Penelope grimaced again; she, too, looked out of the window. And inwardly wrestled with not her conscience but something closely aligned—her sense of rightness, of truth, of giving praise where it was due.
Of acknowledging the totality—the humanity—of Barnaby Adair.
She would much rather consider him a typical ton gentleman, far distanced from the world through which the hackney was rolling—a man uninterested in and untouched by the wider issues she confronted every day.
Unfortunately, his vocation—the very aspect of him that had compelled her to seek his help—was proof positive that he was otherwise.
Seeing him deal with Jemmie, hearing the commitment in his voice when he’d told Mrs. Carter, a poor woman with no claim on his notice other than her need, that he would keep Jemmie safe, had made closing her eyes and her mind to his virtues—so much more attractive to her than any amount of rakish charm—impossible.
When he’d arrived at the Foundling House that morning, she’d been determined to keep him rigidly at a distance. To keep all their dealings purely business, to suppress each and every little leap her unruly nerves might make, giving him no reason whatever to imagine he had any inherent effect on her.
Her resolve had wavered—illogically—when he’d arrived early, demonstrating a far better grasp of her determination and will than any man of her acquaintance. But she’d quickly bolstered her resolve with said will and determination, and stuck to her plan of how to deal with him.
And then…he’d behaved in ways few other gentlemen would have, and earned her respect in a way and to a degree that no other man ever had.
In less than an hour, he’d made her plan untenable. She wasn’t going to be able to ignore him—even pretend to ignore him—not when he’d made her admire him. Appreciate him. As a person, not just as a man.
Her gaze on the rundown houses slipping past, she inwardly acknowledged that in dealing with him, she would need to think again.
She needed a better plan.
Silence reigned until the hackney drew up outside the Foundling House. Barnaby shook himself free of his thoughts—of the disturbingly persistent need to stop Penelope from making visits such as the one just concluded. Opening the carriage door, he got out, handed her down, then paid off the jarvey, adding a hefty tip.
As the grateful jarvey rattled away, he turned, remembered not to grip her arm as he had in the stews—a protective action only their surroundings had excused—and instead took her hand and wound her arm in his.
She cast him a swift glance, but allowed it. He swung open the gate and they walked up the path to the house’s front door.
He rang the bell.
She drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “I’ll write a letter to Mrs. Carter’s landlord immediately.”
He nodded. “I’ll contact Stokes and explain the situation.” He met her eyes. “Where will you be this evening?”
Her large dark brown eyes blinked at him. “Why?”
Irritation swamped him, heightened by her transparently genuine blank look. “In case I think of anything more I need to know.” He made it sound as if he was stating the obvious.
“Oh.” She considered, as if mentally reviewing her diary. “Mama and I will be at Lady Moffat’s party.”
“I’ll look you up if I need any further information.” To his relief, the door opened. He nodded to Mrs. Keggs, bowed briefly to Penelope, then turned and walked away.
Before he said something even more inane.
A
t three o’clock that afternoon Stokes presented himself at Griselda Martin’s front door. She was waiting to let him in. The blinds screening the front window and the glass panel in the door were already drawn. Her apprentices were nowhere in sight.
She noted the hackney he had waiting in the street. “I’ll just get my bonnet and bag.”
He waited in the doorway while she bustled back behind the curtain, then reappeared a moment later, tying a straw bonnet over her dark hair. Even to Stokes’s eyes, the bonnet looked stylish.
She came forward, briskly waving him down the steps ahead of her. She followed, closing and locking the door behind her. Dropping the heavy key into her cloth bag, she joined him on the pavement.
He walked beside her the few paces to the hackney, opened the carriage door, and offered her his hand.
She stared at it for a moment, then put her hand in his. Very aware of the fragility of the fingers he grasped, he helped her into the carriage. “What direction should I give?”
“The corner of Whitechapel and New Road.”
He conveyed the information to their driver, then joined her inside. The instant the door shut, the carriage jerked and started rolling.
She was seated opposite him; he couldn’t stop his gaze from resting on her. She didn’t fidget, as most did under his eye, but he noticed she was clutching the bag she’d placed in her lap rather tightly.
He forced himself to look away, but the façades slipping past
couldn’t hold his attention. Or his gaze; it kept returning to her, until he knew if he didn’t say something, his steady regard would unnerve her.
All he could think of was, “I want to thank you for agreeing to help me.”
She looked at him, met his gaze squarely. “You’re trying to rescue four young boys, and possibly more besides. Of course I’ll help you—what sort of woman wouldn’t?”
What sort of woman had he expected her to be?
He hastened to reassure her. “I only meant that I was grateful.” He hesitated, then went on, “And if truth be told, not all women would be keen to get involved with the police.”
She studied him for a moment, then gave a soft sniff and looked away.
He felt fairly certain the dismissive sniff had been directed at women who wouldn’t get involved, not at him.
After further cogitation, he decided silence was the better part of valor. At least after their exchange, however brief, she was no longer clutching her bag quite so nervously.
As directed, the hackney halted at the corner of Whitechapel Road and New Road. Stokes descended first. Griselda found herself being handed down with the same care he’d used to help her into the carriage. It wasn’t a courtesy to which she was accustomed, but she rather thought she could get used to it.
Unlikely as that was to be; Stokes and she were here on business, nothing else.
He ordered the driver to wait for them. Dragging a breath into lungs that seemed suddenly tight—she must have laced her walking gown too tightly—she lifted her chin and waved down the street. “This way.”
During the drive she’d surreptitiously watched him, studying his dark-featured face for any sign of him turning up his nose as they’d penetrated deeper into the old neighborhoods. She wasn’t ashamed of her origins, but she knew well enough how the East End was viewed. But she’d detected no hint of contempt, no turning up of his arrogant, bladelike nose.
Then, as now, he looked about him with a certain detached interest.
He strode easily, effortlessly, by her side, scanning the ramshackle houses pressed tight together, holding one another up. He saw all there was to see, but evinced no sign of passing judgment.
She felt just a little easier—less tense—as she led the way down Fieldgate Street, then took the second turning on the left, into familiar territory. She’d been born and raised in Myrdle Street. They drew level with her father’s house; she paused beside the single front step and met Stokes’s eyes. “I was born here. In this house.” Just so he’d know.
He nodded. She looked, closely, but saw nothing in his face or his changeable gray eyes but curiosity.
Feeling rather more confident as to how the next half hour would go, she raised a hand and tapped on the door—three sharp raps—then opened the door and went in.
“Grizzy-girl! That you?” Her father’s voice was scratchy with age.
“Yes, Da, it’s me. I’ve brought a visitor.” Setting down her bag in the tiny front room, she led the way into the room beyond.
Her father was propped up in his bed-cum-chair, an old ginger cat curled up in his lap, purring under his hand. He looked up as she entered, eyes brightening as they met hers, then widening as they moved on to fix on the presence at her back.
She was relieved to see that her father was wide awake, and also reasonably pain-free. “Did the doctor call this morning?”
“Aye.” Her father’s reply was absentminded. “Left another bottle of tonic.”
She saw the bottle on the scarred dresser.
“Who’s this?” Narrow-eyed, her father was studying Stokes.
Griselda sent Stokes a brief, warning look. “This is Mr. Stokes.” She drew a deep breath, then said, “Inspector Stokes—he’s an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“A rozzer?” Her father’s tone made it clear that wasn’t an occupation he held in high regard.
“Yes, that’s right.” She pulled up a chair and sat, taking one of her father’s hands in hers. “But if you’ll let me explain why he’s here—”
“Actually,” Stokes cut in. “It might be better, sir, if I explain why I’ve prevailed on your daughter to arrange this meeting.”
She glanced at Stokes, but he was looking at her father.
Who grumped, but nodded. “Aye—all right. What’s this about then?”
Stokes told him, simply, directly, without any embellishment.
At one point her father cut him off to wave him to a stool. “Sit down—you’re so damned tall you’re giving me a crick.”
She caught the flash of Stokes’s smile as he complied, then continued his tale. By the time he’d completed it, her father had lost all suspicions of this rozzer at least. He and Stokes were soon engrossed in evaluating the likely local villains.
Feeling unexpectedly redundant, Griselda rose. Stokes glanced up, but her father reclaimed his attention. Nevertheless, as she left the room, she felt the weight of Stokes’s attention. In the cramped lean-to kitchen, she raddled the stove, then boiled the kettle and made tea. Returning to the front room, she extracted the biscuits she’d remembered to stuff in her bag, then laid them out on a clean plate.
Arranging the teapot, three mugs, and the plate on a wooden tray, she carried it into the small bedroom. Her father brightened at the sight of the biscuits; she felt her heart constrict when Stokes noticed, reached over, lifted the plate, and offered it to him. Delighted, her father helped himself, then returned to their discussion.
After handing out the mugs, Griselda sat. She didn’t listen, but instead let the cadence of her father’s voice wash over her, watched his face, more animated than she’d seen it in years—and silently gave thanks that she’d agreed to bring Stokes to see him.
Having an interest in life kept old people living; she wasn’t yet ready to let her father go.
They finished their tea, and the biscuits. She rose, tidied the tray, and carried it back to the kitchen. She returned in time to see Stokes get to his feet, tucking his black notebook into his pocket while he thanked her father for his time.
“And your help.” Stokes smiled easily; he had, she’d noticed, a smile that, although he didn’t flash it often, inspired confidences. “Your information is exactly what I needed.” His gaze locked with her father’s, his smile grew wry. “I know assisting the rozzers with their inquiries isn’t something that’s encouraged around here, so I doubly value your help.”
Her father, she could tell, was inwardly preening, but he hid it
behind a manly nod and a gruff, “You just find those boys and get them back.”
“If there’s any justice in this world, with your help, we will.” Stokes glanced at her.
She went to her father and fussed, straightening the blanket over his legs, reminding him that Mrs. Pickles next door would bring his dinner in an hour, then she kissed him on the cheek and bade him good-bye. He was settling down for a nap, an unusually contented smile on his face, when she joined Stokes in the tiny front room. Picking up her bag, she led the way to the door.
Stokes held it for her, then followed her out, making sure the latch caught behind them.
They were walking up the street when he asked, “Is he your only family?”
She nodded. Hesitated, then added, “My three brothers were killed in the wars. My mother died when we were young.”
Stokes nodded.
He said nothing more, merely strode along by her side, yet within a few paces she felt compelled to add, “I wanted him to move to St. John’s Wood with me.” She gestured about them. “There’s no call for a milliner around here. But he was born in this street, too, and this place is his home, with all his friends around, so here he’ll stay.”
She felt Stokes’s glance, sharper, more assessing, but even now not judgmental. “So you come and visit him often.”
Not a question, but she nodded. “I come as often as I can, but that’s usually only once a week. Still, he has others—like Mrs. Pickles and the doctor—to keep an eye on him, and they all know how to reach me if there’s any need.”
He nodded again, but said nothing more. The obvious question leapt to her tongue; she bit it, then decided there was no reason she should. “Do you have any family living?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. She was wondering if she’d stepped over some invisible line when he replied, “Yes. My father’s a merchant in Colchester. I haven’t seen him…not for a while. Like you, my mother died some time ago, but I was an only child.”
He said no more, but she got the impression that he hadn’t just been an only, but also a lonely child.
The jarvey was where they’d left him. When they were in the
hackney heading back to St. John’s Wood, she asked, “So what now with your investigation?”
Stokes glanced at her; his hesitation suggested he was considering whether he should tell her or not, but then he said, “Your father gave me eight names of possible schoolmasters. He had directions for some, but not all. I’ll need to check each one to see if they might be the villain behind our lads’ disappearances, but any inquiries will have to be made very carefully. The last thing we want is for the schoolmaster, whoever he is, to realize we’re taking an interest. Once he does, he’ll up stakes and disappear into the slums, taking the boys with him—we’ll never catch him and we’ll have scuppered our chance to rescue the boys.”
She nodded. After a moment she said, “You can’t just wander in and ask, you know.” Catching his eye, she wondered why she was doing this—why she was about to get further involved in a police investigation. “The locals will know who—and what—you are. No matter what disguise you put on, you’ll still not be ‘one of us.’”
He grimaced. “There’s little option beyond using the local rozzers, and they—”
“Won’t be spoken to, either.” She paused, then said, “I, however, can still move among the locals. They know who I am—they trust me. I’m still one of them.”
He’d tensed. A dark turbulence came into his eyes. “I can’t let you do that. It’s too dangerous.”
She shrugged. “I’ll dress down, let my accent come through. And there’ll be far less danger for me than for you.”
He held her gaze, and she knew he was torn.
“You need my help—those boys need my help.”
Lips compressed, he stared at her, then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I’ll agree to you asking questions on one condition, and one condition only. I go with you.”
She opened her mouth to point out the obvious.
He silenced her with an upraised hand. “I can pass well enough in disguise, as long as I don’t have to talk. You can do the talking. I’ll be there purely for your protection—but I must be there, or you don’t go.”
She longed to ask him how he intended to stop her, but if her father heard she was asking questions about schoolmasters he would
worry, and there was no question but that having Stokes at her shoulder would, even in the roughest sections of the East End, count as very good protection.
Relaxing back against the seat, she nodded. “Very well. We’ll go together.”
Some of the tension holding him eased.
She glanced out, and realized they were back in St. John’s Wood High Street. The carriage rocked to a halt before her door. Stokes descended, and handed her out. She could, she decided, get used to being treated like a lady.
Shaking out her skirts, she glanced at her door, then turned and met his gaze. “So when should we go back?”
He frowned. “Not tomorrow. I should share the information we’ve uncovered with a colleague—the one who brought the case to my attention. He might have news that will help us to fix on which of our possible villains is the most likely.”
“Very well.” She inclined her head. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
He fell in beside her as she walked the few feet to her front steps. As she climbed them, then hunted for her key and unlocked the door, she was aware of him looking at the shop, as if with new eyes.
The door open, she turned and regarded him, brows lifting faintly in query.
His elusive smile flashed. He looked down for a moment, then lifted his head. “I was just thinking you must have worked very hard to get from the East End to here.” His eyes trapped hers. “That in itself is a significant accomplishment. That you’ve retained the ability to move in your original circles—while I’m grateful for the benefits that brings my investigation”—he paused, then continued, his voice lower, softer—“I also find that admirable.”
He held her gaze for a breathless instant, then inclined his head. “Good evening, Miss Martin. I’ll be in touch in a day or so, once I have news.”
He turned and made his way unhurriedly down the steps.
It took a moment and more to shake free of her surprise, to register that yes, he had indeed paid her a compliment, and no little one at that. Feeling suddenly exposed, she stepped inside and shut the door, then hesitated. With one fingertip she eased aside the blind—and
watched his departing back, savoring the elegant lines, the muscular grace of his stride, until he climbed into the hackney and shut the door.