In far too many aspects, Penelope was proving to be much like him.
His jaw tightened until he thought it might crack.
She blinked up at him. “Well? Will I pass?”
It took a second to master his growl. “Well enough.” Glancing over her head, he saw Griselda come forward. “Come on.” He reached for Penelope’s arm, then remembered and grasped her hand instead.
She started fractionally at the unexpected contact, but then smiled—still transparently delighted—up at him, and curled her fingers around his.
Swallowing a curse, he turned and towed her to the door.
They piled into a hackney for the journey to Petticoat Lane. They whiled away the minutes discussing the order in which they would approach the names on Stokes’s list, and making plans should they decide to split into two groups—a decision they deferred until they were on the ground and had assessed the possibilities.
Leaving the hackney at the north end of the long street, they plunged into the teeming mass of humanity filling the space between the twin rows of stalls lining the pavements, spilling over the gutters and into the road. No driver would dream of taking his carriage down that street with the market in full cry.
Sounds and smells of all kinds assailed them. Barnaby glanced at Penelope, wondering if she might quail. Instead her expression suggested that she was eager to get on. She appeared to have no difficulty ignoring all she did not wish to notice, and drinking in all that was new, all that had been until now unknown to her.
He seriously doubted that any other viscount’s daughter had ever rubbed shoulders with the denizens of Petticoat Lane.
For their part, said denizens cast her shrewd looks, but all seemed to take her at face value. With the hem of her full skirt, rather shorter than would have been acceptable in any ton venue, flirting about the tops of her well-worn half-boots, with her trim figure set off by the tight-waisted jacket, the lapels of which gaped provocatively
at her breasts, all combined with her native confidence and perfectly sincere delight in all she saw, with her local accent setting the final seal on acceptance, it was hardly surprising that the locals swallowed her disguise whole.
Luckily, they also swallowed his. His face set, his expression an open warning, he hovered at Penelope’s shoulder like a prepared-to-be-vengeful demon. No angel had ever looked as black and menacing as he did, not even Lucifer. It wasn’t difficult to project such menace—because that was precisely what he felt.
When a grimy pickpocket edged too close to her, he met Barnaby’s shoulder and a blue glare. Eyes wide, the man righted himself and scrabbled away into the crowd.
Stokes halted beside Barnaby. Directly before them, Penelope and Griselda were exclaiming over a collection of tawdry bows displayed on a rickety stand.
Glancing around, over the sea of heads, Stokes said, “Why don’t you and Penelope take this side, while Griselda and I take the other?”
His gaze on Penelope, Barnaby nodded. “Figgs, Jessup, Sid Lewis, and Joe Gannon—they’re the ones we’re after today.”
Stokes nodded. “Either along here, or in Brick Lane, we should be able to get a bead on those four. This is their turf—people here will know them. But don’t push too hard—and don’t let Miss Ashford, either.”
Barnaby answered with a grunt. Quite how Stokes imagined he might accomplish the latter he’d love to hear. Penelope was entirely beyond his control…
The notion, or rather the notion of controlling a female in his present guise—and hers—sparked an idea. A glimmer of a possible means of survival. When Stokes moved forward to draw Griselda away, Barnaby swooped in, seized Penelope’s hand, and tugged her along to the next stall.
She stared at him. “What’s the matter?”
He explained Stokes’s plan, then waved down the line of stalls. “This is our side, and we have to get on. However, now we’ve split up, we’ll need to remain close, so I’m going to play the role of jealous lover disgruntled over the time you’re spending on furbelows.”
She stared even more at him. “Why?”
“Because it’s a role the locals will recognize—one they’ll accept.” And it would require no effort whatever for him to play the part.
She humphed; the glance she threw him suggested she didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
He answered it by looping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. She stiffened; she started to glare, but he grinned evilly and tapped her nose—thoroughly distracting her.
“No Covent Garden flowerseller would react like that,” he murmured. “You claimed the role, now you have to play it.”
She had to force herself to relax, but gradually, she managed it. They moved down the line of stalls, stopping to chat here and there, dropping the names of their targets whenever they encountered anyone who looked like they might know something.
He let Penelope choose which stallholders to approach; she seemed to have a knack for knowing who she could strike up a useful conversation with. He left most of the talking to her—her accent was faultless—and confined himself largely to grunts, snorts, or single-syllable replies.
Penelope had to admit that his ploy worked, further encouraging all who saw them to recognize them as something familiar, thus allowing them to insinuate questions about their targets into more general conversations.
Unfortunately, there was a cost. His nearness—the solidity of his body whenever he pulled her close, the wall of male muscle against which she was pressed every time the crowd surged and forced her against him, the rampant possessiveness in his touch, in the large hand that wrapped about her waist, or, in the few instances where he allowed her greater freedom, clamped about her hand—sparked a debilitating surge of emotions, an unsettling mix of excitement and wariness, the skittering thrill of trepidation laced with disconcerting pleasure.
As the minutes ticked by, she felt increasingly distracted. Increasingly seduced into her assumed role.
But courtesy of their combined histrionic talents, they learned the likely whereabouts of two of the men they sought.
Against that, she had to count the damage to her nerves and temper as fair exchange.
They reached the corner of a narrow lane down which Sid Lewis
was said to live. By mutual accord, they halted. While Barnaby looked back up the street, trying to locate Stokes and Griselda, Penelope peered down the lane. “Fifth door down on the north side. I can see it.” She grabbed Barnaby’s coat—he had his arm around her waist, anchoring her beside him—and tugged, trying to gain his attention. “The door’s open. There are people inside.”
Barnaby covered her hand with his. “I can’t see Stokes.” He surveyed the lane. “All right. Let’s look. But you stay in your role and play the part—which means you do what I tell you.”
“Are you sure all males in the East End are this dictatorial?”
“Count yourself lucky. As far as I’ve seen, they’re worse.”
She humphed, but kept pace beside him as he strolled down the lane in the shadow of the southern walls.
Drawing level with the fifth hovel from the corner, she could see, through the open door, movement within. But there were few passersby in the tiny lane; loitering would draw attention—and someone was coming out of the house.
Barnaby stepped back into a doorway, hauling her with him—into his embrace. “Play along,” he hissed. His head dipped; his lips cruised her cheek.
It took her a moment to steady her reeling head, to drag enough breath into her lungs—only to find her senses filled with him. His warmth surrounded her, wrapped about her—and somehow softened her bones. Somehow made her want to lean into him, to sink against the pure masculine temptation of his muscled chest.
Her reaction made no sense, but there was no denying it.
More than her wits were reeling; her senses were having a field day. She quivered inside, waiting—senses hovering, yearning—for the next elusive brush of his lips. It was lucky he was holding her, for she felt strangely weak.
Then she realized he was watching the activity across the lane around the edge of her cap.
He was using her as a shield.
She narrowed her eyes, not that he could see. Temper was an emotion she recognized and understood; she grabbed hold of it and used it to ground her.
Barnaby knew the instant she snapped free; he had to fight the urge to shift his lips to the left—so they could meet hers, those lush,
ripe lips that haunted him. Instead, with his lips he brushed the rim of her ear—and felt a sensual shiver sweep through her, sensed her momentary pause, that instant when he succeeded in resuborning her wits.
The feel of her in his arms, soft, feminine, yet vibrantly alive, curvaceous yet supple, was distracting, a revelation he hadn’t expected. The way she fitted so snugly against him as if she were made just for him fed that notion hovering at the edge of his consciousness, giving it more substance, more life.
Given their disguises, the relative roles they’d claimed, and that notion, he had to fight the compulsive urge to take what his alter ego would have—her lips, her mouth. Her.
While a part of his brain watched the activity across the lane, most was engaged in battling his instincts, in holding them down, keeping them back. Leashed. Controlled.
Predictably, she didn’t stay distracted for long. “Don’t,” he hissed, sensing she was about to struggle.
She dragged in a breath, then hissed back through clenched teeth, “You’re only doing this to pay me back for insisting on coming today.”
As if he needed the internal turmoil. “Think what you will,” he growled. “All that matters is that they believe our performance.”
He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her more fully against him; bending his head farther, he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear—and heard her gasp. Felt the resistance in her hands, pressed against his chest, ease, fade.
He inhaled, and the fragrance that was her wreathed through his brain. Sank to his bones. Her hair, sleek, dark, and silken, smelled of sunshine. He gritted his teeth against the inevitable effect, and whispered, “Someone’s coming out.”
He spread his hands on her back, shifted his head so that it appeared as if he were devouring her. At the very least kissing her witless, into submission—as the more primitive side of him wished he was.
She didn’t struggle. After a moment, he murmured, his tone dry, “It appears we can cross Sid Lewis off our list.”
“Why?”
Lifting his head, he eased his hold on her, setting her back on her
feet but keeping her facing him. He studied the three men who’d come out of the hovel. “Unless I miss my guess, Sid Lewis is looking to shore up his position with God. Unlikely he’d be running a burglary school while entertaining the local vicar.”
She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, then faced him again. “Sid Lewis is the short bald one.” She’d extracted a description from one of the stallholders. “He looks ill.”
“Which explains his sudden interest in religion.” The man was leaning heavily on a cane. They could hear his wheezing from where they stood.
“Come on.” Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he nudged her out of the doorway and started back up the lane. “Let’s find Stokes. We’ve still got three others to investigate today.”
They came up with Stokes and Griselda close to the southern end of the market. On hearing their report on Sid Lewis, Stokes grimaced. “Figgs is out of contention, too. He’s in Newgate. That leaves us with Jessup and Joe Gannon in this area. Jessup, by all accounts, is a dangerous customer.”
He met Barnaby’s eyes.
“In that case, we’ll just have to exercise greater caution.” Penelope was glancing around. “Where should we try next?”
Stokes looked at Griselda. “How about stopping at a tavern for some lunch?”
The suggestion met with approval all around. Griselda suggested a public house she knew of on the corner of Old Montague Street and Brick Lane. “It’s supposed to have more reliable food, and we have to head up Brick Lane anyway—the market stalls there are the most likely place for us to learn about Jessup and confirm Gannon’s address.”
They trooped back to Wentworth Street and cut across to Brick Lane, to the Delford Arms. The door to the taproom was set wide; after one glance inside, Stokes and Barnaby drew Griselda and Penelope on a few paces past the door. There were rough-hewn trestles with benches set on the pavement on either side of the entrance; most were occupied, but people were coming and going constantly.
“You two wait here,” Stokes said. “We’ll get the food and come back.” He looked at the tables. “With luck, one will be free by then.”
Griselda and Penelope nodded and dutifully waited, watching as
their two cavaliers turned and entered the pub. Having seen the jostling throng in the tap, neither had been keen to brave it. Nevertheless…“They seem to share a penchant for giving orders,” Penelope observed.
“Indeed,” Griselda replied, distinctly dry. “I’ve noticed.”
They both smiled, and continued to wait.
Having spent the last hours immersed in a constant babel of East End accents, Penelope’s ear had improved significantly. She was indulging her skill, idly listening to the conversation of the four old but still hulking men hunched over the nearest trestle, empty plates spread before them, pint pots in their gnarled hands, when she heard the name “Jessup.” She blinked, and listened harder.
After a moment, she nudged Griselda. When Griselda glanced at her, she indicated the table with her eyes. Griselda looked, then looked back at her, brows rising; the men were still talking, but no longer about anything relevant.
Penelope was about to turn and whisper when Barnaby reappeared, two plates piled with steaming shells in his hands. Just behind him, Stokes balanced a jug and four glasses on a tray.
At that moment, two men who’d been seated at the table next to the men who’d mentioned Jessup rose and shuffled away. Two others, in the dark, dusty coats of clerks, were still seated close by the wall.
Penelope grabbed Barnaby and steered him to that table. He glanced at her, but did as she wished. While he set down the plates and then slid along the bench, leaving the open end for her, she turned to Stokes and Griselda and whispered, “Those men”—surreptitiously she pointed at the next table—“mentioned Jessup. They were talking about something illegal, but I couldn’t make out what.”