Where the Heart Leads

by Stephanie Laurens

That was one thing she would never risk, not even put at risk. It wasn’t something with which she was willing to gamble.

  Courtesy of her peripatetic progress, she’d managed to avoid those among her would-be suitors her ladyship had invited. When she saw Adair’s guinea-bright head enter the room, she muttered, “At last,” and, deftly avoiding Harlan Rigby’s eye, made her way to one corner of the room.

  Reaching her goal, she waited for Adair to join her.

  He didn’t keep her waiting; with what most ladies would no doubt have viewed as flattering speed, he threaded through the guests toward her.

  Deciding she didn’t need to notice let alone acknowledge the focused intent in his eyes, she nodded in brisk greeting when he halted before her. “I have something I wish to say to you. There’s a parlor through there”—with a wave she indicated the archway nearby—“where we can talk in private.”

  So saying she swung around and swept through the archway.

  After a fractional hesitation, and a swift glance around the room, Barnaby followed—as ever at her heels.

  The small parlor she led him to was, as she’d intimated, perfect for private conversation. Perfect for seduction.

  After that astonishing kiss that afternoon, he would, he felt, have been entirely justified in imagining that she, typically, was taking the lead in organizing for further exploration along those lines.

  Of course, he wasn’t that stupid.

  Given the way she’d drawn back—so abruptly he’d felt as if she’d hauled on a brake—and then immediately fallen to thinking far too hard, as he closed the parlor door he wasn’t imagining that she would turn, smile, and walk into his arms.

  Halting in the center of the room, she swung to face him, head high, her hands clasped before her.

  Her gaze as ever unflinchingly direct, she met his eyes. “I wish to make clear to you that, in the matter of the embrace we shared this afternoon, while I accept that you acted in response to remarks of mine which you clearly saw as goading, and I was equally clearly at fault in my reading of your motives—for which I unreservedly apologize—such an embrace cannot be permitted to occur again.”

  She drew breath and, chin tilting even higher, continued with her obviously rehearsed speech. “As you know, I came to you for help in rescuing four missing boys, and my devotion is first and always to that task. In order to succeed, you and I must work together, side by side, and neither of us I’m sure would want personal awkwardness to interfere with that work.”

  Still by the door, he arched a brow at her. “Personal awkwardness?”

  Her eyes glinted with latent temper. “As would necessarily ensue should you pursue me, given I do not wish to develop any more personal relationship with you.”

  He studied her for a long moment, then mildly said, “I see.” He’d been curious to learn what tack she would take. He’d spent hours trying to speculate, but had eventually decided to let her surprise him. And she had. She’d been both more honest and more pigheaded than he’d expected.

  Not that the former was going to help her adhere to the latter, even if, as he now suspected, she wouldn’t hesitate to use gentlemanly honor as a weapon to force him to keep his distance.

  Much good would such a ploy do her. After that kiss, after all it had revealed, given his current status vis-à-vis her, he doubted there was much in this world that could readily turn him from his path.

  He strolled the few steps to stand before her. He studied her eyes. “And if I don’t agree?”

  She frowned. “There can be no benefit to you in pursuing any personal relationship with me—I would have thought that was obvious. I am not looking for marriage, for a husband to ensure a roof over my head—something I can well afford on my own—but into whose keeping I would pass, giving him the right to restrict and control me.”

  He could appreciate her point. Doing so, however, wasn’t going to deter him.

  Of his direction with her he no longer harbored the slightest doubt. It wasn’t what he would have predicted—or even chosen had he had any choice, but as he didn’t…

  Indeed, he still did not fully comprehend how so much had changed simply because she’d walked into his life. He even saw the ton differently, as if she’d opened his eyes. Walking into Lady Carlyle’s drawing room, he’d seen himself with respect to the exalted circle into which he’d been born in a way he never had before.

  He was both a part of it, yet not. Despite his protestations he was, still, the man his mother wanted him to be—a man defined by his birthright, by being the third son of the Earl of Cothelstone. He was who he was, and he couldn’t deny it. Penelope, her presence, stripped away his assumed aloofness, and exposed the man beneath—and that man was very much a true descendant of his conquering ancestors.

  That, however, had never been enough for him—just as for Penelope being the daughter of Viscount Calverton was not enough, and did not define who she was, all of what she was. Of all the females in the ton, she understood what drove him, because the same fundamental motive—to find, take hold of, and shape their own destiny—drove her.

  Today, for the first time, it hadn’t been him alone going back and forth from the slums to the drawing rooms. She’d been with him, by his side; their time in the lower circles had emphasized what was real and important in their lives—the glitter and sophistication of the ton disguised and screened such things, made them harder to discern. To know. To grasp.

  He now knew what he wanted, that she was the lady he had to have by his side. He accepted unreservedly that that was the case.

  Looking down into her rich, dark brown eyes, he was intrigued that he was starting to sense, to be sensitive to, not just her thoughts but also her feelings, her emotions. He’d already drawn closer to her than to any other female; their deepening connection was yet another indication that she was, indeed, the one for him.

  And they were destined to draw closer still. Much closer. After that kiss, there could be no question, yet he accepted that he was considerably more experienced than she, that she would have no yardstick against which to judge what was growing between them, or to accurately appreciate the significance of milestones already passed.

  She was a relative innocent. “Relative” being the operative word; with her intelligence, she wouldn’t be intellectually innocent…which, he hoped, would give him a weapon he could use. Her curiosity was a tangible thing, a force to be reckoned with—in this instance, possibly one he could exploit.

  Penelope frowned even more; his continuing silence while he so steadily considered her bothered her. She had no idea what he was thinking—only that he was. Somewhat contrarily, she didn’t feel that boded well; the feeling prodded her to say, “Marriage, I long ago decided, is not for me.”

  Even as she uttered the words, a warning surfaced in her mind. Portia had lectured her more than once that her directness would land her in difficulties with gentlemen. She’d dismissed the prophecy; to date, her straightforwardness had allowed her to repel untold numbers with brutal efficiency.

  With Barnaby Adair, however, she might just have been too direct over the wrong subject. With a gentleman like him, setting herself up as a challenge was very definitely not the way to get him to desist.

  “That is to say,” she hurriedly put in, even though she hadn’t a clue how to regroup, “I—”

  He smiled and placed one long, strong finger across her lips. “No, don’t. I understand perfectly.”

  She blinked up at him as he lowered his hand. Was he the exception to every rule? “You do?”

  His smile deepened. “I do.”

  She searched his eyes, then exhaled. “So you won’t kiss me again?”

  The tenor of his smile changed. “Yes I will. Count on it.”

  Her jaw dropped; she felt her eyes grow wide. “But—”

  A tap on the door had them both glancing that way.

  “What the devil?” she muttered, then more loudly called, “Come.”

  The do
or opened and a footman entered. He bowed, and offered the salver he carried. “A message for Miss Ashford.”

  Penelope continued to frown; nothing was progressing as she’d planned. Going forward, she lifted the note from the salver.

  The footman was clearly unnerved by her expression. “Lady Calverton insisted I bring it to you directly, miss.”

  Which answered the question of how he’d known where she was; very little escaped her mother’s eagle eyes.

  She nodded. “Thank you.” Turning from the man, she broke open the plain note. Smoothing out the single sheet, she read the lines within.

  Watching her, Barnaby saw the blood drain from her face. “What is it?”

  She scanned the note again, her expression utterly stunned. “Mrs. Carter—Jemmie.” A second passed, then she raised horror-filled eyes to his face. “Mrs. Carter’s been found dead. The doctor found her—he doesn’t think she died naturally. He thinks she was smothered.”

  A chill touched his soul. “And Jemmie?”

  She swallowed. “Jemmie’s disappeared.”

  Abruptly she swung around. “I have to go.”

  He caught her elbow. “We have to go.” To the footman, he said, “Please convey my compliments to Lady Calverton. Tell her Miss Ashford and I have been called away on urgent business to do with the Foundling House.”

  The footman bowed. “Immediately, sir.”

  He departed; Penelope made to follow—Barnaby held her back.

  “One moment.” He waited until she met his eyes. “We need to tell Stokes immediately—there’s no sense going to the Carter house now. It’s Stokes we need to alert, then we need to plan how best to search for Jemmie.”

  For a moment, she stared into his eyes—as if confirming his commitment, matching it against her own, using both to anchor her in a suddenly whirling world—then she drew a tight breath, and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Stokes first—but I’m coming, too.”

  He made no attempt to dissuade her; given the reason for her prejudice against marriage, in light of his avowed intent it would have been the height of lunacy to argue. Instead, he merely said, “Let’s hunt up Lady Carlyle and make our excuses.”

  Stokes lived in lodgings in Agar Street, just off the Strand. Barnaby had visited often, but as he handed Penelope down he wondered how Stokes would react to having a lady invade his private quarters.

  He bore no such reservations about what Penelope would think, that she might feel socially awkward; one thing of which he felt certain was that she would take any situation in her stride.

  As he ushered her up the steps and into the building, he reflected that that was another trait that set her apart from other tonnish ladies.

  Stokes’s rooms were on the first floor. Barnaby knocked; Stokes opened the door in his shirtsleeves and no collar, a comfortable well-worn woolen jacket of the sort gardeners wore slung over his shoulders.

  He blinked at them in surprise.

  “Inspector Stokes!” Penelope crossed the threshold and grasped Stokes’s hands. “A terrible thing has occurred. Mrs. Carter, whom I believe Adair has told you of, has been murdered—and the villains have stolen Jemmie.”

  In the blink of an eye, Stokes transformed from bemused to alert. He glanced at Barnaby.

  Who nodded in confirmation. “Let us inside and we’ll tell you the whole.”

  Stokes stepped back, waving them into his small parlor. Closing the door, he gestured them to the armchairs by the hearth, then crossed to fetch a straight-backed chair from his tiny kitchen.

  Setting the chair before the armchairs, he sat. “When did this happen?”

  Penelope glanced at Barnaby. “I don’t really know—we were at a soiree when the message arrived.” She looked back at Stokes. “I gave orders to be informed of any further disappearance regardless of time or where I might be. Mrs. Keggs would have sent a messenger as soon as she heard, but he would have had to travel first to Mount Street, then on to Lady Carlyle’s.”

  “Say an hour for Keggs’s message to reach us, and for the news to travel from the East End to Bloomsbury”—Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze—“possibly as much as two hours.”

  Ferreting in her reticule, Penelope pulled out the note and handed it to Stokes. “Apparently the doctor dropped by to check on Mrs. Carter, and found her dead, and Jemmie gone.”

  Stokes read the note. “It sounds like the doctor is very sure Mrs. Carter didn’t die naturally.”

  “Indeed.” Penelope sat forward. “So what should we do?”

  Stokes glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf; the hands stood at a quarter to eleven. “There’s not a great deal we can achieve tonight, but I’ll send word to the local watch house. They’d been keeping an eye on the household, but as none of us imagined Jemmie—or Mrs. Carter—were in any immediate danger, the watch wasn’t constant.”

  Penelope looked pained, but conceded, “There was no way of knowing they would stoop to this.”

  Stokes inclined his head. “Nevertheless, I’ll go into headquarters—I’m close, so that won’t take long. We have official messengers—one will take the alert to the Liverpool Street watch house. The doctor will have reported the crime, but interest from Scotland Yard will ensure that the local sergeant immediately starts to gather all the information he can. I’ll go there tomorrow and see what he has, and what more I can learn.”

  Penelope looked at Barnaby. Meeting her eyes, he didn’t need any words to know what she was thinking, feeling. But…he shook his head. “There’s no sense in us going there tonight. We won’t be able to learn anything, and in the dark it’s possible we may overlook or even destroy some clue.”

  Her lips compressed; her face looked pinched, but after a moment, she nodded. “Very well. But as you mentioned, we should make plans.”

  They did, rapidly assessing possible avenues of investigation, people they might question. The logistics of what had to be done were discussed; Stokes undertook to address the more formal aspects, while Barnaby and Penelope would pursue the more personal—the neighbors and locals who might have seen or heard something. Twenty minutes after they’d knocked on Stokes’s door, they rose. Stokes grabbed his greatcoat; pulling his door shut, he accompanied them downstairs. They parted on the steps, he striding off toward Scotland Yard while Barnaby helped Penelope into the waiting hackney.

  Barnaby shut the door; cool darkness enveloped them. As the carriage rocked into motion, Penelope sighed and leaned back. After a moment she said, “Stokes is good at what he does, isn’t he?”

  “Excellent.” Through the dark, Barnaby reached out and closed his hand about one of hers. The heat of his palm engulfed her fingers, a human warmth in the chill of the night. He squeezed lightly, reassuringly. “Rest assured that this case couldn’t be in better hands.”

  She smiled in the dark. “He’s your friend—you would say that.”

  “True, but ask yourself this: if he wasn’t so good, would he still be my friend?”

  Her smile deepened. After a moment, she said, “I’m not sure I’m up to dealing with conundrums at present.”

  Again he squeezed her fingers. “I’m only pointing out the obvious.”

  Her chest felt tight, yet his nearness—the solid masculine reality of him all but filling the seat beside her—eased and comforted. “Speaking of the obvious…”

  He followed her thoughts with frightening ease. “We’ll have to go back through the Foundling House’s records and look at every single boy who fits our schoolmaster’s bill, regardless of whether his guardian is close to dying or not.”

  She felt her face harden. “We can’t—absolutely cannot—take the chance of another boy being grabbed as Jemmie was.”

  A long moment passed. Then, as if this time he’d read her fears as well as her thoughts, he said, “We’ll get Jemmie back. That I promise you.”

  She closed her eyes, told herself he was just saying what she needed to hear, but the unwavering resolution in his tone, resonating in his deep
voice, made it easy to believe him—to place her faith in him. To believe that together they would get Jemmie back.

  She needed to believe that.

  A few minutes later, the hackney drew up outside Calverton House. Barnaby opened the door, stepped down, then handed her down. Although her awareness of his touch hadn’t abated in the least, she no longer steeled herself against it; indeed, tonight, she welcomed it—drew strength from it—which, in light of their earlier discussion, wasn’t a comforting realization.

  She pushed it to the back of her mind, and let him escort her up the steps. They paused on the narrow porch; facing him, she offered her hand.

  He took it, held it, studied her eyes, her face. “I’ll call for you at nine. We’ll go first to the Foundling House so you can reassure the staff, then we’ll continue to Arnold Circus and spend as long as it takes to learn all we can.”

  She nodded; he’d earlier convinced her of the need to call in at the Foundling House. “I’ll be ready and waiting at nine.”

  His lips quirked in wry understanding. “Get some sleep.” Before she realized what he was about, he raised her fingers to his lips and brushed a kiss—hot and distracting—across the sensitive backs.

  Before she had time to assimilate the sensation, and resecure her wits, his other hand captured her face, tipping it up as he stepped closer, bent his head, and pressed his lips to hers.

  A gentle kiss this time, one that spun out in sweetness, that extended for just long enough for her to be completely swept away.

  Lifting his head, he murmured, the words a wash of heat across her now hungry lips, “Sleep well—and dream of me.”

  A shiver of anticipation slithered down her spine. She opened her eyes.

  Straightening, he reached past her and tugged the bellpull; immediately she heard Leighton’s footsteps on the other side of the door.

  Barnaby stepped back and saluted her.

  Behind her the door opened; with a nod to Leighton, and a last glance for her, Barnaby turned, descended the steps, then strode away into the night.

  Leaving her staring after him. Raising a hand, she touched her fingers to her lips, then she swung around and went inside.