter." Without hesitation, Penelope lifted the woman's hand from the rough blanket, cradling it between her own, even though, blinking in surprise, Mrs. Carter hadn't offered it. Penelope smiled warmly. "I'm Miss Ashford from the Foundling House."

The woman's face cleared. "Of course. I remember." A soft smile flitted over a face made gaunt by constant pain. Mrs. Carter had once been a pretty woman with fair hair and rosy cheeks, but the body in the bed was wasted, skin hanging on bone; her hand lay limp between Penelope's.

"We're here just to check on you and Jemmie, to make sure all's as well as might be at present, and to reassure you that when the time comes, we'll make sure Jemmie is taken care of. You've no need to worry."

"Why, thank you, dear." Mrs. Carter was too far gone for social awe to have much hold on her. Turning her head on the pillow, she looked toward her son and smiled. "He's a good boy. He's been taking such good care of me."

Regardless of her body's state, the brightness in Mrs. Carter's blue eyes suggested that she was yet some way from departing this earth. She still had some time left with her son.

"Let me tell you what Jemmie will be doing once he joins us." Penelope skimmed through the procedures Jemmie would go through in becoming a foundling, and moved briskly to the activities and facilities the house provided for its charges.

Barnaby glanced down at Jemmie, by his side. The boy wasn't listening to Penelope's words; his eyes were glued on his mother. As it became obvious Penelope's choice of subject was indeed soothing the sick woman, the tension in Jemmie's slight body eased.

Glancing back at the bed, Barnaby felt an unaccustomed tightness grip his chest. He couldn't imagine watching his mother die, even worse watching her waste slowly away before his eyes. Even less could he imagine doing so all alone.

An entirely unexpected gratefulness for his family—even for his mother, annoyingly determined female that she was—was joined by a certain respect for Jemmie. The boy was coping, and coping well with a situation Barnaby wouldn't want to face. Couldn't imagine facing.

He looked again at Jemmie. Even in the poor light, it was clear he was unnaturally thin and scrawny.

"So that's what will happen." Smiling easily, brightly, Penelope scanned Mrs. Carter's features. "We'll leave you now, but rest assured we'll fetch Jemmie when the time comes."

"Thank you, dear." Mrs. Carter looked up at Penelope as she straightened. "I'm glad my Jemmie's to go with you. I know you'll take good care of him."

Penelope's smile wobbled a trifle. "We will."

She turned for the door.

The room was so cramped, Barnaby had to edge around to let her past. Before turning to follow, he looked at Mrs. Carter, met her gaze, and inclined his head. "Ma'am. We'll make sure Jemmie's safe."

Turning to the door, he noticed Jemmie's attention had remained on his mother. He touched the boy's shoulder. When Jemmie looked up, he pointed to the hall.

A slight frown on his face, Jemmie followed him. With Penelope waiting just inside the front door, the tiny hall was crowded, but at least they could speak without disturbing Mrs. Carter. Jemmie paused just past the doorway, from where he could keep his mother in view.

Halting, Barnaby reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out all the small change he was carrying. He couldn't give Jemmie any sovereigns; possession of such wealth would put the boy at risk. "Here." Reaching out, he caught one of Jemmie's bony hands, turned it up, and poured the coins into his narrow palm.

Before Jemmie could react beyond a tightening of his jaw, he continued, "This isn't charity. It's a present for your mother. A surprise present. I don't want you to tell her about it, but you have to promise faithfully that you'll use the money in the one way that will mean most to her."

Jemmie's gaze had locked on the pile of copper and silver in his hand. His lips had pressed tight. A long moment passed before he looked up at Barnaby. His expression wasn't suspicious but wary. "What's the way that will mean most to her?"

"You have to eat." Barnaby held Jemmie's gaze. "I know her appetite is poor, but there's nothing you or anyone can do about that. Don't waste the money on delicacies to tempt her—they won't work. She's past that. But the one thing that will make her happy, make her last weeks and months happier, is to see you well. I know it'll feel wrong when she's not eating, but for her, you have to force yourself to eat—more than you have been."

Jemmie dropped his gaze.

Barnaby paused, felt the tightness in his chest as he drew in another breath. " You are the most important thing in her life—the most important thing she's leaving behind. You are the one thing that matters most to her now, and you need to respect that, and take care of that—take care of you—for her."

He hesitated, then dropped a hand on Jemmie's skinny shoulder, lightly gripped, then released him. "I know it's not easy, but that's what you have to do." He paused, then asked, "Will you promise?"

Jemmie didn't look up. He kept his gaze fixed on the pile of shiny coins. A glistening droplet fell to slide over and into the pile. Then he nodded. "Yes." His voice was the barest whisper. "I promise."

Barnaby nodded, even though Jemmie couldn't see. "Good. Hide the coins."

Turning away, he joined Penelope by the door. She'd been watching silently. Her gaze remained on his face for an instant longer, then she turned, opened the door, and stepped outside. Ducking again, Barnaby followed her into the murky lane.

Jemmie, rubbing his sleeve across his face, came to the door. "Thank you." He looked up at Barnaby, then at Penelope. "Both of you."

Barnaby nodded. "Just remember your promise." He trapped Jemmie's gaze. "We'll be back to fetch you when the time comes."

Turning away, he took Penelope's arm. They made their way back toward Arnold Circus.

Looking ahead, Penelope said, "Thank you. That was very well done."

Barnaby shrugged. He glanced back at Mrs. Carter's door; it was shut. "So how do we keep Jemmie out of the hands of our villains?"

Penelope grimaced. "I had assumed we'd warn Mrs. Carter, and Jemmie, too, but as he said, she doesn't need any more worries."

Barnaby nodded. "And neither does he." After a moment, he went on, "And warning him won't do any good anyway. If our villains want him, they'll snatch him, and scrawny as he is he won't be able to fight them. Better for him if he doesn't try."

The bustle and brighter, less-shadowed gloom of Arnold Circus drew nearer. "I'll speak with Stokes." Barnaby glanced around as they emerged into the circular space. "He'll get the local bobbies to keep an eye on the house. What about neighbors? Are there any we could approach?"

"Unfortunately, neighbors aren't much use in this case. Mrs. Carter has only recently moved here—they used to live in a better street, but once she could no longer work, and Jemmie had to spend more time looking after her, they couldn't meet the rent. Her landlord here is an old friend of the family—he's not charging them anything for the rooms. It was he who convinced Mrs. Carter to send for us. But there's no one nearby she's comfortable with—no one she'd be happy watching over the place, or her and Jemmie. The landlord lives some streets away."

Reaching the hackney, Penelope halted, jaw firming. "I'll send to the landlord and alert him. I'm sure he'll keep as close an eye on the Carters as he can. I'll ask him to send word if he or anyone he knows sees anything suspicious."

Opening the door, Barnaby grasped her hand and helped her climb up, then followed her into the carriage. The instant the door clicked shut, the jarvey called to his horse and they set off on the long journey back to more fashionable streets.

"That seems all we can do." Barnaby looked out at the drab streetscape. His tone suggested he wished it weren't so, that there was something more definite they could reasonably do to protect Jemmie while not worrying his mother, possibly unnecessarily.

Penelope grimaced again; she, too, looked out of the window. And inwardly wrestled with not her conscience but something closely aligned—her sense of rightness, of truth, of giving praise where it was due.

Of acknowledging the totality—the humanity—of Barnaby Adair.

She would much rather consider him a typical ton gentleman, far distanced from the world through which the hackney was rolling—a man uninterested in and untouched by the wider issues she confronted every day.

Unfortunately, his vocation—the very aspect of him that had compelled her to seek his help—was proof positive that he was otherwise.

Seeing him deal with Jemmie, hearing the commitment in his voice when he'd told Mrs. Carter, a poor woman with no claim on his notice other than her need, that he would keep Jemmie safe, had made closing her eyes and her mind to his virtues—so much more attractive to her than any amount of rakish charm—impossible.

When he'd arrived at the Foundling House that morning, she'd been determined to keep him rigidly at a distance. To keep all their dealings purely business, to suppress each and every little leap her unruly nerves might make, giving him no reason whatever to imagine he had any inherent effect on her.

Her resolve had wavered—illogically—when he'd arrived early, demonstrating a far better grasp of her determination and will than any man of her acquaintance. But she'd quickly bolstered her resolve with said will and determination, and stuck to her plan of how to deal with him.

And then…he'd behaved in ways few other gentlemen would have, and earned her respect in a way and to a degree that no other man ever had.

In less than an hour, he'd made her plan untenable. She wasn't going to be able to ignore him—even pretend to ignore him—not when he'd made her admire him. Appreciate him. As a person, not just as a man.

Her gaze on the rundown houses slipping past, she inwardly acknowledged that in dealing with him, she would need to think again.

She needed a better plan.

Silence reigned until the hackney drew up outside the Foundling House. Barnaby shook himself free of his thoughts—of the disturbingly persistent need to stop Penelope from making visits such as the one just concluded. Opening the carriage door, he got out, handed her down, then paid off the jarvey, adding a hefty tip.

As the grateful jarvey rattled away, he turned, remembered not to grip her arm as he had in the stews—a protective action only their surroundings had excused—and instead took her hand and wound her arm in his.

She cast him a swift glance, but allowed it. He swung open the gate and they walked up the path to the house's front door.

He rang the bell.

She drew her hand from his arm and faced him. "I'll write a letter to Mrs. Carter's landlord immediately."

He nodded. "I'll contact Stokes and explain the situation." He met her eyes. "Where will you be this evening?"

Her large dark brown eyes blinked at him. "Why?"

Irritation swamped him, heightened by her transparently genuine blank look. "In case I think of anything more I need to know." He made it sound as if he was stating the obvious.

"Oh." She considered, as if mentally reviewing her diary. "Mama and I will be at Lady Moffat's party."

"I'll look you up if I need any further information." To his relief, the door opened. He nodded to Mrs. Keggs, bowed briefly to Penelope, then turned and walked away.

Before he said something even more inane.