Stokes’s gaze grew distant. Barnaby let the silence stretch, having a fairly good idea of the issues with which Stokes was wrestling.
Eventually, a slow, predatory smile curved Stokes’s thin lips. He
refocused on Barnaby. “As you know, normally we’d have no chance of getting permission to put any real effort into this—into finding four pauper boys. However, those possible uses we mentioned—none of them are good. All are, in themselves, crimes worthy of attention. It occurs to me, what with the way your recent success in dealing with tonnish villains has played out politically, and given the governors are so constantly exhorting us to be seen to be evenhanded in our efforts, that perhaps I might present this case as an opportunity to demonstrate that the force is not solely interested in crimes affecting the nobs, but equally prepared to act to protect innocents from the lower walks of life.”
“You might point out that at present, crime among the nobs is at a seasonal low.” Tilting his head, Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “So, do you think you can get permission to work on this?”
A moment passed, then Stokes’s lips firmed. “I believe I can make this play into their prejudices. And their politics.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“You might drop a line to your father, just to shore up support in case of need, but other than that…I believe I’ll manage.”
“Good.” Barnaby sat up. “Does that mean you, specifically, will be joining in?”
Stokes looked at the stack of papers by his elbow. “Oh, yes. I’m definitely dealing myself into this game.”
Grinning, Barnaby rose.
Stokes looked up. “I should be able to catch the commissioner later today. I’ll send word as soon as I get clearance.” Rising, Stokes offered his hand.
Barnaby clasped it, then released it and saluted. “I’ll leave you to your persuasions.”
He headed for the door.
“One thing.”
Stokes’s voice halted Barnaby in the doorway; he looked back.
Stokes was already clearing away his papers. “You might like to ask the Foundling House’s administrator if there was anything those boys had in common. Any common feature—were they all small, all tall, all large, all thin. From good homes or the dregs. That might give us some clue as to what whoever has snatched them wants them for.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask.” With another salute, Barnaby left.
He’d said he’d ask, but he didn’t need to ask that day.
He didn’t need to seek out Penelope Ashford that very afternoon to pick her brains. She’d mentioned she was usually only at the Foundling House in the mornings. Even if he found her, wherever she might be, she wouldn’t have her files to consult.
Of course, all he’d learned of her suggested that she would be able to answer Stokes’s question without the need for any files.
Barnaby halted on the steps of Stokes’s building. Hands sunk in the pockets of his greatcoat, now done up against the chilly breeze, he contemplated the buildings across the street while debating pursuing Penelope Ashford, albeit in search of answers.
Being the sort of woman she was, if he hunted her up, she would assume he’d done so to question her.
Reassured, he smiled, strode down the steps, and set out for Mount Street.
By dint of asking a streetsweeper, he located Calverton House, and plied the knocker. A moment passed, then the door opened and an imposing butler met his gaze, brows rising in magisterial inquiry.
Barnaby smiled with easy charm. “Is Miss Ashford in?”
“I regret Miss Ashford is presently from home, sir. May I tell her who called?”
Smile evaporating, he looked down, wondering if he should leave any message. Predicting how Penelope might react—
“Mr. Adair, is it not?”
He looked up at the butler, whose expression remained entirely uninformative. “Yes.”
“Miss Ashford left word that should you call, sir, I was to inform you she’d had to accompany Lady Calverton on her afternoon rounds, as part of which she anticipated being in the park at the customary hour.”
Barnaby hid a grimace. The park. At the fashionable hour. A combination of place and time he habitually avoided. “Thank you.” He turned and went down the front steps. On the pavement he hesitated, then turned west.
And walked toward Hyde Park.
It was November. The skies were overcast, the breeze chill. Most
of the glittering horde that populated the ton’s ballrooms had already decamped for the country. Only those associated with the corridors of power remained, as Parliament had not yet risen. It soon would, and then London would be all but devoid of tonnish society. Even now, the rows of carriages to be found lining the Avenue should have thinned significantly.
There wouldn’t be that many dowagers and matrons, let alone sweet young things, to see and wonder why he was intent on speaking with Penelope Ashford.
Crossing Park Lane, he strode through the gates and on, cutting across the lawns to where the carriages of the ladies of the haut ton always gathered.
His estimation of the park’s inhabitants proved both right and wrong. The gossipy matrons and giggling girls were thankfully absent, but the gimlet-eyed dowagers and the sharp-eyed political hostesses were very much in evidence. And courtesy of his father’s prominence and his mother’s connections, he was instantly identifiable—and of interest—to all of those.
The Calverton carriage was drawn up on the verge in the center of the line of carriages, ensuring he passed under the eyes of at least half the assembled ladies as he skirted the fringes of those passing back and forth. Lady Calverton was engaged in earnest conversation with two contemporaries; beside her, Penelope looked distinctly bored.
Lady Calverton saw him first. She smiled as he approached the carriage. Penelope glanced his way, then straightened, her characteristic animation infusing her features, making them glow.
“Mr. Adair.” Lady Calverton held out her hand, recalling him.
He took her gloved fingers and bowed over them. “Lady Calverton.”
Behind their gold-rimmed spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. He met them, and politely inclined his head. “Miss Ashford.”
She smiled easily; social assurance was something neither she nor Portia lacked. Turning to her mother, she said, “Mr. Adair is assisting me with inquiries into the backgrounds of certain of our charges.” She looked at Barnaby. “I daresay you have more questions, sir.”
“Indeed.” He, too, could play the social game. He glanced at the lawns nearby. “I wonder, Miss Ashford, if perhaps we might stroll while we talk?”
She smiled approvingly. “An excellent idea.” To her mother she said, “I doubt we’ll be long.”
Swinging open the carriage door, he offered her his hand. She grasped it and climbed down. Releasing him, she shook out her skirts, then seemed mildly surprised when he offered his arm.
She took it, hesitantly laying her hand on his sleeve; to him her touch seemed almost wary.
Interesting. He doubted there was much in the ton, or out of it, that could make her…cautious. Yet he sensed it was that—and perhaps a need to seize control—that had her saying as they moved away from the carriage and the other strollers nearby, “I take it you spoke with your friend, Inspector Stokes. Have you learned anything?”
“Other than that Stokes is inclined to amuse himself by investigating these disappearances?”
The look she turned on him was gratifyingly wide-eyed. “You persuaded him to take up the case?”
Temptation bloomed, but chances were that she would meet Stokes at some point. “Not so much persuaded as assisted him to find reasons he should. Personally he was quite willing, but the force has its priorities. In this instance, Stokes felt he could make a case for action that would appeal to the commissioner.” He met her eyes. “He hasn’t yet received permission to put this case on his list, but he seemed confident of gaining approval.”
Penelope nodded and looked ahead. Police support was far more than she’d expected. Consulting Barnaby Adair had clearly been the right thing to do—even if her witless senses hadn’t yet learned how to be calm when near him. “You called Stokes a friend. Have you known him long?”
“Several years.”
“How did you meet?” She looked up. “Well—an earl’s son and a policeman. There had to be some event that brought him into your orbit. Or was it through your own investigating?”
He hesitated, as if remembering. “A bit of both,” he eventually conceded. “I was present at the scene of a crime—a series of thefts at a country house party—and he was sent to investigate. I was a close friend of the gentleman most wished to blame. Both Stokes and I were, in different ways, a little out of our depth. But we found we
dealt well together, and our combined knowledge—mine of the ton, Stokes’s of the ways of criminals—proved successful in addressing the crime.”
“Simon and Portia were much struck by Stokes. They spoke highly of him after the events at Glossup Hall.”
Adair’s smile turned subtly affectionate. Penelope sensed he was pleased and proud on his friend’s behalf even before he said, “That was Stokes’s first major murder case in the ton alone. He did well.”
“How was it you didn’t accompany him into Devon? Or don’t you always work together on cases within the ton?”
“Usually we work together—it’s quicker and more cerain that way. But when the report came in from Glossup Hall, we were in the middle of a long-standing case involving members of the ton here in London. The commissioner and the governors elected to send Stokes to Devon, leaving me to continue the investigation here.”
She’d heard of the scandal that had ensued; naturally, she had questions, which she promptly posed. Said questions were so insightful and so succinctly phrased, he found himself answering readily, seduced by a mind that saw and understood. Until one of the park gates loomed before them. He blinked, then glanced around. They’d walked, more or less in a straight line, away from the Avenue. She’d distracted him with her interrogation—he hadn’t even asked her what he’d come there to learn. Lips setting, he checked and turned her about. “We should return to your mother.”
Penelope shrugged. “She won’t mind. She knows we’re discussing serious matters.”
But none of the other grande dames do.
Biting back the words, he quickened his stride.
“So what questions did Stokes raise?” Penelope asked. “I assume there were some.”
“Indeed. He asked if there were any traits or characteristics the four missing boys share.” He forbore giving her any example, not wanting to color her response.
She frowned, her straight dark brows forming a line above her nose. They continued to walk, rather briskly, while she thought. Eventually she volunteered, “They are, all four of them, rather thin and slight, but they’re healthy and strong enough—wiry, if you like.
And all struck me as nimble and quick. But they aren’t all the same height. In fact, I can’t think of any other characteristic they have in common. They weren’t even the same age.”
It was his turn to frown. After a moment, he asked, “How tall was the tallest?”
She held up her hand level with her ear. “Dick was about this tall. But Ben—the second one who disappeared—was more than a head shorter.”
“What about their general appearance—were they attractive children, or…?”
She shook her head decisively. “Plain and totally unremarkable. Even if you dressed them well, they would never rate a second glance.”
“Blond hair or brown?”
“Both—varying shades.”
“You said they were nimble and quick—did you mean quick as in movement, or quick-witted?”
Her brows rose. “Both, actually. I was looking forward to teaching all four boys—they were bright, all of them.”
“What about backgrounds? They were all from poor homes, but were these four from more stable families, likely to be better behaved, perhaps easier to train, more tractable?”
She pursed her lips, but again shook her head. “Their families weren’t of any one sort, as such, although all four had gone through difficult times, even for the East End. That’s why the boys were destined for us. All I could say is that there was no hint of any criminal associations in any of the four families.”
He nodded, looking ahead—to where her mother waited in her carriage, staring rather pointedly their way.
Penelope hadn’t noticed; she was busy studying his face. “What does that—what they look like and so on—tell you? How does it help?”
His gaze raking the line of carriages, Barnaby inwardly swore. How long had they been away? He should never have allowed her to distract him with her questions. Countless dowagers were peering at them, some even wielding lorgnettes. “I don’t know.”
But I can guess.
“I’ll take your answers back to Stokes, and see what he says. He’s better acquainted with that world than I.”
“Yes, please do.” Penelope halted beside the carriage door and fixed her gaze on his face. “You will inform me of what he thinks, won’t you?”
Adair looked down and met her gaze. “Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes, ignoring all the curious glances focused so avidly on them. “As soon as practicable.”
His lips thinned.
Uncaring of propriety, she tightened her grip on his arm, perfectly prepared to cling if he dared try to leave without promising…
Blue eyes like flint, he tersely conceded, “As you wish.”
She smiled and let him go. “Thank you. Until next we meet.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. “Indeed. Until then.”
Steely warning rang in his tone, but she didn’t care; she’d won her point.
He handed her into the carriage, took his leave of her mother, then, with another curt nod, strode off. She noted his direction—toward Scotland Yard, where Peel’s police had their headquarters; leaning back against the seat, she smiled a satisfied smile. Despite her senses’ preoccupation with him, she’d managed that encounter rather well.
S
tokes was on his feet behind his desk, tidying it before leaving for the day, when Barnaby strode in. Stokes looked up, took in his friend’s features. “What?”
Penelope Ashford is going to be a problem.
Barnaby drew in a controlled breath. “I asked Miss Ashford about the four boys.”
Stokes frowned. “Miss Ashford?”
“Penelope Ashford, Portia’s sister, currently the Foundling House’s administrator. She said all four boys were thin, wiry, nimble, and quick—both in movement and wits. She considered them brighter than the norm. Other than that, they range in age from seven to ten years old, are of widely differing heights, totally unprepossessing, and have no other indicative characteristics in common.”
“I see.” Eyes narrowing, Stokes dropped back into his chair. He waited while Barnaby walked in and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, then said, “It sounds like we can cross all arms of the flesh trade off our list.”
Barnaby nodded. “And one at least is far too tall to be useful as a chimney boy, so that’s off the list, too.”
“I ran into Rowland of the Water Police an hour ago—he was here for a meeting. I asked if there was any shortage of cabin boys. Apparently the opposite is the case, so there’s no reason to imagine these boys are being pressed into service on the waves.”
Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “So where does that leave us?”
Stokes considered, then his brows rose. “Burglars’ boys. That’s the most likely use for them by far—thin, wiry, nimble, and quick as they are. The fact they’re unremarkable is an added bonus—they wouldn’t
be looking for any boy too pretty or noteworthy in any way. And in that part of the city…”
After a moment, Stokes continued, “There have, on and off over the years, been tales—true enough by all accounts—of, for want of a better description, ‘burglary schools’ run in the depths of the East End. The area is crowded. In some parts, it’s a warren of tenements and warehouses that not even the local bobbies are happy going into. These schools come and go. Each doesn’t last long, but often it’s the same people behind them.”
“They move before the police can close them down?”
Stokes nodded. “And as it’s usually impossible to prove they—the proprietors—are involved in any citable crime, one we could take before a magistrate, then…” He shrugged. “By and large they’re ignored.”
Barnaby frowned. “What do these schools teach? What do burglars’ boys need to be taught?”
“We used to think they were used as lookouts, and perhaps they are when the burglar operates in less affluent neighborhoods. But the real use of burglars’ boys is in thieving from the houses of the more affluent, especially the ton. Getting into houses in Mayfair isn’t that easy—most have bars on the ground-floor windows, or those windows are too small, at least for a man. Thin young boys, however, can often wriggle through. It’s the boys who do the actual lifting of the objects, then pass them out to the burglar. The boys, therefore, need to be trained in creeping about silently in the dark, on polished wood and tiled floors, over rugs, and around furniture. They’re taught the basic layout of ton houses, where to go, where to avoid—where to hide if they rouse the household. They learn how to tell good-quality ornaments from dross, how to remove pictures from their frames, how to pick locks—some are even taught to open safes.”
Barnaby grimaced. “And if something goes wrong…?”
“Precisely. It’s the boy who gets caught, not the burglar.”
Barnaby stared at the window behind Stokes. “So we have a situation that suggests a burglary school is operating, training boys most likely for use in burgling the houses of the ton…” He broke off and met Stokes’s eyes. “Of course! They’re getting ready to commit burglaries over the festive season, while the ton is largely not in residence.”
Stokes frowned. “But most ladies take their jewelery with them to the country—”
“Indeed.” Barnaby’s burgeoning enthusiasm remained undimmed. “But this lot—whoever they are—aren’t after jewelery. The ton packs up house only in terms of clothing and jewelery, and staff—they leave their ornaments, many of which are treasures, behind. Those things remain with the houses, usually with a skeleton staff. Some houses are left with only a caretaker.”
Barnaby’s excitement had infected Stokes. His gaze drifted as he thought, then pinned Barnaby. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, but let’s assume we’re right. Why four? Why in the space of a few weeks snatch four boys for training?”
Barnaby grinned wolfishly. “Because this group is planning a succession of robberies—or has more than one burglar who’s planning to be active over the coming months.”
“While the ton is away from London.” His features hardening, Stokes murmured, “It could be worth it. Worth the effort they’ve already invested to identify four likely lads—and there might be more—and organize to whisk them away.”
A moment passed, with both men following their thoughts, then Barnaby met Stokes’s eyes. “This could be big—a lot bigger than it appears at present.”
Stokes nodded. “I spoke to the commissioner earlier. He gave me leave to investigate appropriately—the emphasis being on appropriately.” Stokes’s dark smile curved his lips. “I’ll speak with him again tomorrow, and tell him what we now think. I believe I can guarantee having a free hand after that.”
Barnaby smiled cynically. “So what’s our next step? Finding this school?”
“It’s most likely in the East End, somewhere not far from where the boys lived. You said it’s unlikely the boys were identified as potential scholars by any of the Foundling House’s staff. If so, then the most likely explanation for how our ‘schoolmaster’ heard of the four, and more, knew exactly when and how to send a man to fetch them, is that the schoolmaster and his team are locals themselves.”
“The neighbors were certain the man who fetched the boys was from the East End, and that he was merely an errand boy—someone
trained in what to say to convince them to surrender the orphans to him.”
“Exactly. These villains know the local ropes well because they’re locals.”
Barnaby grimaced. “I have no idea how to go about searching for a burglary school in the East End. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Looking for anything in the East End isn’t easy, and I’m no more familiar with the area than you.”
“The local force?” Barnaby suggested.
“I’ll notify them, but I don’t expect to get much direct help. The force is in its infancy and predictably not well established in that area.” A minute passed, Stokes tapping one finger on the desktop, then he seemed to come to a decision. He pushed back from the desk. “Leave it with me. There’s someone I know who knows the East End. If I can get them interested in the case, they might consent to help us.” He rose.
Barnaby rose, too. He turned to the door. Stokes came around the desk, snagged his greatcoat from its hook, and followed.
Barnaby paused in the corridor; Stokes halted beside him. “I’ll go off and rack my brains to see if there’s some other way to advance our cause.”
Stokes nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll see the commissioner and tell him our news. And I’ll see my contact. I’ll send word if they’re willing to help.”
They parted. Barnaby went outside into the gathering dusk. Again he paused on the building’s steps to take stock.
Stokes had something to do—an avenue to pursue. He, on the other hand…
The compulsion to act—to not simply sit waiting for Stokes to send word—rode like a goblin on his shoulders. Whispering in his ear.
If he spoke with Penelope Ashford again, now he had some idea of their direction, he might winkle more useful information from her. He had little doubt her brain was crammed with potentially pertinent facts. And he had more or less promised to let her know what Stokes thought.
Pushy female.
Difficult female…with lush, ripe lips.
Distracting lips.
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he continued down the steps. The one problem with speaking with Penelope Ashford that night was that to do so he would have to meet her somewhere in the ton.
Evening had come, and with it Penelope had been forced to don what she considered a disguise. She had to convert from being herself to being Miss Penelope Ashford, youngest sister of Viscount Calverton, youngest daughter of Minerva, the Dowager Lady Calverton, and the only unmarried female in the clan.
That last designation grated, not because she had any desire to change her marital status but because it somehow set her apart. Set her on a pedestal that she cynically viewed as akin to an auction block. And while she never had the slightest difficulty dismissing the mistaken assumptions too many young gentlemen inevitably made, the need to do so irked. It was irritating to have to suspend her thoughts and find patience and polite words to send importuning gentlemen to the rightabout.
Especially as, while she might be standing by the side of a ballroom, she was usually mentally elsewhere. Thermopylae, for example. To her the ancient Greeks held a far greater allure than any of the youthful swains who tried to catch her eye.
Tonight’s venue was Lady Hemmingford’s drawing room. Fashionably gowned in green satin of such a dark hue it was almost black—having been forbidden by her family from wearing black, her color of choice—Penelope stood by the wall, a political soiree in full voice before her.
Regardless of her boredom with—indeed, antipathy to—such social events, she couldn’t cry off. Her unfailing attendance with her mother at whatever evening functions the Dowager chose to grace was part of the bargain she had struck with Luc and her mother in return for Lady Calverton remaining in town when the rest of the family had departed for the country, thus allowing her to continue her work at the Foundling House.
Luc and her mother had flatly refused to countenance her remaining in London on her own, or even with Helen, a widowed cousin, as chaperone. Unfortunately, no one could see Helen, sweet tempered
and mild, as being able to check her in any way, not even Penelope. Despite her brother’s unhelpful stance, she could see his point.
She also knew that an unvoiced part of their bargain was that she would consent to being paraded before those members of the ton still in the capital, thereby keeping alive her chances of making a suitable match.
Within the family, she did her best to openly quash such thoughts; she saw no benefit in marriage at all—not in her case. When out in society, she, if not openly, then subtly and unrelentingly, discouraged gentlemen from imagining she might change her mind.
She was always taken aback when some young sprig proved too dense to read her message.
I’m wearing spectacles, you dolt!
was always her first thought. What young lady wishful of contracting a suitable match came to a ton event with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose?
In reality, she could see enough to get by without her spectacles, but things were fuzzy. She could manage within a restricted area like a room, even a ballroom, but she couldn’t make out the expressions on people’s faces. In her teens, she’d decided knowing what was going on around her—every little detail—was far more important than projecting the right appearance. Other young ladies might blink myopically and bumble about in an attempt to deny their shortcoming, but not her.
She was as she was, and the ton could simply make do with that.
Chin elevated, gaze fixed on the cornice across the room, she continued to stand by the side of the Hemmingfords’ drawing room, debating whether among the more recently arrived guests there were any with whom she—or the Foundling House—might benefit from conversation.
She was distantly aware of music issuing from the adjoining salon, but resolutely ignored the tug on her senses. Dancing with gentlemen invariably encouraged them to imagine she was interested in further acquaintance. A sad circumstance given she loved dancing, but she’d learned not to let the music tempt her.
Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, her senses…ruffled. She blinked. That most curious sensation slid over her, as if the nerve endings beneath her skin had been stroked. Warmly. She was about to
look around to identify the cause when a disturbingly deep voice murmured, “Good evening, Miss Ashford.”
Blond curls; blue, blue eyes. Resplendent in evening black-and-white, Barnaby Adair appeared by her side.
Turning to face him, she smiled delightedly and, without thinking, gave him her hand.
Barnaby grasped her delicate fingers and bowed over them, seizing the moment to reassemble his customary suave composure, something she’d shattered with that fabulous smile.
What was it about her and her smiles? Perhaps it was because she didn’t smile as freely as other young ladies; although her lips curved readily and she bestowed polite accolades as required, those gestures were dim cousins of her true smile—the one she’d just gifted him with. That was so much more—brighter, more intense, more openhearted. Unguarded and genuine, it evoked in him an impluse to warn her not to flash those smiles at others—evoked an underlying covetous desire to ensure she kept those smiles just for him.
Ridiculous. What was she doing to him?
He straightened, and found her still beaming, although her smile itself had faded.
“I’m so glad to see you. I take it you have news?”
He blinked again. There was something in her face, in her expression, that touched him. Shook him in a most peculiar way. “If you recall,” he said, with a valiant attempt at a dry, arrogant drawl, “you insisted I inform you of Stokes’s thoughts as soon as practicable.”
Her cheeriness didn’t abate. “Well, yes, but I had no hope you would brave this”—she flicked a hand at the fashionable gathering—“to do so.”
She had, however, had the foresight to once again instruct her butler to tell him her direction. Barnaby hesitated, then glanced briefly at the groups conversing nearby. “I take it you would rather talk of our investigation than of the latest play at the Theatre Royal.”
This time her smile was both smug and confiding. “Indubitably.” She looked around. “But if we’re to talk of kidnappers and crime, I suspect we should move to a quieter spot.” With her fan, she indicated the corner by the archway into the salon. “That area tends to remain clear.” She glanced at him. “Shall we?”