As Penelope was heard to comment on the drive to the church, she and Barnaby had to count themselves lucky they’d been allowed to wed before April.
The weather did not similarly affect matters in the capital. Cameron was committed to Newgate, and left there to languish pending a full review of the charges to be laid against him; his trial would necessarily have to wait until those from whom he’d stolen so successfully returned to the capital to identify their possessions.
The day after Cameron had been arrested, Stokes and Huntingdon’s staff had searched the house. Courtesy of a tweeny who had heard noises in the locked box room adjacent to her tiny room in the attic, they’d uncovered a cache containing the seven items Smythe and the boys had delivered into Cameron’s hands.
Riggs had confirmed that Cameron was an acquaintance, one who knew of his house in St. John’s Wood Terrace, and that his mistress, Miss Walker, was a slave to laudanum. Riggs had been confounded to learn of Cameron’s actions. “He was always such a good fellow, you know. Would never have suspected him of any such thing.”
That sentiment was echoed by many; it was Montague who eventually shed light on Cameron’s motives.
Cameron hadn’t been what he’d purported to be—not since his early schooldays. The son of a mill owner from the north who’d married the local squire’s daughter, his gentry-born maternal grandfather had taken some delight in sending him to Harrow.
Unfortunately, courtesy of his schoolmates, his schooldays had given Cameron a glimpse into the world of the haut ton. It became his burning ambition not just to gain entry to that gilded circle, but to belong. So he’d hidden his lowly origins, and had zealously concealed his damning lack of funds.
He’d made ends meet by gambling, which had stood him in good stead, until he’d hit a losing streak. His life had gone downhill rapidly. He’d landed in the clutches of London’s most notorious cent-per-cent, a usurer Stokes and his superiors would dearly like to see put out of business, but neither desperate debtors nor dead men tended to talk.
As Cameron’s scheme had been all his own invention, he wasn’t any help in that regard. Now that said scheme, and the façade he’d constructed, had tumbled down about his ears, Cameron had retreated into himself and largely refused to speak.
Given the seriousness of the thefts he’d planned, and his exploitation of his position as Huntingdon’s secretary to that end, knowing as he had that such actions would seriously damage the standing of the still-fledgling police force, and in light of the incitement he’d provided to Smythe and Grimsby to commit murder, kidnap innocent boys and induct them into lives of crime, transportation was the very best Cameron could expect; he would be lucky to escape the gallows.
On a happier note, Inspector Basil Stokes and Miss Griselda Martin were married early in the New Year. Having spent Christmas with their families, first at Calverton Chase, then at Cothelstone Castle, and then having journeyed—commanded by duchessly edict—to join the revels at Somersham Place, there to be subjected to another round of congratulations and teasing, Barnaby and Penelope pounced on the excuse to flee. Braving the roads, they reached the capital the day before the wedding. Just as well, as Barnaby was Stokes’s best man, and Penelope stood beside Griselda as her maid of honor.
Penelope regarded the outcome as a triumph. She was quick to extract a promise from the happy couple that they in turn would attend her and Barnaby’s nuptials in due course.
Finally, later that month, after she’d succeeded in dancing the wedding waltz at her own wedding—a waltz she’d enjoyed to the very depth of her soul—Penelope stood by the side of the Calverton Chase ballroom, and confessed to her sister Portia, who, with her older sister Anne, had been her matron of honor, “It was so very tempting, being in London, to have Barnaby get a special license and simply have done with the matter, but—”
“You couldn’t face your mothers’ consequent disappointment.” Portia grinned. “Neither of you would have ever lived it down.”
Looking down the ballroom to where their mother and Barnaby’s sat, resplendent on a chaise surrounded by other ladies of similar degree, delightedly receiving the congratulations of their acquaintance, Penelope frowned. “I can’t understand it—it’s not as if they haven’t presided over weddings of their children before. For Mama, this is her fifth time, and the countess’s fourth—surely the gloss should have dimned by now.”
Portia laughed. “You’re forgetting one thing. For them, this wedding represents a triple triumph.”
“How so?”
“First, you know perfectly well that the entire ton has considered you determinedly unweddable—by your own choice. Your change of mind is a huge triumph for Mama. And similarly for Barnaby—it was greatly feared he would join the ranks of the confirmed bachelors, so of course Lady Cothelstone is in alt. And last but not least, for both Mama and her ladyship, you two are their last. The youngest and last of their offspring.” Portia looked down the room to where the two ladies sat. “As of this morning, their work is done.”
Penelope blinked; that certainly cast their mothers’ happiness in a new light. “But surely,” she said, thinking further, “they’ll have a similar interest in their grandchildren’s lives and marriages.”
“Interest, yes, but at one remove—I suspect they’ll leave most of the worrying about our offspring to us.”
Something in Portia’s voice made Penelope look at her more closely. After a moment she asked, “Is that the way the wind blows, then?”
Portia met her eye, and blushed—something she didn’t readily do. “Possibly. It’s too early to be certain, but…it’s likely you’ll be an aunt again in another seven or so months.”
Emily had two children already, and Anne had recently given birth to her first, a son, whose advent had reduced her husband, Reggie Carmarthen, to a state of doting idiocy. “Excellent!” Penelope beamed. “I can’t wait to see Simon fussing over someone else.”
Portia grinned. “Neither can I.”
They both dwelled on the vision, then Penelope substituted Barnaby for Simon…and wondered. Children were something she hadn’t thought about; they either came or they didn’t, but…the notion of holding an angelic little Barnaby with golden curls made her feel strange and fluttery inside.
She put the thought away for later examination—she’d barely grown accustomed to being so ridiculously and consumingly in love—as others came up to claim her attention. Everyone in both families, and all their connections, had attended; not only was the Chase full to overflowing, but many of the nearby houses and every inn within reach were crammed with guests.
The oldest was Lady Osbaldestone; despite her age, her black eyes were still sharp. She’d tapped Penelope’s cheek and advised her she was a clever girl. Exactly what act had demonstrated her cleverness Penelope hadn’t asked.
The afternoon wore on with music, dancing, and general gaiety. The grayness outside made the festive atmosphere inside only more pleasurable.
Eventually, having endured hours of ribbing on his change of heart regarding marriage—to which he had with perfect sincerity pointed out that, as Penelope was recognized as a unique young lady, his earlier dismissal of young ladies in general had never applied to her, which statement had given rise to unrestrained hilarity on Gerrard’s, Dillon’s, and Charlie’s parts—Barnaby found Penelope, deftly excused them both from those with whom she’d been conversing, and whirled her into a waltz.
The dance floor was the one place she let him lead without challenge. Which brought him to his point. “I believe,” he said, looking into her dark eyes, “that we should depart. Now.”
“Oh?” She raised her brows, but she was smiling. “Where are we departing to? Are we following Stokes and Griselda back to town?”
“Yes, and no.” Stokes and Griselda had remained for the first hours of the extended wedding breakfast, but Stokes had had to get back to London; they’d left a few hours ago. “We’ll head to London, but by a different rou
te.”
He owned a cozy little hunting box not far distant; he’d had it for years, but rarely used it. For tonight, he’d made arrangements to ensure it would provide the perfect venue for their perfect wedding night. He smiled down into her eyes. Before her advent into his life, he’d assumed he was devoid of romantic inclinations. Apparently not so. “I think you’ll like where we’re going.”
Her smile softened, deepened. “I know I will.”
She couldn’t have guessed; he raised his brows.
“Because all I need will be there—you.”
It was his turn to feel the glow that had turned her expression golden. He felt his heart expand, swell.
She saw it in his eyes. “Can I make a suggestion, to improve this plan of yours?”
As he’d expected. “Suggest away.”
“See that door over there—past the ornate mirror?” When he nodded, she continued, “If we sweep past after the next turn, we could simply halt, go out, close the door—and escape. If we don’t…if we try for a formal exit, we’ll be hours making our farewells and getting free. We’ve already thanked everyone for coming. I suggest we leave before we get trapped.”
He studied her eyes, then looked ahead as he steered her around the turn. They drew parallel with the door, and he stopped, opened it, whirled her through, closed it behind them—swept her into his arms and kissed her witless.
Then they escaped.
As he’d already learned, regardless of the subject, their two minds were always better than one.
EPILOGUE
Two months later
London
Incidentally, Stokes sent word this morning—Cameron has departed these shores.” Barnaby looked up from the news sheet he was perusing while savoring his morning coffee.
Seated at the other end of the table in the breakfast parlor of their recently acquired town house in Albemarle Street, Penelope glanced up, gaze distant…then she nodded and went back to the list she was composing.
Barnaby grinned, lifted his cup, and sipped. It was one of the things he adored about her—she never expected him to regale her with witticisms or anything else over the breakfast cups. In return, she never filled his ears with mindless chatter.
In contented appreciation, he let his gaze rest on her dark head for a moment, then returned to his news sheet.
They’d entertained Stokes and Griselda over an intimate dinner only yesterday. If anyone had told him his wife would be instrumental in drawing his and Stokes’s lives closer, facilitating their friendship—that both their wives would—he’d have thought that person demented. But Penelope and Griselda were firm friends and had long ago dispensed with all class-based barriers. He and Penelope dined at the little house in Greenbury Street, around the corner from Griselda’s shop, that Stokes had bought for his bride, every bit as frequently as the other two dined with them.
Penelope had even mastered the art of eating mussels.
Mostyn appeared with more toast. As he set the trivet by Penelope’s elbow, she glanced up, pushing her spectacles higher on her nose. “I’ll be going to the Foundling House this morning, Mostyn. Please tell Cuthbert I’ll need the carriage in half an hour.”
“Very good, ma’am. I’ll have Sally get your coat and muff.”
“Thank you.” Penelope returned to her list.
With a correct nod to Barnaby, Mostyn withdrew. Although he didn’t smile, there was a spring in his step.
His lips gently curving, Barnaby gazed again at Penelope. When she straightened, considering her list, then laid down her pencil, he asked, “How are Dick and Jemmie coming along?”
She looked up, and smiled. “Very well, I’m pleased to say. They’ve finally become just another two of the ‘lads.’ Englehart says they’re applying themselves to their lessons. Apparently ever since the idea of training to be constables was mooted, his entire class have been exemplary pupils.”
Jemmie had quietly asked Barnaby, on one of his now frequent visits to the Foundling House, if it was possible for boys like him to become constables. After assuring him it was, Barnaby had mentioned the matter to Penelope—who with her customary zeal had taken up the idea and promptly recruited his father to the cause of setting up some sort of apprentice scheme for constables.
Recollections of his father’s bemusement when she’d first told him what she wanted him to do floated pleasantly through his mind.
Picking up her pencil, Penelope returned to her list of matters she needed to attend to that day. She was perfectly aware of Barnaby’s gaze, of its quality as it rested on her. Perhaps not yet the abiding adoration she’d seen in Lord Paignton’s eyes, but it seemed to her an excellent start; she basked in it and quietly held it to her heart.
All in all, marrying Barnaby Adair had been an excellent decision. A wise choice. The only concession she’d had to make was to take him with her whenever she went into dangerous areas, which was no hardship at all, and if he was not available, her coachman and two—not one but two—grooms.
She’d agreed to the latter stipulation without quibble. As in all else, he wasn’t seeking to restrict her, but to protect her.
Because she was so important to him.
That, she’d decided, she could accept with perfect equanimity.
“I meant to remind you.” She looked up and met his eyes. “Your mother has asked us to dinner tonight. I’m not sure who else will be there, but I’ll send Mostyn around to find out. Regardless, we should go.”
Looking down, she added the order to Mostyn to her list. “You and your father can talk business—and then I can pester him about our apprentice scheme. With any luck Huntingdon or one of the other commissioners will be there, too, so we can kill two or more birds with one stone, so to speak.”
Barnaby smiled, a gesture that only deepened as he imagined his mother’s consternation on finding her select dinner party put to such use—and her recently discovered helplessness in the face of Penelope’s single-minded drive. “Yes, of course. I’ll be home in good time.”
He’d avoided his mother’s, and indeed the ton’s, invitations for years, but with Penelope by his side, he was perfectly happy to attend as she wished.
She was the perfect wife for him; not even his mother doubted it. Which left him in the enviable position of being able to leave all tonnish females, his mother included, to Penelope to manage. All he had to do was sit back, watch the action, and enjoy her machinations and their outcomes.
Since marrying her he’d learned what true contentment was.
Now he’d given his life, and his love, into her keeping, all was indeed—truly and at last—absolutely well in his world.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hoppy quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and popular authors. Laurens lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters.
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Credits
Jacket des
ign by Barbara Levine
Jacket illustration by Alan Ayers/LottReps.com
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WHERE THE HEART LEADS. Copyright © 2008 by Stephanie Laurens. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition December 2007 ISBN 9780061795169
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