7

T he following morning, on Barnaby Adair's arm, Penelope climbed the steps of a nondescript building on Great Scotland Yard.

Her curiosity was running high. She'd heard all the commonly told tales of Peel's Police Force, the tonnish rumblings that had accompanied its establishment and consequent development over the last years, but this was the first time she'd come into contact with members of said force. More, other than Adair, she knew of no one who had visited its headquarters; she was agog to see what the place was like.

As he ushered her into the front foyer—a depressingly ordinary area in uninspiring shades of gray—she looked around, keen to see whatever there was to be seen. Quite aside from appeasing her natural inquisitiveness, concentrating on absorbing all she could about the police force helped avoid absorbing more about Adair—his nearness, his strength, his unfailing handsomeness—items from which her misbehaving senses steadfastly refused to be distracted.

Inwardly lecturing herself, she studied the only distraction the foyer offered—a little man in a dark blue uniform seated on a high stool behind a raised counter along one side. He glanced up, saw her—but then saw Adair. Raising a hand in an acknowledging salute, the man returned to his ledgers.

She frowned and looked about. Other than some clerk disappearing into the nether regions there was no one else around. "Is this where they deal with criminals? It seems awfully quiet."

"No. This building houses the senior investigating officers. There are bobbies in the building next door and a watch house down the street." She felt Adair's gaze touch her face. "We won't be running into any villains today."

Inwardly she grimaced, and prayed Stokes proved better fodder for distraction. After last night and the two reckless waltzes she'd shared with Adair, she needed something to focus on—something other than him. The increasing intensity of her reaction to him was disturbing in a way that tantalized as much as bothered her.

He steered her to the stairs at the end of the foyer. As they climbed, she reminded herself that thinking of him as Adair, rather than Barnaby, would help in keeping him at a sensible distance. Despite her earlier resolution, she'd yet to define a way forward—a way of dealing with him that would nullify the effect he had on her nerves, her senses, and, to her supreme irritation, sometimes her wits.

Unfortunately, her failure to devise an effective plan had left her wayward senses free to seize the day and slip their leash, and wallow as they would. As they had during those waltzes last night. As they had this morning when he'd arrived as promised to escort her there.

As they still were.

Mentally gritting her teeth, she vowed that the instant she had a moment to spare, she was going to find some way to make them stop.

At the head of the stairs Adair guided her to the right, down a long corridor. "Stokes's office is down here."

He led her to an open door; his hand brushed the back of her waist as he ushered her through, sending unwelcome awareness streaking through her.

Luckily, the man—gentleman?—seated behind the desk gave her something else to think about. He glanced up as she entered, then laid aside his pen and rose.

To his full, imposing six-foot height.

After returning from Glossup Hall, Portia had described Stokes to her, but as Portia had, by then, been engaged to Simon Cynster, her description had, Penelope now realized, lacked a certain depth.

Stokes was, to her eyes, quite fascinating. Not in the same way Adair, close by on her right, was, thank heaven; Stokes engaged her curiosity and piqued her interest on quite a different plane. She immediately sensed he was something of an enigma; while her mind instantly latched on to that promising fact, her senses and her nerves remained entirely unaffected.

Walking forward, she smiled and held out her hand. "Inspector Stokes."

He studied her for a heartbeat, then reached across the desk and shook her hand. He shot a quick glance at Adair. "Miss Ashford, I presume?"

"Indeed. Mr. Adair and I are here to consult with you on the matter of our missing boys."

Stokes hesitated, then looked at Barnaby, who had no difficulty reading the questions in his friend's eyes.

"This Miss Ashford is even less conventional than her sister." He let Stokes read his resignation—that he hadn't brought her there willingly—then moved to position one of the chairs before the desk for her.

She sat, smiling amiably. Stokes resumed his seat. Setting another chair beside Penelope's, Barnaby sat and crossed his legs. He harbored not a single doubt that Penelope was set on immersing herself in all aspects of the investigation. He and Stokes would have to, at some point, draw a line and curtail her involvement, although he'd yet to fathom exactly how.

Regardless, until she reached the point beyond which it was unsafe for her to go, he saw no real benefit in attempting to rein her in.

Stokes focused on him. "I got your note about the Carters. I had cause to visit Aldgate watch house this morning, and discussed the situation with the sergeant there." He glanced at Penelope. "We have to exercise caution so that we don't alert those involved to our interest in them—if we do, we'll lose all chance of rescuing the boys already taken. If Mrs. Carter's death is imminent, then mounting an around-the-clock watch would possibly be worth the risk—possibly." He locked eyes with Penelope. "Do you know if she's expected to die soon?"

She held his gaze, then grimaced and glanced at Barnaby. "After meeting her, I would have to say no."

"So it could be weeks, even months, before this boy, Jemmie, becomes a target?" Stokes pressed.

Penelope sighed. "I checked with Mrs. Keggs—the Foundling House's matron—after seeing the Carters yesterday. Mrs. Keggs has trained as a nurse. She's visited the Carters recently, and her opinion, confirmed by the local doctor, is that Mrs. Carter has at least three months more."

Stokes nodded. "So Jemmie Carter is not at immediate risk, and setting a watch on him might well work against us. However, if our more direct avenues of investigation fail, we may need to pursue him and others like him to pick up a trail."

Remembering Jemmie, seeing the boy in his mind's eye, Barnaby reluctantly nodded. "You're right—a watch for any length of time might well put the boys already taken at greater risk." Meeting Stokes's gaze, he asked, "So if you ‘had cause to visit' an East End watch house this morning, can I infer that you've found some other way forward?"

Stokes hesitated. To Barnaby it was clear he was feeling his way over Penelope; he wasn't at all sure how much he should say before her.

Penelope spoke before he could. "Rest assured, Inspector, nothing you say will shock me. I'm here to assist in whatever way I can, and am determined to see our four missing boys rescued and the villains exposed."

Stokes's brows rose a fraction, but he inclined his head. "A laudable stance, Miss Ashford."

Barnaby hid a smile; Stokes had clearly been polishing his tact.

"Very well." Stokes settled his forearms on his desk and clasped his hands. He glanced from Penelope to Barnaby. "As I mentioned yesterday, I knew of a contact who I hoped would help me gain better insight into the identities and whereabouts of burglary schoolmasters who might be currently active in the East End. Through my contact, I was introduced to a man who's lived all his life in the area. He gave me eight names, together with some addresses, although by the nature of their business these villains move constantly so the latter are likely not to be of much help."

Stokes drew a sheet from a pile beside his blotter. "This morning I visited Aldgate watch house. The police there verified my list, and added one more name." He glanced at Barnaby. "So we have nine individuals to pursue." He transferred his gaze to Penelope. "But we have no guarantee at this point that any of these men are involved in this particular case."

Following Stokes's gaze, Barnaby saw Penelope nod—saw the gleam of engaged alertness in her eyes.

"That's excellent progress, Inspector—you've moved a great deal faster than I'd dared hope. I do understand that nothing is yet certain, but we now have a place to start—a route through which to learn more of active burglary schools. Your contact has certainly advanced our cause materially—can I ask you for their name? I'd like to send a note from the Foundling House expressing our gratitude. It never hurts to encourage people when they've been helpful."

Barnaby inwardly winced. He straightened in his chair. He was about to explain to Penelope that revealing contacts was something an investigator never did, when he saw something that froze the words in his throat.

Color was rising in Stokes's lean cheeks.

Observing the phenomenon, registering Penelope tilting her head as she did the same, Barnaby eased back in his chair again, and left Stokes to her.

Raising her brows, she prompted, "Inspector?"

Stokes shot Barnaby a glance—only to see that he'd get no help from him. He was now as intrigued as Penelope. Lips thinning, Stokes cleared his throat and met Penelope's gaze. "Miss Martin, a milliner in St. John's Wood High Street, hails originally from the East End. I met her while investigating another crime to which she was a witness. When I approached her with our present case, Miss Martin suggested introducing me to her father—he's lived in the area all his life, and now he's bedridden he spends most of his days listening and talking about what's going on around about."

"He gave you the names?" Penelope asked.

Stokes nodded. "However, as I said, we've no guarantee our list will lead to your four boys."

"But those individuals, even if they're not connected in any way with this latest incident, are surely the most likely to have heard if someone else is actively involved in their trade. They might well be able to help us locate our villain and thus rescue the boys."

Stokes shook his head. "No—it won't be that easy. Consider."

As Stokes leaned forward, Barnaby noticed that his friend was rapidly losing his reticence over interacting with Penelope; like Barnaby, he was starting to treat her as a coinvestigator.

"If we go into the East End," Stokes continued, "and openly inquire whether any of these men are currently running a burglary school, no one will say they are, even if they are. Instead, the instant we go away, whoever we ask will most likely send word to the men we've inquired about, and tell them questions are being asked. That's how the East End operates. It's an area that has its own rules, and by and large those rules don't encourage interference from ouside, especially from the rozzers, as they term us. The certain upshot of us making open inquiries will be that the villains—be they the ones on our list or someone else—will hear of our interest in short order, and they'll close up shop and move, taking the boys with them, and taking even greater care to hide their tracks."

Sitting back, Stokes shook his head. "We'll never catch them by asking questions."

Frowning, Penelope replied, "I see." She paused for only an instant before continuing, "From that I gather that you intend to go into the area in disguise, locate these men, and observe their activities from a distance—thus establishing whether they are currently running a burglary school, and if our boys are with them."

Stokes blinked; he glanced at Barnaby, as if seeking guidance. Unsure of Penelope's direction, Barnaby had none to give.

When Stokes looked back at her, she trapped his gaze. "Is Miss Martin assisting you in that endeavor?"

Stokes's eyes widened fractionally; he hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, "Miss Martin has agreed to assist us in furthering our investigations along the lines you've indicated."

"Excellent!" Penelope beamed.

Stokes, seeing her smile, wasn't the only one suddenly uneasy. Eyeing her delight, Barnaby felt his instincts go on full alert.

"So"—Penelope glanced from Stokes to Barnaby, then back again—"when are we to meet with Miss Martin to make our plans?"

Shocked into immobility by the implication of her words, Barnaby didn't shake free fast enough to stop Stokes from admitting, "I intend to meet with her tomorrow afternoon." Stokes regarded Penelope with a disbelief even greater than Barnaby's. "But—"

"You aren't going." Barnaby infused the statement—a statement that plainly had to be made—with absolute, unshakable conviction.

Turning her head, Penelope blinked at him. "Of course I am. We have to sort out the details of our disguises, and how best to work to uncover what we need to learn."

Stokes dragged in a breath. "Miss Ashford—you cannot venture into the East End."

She turned her gaze—growing darker by the second—on Stokes. "If a milliner from St. John's Wood can transform herself back into a woman who would pass without comment in the East End, then she'll know how to disguise me to a similar degree."

Barnaby found himself literally lost for words. He knew she would scoff if he described her as a beauty, but she was the type of lady who turned men's heads. Effortlessly. And that was a feature that couldn't be disguised.

"If Mr. Adair"—Penelope cast him a hard look—"who I'm sure is expecting to join in your hunt, but will need to be equally disguised to do so, and I, join you and Miss Martin in pursuing our inquiries, those inquiries will proceed significantly faster."

"Miss Ashford." Clasping his hands on the desk, Stokes made a valiant effort to retreat to a formal, authoritarian position. "It would be unconscionable of me to allow a lady like you—"

"Inspector Stokes." Penelope's voice acquired a precise diction that brooked no interruption whatever. "You will notice that Mr. Adair is remaining silent. That's because he knows that argument on this issue is futile. I do not require permission from you, nor him, to pursue this matter. I'm bound and determined to see our four boys rescued and the villains prosecuted. Moreover, as administrator of the Foundling House, I am arguably morally obliged to do all I can in that endeavor." She paused, then added, "I'm sure, if I request Miss Martin's help in this matter, she will assist me regardless of your views."

Barnaby glimpsed salvation, the way out of this argument for him and Stokes. He caught Stokes's gaze. "Perhaps, in light of Miss Ashford's strongly held notions, we should leave the question of her involvement until after we've met with Miss Martin?"

Thus leaving it to Miss Martin to pour the cold water of reality over Penelope's enthusiasm. He had little doubt that a sensible, worldly milliner—someone used to dealing with fashionable, head-strong ladies—would know just how to convince Penelope that she needed to leave the investigating to others. Miss Martin would unquestionably do a better job of dissuading Penelope than either he or Stokes.

Doubtless having reached the same conclusion, Stokes slowly nodded. "That's a reasonable suggestion."

"Good. That's settled." Penelope looked at Stokes. "What time tomorrow, and where shall we meet?"

They agreed to meet outside Miss Martin's shop in St. John's Wood High Street at two o'clock the following afternoon.

"Excellent." Penelope rose and shook hands with Stokes.

Turning to the door, she caught Barnaby's eye. "Are you remaining, or leaving, too, Mr. Adair?"

"I'll see you home." Barnaby waited for her to start for the door before exchanging a long-suffering glance with Stokes. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Stokes nodded. "Indeed."

Turning, Barnaby fell in at Penelope's heels—following in her wake. He no longer minded; the view from that position was sufficient compensation.

"Grimsby? You there, old man?" Smythe ducked beneath the low beams of Grimsby's ground-floor room. Word had it that Grimsby owned the whole house—all three floors of rickety tenement on Weavers Street.

Hearing a grumbled response from above, Smythe waited by the dusty counter. Around him all manner of old wares clogged the floor, piled here and there with no apparent order. Grimsby claimed to sell bric-a-brac, but Smythe knew most of the goods traded through the shop were stolen. He'd sold stuff he'd lifted through Grimsby himself on occasion.

A heavy, shuffling step on the stairs at the back of the shop heralded the descent of the store's owner from his rooms on the first floor. The floor above that was where the boys Grimsby tutored learned their lessons. The attic above, concealed unless you knew where to look, was where the boys slept.

Smythe straightened as Grimsby appeared out of the dusty murk. The man was aging, and now carried a considerable paunch, but there was intelligence still alive in the beady eyes that narrowly studied Smythe.

"Smythe." Grimsby nodded. "What're you after?"

"I'm after bearing a message from our mutual friend."

Grimsby's expression—of canny malicious avarice—didn't change. "What's he want?"

"He wants to be assured that you'll provide the tools for his lark as agreed."

Grimsby's features eased. He shrugged. "You can tell him we've encountered no difficulties."

Smythe narrowed his eyes. "I thought you were two boys short?"

"Aye, we are. But unless he's changed his timetable, we've plenty of time to get the last two in and trained up fer you."

Smythe hesitated, then glanced back at the shop door, confirming there was no one lurking. He lowered his voice. "You still picking off the orphans?"

"Aye—best source of what we need with no one to raise a ruckus. Used to be we had to pick 'em off the streets, and there's always the risk of a hue and cry that road. But taking the orphans from round here—no one's fussed."

"So what's your prospects for these last two boys? When will you have them?"

Grimsby hesitated, then, beady eyes narrowing, said, "I don't tell you how to run your business, now do I?"

Smythe straightened. "Give over, Grimsby—I'm the one who has to deal with Alert. And what he's got on is big."

"Aye—and just who put your name up for that, heh?"

"You, you old reprobate, but that's all the more reason I'll hold you to your promise to get me all eight boys. Eight, all properly trained and trialed. And that takes time—time you're running out of."

"What in thunder do you need eight fer, anyway? Never heard of a caper that needs eight all at once."

"Never you mind why. The way Alert's playing this, it's possible I might need all eight boys to do what he wants."

Grimsby looked suspicious. "You aiming to leave the nippers behind?"

"Not aiming to, no. But I don't want to have to tell Alert I can't finish his runs because some boy got stuck in a window, or tripped over a footman on his way out. Trained or not, they make mistakes, and Alert—as you know—isn't a forgiving man."

"Aye, well, that's the only reason I've come out of retirement—to appease Mr. Bloody Alert."

Smythe studied Grimsby. "What's he got on you, old man?"

"Never you mind. Getting you to see him, and then getting you these boys, that's my end of things."

"Exactly what Alert sent me to remind you." Smythe's gaze hardened. "So what of these last two boys? I need them—I want to be able to tell Alert that we have all eight as planned."

Grimsby eyed him for a long moment, then said, "Plenty of orphans littering the streets, but not the sort we need. Suddenly they're all lumbering oxes, or simpletons, or worse. No use, is what they are." He paused, then leaned nearer, lowering his voice, "When I told you I'd have the eight, I had eight in mind. We've got six of 'em. But with these last two, their sick relatives ain't turned out to be as sick as I'd heard."

Smythe read Grimsby's expression, read his beady little eyes—read between his words. Thought of Alert and his high-stakes game. "So…how sick are they—these ailing relatives? More to the point, what's their names and where do they live?"

Throughout the next day, Sunday, Penelope was forced to possess her soul with what patience she could—until at last she and Barnaby—Adair—reached St. John's Wood High Street. Instructed to stop outside the milliner's shop, the hackney slowed, rolling along as the driver studied the fa?ades.

The carriage halted before a single-fronted, white-painted shop. Drawn blinds screeened the interior, but the sign swinging above the door read GRISELDA MARTIN, MILLINER .

Barnaby—Adair—got out and handed her down. While he paid the jarvey, Penelope considered the three steps leading up to the front door, then turned and saw Stokes walking down the street toward them.

He nodded politely as he joined her. "Miss Ashford." Over her head, he nodded to Barnaby. "Miss Martin should be expecting us."

Penelope promptly walked up the steps and tugged the bellpull beside the door. She heard the bell peal inside.

A minute later, light footsteps came hurrying toward the door. A click sounded, and the door swung inward. Penelope looked up into lovely blue eyes set in a sweet, round, rosy-cheeked face. She smiled. "Hello. You must be Miss Martin."

The woman blinked, then noticed Barnaby and Stokes on the pavement. Stokes quickly stepped forward. "Miss Martin, this is—"

"Penelope Ashford." Stepping forward, Penelope held out her hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

Miss Martin glanced at Penelope's hand, then hesitantly took it, shook it, then added a bob for good measure.

"No, no." Penelope moved farther into the shop, drawing Miss Martin with her. "There's no need for any ceremony. You've been very kind in agreeing to help us find our missing boys. I truly am very grateful."

Following Penelope inside, Barnaby could see the "Us?" forming in Griselda Martin's eyes. When her gaze shifted to him, he smiled reassuringly. "Barnaby Adair, Miss Martin. I'm a friend of Stokes's and like Miss Ashford—who is the administrator of the Foundling House where the missing boys should have gone—am most sincerely grateful for your assistance."

Stokes stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. He caught Miss Martin's eye. "I hope you'll excuse this invasion, Miss Martin, but—"

"The truth, Miss Martin," Penelope cut in, "is that I jockeyed Stokes into allowing me to come to meet you, together with himself and Mr. Adair. I'm absolutely determined to rescue the four boys who've been taken, and I gather you have a plan to go into the East End and search for clues to the burglary school in which they've likely been enrolled."

Barnaby had a sudden sinking premonition that allowing Penelope to talk freely with Miss Martin would lead to disaster. But then Miss Martin frowned, and he hoped he was wrong.

Penelope hadn't taken her eyes from Miss Martin's face. In response to the frown she nodded. "Indeed. I daresay you're wondering why a lady of my station is so interested in the welfare of four East End boys. The answer is quite simple. While they may not have been handed over to the Foundling House, as was intended, they were, nevertheless, made into our care. Those boys are our charges, and as the administrator of the house, I will not simply turn my back and let them be taken, denied the life that their parents arranged for them, to be instead inducted into a life of crime. That wasn't their intended destinies, and I will move heaven and earth if necessary to return them to their proper course."

Watching her face, Barnaby understood that when she said "heaven and earth," she meant it literally. The fierceness that lit her dark brown eyes and tightened her animated features bore testimony to her resolution, her unwavering determination.

Then she smiled, banishing the image of a warrior-goddess. "I hope you understand, Miss Martin, that I can't simply sit at home and wait for news. If there's any way at all I can help in locating these boys and rescuing them, as I believe there is, then I must be here, doing."

Behind him, Barnaby heard Stokes shift restlessly. He clearly hadn't anticipated Penelope's appeal to Miss Martin, much less its fervor. Despite being able to see quite clearly just where Penelope's persuasion was going to land them—with her going into the East End in disguise—Barnaby had to, albeit grudgingly, admire her honesty, as well as her strategy.

Miss Martin had remained silent throughout Penelope's declaration. She was studying Penelope's face; the frown on her own had faded, but remained in her eyes.

Barnaby was tempted to say something, to try to mute Penelope's appeal, but sensed if he spoke, he might well achieve the opposite. He was sure Stokes felt the same; with her characteristic directness, Penelope had shifted the discussion onto a plane on which they, mere men, held much less clout.

Everything hinged on how Miss Martin reacted to Penelope's words.

Penelope tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on Miss Martin's face. "I hope you can set aside any reservations you might have over my social status, Miss Martin. No matter the relative quality of our gowns, we are women before all else."

A smile slowly broke over Miss Martin's face. "Indeed, Miss Ashford. So I've always thought. And please, call me Griselda."

Penelope beamed. "If you will call me Penelope. Now!" She turned to survey Barnaby and Stokes, then glanced at Griselda. "To our plans."

Barnaby exchanged a thin-lipped look with Stokes; Penelope had won that skirmish before they'd fired a shot. But the battle wasn't yet over.

Miss Martin—Griselda—waved to the rear of the shop. "If you'll come up to my parlor, we can sit and discuss how best to manage things."

She led the way past the counter and through the heavy curtain. Beyond lay a small kitchen, the space all but filled with a large deal table on which feathers, ribbons, lace, and beads lay spread.

Penelope surveyed the feminine clutter. "Do you decorate all your bonnets yourself?"

"Yes." Griselda turned to a narrow flight of stairs. "I have two apprentices, but they're not working today."

She climbed the stairs, Penelope followed close behind. Barnaby went next; the stairs were so narrow he and Stokes had to angle their shoulders.

At the top of the stairs, Barnaby stepped into a cozy room that extended in a bow window over the front of the shop. At the other end, opposite the bow window, a wall cut across the space. Through an open door he glimpsed a bedroom, with a narrow window looking over the rear yard.

He followed the ladies to where a sofa and two mismatched armchairs were arranged before the small fireplace. A mound of coals was still glowing, throwing off a little heat, just enough to ease the chill. Barnaby eyed Penelope's pelisse; it was still done up—she was warm enough. He and Stokes had opened their heavy greatcoats, but kept them on as they sat.

Griselda Martin, a woolen shawl about her shoulders, sank into one armchair as Penelope claimed that end of the sofa. Barnaby sat next to her; Stokes took the other armchair. Barnaby caught Griselda's eye. "Stokes has explained the situation, and that we need to gain information about the individuals he's identified, but that we must do so without raising any suspicions, not those of the individuals nor indeed of anyone else, or we risk losing the boys forever."

Griselda nodded. "What I was going to suggest…" She glanced at Stokes; he nodded for her to go on. She drew breath, then said, "There's markets in Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane. Most of the men my father named work in and around those areas. Both markets will be in full swing tomorrow—if I go and pretend to look over the various wares, it won't be hard to slip in a question about this man or that here and there. People ask after others they know all the time at the market stalls. Because I have the right accent, no one will think twice about me asking—they'll answer freely, and I know how to jolly them along to get anyone who knows something to tell me all."

She glanced at Stokes. "The inspector has insisted that, as it's a police matter I'm assisting with, he will accompany me." She looked back at Penelope and Barnaby, and her expression was concerned. "But I honestly don't think it would be wise for either of you to come with us. You'll never pass. The instant people see you, they'll know something's afoot, and they'll watch and say nothing."

Barnaby glanced at Penelope. He intended to accompany Stokes and Griselda—Stokes had seen him in disguise and knew he could pull the transformation off. But if there was any chance Penelope would accept Griselda's warning and agree not to go into the East End…there was no reason to mention his plans.

Penelope met Griselda's eyes, held them. "You're a milliner, so you know how different bonnets can change a woman's appearance. You know what makes women look drab just as much as you know how to make them appear stunning." She smiled, a swift, engaging gesture. "Think of me as a challenge to your skills—I need you to fashion a disguise that will allow me to move through the East End markets without anyone thinking I don't belong."

Griselda met her gaze, then openly studied her. Her eyes narrowed, considering.

Barnaby held his breath. Once again he was tempted to speak and state the obvious—that there was no disguise that would adequately dim Penelope's startling vitality, let alone her innate aristocratic grace. Once again instinct cautioned him to keep his lips tightly shut. He exchanged a glance with Stokes; his friend was similarly on tenterhooks, wanting to influence the outcome and knowing they would be damned if they tried.

Penelope bore Griselda's scrutiny with unimpaired confidence.

Eventually, Griselda pronounced, "You'll never pass as an East Ender."

Barnaby wanted to cheer.

"But," Griselda continued, "I could, in the right clothes, with the right hat and shawl, see you as a Covent Garden flowerseller. They come to the markets quite often, plying their wares there during the hours the nobs aren't around their normal haunts, and most importantly, many of them are…well, they're by-blows, so your features won't mark you as a fraud."

Barnaby shot a horrified look at Stokes.

Stokes returned it with interest.

Then Griselda grimaced. "Be that as it may, while we might be able to disguise your appearance, the instant you open your mouth you'll give yourself away."

Barnaby glanced at Penelope, expecting to see her deflating with disappointment. Instead, she glowed.

"You needn't worry about me, love." Her voice sounded quite different—still her, but a different her. "I can speak any number of languages—Latin, Greek, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and Russian among them—so East End to me is just another language, one easier to master, and one I hear every day."

Barnaby hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Crossing his arms, he sank back against the sofa; glancing at Stokes—seeing his own inner consternation mirrored in his eyes—he shrugged.

They'd lost the battle, too.

Griselda was openly amazed. "That was…perfect. If I wasn't looking at you, I would have thought you were from…oh, somewhere around Spitalfields."

"Indeed. So once adequately disguised, I'll be able to help gather the information we need." She glanced at Barnaby, and sweetly asked, "I assume you'll be accompanying us, too?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Count on it." He looked at Griselda. "Don't worry about me—Stokes can confirm my disguise will work."

Stokes nodded. "As will mine." To Griselda he said, "We've done this before."

She studied his face, then nodded. "Very well." She looked back at Penelope. "So we have to put together your disguise."

They eventually decided that Griselda would borrow a suitable skirt, blouse, and jacket from the maids from a nearby house. "I do their Easter bonnets for them—they'll be happy to help. And they're your size."

That settled, Stokes brought out his list of names. Together, he and Griselda worked out a sensible order in which to tackle the list.

They agreed to meet at the shop at nine o'clock the next morning.

"That'll give me time to set my apprentices to their work. Then we'll have to disguise you"—she nodded at Penelope—"and then get to Petticoat Lane. We should arrive there by half past ten, which will be the perfect time to start moving through the stalls. The crowds will be big enough by then for us to merge in."

With all decided, they shook hands, Penelope and Griselda both patently pleased with their new acquaintance, then trooped down into the shop.

Griselda showed them to the door. Following Penelope and Barnaby, Stokes paused on the doorstep to exchange a few words.

Barnaby left him to it. The hackney was waiting to return him and Penelope to Mayfair; he handed her up, then followed, shutting the door.

Dropping onto the seat beside her, he stared straight ahead, considering—not happily—what tomorrow would bring.

Beside him Penelope continued to beam, radiating eager enthusiasm. "Our disguises will work perfectly—there's no need to worry."

He crossed his arms. "I'm not worrying." His tone suggested he was far beyond that.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to. I'll be perfectly safe with Griselda and Stokes. He is a policeman, after all."

He managed not to growl. "I'll be there." A moment ticked past, then he flatly stated, "In fact, I'll be glued to your side." His temper rose as the possibilities continued to reel through his mind. "Can you imagine what your brother would say if he knew you were trooping about the East End passing yourself off as a Covent Garden flowerseller ?" Usually more accurately termed a Covent Garden whore.

"I can, actually." She remained entirely unperturbed. "He'd go pale, as he always does when he's reining in his temper, then he'd argue, in that tight, clipped, frightfully controlled voice of his, and then, when he lost the argument, he'd lose his temper and throw his hands in the air and storm out."

She glanced sideways at him; even though he refused to meet her gaze, he could tell it was faintly amused. "Is that what you're going to do?"

Lips tight, jaw set, he debated, then evenly replied, "No. Arguing with you is a waste of time." And he now understood it was pointless.

Dealing with Penelope in his preferred manner—on a rational, logical basis—was never going to swing advantage his way. With other ladies, the rational, logical approach left him with the whip hand—but not with her. She was a past master at using the rational and logical to her own ends, as she'd just demonstrated.

Arms crossed, he kept his narrow-eyed gaze fixed ahead, steadfastly ignoring the effervescent triumph bubbling beside him.

Both he and Stokes had fallen in with Penelope's wish to meet Griselda in the firm expectation that there would be—at best—a certain stiffness between the two women. Instead, Penelope had effortlessly reached out and bridged the social gap—and it had been she who'd done that, not Griselda. Griselda had watched and waited, but Penelope had made the effort and known just how to do it, so now there was a budding friendship there, one no one could have predicted.

So…where he and Stokes had been a team of two, there was now a team of four.

He'd imagined going into the East End with Stokes—the two of them had worked together in disguise before. With four of them…the hunt would indeed go faster. Penelope's version of an East End accent had been startingly good. She could indeed pass as a local even better than he. The four of them could split up, and get through Stokes's list faster.

Having Penelope on their team as well as Griselda would help locate the four missing boys that much sooner.

And all debate aside, that was their common goal.

He glanced up as the carriage swung around a corner; they'd already reached Mount Street. His gaze on the fa?ades as the hackney slowed, he said, "Tomorrow morning get your footman to summon a hackney at half-past eight. When it arrives, give the driver Griselda's direction and get in."

The hackney halted. Reaching across to open the door, he met Penelope's eyes. "I'll join you in the hackney."

Brows rising, she studied him. He moved past her and stepped down, assisted her out, then paid off the hackney and escorted her to her brother's door.

He waited for her to ask—to demand to be told what he was planning. Instead, she turned to him with a confident smile and gave him her hand. "Until tomorrow morning then. Good day, Mr. Adair."

Feeling somehow cheated, he bowed over her hand. The butler opened the door; with a nod for that worthy, he turned, descended the steps, and strode away.