6

A t three o'clock that afternoon Stokes presented himself at Griselda Martin's front door. She was waiting to let him in. The blinds screening the front window and the glass panel in the door were already drawn. Her apprentices were nowhere in sight.

She noted the hackney he had waiting in the street. "I'll just get my bonnet and bag."

He waited in the doorway while she bustled back behind the curtain, then reappeared a moment later, tying a straw bonnet over her dark hair. Even to Stokes's eyes, the bonnet looked stylish.

She came forward, briskly waving him down the steps ahead of her. She followed, closing and locking the door behind her. Dropping the heavy key into her cloth bag, she joined him on the pavement.

He walked beside her the few paces to the hackney, opened the carriage door, and offered her his hand.

She stared at it for a moment, then put her hand in his. Very aware of the fragility of the fingers he grasped, he helped her into the carriage. "What direction should I give?"

"The corner of Whitechapel and New Road."

He conveyed the information to their driver, then joined her inside. The instant the door shut, the carriage jerked and started rolling.

She was seated opposite him; he couldn't stop his gaze from resting on her. She didn't fidget, as most did under his eye, but he noticed she was clutching the bag she'd placed in her lap rather tightly.

He forced himself to look away, but the fa?ades slipping past couldn't hold his attention. Or his gaze; it kept returning to her, until he knew if he didn't say something, his steady regard would unnerve her.

All he could think of was, "I want to thank you for agreeing to help me."

She looked at him, met his gaze squarely. "You're trying to rescue four young boys, and possibly more besides. Of course I'll help you—what sort of woman wouldn't?"

What sort of woman had he expected her to be?

He hastened to reassure her. "I only meant that I was grateful." He hesitated, then went on, "And if truth be told, not all women would be keen to get involved with the police."

She studied him for a moment, then gave a soft sniff and looked away.

He felt fairly certain the dismissive sniff had been directed at women who wouldn't get involved, not at him.

After further cogitation, he decided silence was the better part of valor. At least after their exchange, however brief, she was no longer clutching her bag quite so nervously.

As directed, the hackney halted at the corner of Whitechapel Road and New Road. Stokes descended first. Griselda found herself being handed down with the same care he'd used to help her into the carriage. It wasn't a courtesy to which she was accustomed, but she rather thought she could get used to it.

Unlikely as that was to be; Stokes and she were here on business, nothing else.

He ordered the driver to wait for them. Dragging a breath into lungs that seemed suddenly tight—she must have laced her walking gown too tightly—she lifted her chin and waved down the street. "This way."

During the drive she'd surreptitiously watched him, studying his dark-featured face for any sign of him turning up his nose as they'd penetrated deeper into the old neighborhoods. She wasn't ashamed of her origins, but she knew well enough how the East End was viewed. But she'd detected no hint of contempt, no turning up of his arrogant, bladelike nose.

Then, as now, he looked about him with a certain detached interest. He strode easily, effortlessly, by her side, scanning the ramshackle houses pressed tight together, holding one another up. He saw all there was to see, but evinced no sign of passing judgment.

She felt just a little easier—less tense—as she led the way down Fieldgate Street, then took the second turning on the left, into familiar territory. She'd been born and raised in Myrdle Street. They drew level with her father's house; she paused beside the single front step and met Stokes's eyes. "I was born here. In this house." Just so he'd know.

He nodded. She looked, closely, but saw nothing in his face or his changeable gray eyes but curiosity.

Feeling rather more confident as to how the next half hour would go, she raised a hand and tapped on the door—three sharp raps—then opened the door and went in.

"Grizzy-girl! That you?" Her father's voice was scratchy with age.

"Yes, Da, it's me. I've brought a visitor." Setting down her bag in the tiny front room, she led the way into the room beyond.

Her father was propped up in his bed-cum-chair, an old ginger cat curled up in his lap, purring under his hand. He looked up as she entered, eyes brightening as they met hers, then widening as they moved on to fix on the presence at her back.

She was relieved to see that her father was wide awake, and also reasonably pain-free. "Did the doctor call this morning?"

"Aye." Her father's reply was absentminded. "Left another bottle of tonic."

She saw the bottle on the scarred dresser.

"Who's this?" Narrow-eyed, her father was studying Stokes.

Griselda sent Stokes a brief, warning look. "This is Mr. Stokes." She drew a deep breath, then said, "Inspector Stokes—he's an inspector from Scotland Yard."

"A rozzer?" Her father's tone made it clear that wasn't an occupation he held in high regard.

"Yes, that's right." She pulled up a chair and sat, taking one of her father's hands in hers. "But if you'll let me explain why he's here—"

"Actually," Stokes cut in. "It might be better, sir, if I explain why I've prevailed on your daughter to arrange this meeting."

She glanced at Stokes, but he was looking at her father.

Who grumped, but nodded. "Aye—all right. What's this about then?"

Stokes told him, simply, directly, without any embellishment.

At one point her father cut him off to wave him to a stool. "Sit down—you're so damned tall you're giving me a crick."

She caught the flash of Stokes's smile as he complied, then continued his tale. By the time he'd completed it, her father had lost all suspicions of this rozzer at least. He and Stokes were soon engrossed in evaluating the likely local villains.

Feeling unexpectedly redundant, Griselda rose. Stokes glanced up, but her father reclaimed his attention. Nevertheless, as she left the room, she felt the weight of Stokes's attention. In the cramped lean-to kitchen, she raddled the stove, then boiled the kettle and made tea. Returning to the front room, she extracted the biscuits she'd remembered to stuff in her bag, then laid them out on a clean plate.

Arranging the teapot, three mugs, and the plate on a wooden tray, she carried it into the small bedroom. Her father brightened at the sight of the biscuits; she felt her heart constrict when Stokes noticed, reached over, lifted the plate, and offered it to him. Delighted, her father helped himself, then returned to their discussion.

After handing out the mugs, Griselda sat. She didn't listen, but instead let the cadence of her father's voice wash over her, watched his face, more animated than she'd seen it in years—and silently gave thanks that she'd agreed to bring Stokes to see him.

Having an interest in life kept old people living; she wasn't yet ready to let her father go.

They finished their tea, and the biscuits. She rose, tidied the tray, and carried it back to the kitchen. She returned in time to see Stokes get to his feet, tucking his black notebook into his pocket while he thanked her father for his time.

"And your help." Stokes smiled easily; he had, she'd noticed, a smile that, although he didn't flash it often, inspired confidences. "Your information is exactly what I needed." His gaze locked with her father's, his smile grew wry. "I know assisting the rozzers with their inquiries isn't something that's encouraged around here, so I doubly value your help."

Her father, she could tell, was inwardly preening, but he hid it behind a manly nod and a gruff, "You just find those boys and get them back."

"If there's any justice in this world, with your help, we will." Stokes glanced at her.

She went to her father and fussed, straightening the blanket over his legs, reminding him that Mrs. Pickles next door would bring his dinner in an hour, then she kissed him on the cheek and bade him good-bye. He was settling down for a nap, an unusually contented smile on his face, when she joined Stokes in the tiny front room. Picking up her bag, she led the way to the door.

Stokes held it for her, then followed her out, making sure the latch caught behind them.

They were walking up the street when he asked, "Is he your only family?"

She nodded. Hesitated, then added, "My three brothers were killed in the wars. My mother died when we were young."

Stokes nodded.

He said nothing more, merely strode along by her side, yet within a few paces she felt compelled to add, "I wanted him to move to St. John's Wood with me." She gestured about them. "There's no call for a milliner around here. But he was born in this street, too, and this place is his home, with all his friends around, so here he'll stay."

She felt Stokes's glance, sharper, more assessing, but even now not judgmental. "So you come and visit him often."

Not a question, but she nodded. "I come as often as I can, but that's usually only once a week. Still, he has others—like Mrs. Pickles and the doctor—to keep an eye on him, and they all know how to reach me if there's any need."

He nodded again, but said nothing more. The obvious question leapt to her tongue; she bit it, then decided there was no reason she should. "Do you have any family living?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. She was wondering if she'd stepped over some invisible line when he replied, "Yes. My father's a merchant in Colchester. I haven't seen him…not for a while. Like you, my mother died some time ago, but I was an only child."

He said no more, but she got the impression that he hadn't just been an only, but also a lonely child.

The jarvey was where they'd left him. When they were in the hackney heading back to St. John's Wood, she asked, "So what now with your investigation?"

Stokes glanced at her; his hesitation suggested he was considering whether he should tell her or not, but then he said, "Your father gave me eight names of possible schoolmasters. He had directions for some, but not all. I'll need to check each one to see if they might be the villain behind our lads' disappearances, but any inquiries will have to be made very carefully. The last thing we want is for the schoolmaster, whoever he is, to realize we're taking an interest. Once he does, he'll up stakes and disappear into the slums, taking the boys with him—we'll never catch him and we'll have scuppered our chance to rescue the boys."

She nodded. After a moment she said, "You can't just wander in and ask, you know." Catching his eye, she wondered why she was doing this—why she was about to get further involved in a police investigation. "The locals will know who—and what—you are. No matter what disguise you put on, you'll still not be ‘one of us.'"

He grimaced. "There's little option beyond using the local rozzers, and they—"

"Won't be spoken to, either." She paused, then said, "I, however, can still move among the locals. They know who I am—they trust me. I'm still one of them."

He'd tensed. A dark turbulence came into his eyes. "I can't let you do that. It's too dangerous."

She shrugged. "I'll dress down, let my accent come through. And there'll be far less danger for me than for you."

He held her gaze, and she knew he was torn.

"You need my help—those boys need my help."

Lips compressed, he stared at her, then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "I'll agree to you asking questions on one condition, and one condition only. I go with you."

She opened her mouth to point out the obvious.

He silenced her with an upraised hand. "I can pass well enough in disguise, as long as I don't have to talk. You can do the talking. I'll be there purely for your protection—but I must be there, or you don't go."

She longed to ask him how he intended to stop her, but if her father heard she was asking questions about schoolmasters he would worry, and there was no question but that having Stokes at her shoulder would, even in the roughest sections of the East End, count as very good protection.

Relaxing back against the seat, she nodded. "Very well. We'll go together."

Some of the tension holding him eased.

She glanced out, and realized they were back in St. John's Wood High Street. The carriage rocked to a halt before her door. Stokes descended, and handed her out. She could, she decided, get used to being treated like a lady.

Shaking out her skirts, she glanced at her door, then turned and met his gaze. "So when should we go back?"

He frowned. "Not tomorrow. I should share the information we've uncovered with a colleague—the one who brought the case to my attention. He might have news that will help us to fix on which of our possible villains is the most likely."

"Very well." She inclined her head. "I'll wait to hear from you."

He fell in beside her as she walked the few feet to her front steps. As she climbed them, then hunted for her key and unlocked the door, she was aware of him looking at the shop, as if with new eyes.

The door open, she turned and regarded him, brows lifting faintly in query.

His elusive smile flashed. He looked down for a moment, then lifted his head. "I was just thinking you must have worked very hard to get from the East End to here." His eyes trapped hers. "That in itself is a significant accomplishment. That you've retained the ability to move in your original circles—while I'm grateful for the benefits that brings my investigation"—he paused, then continued, his voice lower, softer—"I also find that admirable."

He held her gaze for a breathless instant, then inclined his head. "Good evening, Miss Martin. I'll be in touch in a day or so, once I have news."

He turned and made his way unhurriedly down the steps.

It took a moment and more to shake free of her surprise, to register that yes, he had indeed paid her a compliment, and no little one at that. Feeling suddenly exposed, she stepped inside and shut the door, then hesitated. With one fingertip she eased aside the blind—and watched his departing back, savoring the elegant lines, the muscular grace of his stride, until he climbed into the hackney and shut the door.

With a mental sigh, she let the blind fall and listened to the clop of hooves slowly fade.

That evening, Barnaby did something he'd never done. He propped one shoulder against a fashionable matron's wall and over the heads of the assembled throng studied a young lady across the room.

For once he was grateful that the matron in question, Lady Moffat, had a drawing room whose small size was at odds with her extensive acquaintance. Despite the continuing exodus of ton families from the capital, enough remained to ensure that the crowd packed into the limited space gave him adequate cover.

Within the ton, such cover was thinning by the day. Just when, for the first time in his life, he had need of it. His mother, he felt sure, would laugh herself into stitches if she learned of his predicament.

She'd laugh even more if she could see him.

He didn't have any question to ask Penelope yet here he was, watching her. He'd decided he may as well obsess over her in person, rather than sit at home staring into the fire and seeing her face in the flames. Alone, by himself, he would think of nothing but her; no other subject, not even the puzzling case she'd brought him, served to break her spell.

The saner, more rational part of him felt he should be stubbornly resisting her lure. The rest of him, led by a more primitive side he hadn't previously thought he possessed, had already surrendered.

As if the notion flitting about the corners of his mind were inevitable.

As if it were a truth he couldn't—wouldn't be able to no matter how hard he tried—deny.

His sophisticated self scoffed, and assured him he was merely intrigued by a lady so very different from all others he'd met.

His more primitive self wasn't listening.

His more primitive self was observing the men gathering about her through ever-narrowing eyes. When Hellicar swanned into contention, he inwardly swore, pushed away from the wall, and headed in her direction.

Penelope was holding her own against an annoying clutch of would-be suitors when she glimpsed Barnaby through the crowd. The whirl of emotions that afflicted her when she realized he was heading her way was a warning; excitement, trepidation, and a seductive thrill were a novel and unsettling mix.

Sternly ordering her stupid senses to bear up, she refocused on Harlan Rigby's aristocratic countenance. He was presently holding forth on the pleasures of the chase, something she was well acquainted with having grown up in Leicestershire with hunting-mad brothers. Unfortunately it was beyond Rigby's comprehension that a mere female might know anything about anything. Even more unfortunately, as he was possessed of a sizable fortune along with passable looks, not even Hellicar at his most pointed had succeeded in puncturing Rigby's self-assurance, let alone opened his eyes to the simple fact that the route to her favors did not lie in belittling her intelligence.

Rigby was an afflicting ailment she had yet to learn how to treat.

Barnaby appeared, by some magic convincing the younger gentlemen to make space for him beside her. That left her flanked by him and Hellicar, but still facing Rigby.

Smiling welcomingly, she gave Barnaby her hand. Rigby paused in his ponderous discourse while Barnaby bowed and he and she exchanged greetings, but then Rigby drew breath, opened his large mouth—

"It seems rather stuffy in here." Apparently oblivious of Rigby, Barnaby trapped her gaze. He'd kept hold of her hand; he lightly squeezed her fingers. "It's too cold to stroll the terrace, but perhaps you'd care to take a turn in the salon." He raised his brows. "I believe that's a waltz commencing, if you'd care to indulge?"

She beamed delightedly. Anyone who saved her from Rigby and his views on the best way to husband hounds was worthy of her undying gratitude. "Thank you. It is rather oppressive. A waltz will be just the thing."

Inclining his head, Barnaby set her hand on his sleeve, covering her fingers with his.

Nerves clenching at the subtle touch, she turned to her circle of unwanted admirers. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen?"

Most had watched the byplay between her and Barnaby with interest, much along the lines of where he went, they might soon follow.

All except Rigby. Frowning, he fixed her with a puzzled look. "But, Miss Ashford, I've yet to tell you of my success with the latest round of crossbreeding with whippets." His tone made it clear he couldn't believe she didn't want to hear every last detail.

She wasn't sure how to answer; the very thought she might want to know such a thing made her brain seize.

Her white knight stepped in. "I find it hard to believe, Rigby, that you're unaware that Calverton, Miss Ashford's brother, is a renowned breeder of prize hounds." Barnaby's lips curved. "Are you smothering her with your procedures in the hope of winkling family secrets from her?"

Rigby blinked. "What?"

A snort sounded on Penelope's right—Hellicar smothering a bark of laughter. The other gentlemen fought to hide smiles.

Barnaby's smile turned apologetic. He glanced at Penelope, then nodded to Rigby. "I'm desolated to cut short your time for interrogating Miss Ashford, old man, but the lady desires to waltz." With a general nod, he drew her out of the circle. "If you'll excuse us?"

All the others bowed, amused. Rigby simply stared as if he couldn't believe she was deserting him.

But she was, for a much more challenging proposition. Barnaby led her to the archway separating the drawing room from the salon beyond, in which couples were dancing. A string quartet was crowded into an alcove at one end, laboring to be heard over a hundred conversations. They'd just played the opening bars of a waltz.

"I didn't think my ears had played me false." Barnaby glanced down and met her eyes. "Were you serious about dancing, or were you merely seizing the opportunity to escape Rigby?"

He was giving her a chance to avoid the effects that waltzing with him was sure to provoke. If she was wise, she'd take it…but she wasn't such a coward.

"I would like to waltz." With you. She didn't say the words, but the sudden intentness in his eyes made her wonder if he'd heard them—guessed them. Without another word, he drew her forward, onto the floor, into his arms, then whirled her into the swirling throng.

As previously with him, the revolutions of the dance swept her away. Left her senses giddy. Left her wits reeling.

Pleasurably.

They didn't speak again, exchanged not one word, not aloud. But their gazes locked and held, and communication seemed to flow without speech, on another plane, in a different dimension. In a different language.

A language of the senses.

One large hand, warm and strong at her back, the other clasping her fingers firmly, he held her with a confidence that left her free to relax, to dispense with her customary distrust of her partners and revel in the swirling motion, the quick, tight turns, the reverses and checks, in the masterful way he steered her around the floor.

Masterful men, she concluded, had their place—even with her.

The music flowed over and around them. The magical moment stretched; the subtle pleasure sank to her bones, taking hold and soothing her in some inexplicable way. Like a large warm hand stroking her senses.

She felt like a contented cat. If she could have, she would have purred. Instead, she didn't—couldn't—stop smiling, softly, gently, as they whirled and she floated on a cloud of delight.

After a time, he smiled, too, in that same, quietly satisfied way. They didn't need words to communicate their shared pleasure.

Too soon the musicans reached the end of the measure. Barnaby halted with a flourish. He bowed; she bobbed the regulation curtsy, and with an inward sigh returned to the world.

He settled her hand on his sleeve and turned her toward the drawing room.

Her senses were still waltzing, but her wits had reconnected—enough to recall her to the pertinent point that as he was there, he must have questions.

She glanced at his face, waited a heartbeat, but he seemed in no rush to pursue his inquiries. She looked ahead, smiling politely at those they passed. She was content to let the moment stretch, to just be together, him and her, with no investigation intruding—content to imagine, just for that moment, that investigating wasn't the reason he was there.

But it was, and now she'd thought of it…inwardly sighing, she asked, "What was it you wanted to know?"

He looked down at her, puzzlement clear in his blue eyes.

"The investigation," she prompted. "What did you come here to ask?"

The expression in his eyes blanked, then his lips tightened and he looked ahead; locating her mother, he tacked in her direction.

"Well?" she prodded, hoping he realized her mother had no knowledge of the situation at the Foundling House. That they even had a situation, let alone that she'd recruited him to investigate and she was investigating, too.

"Just give me a minute to think," he muttered, still looking ahead. Not looking at her.

She blinked. Perhaps he'd forgotten what he'd come to ask, and couldn't remember. Perhaps the waltz had distracted him, too.

Or perhaps…

He led her to a spot beside the chaise on which her mother sat, chatting to Lady Horatia Cynster. Both ladies smiled benevolently at their approach, but immediately returned to their discussion.

Suddenly very certain she needed to know what had brought him to Lady Moffat's, she drew her hand from his sleeve, faced him, and fixed him with an interrogatory stare.

Barnaby met it. Lips firming, he extemporized, "Stokes wasn't in when I called this afternoon. I left a note explaining the situation with Jemmie Carter—Stokes will no doubt order a guard, but I'll go and see him tomorrow morning regardless. Wherever he was, he was working on this case—he and I need to consolidate what we know and plan our next step."

Penelope's eyes lit up. "I'll come, too."

Barnaby inwardly swore; he'd only told her what he had to excuse his presence, not to tantalize her. "There's no need—"

"Of course there is. I'm the one who knows most about these boys—the four who've been taken and Jemmie." Her dark eyes darkened further; he got the impression she was expending effort not to frown. "Besides," she continued, her diction crisp, "I'm the one who initiated the investigation—I have a right to know what's being done."

He argued. In forceful terms, albeit keeping his voice low.

She regarded him mulishly, and gave not one inch. When he ran out of arguments, she tartly commented, "I don't know why you bother. You know perfectly well I won't change my mind—and if I choose to call on Inspector Stokes, there's nothing you can do to stop me."

He could think of a few things, but all involved rope. Exasperated, he exhaled through his teeth. "All right."

She gifted him with a smile—a tight one. "See? That didn't hurt a bit."

"Much you know."

She heard the mumbled grumble, but forbore to comment. She looked out at the guests. "What time do you imagine calling on Stokes?"

Lips tight, he considered, then surrendered. "I'll call for you at ten."

She didn't react for a moment, then inclined her head. "I'll be waiting."

A warning, but he'd expected no less. Once she set her mind on a path she was…as ungovernable as he.

In his mind he could hear his mother laughing riotously.

He had half a mind to retreat, to excuse himself and depart. From the way she held herself, slightly stiff by his side, and the quick sidelong glances she darted his way, that was what she expected him to do. To cut his losses and run.

But he'd already lost all he could that night; there was nothing more he could concede.

And the night was yet young; there would probably be another waltz or two, and in this style of gathering there were no sharp-eyed dowagers keeping track of who danced how many times with whom.

He glanced at Lady Calverton, still absorbed with Lady Cynster. Perhaps there was more he could salvage from the night; he might as well remain, and reap what benefits he could.

In that vein, the first order of business was to thaw the ice maiden by his side. Glancing at her clear profile, he asked, "Is Rigby always so pompous?"

She glanced at him, suspicious, but after a moment, she answered.

After that, courtesy of him paying close attention, enough to keep the reins firmly in his grasp, the remainder of the evening went his way.

"Good evening, Smythe." The gentleman who called himself Mr. Alert—he prided himself on being forever alert to the possibilities fate sent his way—watched as his henchman, silhouetted against the moonlit night as he stood in the open French door, glanced around the unlit parlor.

The town house in St. John's Wood Terrace had proved very useful to Alert. As usual when he met with his rougher associates, the only source of light in the room was the glowing embers of a dying fire.

"Do come in and sit down." Alert clung to his fashionable drawl, knowing that it emphasized the distinction between himself and Smythe. Master and servant. "I don't believe we need any great deal of light to conclude our business—do you?"

Smythe fixed him with a hard, direct, but carefully unchallenging glance. "As you wish." A large, hulking brute of a man, surprisingly quick and agile for his size, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door carefully, then picked his way around the shadowy furniture to the armchair set opposite the one Alert occupied by the hearth.

Relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, the picture of a gentleman at his ease, Alert smiled encouragingly as Smythe sat. "Excellent." He drew a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. "I have here the list of houses to which we'll need to gain access. Eight addresses in all, all in Mayfair. As I made clear at our last meeting, it's imperative—absolutely essential—that we burgle all these houses in a single night." He locked his eyes on Smythe's. "I take it you and Grimsby have made suitable arrangements?"

Smythe nodded. "Grimsby is still a few boys short, but he says he'll have all eight soon."

"And you're confident not only that he can supply the right number and style of boy, but that the training he provides will be up to scratch?"

"Aye. He knows the ropes, and I've used boys from him before."

"Indeed. But this time you're working for me. As I believe I've stressed, this is a game with high stakes, far higher than any you've played for previously." Alert held Smythe's gaze. "You need to be sure—indeed, you need to be able to assure me—that your tools will be up to the task."

Smythe didn't blink, didn't shift. "They will be." When Alert's expression made it clear he expected more, he grudgingly added, "I'll make sure of it."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"I know where he's getting the boys. With the date you've given me, we've time to make sure we have the right number, and have them properly trained." Smythe hesitated, as if—finally—considering the eventualities, then went on, "I'll stop by Grimsby's and make sure he understands how…serious we are about this."

Alert permitted himself a small smile. "Do. I see no reason for us to find ourselves in difficulties because Grimsby didn't adequately comprehend, as you put it, the seriousness of our endeavor."

Smythe's gaze dropped to the list in Alert's hand. "I'll need those addresses."

The addresses were Alert's primary contribution to their game, together with the list of items to be stolen—he prefered the term "liberated"—from each house. "Not just yet." Lifting his gaze, he met Smythe's frown. "I'll hand it over in good time for you to do the necessary reconnoitering, but as you said, we've plenty of time."

No fool, Smythe understood that Alert didn't trust him. A moment passed, then he stood. "I'll get moving, then."

Remaining seated, Alert nodded a dismissal. "I'll arrange our next meeting as I did this one. Unless I leave word otherwise, we'll meet here."

With a curt nod, Smythe retraced his steps to the French door, and let himself out.

Wreathed in shadows, Alert smiled. All was going according to plan. His need for money had in no way eased—indeed, courtesy of the visit he'd endured yesterday from the fiend into whose clutches he'd unwittingly fallen, and the latest arrangement for repayment to which he'd been forced to agree, that need would only escalate with every passing day—yet his salvation was at hand. There was, he'd discovered, a certain satisfaction—a thrill, in fact—in cheating fate, and society, through the simple application of his admittedly devious brain.

He had no doubt that with his knowledge and Smythe's talents—and Grimsby's tools—he would come about, and that handsomely. As well as freeing him from the shackles of London's most notorious cent-per-cent, his scheme would significantly bolster his nonexistent fortune.

Fate, as he well knew, favored the bold.

Glancing down at the list of houses he still held, he considered it—and saw superimposed the other, even more important list that was its mate, the list of the items to be liberated from each house.

He'd chosen carefully. Only one item from each address. Chances were they wouldn't even be missed, not until the families returned in March, and possibly not even then. And once they were…the staff of the houses would be the obvious suspects.

By all accounts, Smythe was a master of his trade. He—or rather the boys he used—would be in and out without leaving any trace.

And there wouldn't be any fences involved to later assist the authorities. He'd eliminated the need. Knowing the world of the ton as he did—and the Lord knew he'd studied it avidly—he'd appreciated that a judicious choice of items would ensure immediate resale, and on his terms.

He already had collectors keen to acquire the items, no questions asked. Selling to such people would ensure they never even contemplated exposing him. And the prices they were willing to pay would easily free him of the debt currently weighing him down, even with the constantly increasing load.

Slipping the list of houses back in his pocket, he smiled even more broadly. Of course, the items were much more valuable than he'd intimated to Smythe, but he couldn't imagine that a burglar from the East End would ever guess their true worth.

He would need to be careful, but he could handle Smythe, and Smythe would handle Grimsby.

All was going precisely as he wished. And soon he would be as wealthy as everyone in his life thought him to be.