Looking back, he met Griselda’s eyes. “That’s where the ‘almost a gentleman’ part comes from, and that sets me apart from most of those in the force. I’m not one of the higher-ups, but I’m not one of the men, either.” He held her gaze. “I’m not a gentleman.”
Her expression was serious as she studied his eyes, but then her lips curved; she leaned confidingly closer. “Just as well—I don’t know that I’d feel all that comfortable sitting here with a gentleman.”
The girl came out bearing a tray with their meal—two bowls of surprisingly appetizing stew and bread, a trifle hard but edible. The aroma of the stew gave Griselda a chance to compliment the girl sincerely. She thawed somewhat, but again Griselda let her go.
Stokes told himself to trust her instincts. He applied himself to his bowl and kept his gaze on the green door.
He and Griselda had finished their meal and were sitting waiting patiently for the waitress to come back when the green door opened and a blowsy brunette in her twenties stepped out. Leaving the door ajar, she strode for the tavern.
Hands on hips, she stopped just inside the door. “Here—Maida! Get me five pints, there’s a dear.”
Maida, the waitress, ducked her head and disappeared into the rear. She returned minutes later bearing a wooden tray with five brimming pint pots balanced on it.
“Ta.” The brunette hefted the tray. “Put it on our tab. Arnold’ll be around later to settle.”
Maida bobbed her head again. Standing in the doorway wiping her hands on a rag, she watched the brunette cross the narrow street and go in through the green door. It shut behind her.
“A bit of action across the way?” Griselda murmured.
Maida glanced at her, and pulled a face. “You could say that.” She looked back at the green door. “Wonder how many they have in there this morning.” She glanced back at Griselda. “Johns, I mean.”
Griselda’s brows rose. “That’s the way of it, is it?”
“Aye.” Maida settled her weight, disposed to chat. “There’s three of them there—girls, that is. Poor old Arnold. I thought, when he said they were his nieces come to stay, he was spinning a yarn, but I’ve heard them have at him. Reckon they must be related. Poor old codger—if he’s getting rent money from them, he’ll be lucky. But the girls are doing all right, and they’re good enough neighbors, all in all.”
“No nephews?” Stokes asked, as if he were merely curious. Discussing all manner of crime was, after all, normal East End gossip.
“Nah.” Maida shifted. “Not much of that this way—more the toffs who go fer that sort of thing and we’re too far from their playgrounds. Mind you, I’m sure Arnold wouldn’t mind having some male in the house to share the load—those girls keep him in there most of the time. He may be old, but he’s a hulking sort—good protection. And if he’s their uncle, what’s he to do? Got him all tied up, those girls have, no mistake.”
Griselda frowned, as if remembering. “My old da used to know an Arnold somewhere round here—used to be a bit of a fence, in that game anyway. What was his name?” She stared at Stokes as if searching for inspiration, then her face lit. She looked at Maida. “Ormsby—that was it. Arnold Ormsby.”
“Hornby,” Maida corrected. “Aye, that’s our Arnold. He was in that game, but he ain’t in it now. Farthest he gets from his house is in here. Moans about the old days and how he’s lost all his contacts and how’s a man to get along.” She shrugged. “Unless his nieces leave, he’s got no hope—they’ve got first call on his time, seems.”
And that, Stokes judged, was all they were likely to get from Maida. He caught Griselda’s eye. “We’d better get on.”
She nodded. He stood, waited for her to do the same, then dropped a few coins on the table. Turning, he flipped a sixpence at Maida. “Thanks, love. It was good grub.”
Moving faster than a hornet, Maida’s hand snagged the sixpence out of the air. She grinned and nodded as they passed her. “Aye, well—stop by again sometime.”
Griselda smiled and waved.
Stokes caught her arm and steered her determinedly back toward
the city and civilization as he knew it, the words “not in this lifetime” ringing in his mind.
Penelope lurked in Lady Carnegie’s drawing room, pretending to listen to the political discussions going on about her. Her ladyship’s November dinner was a major event in political circles, one of the last before Parliament rose and most members retreated to their far-flung estates for the winter.
For them, tonight was their chance to rally for the last surge of activity in the houses.
For her, tonight figured as a gilt-edged opportunity to learn more.
Barnaby would have been invited. Quite aside from being his father’s son—and the earl had his finger in numerous political pies—his connection with Peel and the police force made him a sought-after source of information for those present tonight; they would far rather question him—one of their own—than any of Peel’s official deputies.
Regardless, in this company, she could disappear for a few hours and not be missed, and after the initial round of questioning in the drawing room prior to going in to dinner, Barnaby, too, should be ranked as excusable.
Smiling encouragingly at Lord Molyneaux, who was holding forth on the new reform laws, Penelope went over her plans, and her expectations. Last night had been a good first step in learning of desire, of what hers encompassed, what fueled it, but it was plain that, however enthralling the previous night’s endeavors, she’d only scratched the surface.
In the wake of last night, a small host of questions had suggested themselves, popping into her head at odd moments through the day, distracting her. Step by step whipping her curiosity to new heights.
To gain any degree of satisfaction, she was going to have to learn more.
Without being obvious, she scanned the crowd again. And inwardly frowned. If Barnaby had decided not to attend, she would simply have to hunt him down.
She still had her cosh.
As if her mental threat had summoned him, he walked through the open doorway, Lord Nettlefold at his elbow. He paused to greet Lady Carnegie; whatever he said made her ladyship laugh. She patted his cheek, and waved him on. Nettlefold followed, intent on continuing a conversation with Barnaby.
Halting, Barnaby let Nettlefold talk to him while he scanned the room. His blue gaze swept over the various groups—until it reached her, and landed on her face.
She allowed her gaze to meet his for an instant, then she turned to respond to Lord Molyneaux. From the corner of her eye, she saw Barnaby remain where he was, turning to speak with Nettlefold.
Good. Nettlefold was one of the few present of their generation; in the past, he’d shown a diffident but definite tendency to see her presence at such events as declaring her a potentially eligible
parti
. In reality she was there to keep abreast of any legislative maneuverings that might impact on the Foundling House, and also to keep in touch with past and potential donors.
She really didn’t want to spend her evening hinting Nettlefold away.
Barnaby apparently agreed with her; only after he and Nettlefold had concluded their conversation and parted did he make his way, in fits and starts via various other groups, to her side.
Eventually he arrived, and took the hand she offered him. A medley of emotions washed over her as his fingers closed on hers; relief of a sort that he was there, that she would indeed be learning more that night, welling expectation over what tonight’s lesson would encompass, and a frisson of something more acute, arising from a suprisingly clear tactile memory of his hands on her breasts, on her hips, between her thighs.
She flicked open her fan and plied it. “Good evening, sir.”
She waited while he and Lord Molyneaux exchanged greetings. Thankfully, the police force wasn’t one of Molyneaux’s interests.
Lord Carnegie, their host, came up at that moment, keen to have a word with Molyneaux. With smiles, the four parted; setting her hand on his arm, Barnaby guided Penelope to a spot closer to the wall, out of the immediate circle of the conversing groups.
He met her eyes, read the determination that burned in the dark depths. “We can’t slip away yet.”
“Of course not.” She glanced over the rest of the guests. “After dinner. You know what they’re like once the gentlemen are well primed. They won’t miss us for at least a few hours.”
“Your mother’s here?” He hadn’t sighted her.
“No. She cried off. She sometimes does.”
“So you’re here unchaperoned?” He was faintly amazed. He glanced at her, recalling. “And I know perfectly well you’re not twenty-eight.”
She shrugged, nose elevating. “Your Mostyn is an old woman—adding a few years made it easier to calm him.”
He snorted. “He was totally confounded when he learned I’d miraculously recovered enough to take you home.”
She shrugged again, signifying it mattered not at all to her. “I’m here as the administrator of the Foundling House, not as Miss Penelope Ashford. That’s why the hostesses—most of whom have known me from birth—think nothing of it if I appear without Mama.”
He raised his brows, but had to admit that having no one specifically keeping an eye on her would make it considerably easier and safer to slip away from this sort of gathering; it was far less crowded than a ball, and therefore not so easy to believe that members of the company would be lost from sight for any length of time while actually remaining in the drawing room. “After dinner then, once we return to the drawing room.”
She was right; the discussions would go on for hours, and would only grow more heated, holding the attention of the company even more avidly than now.
“You haven’t heard anything from Stokes, have you?”
His gaze on the company, he shook his head. “No—I would have sent word if I had.”
She nodded, then said, “There’s a lovely parlor on the other side of the house.” She glanced up at him. “While I have no experience from which to judge, I would imagine it to be perfect for…consideration of that subject we both wish to explore.”
His lips twitched. After a moment, he inclined his head. “Very well. But until then, behave.”
“Of course.” With a haughty glance at him, she left his side and swanned off to join Mrs. Henderson’s group.
He watched her until she’d merged with that circle, then went off
to join one of his own, allowing the other men present to pose the questions they wished to ask on the current state of the police force. His father was in town, but attending a cabinet dinner tonight; he would drop by later, but until then, Barnaby was in large measure his surrogate. If he wanted to slip away with Penelope and keep his absence unnoticed, he needed to satisfy all queries first.
While he moved from group to group, applying himself to that task, another part of his mind tried to think ahead, to plan how tonight’s engagement should go.
Unfortunately, while his goal—to marry her—was now clear, and his route to achieving that—convincing her that marrying him would have more benefits than risks—obvious, that very route dictated that, in large measure, he had to let her direct their interaction.
He needed her, of her own accord, to reach the conclusion that she had nothing to fear in marrying him, that as her husband he wouldn’t curtail her independence, let alone seek to control her. If he was lucky, once she’d made up her mind she would act and propose; that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. Given she’d instigated their liaison, it seemed only fair that she be the one to bring it to its appropriate end.
To attain that ultimate prize, however, he had to show himself willing to indulge her in allowing her to take the dominant role. Once again, he had to let her lead, and relegate himself to following.
The concept wasn’t one that, until her, he’d ever contemplated, and not even his sophisticated self approved of it, much less that more primitive side that, when it came to her, dominated in his mind.
However…as they went into dinner, and he found himself seated on the opposite side of the table to her, he realized he was simply going to have to grit his teeth and bear it.
Grit his teeth and remind himself of the ultimate benefits.
The dinner was an extended one, with much conversation during courses, but eventually the last was removed. As was common at such gatherings, the men did not remain at the table but followed the ladies back to the drawing room, where port and brandy were served to lubricate the vocal cords for further discussion.
Shaking his head at a footman offering him brandy, Barnaby made his way to Penelope’s side. By the time he reached her, she’d dismissed
the gentleman who’d partnered her at the table. As was customary, the lamps had been turned low, allowing shadows to cloak sections of the room; often the discussions held in this later stage were sensitive, and those undertaking them preferred to keep their expressions masked from potential observers.
The shadow Penelope had chosen for her own hid the expectant anticipation glowing in her eyes from all but him.
For which he was grateful. Lady Carnegie was a close friend of his mother’s and very far from blind.
Taking Penelope’s hand, he set it on his sleeve. “Where’s this parlor?”
Penelope gestured to a side door. “We can reach it through there.”
He steered her the few paces to the door, concealed by the angle of a minor wall in the irregularly shaped room. Opening the door, he ushered her through, then followed, shutting it behind him.
The corridor was unlit, but enough moonlight seeped in through uncurtained windows to allow them to see. As she led the way down it, Penelope’s instincts prodded, increasingly insistent; something wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t quite believable.
Halfway down the corridor, she halted and turned to face the looming presence at her heels.
Through the soft gloom, she studied his face, confirming, affirming, defining what, exactly, didn’t add up.
Studying her face in return, he arched one brow in arrogant query.
Underscoring her instincts’ accuracy.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being far too…
amenable
over this. You are not the sort to follow meekly at any lady’s heels.”