Where the Heart Leads

by Stephanie Laurens

  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?”

  He offered his arm and she took it; only because he was watching her closely did he see the momentary girding of her senses. He affected them. He’d known that from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her—in that instant she’d walked into his parlor, and seen him—not in a crowd of others but alone.

  Steering her across the drawing room, necessarily stopping here and there to exchange greetings with others, gave him time to consider his unusual reaction to her. It was understandable enough; his reaction was a direct consequence of her reaction to him. When she smiled so unguardedly, it wasn’t because she was responding to him as a handsome gentleman—the glamour most young ladies never saw beyond—but because she saw and was responding to the man behind the façade, the investigator with whom, at least in her mind, she was interacting.

  It was his investigative self she smiled at, the intellectual side of him. That was what had made him feel so strangely touched. It was refreshing to have his manly attributes overlooked—dismissed as inconsequential—and instead be appreciated for his mind and his accomplishments. Penelope might wear spectacles, but her vision was a great deal more incisive than her peers’.

  They finally reached the corner. There they were somewhat isolated from the main body of guests, cut off by the traffic into and out of the salon. They could talk freely, yet were in full view of the company.

  “Perfect.” Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him. “So! What did Inspector Stokes deduce?”

  He suppressed the urge to inform her that Stokes hadn’t been the only one deducing. “After considering all the possible activities in which boys of that age might be employed, it seemed that by far the most likely in this case would be burglary.”

  She frowned. “What do burglars want with young boys?”

  He explained. She exclaimed.

  Eyes sparkling behind her lenses, she categorically stated, “We must rescue our boys without delay.”

  Taking note of the determination ringing in her tone, Barnaby kept his expression impassive. “Indeed. While Stokes is assessing his contacts in order to search for this school, there’s another route I believe we should consider.”

  She met his gaze. “What?”

  “Are there any other similar boys who might be orphaned soon?”

  She stared at him for an instant, her dark eyes wide. He’d expected her to ask why; instead, in a bare instant, she’d fathomed his direction and, from her arrested expression, was only too ready to follow it.

  “Are there?” he prompted.

  “I don’t know, not off the top of my head. I go on all the visits, but sometimes a year can pass between a child being entered into our files and the guardian actually dying.”

  “So there’s a list of sorts, of potential upcoming orphans?”

  “Not a list, unfortunately, but a stack of files.”

  “But the files have an address, and a basic description of the boy?”

  “Yes to the address. But the description we take is just age and eye and hair color—not enough for your purpose.” She met his gaze. “However, I can often remember the children, certainly those I’ve seen recently.”

  He drew breath. “Do you think—”

  “Miss Ashford.”

  They both turned to see a young gentleman bowing extravagantly.

  He straightened and beamed at Penelope. “Mr. Cavendish, Miss Ashford. Your mama and mine are great friends. I wondered if you’d care to dance? I believe they’re preparing for a cotillion.”

  Penelope frowned. “No, thank you.” She seemed to hear the frost in her tone; she thawed enough to add, “I’m not especially fond of cotillions.”

  Mr. Cavendish blinked. “Ah. I see.” He was clearly unaccustomed to being refused.

  Although Penelope’s discouraging mien didn’t ease, he shifted as if to join their conversational group.

  She reached out and seized his arm, and forcibly turned him about. “That’s Miss Akers over there.” She directed his attention down the room. “The girl in the pink dress with the rosebuds rioting over it. I’m sure she’d love to dance the cotillion.” She paused, then added, “She’s certainly dressed for it.”

  Barnaby bit his lip. Cavendish, however, meekly bobbed his head. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  He glanced hopefully at Penelope, who nodded, brisk and encouraging. “Of course.” She released his arm.

  With a nod to Barnaby, Cavendish took himself off.

  “Now.” Penelope turned back to Barnaby. “You were saying?”

  He had to cast his mind back. “I was wondering—”

  “My dear Miss Ashford. What a pleasure it is to find you gracing this event.”

  Barnaby watched with interest as Penelope stiffened, and turned, slowly, her expression hardening, to face the interloper.

  Tristram Hellicar was a gazetted rake. He was also undeniably handsome. He bowed elegantly; straightening, he nodded to Barnaby, then turned his devastatingly charming smile on Penelope.

  Who was demonstrably unimpressed. “Tristram, Mr. Adair and I—”

  “Whatever you were, dear girl, I’m here now. Surely you wouldn’t throw me to the wolves?” A leisurely wave indicated the other guests.

  Behind her lenses, Penelope’s rich brown eyes narrowed to slits. “In a heartbeat.”

  “But consider, sweet Penelope, my being here with you is making all those other bright young sprigs keep their distance, relieving you of the need to exert yourself to diplomatically dismiss them. Rigby has just arrived, and you know how exhaustingly devoted he can be. And Adair here is no real protection—he’s far too polite.”

  Barnaby caught the glinting glance Hellicar threw him, well aware the man was assessing him and his possible connection to Penelope. There was a latent warning in that look, but Hellicar wasn’t sure if he was a rival for Penelope’s affections, and without proof would only go so far.

  He could have given Hellicar some sign easily enough, but he was enjoying the exchange and what it was revealing too much to cut it short. Aside from all else he was absolutely certain Penelope had no idea that Hellicar, reputation aside, was seriously pursuing her.

  What was equally fascinating was that Hellicar, while having the nous to recognize that she wasn’t the usual sort of female, and therefore wouldn’t respond to
the usual sort of blandishments, had no real clue how to charm her.

  And if half the tales told of Hellicar were true, he was a past master at charming ladies of the ton.

  He’d failed dismally with Penelope.

  Hellicar continued his lighthearted banter, seeming not to realize she only grew progressively more rigid. Eventually she cut through his prattle without compunction.

  “Go away, Tristram.” Her voice was even, and cold as steel. He’d clearly fallen entirely from grace. “Or I’ll tell Lord Rotherdale what I saw in Lady Mendicat’s parlor.”

  Hellicar blinked, then paled. “You saw…you wouldn’t.”

  “Believe me, I saw, and I would. And I’d relish every moment of the telling.”

  Lips compressing, eyes narrowing, Hellicar studied her face—and her set expression—and decided she wasn’t bluffing. Accepting defeat, he bowed, rather less fluidly than before. “Very well, fair Penelope. I’ll retire from the lists. For now.” He glanced at Barnaby, then looked at Penelope. “However, if your aim is to lead an unfettered existence, then chatting so animatedly to Adair here isn’t a clever way to convince all those yearning puppies that you’re uninterested in a stroll to the altar. Where one goes, others might venture.”

  Turning away, he said, “Be warned, Adair—she’s dangerous.”

  With a salute, Hellicar departed.

  Penelope frowned. Increasingly direfully. “Rubbish!”

  Barnaby fought to suppress a smile. She was dangerous—dangerously unpredictable. He hadn’t needed Hellicar’s warning, yet for him her threat stemmed from his fascination; he’d never before encountered a gently bred lady who, intentionally and with perfect understanding, stepped entirely beyond society’s bounds whenever she felt like it and knew she could get away with it.

  For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was enjoying himself at a ton function. He was being entertained in a novel, entirely unexpected way.

  “At least he’s gone.” Penelope turned back to him. “So”—she frowned—“where were we?”

  “I was about to ask—”

  “Miss Ashford.”

  She actually hissed in disapproval as she swung to face their latest interruption. Young Lord Morecombe. She dismissed him summarily, ruthlessly disabusing him of the notion that she had the least interest in hearing about the latest play, let alone his curricle race to Brighton.

  Morecombe was followed by Mr. Julian Nutley.

  Then came Viscount Sethbridge.

  While she dealt with him, and then Rigby, who true to Hellicar’s prediction proved the most difficult to dismiss, Barnaby had ample time to study her.

  It wasn’t hard to see why those hapless gentlemen were drawn to brave her sharp tongue. She was highly attractive, but not in any common way. The dark hue of her gown made her porcelain skin glow. Even her spectacles, which she no doubt assumed detracted from her appearance, actually enhanced it; the gold rims outlined her eyes, while the lenses faintly magnified them, making them appear even larger, emphasizing her long, curling dark lashes, the rich, dark brown irises, and the clear intelligence that shone from their depths.

  With the vibrancy that infused her features, indeed, her whole being, she was a striking package, even more so when viewed against the pale, meek, pastel uniformity of the other young ladies on the marriage mart.

  He seriously doubted she understood that, far from being a deterrent, her waspish nature and high-handed attitude to her would-be suitors was, in her case, having the opposite effect. Her behavior had established her as a prize to be won, and the gentlemen who circled her were perfectly cognizant of the intangible cachet attached to winning her hand.

  Listening to her deal with—and in Rigby’s case, drive off—all those who had dared to get in the way of her learning what he, Barnaby, had to say, it was perfectly obvious that she considered gentlemen, as a species, to be significantly less intelligent than she.

  He had to admit that in the majority of cases she was correct, but not all gentlemen were dolts. A compulsion to point that out, to score at least one point for his sex, and perhaps along the way nudge her into some comprehension of her attractiveness to males and what underpinned that—thus rendering a service to her hapless would-be suitors—burgeoned, teased, and tempted.

  “Finally!” With one last glare at Rigby’s departing back, Penelope once again turned to him.

  Before she could speak, he held up a staying hand. “I fear Hellicar was correct. If we stand here chatting, too many will see it as a continuing invitation to join us. Might I suggest, in pursuit of our common goal, that we take advantage of the waltz the musicians are apparently about to play?”

  He half bowed, and offered his hand.

  Penelope stared at it, then at him. The introductory bars of a waltz floated over the surrounding conversations. “You want to waltz?”

  One brown brow quirked. “We’ll be able to talk sufficiently privately without risk of interruption.” He studied her eyes. “Don’t you waltz?”

  She frowned. “Of course I do. Not even I could avoid being taught to waltz.” Girding her loins, steeling her senses, she put her fingers in his. She had to learn what he’d been trying to tell her, and in light of her annoying suitors, the dance floor held the most hope of success.

  He turned her toward the salon. “From which comment I take it you tried.”

  Drawing in a slow breath past the constriction in her lungs, she looked up, puzzled…

  “To avoid being taught to waltz.”

  She blinked. Prayed he wouldn’t guess his touch had so scrambled her wits she’d lost track of his words. She looked ahead. “I didn’t at first see any point in my mastering such a skill, but then…” Lightly, she shrugged, and let him steer her onto the floor, then turn her into his arms.

  They closed around her—gently, correctly—yet still her senses quaked. She inwardly swore at them to behave. Despite her irritating reaction to him, this was, she told herself, an excellent idea.

  She’d dropped her opposition to being taught to waltz when she’d discovered that waltzing could be exhilarating and exciting. She rarely indulged these days because so many partners had disappointed her.

  She fully expected Adair to disappoint her, too—which would be a very good thing. Once she discovered he was a less-than-adequate dance partner, her swooning senses would immediately lose interest. There was no better way to cure them of their ridiculous obsession with him.

  Head high, chin tilted to just the right angle, a confident smile curving her lips, she stepped out—and immediately found herself following, rather than leading.

  It took a moment for her to adjust, but that was one point in his favor.

  Then she recalled she didn’t want him to impress her, not in this arena.

  Unfortunately…

  Her cause withered and died as, her gaze locked on his face, she felt herself being whirled effortlessly down the room, checking and swirling along with the other couples precessing around the floor. It wasn’t simply the ease with which he moved her—she was slight enough that most gentlemen managed that—but the sense of power, of control, of harnessed energy he brought to the simple revolutions of the waltz.

  Far from being freed, she was caught, trapped.

  And despite it being precisely not what she’d wanted, she found her lips curving more genuinely, found herself relaxing into his loose embrace as she accepted that yes, he could waltz. That yes, she could give herself over to his mastery and simply enjoy.

  It had been so long since she’d taken pleasure in a waltz.

  His blue eyes searched her face, then his lips quirked. “You obviously changed your mind and paid attention to your dance master.”

  “Luc, my brother. He was a dictatorial taskmaster.” She gave herself one more moment to enjoy the sensation of floating around the floor, of his strong thighs brushing her skirts as they whirled, before asking, “Now, at last, we can complete our conversation. So what was it
you wanted to know?”

  Barnaby looked down into her wide brown eyes, and wondered why she hadn’t wanted to waltz. “I was going to suggest that if you could identify any other boys who might be orphaned in the near future and who met the kidnappers’ criteria, we might put a watch on them, both to identify the kidnappers if they come calling and, ultimately, to protect the boys from being snatched.”

  She blinked. Her eyes widened. “Yes, of course. What an excellent idea!” She breathed the words as if being visited by revelation. Then she snapped free and briskly took charge. “I’ll go through the files tomorrow. If I find any possible candidate—”

  “I’ll meet you at the Foundling House tomorrow morning.” He smiled. Intently. If she thought he was going to let her loose on the hunt, she would need to think again. “We can go through the files together.”

  She eyed him as if evaluating her chances of dismissing his offer, yet he was quite sure she understood it was no offer, but a statement of fact. Eventually, her lips—forever distracting—eased. “Very well. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

  He inclined his head. “And we’ll see what we can find.”

  Looking up, he whirled her through a turn, then started back up the room. Another glance at her face confirmed she was enjoying the dance as much as he.

  She was, even in this, the antithesis of the norm. Most young ladies were tentative; even when they were excellent dancers they were passive, not just allowing but relying on a gentleman to steer them around the floor. Penelope had no truck with passivity—not even during a waltz. Even though, after those first few steps, she’d consented to him leading, the fluid tension that invested her slender limbs, the energy with which she matched his stride, made the dance a shared endeavor, an activity to which they both contributed, making the experience a mutual, shared pleasure.

  He would happily dance half the night with her…

  Abruptly, he hauled his mind off the track of considering what different dances they might indulge in. That wasn’t why he was waltzing with her. She was Luc Ashford’s sister, and his association with her was purely driven by his investigation.

  Wasn’t it?