To pleasure—pleasuring him, and taking pleasure in doing so.
He watched her as she did, watched the concentration, the fierce intentness in her face. Even as the sight rocked him, held him in thrall, he felt enough—knew and acknowledged his own feelings enough—to understand that in his devotion to her, his need of her, he’d stepped far beyond the merely physical. As she tightened about him and made his world quake, he closed his eyes and prayed that, like him, sating their physical needs was no longer enough, prayed that, like him, she was learning that devotedly pandering to those other linked needs, of a different caliber on a different plane, brought an even deeper, more profound satisfaction.
She slowed even more, her control stretching thin; he sensed it in the flexing of her fingers on his chest as she struggled to rein their rampaging desires in. She still moved upon him, confident and assured, yet wanting more, fighting to stretch the moment out for one last while.
From beneath his lashes, he caught the glint of her dark eyes beneath her heavy lids; she was watching him as he watched her, drinking in the sight of him as under her control passion built and gripped him ever more tightly. She rode on again, more forcefully now, more definite; determined and divine, she drove him and herself steadily on.
But he had no intention of surrendering so easily, not in this. When the pressure built, when the hot tide started to rise and threatened to sweep through him, he fought to hold it back. His hands were at her waist, fingers curved over her hips, gripping and savoring the evidence of her body accepting his, taking him deep; releasing one hand, he slid it up her spine, drew her closer as he leaned up, and set his tongue and lips to her breast.
He licked, laved, then took the tight peak into his mouth and suckled, gently at first, then steadily more strongly as she gasped, tightened about him, and rode on.
Faster, tighter, hotter, wetter.
When the end came it shattered them both.
Sundered them from the mortal plane, leaving them drifting in a golden void of indescribable pleasure.
Together, sated, at peace.
She chuckled as she collapsed on his chest. Smiling, he closed his arms around her and held her close.
When it came time for Penelope to leave, they discovered it was raining. Leaving her at the front door, Barnaby took an umbrella and went to summon her carriage, waiting farther down the street; the coachman was no doubt dozing inside.
Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, Penelope stared out at the dark night. Then, over the patter of the rain, she heard a footstep—behind her.
She turned. In the faint light of the single candle Barnaby had left on the hall table, she saw Mostyn shrugging into his coat as he came hurrying from the nether regions.
He saw her, slowed, then halted.
Even in the poor light, she saw him blush.
“Ah…I heard the door…” Collecting himself, he drew breath, drew himself up, and bowed. “Pray excuse me, ma’am.” He colored more definitely. “Miss.”
He hesitated as if unsure whether to leave her; puzzled by what she sensed from the man, she did as she usually did and took the bull by the horns.
“Mostyn, I realize the situation is somewhat awkward, however…I’m confused. When I first called on your master—incidentally he’s down the street fetching my carriage, too far away to hear—when we first met I was under the impression you disapproved of me. Yet you’ve now seen me leaving in illicit fashion twice, and—do correct me if I’m wrong, Mostyn, but instead of growing more disapproving, you seem to have unbent toward me.” She frowned, curious not censorious. “Why is that? Why are you now more approving rather than less?”
As she spoke, Mostyn had looked increasingly conscious, which only strengthened her desire to understand. He didn’t immediately reply, but she waited.
Eventually, shifting closer to where he could see out of the door, he cleared his throat. “I’ve worked for the master since he first came on the town. I know his ways.” Having confirmed said master was nowhere in sight, Mostyn met Penelope’s eyes. “He’s never brought any other lady here.” He colored again, but went on, “No other female of any degree. So when I saw you…well…”
Penelope caught his drift; she felt her expression blank. “Ah. I see.” She looked away, out of the door—hoping to see Barnaby striding back. He still wasn’t visible. She nodded. “Thank you, Mostyn. I understand.”
The man thought she and Barnaby…
In some ways Mostyn knew his master better than she.
Her mind in a whirl, she waited for Mostyn to leave her.
He hovered beside her, a pace deeper into the hall. After a moment, he cleared his throat again. “May I say, ma’am—miss—that I hope my conjecture isn’t unwelcome, nor that it’s amiss.”
His sincerity touched her. She turned to look at him. “No.” She drew breath and went on, “No, Mostyn, your conjecture isn’t unwelcome at all.”
The sound of Barnaby’s approaching footsteps reached them. She inclined her head to Mostyn, and turned to face the door, murmuring, “As for it being amiss, we’ll have to see.”
“Indeed, ma’am. I’ll hope to hear good news soon. I’ll bid you a good night.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mostyn bow, then silently withdraw, merging into the shadows at the rear of the hall.
Barnaby materialized out of the driving rain, and came quickly up the steps. She drew her cloak tighter and went out to meet him as her carriage rolled quietly up.
20
There was no way we could tell the order was fake, sir.” The captain of the Holborn watch house leaned across the plain table and poked at the order he’d received from Scotland Yard. “It’s on the right form, all filled out properly and signed, just like always.”
The order sat in the center of the table. Barnaby, seated opposite the captain, Stokes beside him, studied it, as did the sergeant who’d executed the subsequent warrant to search the Foundling House.
“It certainly appears genuine,” Stokes allowed. “Unfortunately, the signature isn’t that of anyone at the Yard, or indeed, on the force.”
The captain grimaced. “Aye, well, we couldn’t have known that. If we checked with the Yard to see if every signature on every order was genuine, we’d never have time to carry the orders out.”
Stokes nodded. “You’re right. Which is what our villain counted on.” He picked up the order, folding it.
The sergeant was frowning. “If I could ask, sir, who could this villain be, to be able to get hold of an order form and know just how to fill it out, and then get it sent to us in the official bag?”
Stokes smiled tightly. “That’s what I, and Mr. Adair, intend to find out.”
Leaving the watch house, Barnaby and Stokes emerged from Procter Street and turned into the mid-morning bustle of High Holborn. Halting at the curb, looking about for a hackney, Barnaby asked, “What was the signature? I didn’t see it well enough to make out.”
Stokes grunted. “Grimsby.”
Barnaby turned to stare at him. After a moment, he looked away. “Our Mr. Alert has a sense of humor.”
“He’s playing with us.”
“Obviously.” Seeing a hackney approaching, Barnaby hailed it; the driver acknowledged him with a wave of his whip. While they waited for the carriage to tack through the press of traffic, he asked, “Tell me about this official bag. Is that how the orders get sent out to the different watch houses?”
Stokes nodded. “The orders associated with any major crime come from the officer in charge of the case at the Yard. Any officer has a stack of the forms—there’s a stack in a drawer of my desk.”
“So laying hands on a form wouldn’t be difficult.”
“No. Once filled out and signed, the forms get put in official dispatch pouches—leather satchels that hang in the dispatch office. There’s one for each watch house.”
“So this business of the fake order takes Alert’s connection with the police one step further—h
e has to be someone with access to Scotland Yard, who knows the ropes well enough to fake an order and get it sent out with no one the wiser.”
Stokes grunted as the hackney rocked to a halt before them. “There’s one thing more—the dispatch office is never unmanned. There’s always at least a sergeant there, and usually one or more runners ready to take urgent orders out.”
“Oh-ho! So Alert is someone the dispatch sergeants are used to seeing put orders into the bags—he has to be someone who has access in the normal way of things. It has to be part of his usual job.”
“Exactly.” Stokes opened the hackney door. “Which is why we’re heading straight to the dispatch office.”
Barnaby climbed into the carriage. Stokes looked up at the jarvey. “Scotland Yard. As fast as you can.”
While Barnaby and Stokes rattled through the traffic, at the Foundling House Penelope was applying herself to ensuring that in the aftermath of the police raid, everything was once again running smoothly.
Mrs. Keggs and the staff had rallied magnificently; even Miss Marsh, normally so timid, looked determined and resolute as she tidied the files the constables had disarranged.
“Ham-fisted louts.” She clucked her tongue as Penelope swept through the anteroom. “Couldn’t even leave things in order.”
Penelope felt her lips twitch. She continued into her office. She was impressed by how strongly the staff, and even the older children, had reacted to the implied threat of the police raid. How firmly they’d stood against any panic, and refused to believe anything ill of the place—more, had strongly resented the implication that anything whatever was wrong with how the house—and she as its administrator—conducted its business.
Sinking into her chair, she entirely unexpectedly felt some good had come from the raid. The house had been in existence for five years; clearly in those five years they’d succeeded in becoming the sort of institution that those who worked in, and those who lived within, valued—enough to fight for.
She wouldn’t have known that—how much the staff and the children valued what they’d achieved—if it hadn’t been for the raid.
And now that everything was back to normal, all was calm and peaceful in this part of her world. All it lacked was Dick and Jemmie. Once she had them back, her life—this aspect of it—would be full and complete.
Whole.
Sitting back in her chair, she swiveled it and stared out at the gray day. A fine drizzle had set in; the children had stayed inside, warm and dry in the dining hall.
Her life—the question of its wholeness, its completeness—filled her mind. All she felt, all she thought, was progressively leading her down one particular path, one she’d never thought she’d tread. Mostyn’s unexpected revelations added another layer—raised another question.
While she was increasingly certain of what she was thinking, what was Barnaby thinking?
She’d thought—assumed—she’d known, but in light of Mostyn’s more informed observations, she was no longer so sure.
Of one thing she was certain: Barnaby Adair was every bit as intelligent, as quick-witted and clever as she. He’d proved surprisingly insightful when it came to her thoughts, her reactions. On more than one occasion he’d responded to her wishes without her making them known—sometimes even before she’d consciously been aware of them.
But…regardless of all she sensed between them, did she truly want to accept the risk inherent in following the path her instincts even more than her thoughts were pushing her down?
She stared out at the gray day as the minutes stretched, then with a sigh, turned back to her desk and forced her mind to business.
Despite all, she had reservations—questions to which she didn’t yet have answers, and didn’t, yet, know how to get them. Despite the compulsion of instincts and feelings, and even rational thought, her careful, logical side felt uncomfortable—unable to go on until those questions had been resolved.
How to resolve them was the issue.
Pulling a stack of official guardianship papers onto her blotter, she picked up the first and started to read.
The Dispatch Office in Scotland Yard was located on the ground floor, off a corridor from the front foyer heading toward the rear. Barnaby followed Stokes through the swinging double doors.
Pausing in the center of the room, he looked around and saw what Stokes meant; the dispatch sergeant, seated behind a long counter that filled the wall opposite the doors, and his minions working at raised desks behind him, couldn’t miss seeing anyone who entered.
The walls to either side were lined with wooden pegs four rows high; a leather satchel hung from each peg. Above each peg was a plaque inscribed with the name of one of the London watch houses. Following Stokes to the counter, Barnaby noted there were even dispatch satchels for Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool—all the major towns across England.
The sergeant behind the counter, a veteran, greeted Stokes with an easy smile and a nod. “Morning, sir. How can we help you?”
“Good morning, Jenkins.” Stokes showed him the order that had been sent to Holborn, explaining it was a fake.
“Holborn.” Jenkins pointed to a section of pegs about ten feet from the counter. “That’s just along there—second row from the top.”
Given the distance between the door and the satchel in question, and its proximity to the desk, the notion that someone had surreptitiously crept in and slipped the order into the Holborn satchel unnoticed was instantly untenable.
“Right, then.” Stokes turned back to Jenkins. “Who has access to the satchels? List all the types of people you normally see coming in here, placing orders—or papers of any kind—in those satchels.”
Jenkins considered, then said, “There aren’t that many, when all’s said and done. There’s the duty sergeants, and the watch sergeants—four each of them. The inspectors like yourself, and their senior investigators, the superintendent, and the governors—the commissioners—although of course they don’t come in themselves. It’s their secretaries we see popping in and out.” The sergeant’s eyes narrowed as he looked down the room. He lowered his voice. “Like Mr. Cameron there.”
Both Stokes and Barnaby heard the creak of the door as it swung closed. Looking around, they saw a man both knew by sight sauntering up the room. Douglas Cameron, Lord Huntingdon’s private secretary, was an arrogant sort; it showed in his long-legged walk, and the angle at which he held his head, the elevation of his long nose and pinched nostrils making him appear always to be smelling something noxious.
As if unaware of their presence, Cameron strolled to the satchel for Birmingham, on the opposite side of the room from the Holborn satchel and closer to the counter. Lifting the flap, he slid a folded sheet inside, then dropped the flap, and turned to face them.
He could hardly miss the fact they’d all been watching him. His hard hazel gaze passed over Jenkins and Stokes without a flicker of recognition; they, clearly, were beneath his notice. His gaze reached Barnaby, and stopped. Coolly, Cameron nodded. “Adair. Slumming again?”
Barnaby smiled tightly. “As you see.”
With a faint lift of his brows, Cameron inclined his head and strolled out, every bit as unhurriedly as he’d strolled in.
“Stuck-up bastard,” Barnaby muttered, turning back to the counter.
Lips twitching, Jenkins looked down, shuffling some papers. “Won’t get much argument on that score from anyone here, sir.”
Barnaby sighed. “Sadly, being a stuck-up bastard isn’t any reason to imagine Cameron might be our man.”
Stokes grunted in assent. He nodded to the sergeant. “Thank you, Jenkins.” He hesitated, then said, “On the off chance, could you ask around among the dispatchers, just in case anyone noticed anything odd, anyone not normally in here stopping by, for whatever reason?”
Jenkins nodded. “I’ll do that, sir.”
Barnaby and Stokes left the Dispatch Office and climbed the stairs to Stokes’s domain. Once inside, Stokes p
ointedly closed the door, something he rarely did, then circled his desk to drop into the chair behind it. Barnaby was already sprawled in one of the chairs facing the desk, a frown denoting deep thought on his face.
Stokes eyed it for several moments, then asked, “What do you think? Can we afford to discount people from the force itself—all those who aren’t gentlemen?”
Barnaby met his eyes. “I think we’re on solid ground concluding that Alert is a gentleman. Accepting that as fact, then, given he’s been meeting with Grimsby and Smythe, I believe we can safely assume it was he, himself, who walked into the Dispatch Office and put that fake order in the Holborn satchel.”
Stokes nodded. “Dealing with Smythe directly, face-to-face, is the biggest risk he’s taken, and by all accounts he took it without the slightest reservation. He’s never tried to distance himself from proceedings—why start with this, relatively minor, event?”
“More, it’s a tangential act, not part of his main plan. Striking back at Penelope and the Foundling House was the act of a confident man, not one in a panic, or frightened of exposure. He’s sure of himself, supremely confident—I can’t see him bothering to get someone else to slip the order into the Holborn bag. Why complicate things?’
“And potentially have someone who might, if questions were asked, remember and volunteer his name?”
“Exactly.” Barnaby nodded decisively. “We delete all nongentlemen from Jenkins’s list. How many does that leave?”
Stokes was writing. “Aside from our friend Cameron, there’s Jury, Partridge, Wallis, Andrews, Passel, Worthington, and Fenwick.” He frowned. “There are a few more in the governors’ offices, assistants whose names I don’t know. But I can get them.”
“Excellent.” Sitting up, Barnaby looked at the list. “As our next step, I think we should see what we can learn about these gentlemen’s finances.”
Starting on a duplicate list, Stokes glanced at him. “You’ll have to do most of that. I can check the pawnbrokers, but if it’s gambling debts…”
Where the Heart Leads Page 36
