Where the Heart Leads

by Stephanie Laurens

  He looked down at her face as he swirled her to a halt—at those ruby lips slightly parted, at her lovely eyes and the madonnalike face that no amount of severe grooming would ever disguise—and wondered just how truthful he was being.

  How willfully blind.

  She stepped out of his arms. He let them fall and smiled—charmingly. “Thank you.”

  Smiling in return, she inclined her head. “You waltz very well—much better than I’d expected.”

  He noted the dimple in her left cheek. “I’m delighted to have been of service.”

  She chuckled at the dry reply.

  Taking her hand, he set it on his sleeve and turned her toward the drawing room. “Come—I’ll return you to your mother. And then I must leave.”

  He did. As he walked from the drawing room, he felt a certain contentment from his evening’s entertainment—something he very definitely hadn’t expected, either.

  Penelope watched his broad shoulders until he passed out of sight. Only then did she even bother to try to marshal her wits and assess the situation.

  When she did…“Damn!” She muttered the word beneath her breath. She could find no fault with Barnaby Adair—not in his investigative capabilities, nor yet, and most surprisingly, in his gentlemanly attributes. That was not a good sign. Normally, certainly after she’d conversed with a gentleman twice, she’d already dismissed him from her mind.

  Barnaby Adair she couldn’t dismiss. Not least because he wouldn’t be dismissed.

  Quite what she was going to do about him she didn’t know, but it was patently clear she would have to do something. It was either take some action to nullify his effect, or continue to suffer her wayward wits and wretchedly preoccupied senses.

  The latter wasn’t an option. And until she accomplished the former, she wasn’t—clearly wasn’t—going to be able to manage him as she wished.

  5

  The next morning at nine o’clock, Inspector Basil Stokes stood on the pavement in St. John’s Wood High Street, staring at the door of a small shop. After a moment, he squared his shoulders, walked up the two steps, opened the door, and went inside.

  A bell above the door jangled; two girls working at a bench at the rear of the narrow rectangular space looked up. They blinked, then exchanged quick glances. One—Stokes took her for the elder—laid aside the bonnet she was trimming and came forward to the small counter.

  Hesitantly she asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

  He could understand her confusion; he wasn’t the usual run of customer for a milliner’s establishment. Glancing around, he almost winced at the feathers, lace, ribbons, and fripperies draped over pegs and adorning hats of various shapes. He felt comprehensively out of place, as if he’d stepped uninvited into a lady’s boudoir.

  Returning his gaze to the girl’s round face, he stated, “I’m here to see Miss Martin. Is she in?”

  The girl eyed him nervously. “Who shall I say wants her, sir?”

  He was about to give his title, then realized Griselda—Miss Martin—would likely not appreciate her staff knowing she was being visited by the police. “Mr. Stokes. I daresay she’ll remember me. I’d like a moment of her time, if she can spare it.”

  Like many others, the girl couldn’t decide his social status; she bobbed a curtsy just to play safe. “I’ll ask.”

  She disappeared through a heavy curtain that cut off the back of the shop. Stokes looked around. Two mirrors hung along one wall. He caught sight of himself in one, framed by confections of feathers and lace, fake flowers and spangles displayed on the wall behind him. He quickly looked away.

  A mumble of voices came from beyond the curtain, drawing nearer. He locked his gaze on the curtain as it parted—and a vision every bit as lovely as he recalled walked through.

  Griselda Martin was neither tall nor short, neither plump nor slender. She had a round face with pleasant features—large cornflower-blue eyes framed by lush black lashes, a wide brow, an upturned nose across which a band of freckles marched, rosy cheeks, and rosebud lips. Her thick, sable hair, secured in a knot at the back of her neck, framed her face. Although her style was a far cry from tonnish beauty, she was, to Stokes, perfect in every way.

  Her eyes were the sort that should have been twinkling, but when she looked at him they were serious, careful—a trifle wary. “Mr. Stokes?”

  She, too, avoided using his title. He inclined his head. “Miss Martin, I wonder if you could spare me a moment—I’d like to discuss a business matter.”

  She appreciated his sensitivity in not mentioning the police before her staff. She thawed slightly; after a second’s consideration, she turned to her assistants. “Imogen, Jane—you can take the deliveries around now.”

  Both girls, who’d been listening and watching avidly, looked deflated. But, “Yes, Miss Martin,” they chorused, and set aside their work.

  “If you’ll wait just a moment,” Griselda murmured to Stokes.

  He nodded and moved to one side, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, not easy given he was over six feet tall and broad shouldered to boot. He watched as the girls assembled various parcels and hatboxes, then donned cloaks and hats. Sharing their bundles, they headed for the door, glancing at him curiously as they passed.

  The instant the door shut behind them, Griselda asked, “Is this about that business in Petticoat Lane?”

  Anxiety threaded through her voice; Stokes hurried to reassure her. “No, not at all. The villain was transported, so you have nothing to fear from him.”

  She exhaled. “Good.” Banked curiosity appeared in her eyes. She tilted her head slightly. “To what, then, do I owe this visit, Inspector?”

  To the fact that I can’t get you out of my head. Stokes cleared his throat. “As I mentioned before, the force, and I, were very grateful for your assistance in the matter of the Petticoat Lane attack.” She—along with a host of others—had seen a man beat a woman nearly to death. Of all the onlookers, only she and an old, almost blind crone had been willing to stand witness to the crime; without Griselda’s testimony, the case would have been impossible to prosecute. “That, however, isn’t the matter that brought me here.”

  Putting his hands behind his back, he crossed his fingers. “When I saw your statement about Petticoat Lane, I learned that, although you live and work in this area now, you grew up in the East End. Your father still lives there, and you yourself are widely known, at least within a certain pocket.”

  She frowned. “I might have improved my speech to better deal with my customers, but I’ve never hidden my origins.”

  “No—which in part is what has brought me here.” He glanced at the front of the shop, confirming they were not about to be disturbed by any customers, then turned back to her. “I have a case involving boys disappearing from the East End. Young boys, seven to ten years old, born and bred in that area. These boys are newly made orphans. On the morning after their parent or guardian dies, some man has been appearing, saying he’s been sent by the authorities to fetch the boy. In the cases we know of, the parent or guardian had made arrangements for the orphan to be admitted to the Foundling House, so the neighbors have been handing the boys over, only to discover mere hours later, when the Foundling House people arrive, that the man has no connection with them.”

  Frown deepening, she nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  He drew breath, battling an odd constriction banding his chest. “I don’t have any contacts in the East End. The police force there is not well established. I wondered…I know it’s asking a lot of you—I do understand how the authorities are viewed—but…I wondered if you would be willing to lend your aid, in whatever way you felt able to. We believe these boys are being snatched to be trained for use as burglars’ boys.”

  Her eyes widened. “A burglary school?” From her tone she knew precisely what that was.

  He nodded. “I need to find someone who can tell me whether there’s been any talk of some particular villain set
ting up a school recently.”

  Folding her arms, she softly snorted. “Well, there’s no point asking your rozzers. They’d be the last to know.”

  “Indeed. And please believe that I don’t intend to imply that you would know, either, but I hoped that you might know someone who might know a name, or an address.”

  She studied him, her blue gaze steady and candid. He fell silent, feeling that if he pushed she would refuse.

  Griselda felt torn. She did know the East End; that was why she’d been so determined—and worked so long and hard—to leave it. She’d completed an arduous apprenticeship, then slaved, scrimped, and saved to be able to rent her own premises, and then she’d worked all but around the clock to establish herself.

  She’d been successful, and had largely left the East End behind. Now here was this handsome police inspector asking if she was willing to go back into the stews. For him and his case.

  No, she corrected herself—he wasn’t asking for himself. He was trying to help four young boys who hailed from the same slums she’d left. She knew of the Foundling House by reputation; those boys would have had a chance to better themselves if they’d gone there, as their dying relatives had arranged.

  Four young boys’ futures. That was what was at stake here.

  She no longer had brothers; she’d lost all three in the wars years ago. The oldest had been twenty when he’d died; they’d never truly had a chance to live their lives.

  Eyes narrowing, she asked, “These four lads. How long ago were they taken?”

  “It’s been happening over the past few weeks, but the last was only two days ago.”

  So there was a chance they might be saved. “You’re sure it’s a burglary school?”

  “That seems the most likely.” Without prompting, Stokes described the boys, thus eliminating the other likely scenarios. He didn’t elaborate on those alternatives; he didn’t need to—she knew the realities of the world she’d left.

  He fell silent again. He didn’t press her; he waited…a predator nonetheless, but he was taking great care not to let that side of himself show.

  She considered not helping, and inwardly sighed. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, but I can ask around. I visit my father every week. He doesn’t get about much these days, but he hears everything, and he’s lived in the area all his life. He might not know who’s set up a school recently, but he’ll know who’s run schools in the past, and who might still be in that line of business.”

  The tension that had held him eased. “Thank you. I’ll be grateful for anything we can learn.”

  “We?”

  He shifted. “Given I’ve asked you to revisit the area, I must insist that I go with you. As protection.”

  “Protection?” She gave him a bemused, intentionally faintly patronizing look. “Inspector—”

  She broke off, rethinking what she been about to say: that in the East End, it would not be she but he who would need protection. She swallowed the words because she’d finally allowed herself a proper look at him as he stood there taking up too much space in her little shop.

  She’d seen him—briefly met him—before, but that had been in a watch house in a milling throng of big men; they’d camouflaged him. Today he was by himself, and she couldn’t miss his lean hardness, nor the way he moved, both sending a clear message that he could handle himself—easily—in a brawl.

  Some gentlemen of the ton had that same dangerous edge—one that glinted through their polished exteriors, reminding the wise that underneath the sophistication beat a heart not civilized at all.

  She’d been staring. Clearing her throat, she said, “I really don’t need any guard, Inspector. I visit my father regularly.”

  “Perhaps, but the incident in Petticoat Lane could still have repercussions, and as in this instance you would be venturing into the area at my behest, I hope you can see that I couldn’t in all conscience allow you to proceed unescorted.”

  “But—”

  “I really must insist, Miss Martin.”

  She frowned. His tone might imply he was requesting, but the expression on his dark-featured face, the flat gray of his eyes, stated unequivocally that, for whatever convoluted male reason, he wasn’t going to shift his stance. She knew that look; she’d seen it on her brothers’ and father’s faces often enough.

  Which meant arguing would be futile. And Imogen and Jane would return soon, and she’d rather he was gone before they did.

  Inwardly she sighed—again. In reality it would be no skin off her nose to walk into the East End with a man of his ilk at her heels. More than one woman would give a great deal for the privilege, and here he was offering, for free. She nodded. “Very well. I’ll accept your escort.”

  He smiled.

  She suddenly felt unsteady. Was this what it felt like to go weak-kneed?

  Just because he’d smiled at her?

  Second thoughts about the wisdom of allowing him any closer crowded into her brain.

  “So…” He was still smiling. “I assume your girls will be back soon?”

  She blinked. Then she met his eyes—gray, changeable, stormy. “I can’t go now—I’ve only just opened.”

  “Ah.” He sobered; his smile faded. “I’d hoped—”

  “This afternoon,” she heard herself say. “I’ll close early—at three o’clock. We can go and see my father then.”

  He held her gaze, then nodded. “Thank you. I’ll return here at three o’clock.”

  He didn’t smile again; she told herself she was grateful. But his lips did ease as he inclined his head politely. “Until then, Miss Martin.” He turned and walked to the door. Opening it, he glanced back, then went out.

  The instant the door shut, her feet moved of their own accord, taking her down the shop to the door. She reached up to still the tinkling bell.

  Watching Stokes’s greatcoat-swathed shoulders retreat along the street, she wondered what she was doing.

  And why. It wasn’t like her to react to a handsome face, although his held a darkly rugged appeal that was difficult to ignore.

  When he’d disappeared from her sight, she frowned, then turned and headed back to the bonnet she’d been feathering. If, thanks to him, she was going to be closing early, she needed to get back to work.

  At ten o’clock that morning, Barnaby walked unheralded into Penelope’s office in the Foundling House—surprising her in the act of searching through a stack of files.

  Glancing up and seeing him, she blinked.

  He smiled, all teeth. She was standing beside her desk. He strolled to her side. “Any luck?”

  After a fraught second of simply staring at him, her distracting lips compressed and she returned her attention to the papers she was leafing through. Rather tightly, she said, “There’s one boy I remember, but I can’t recall his name. He lives with his mother somewhere in the East End, and she’s dying.”

  He nodded at the files. “Are all these of about-to-be-orphaned children?”

  “Yes.”

  There had to be dozens, a sobering thought.

  After a moment, she paused, then reached out and pushed the stack across the desk toward him. “You could weed out the girls, and those under six years of age, or not in the East End. The details, unfortunately, are scattered throughout the pages.”

  He dutifully opened the next file, and scanned. They settled into a rhythm, he discarding the files of girls, younger children, and those outside the East End, while she studied the details of the remaining files, searching presumably for some feature that would tell her she’d found the likely lad she recalled.

  Ten minutes passed in silence; her stiffness gradually eased. Eventually, without looking up, she stated, her tone almost accusing, “You got here an hour early.”

  Scanning the contents of the next file, he murmured, “You didn’t seriously think I’d let you hie off on your own?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her lips tighten. “I was under the impre
ssion gentlemen of your ilk lay abed until noon.”

  “I do.” When I have female company in said bed, and—“When not chasing villains.”

  He thought he heard her humph, but she said nothing more. He continued to eliminate files; she continued to read.

  “This is it—him.” Holding up the file, she read, “Jemmie Carter. His mother lives in a tenement between Arnold Circus and Bethnal Green Road.”

  She glanced through the file again, then laid it on the pile.

  He watched while she rounded her desk, picking up her reticule, and wondered if any purpose would be served by attempting to dissuade her.

  Chin high, she swept past him on her way to the door. “We can get a hackney across the street.”

  She didn’t even glance back to see if he was following. He turned and stalked in her wake.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were rocking side to side in an ancient hackney as it rolled deeper and deeper into the stews. Barnaby eyed the decaying and decrepit façades. The Clerkenwell Road had been bad enough; he wouldn’t have brought any lady into this area, not by choice.

  Leaning back against the seat, he studied Penelope. Holding tight to a strap, she was gazing steadily out at the dismal streets.

  He couldn’t put his finger on what, but something had changed. He’d expected some resistance, yet on walking into her office he’d encountered an amorphous yet steely barrier, effectively shielding her from him. When he’d taken her hand to help her into the hackney, she’d tensed as usual, but as if his effect on her was now muted to the point of triviality.

  As if she’d dismissed it, and him, as inconsequential.

  It was one thing to have his mental acuity rated more highly than his personal attributes; it was quite another to have said attributes entirely ignored.

  He’d never considered himself vain—he was quite sure he wasn’t—and he certainly wasn’t the sort of gentleman who expected ladies to fall swooning at his feet, yet her refusal to acknowledge him as a man, her refusal to acknowledge the effect he had on her, was definitely starting to grate.