Watching her face, Barnaby understood that when she said “heaven and earth,” she meant it literally. The fierceness that lit her dark brown eyes and tightened her animated features bore testimony to her resolution, her unwavering determination.
Then she smiled, banishing the image of a warrior-goddess. “I hope you understand, Miss Martin, that I can’t simply sit at home and wait for news. If there’s any way at all I can help in locating these boys and rescuing them, as I believe there is, then I must be here, doing.”
Behind him, Barnaby heard Stokes shift restlessly. He clearly hadn’t anticipated Penelope’s appeal to Miss Martin, much less its fervor. Despite being able to see quite clearly just where Penelope’s persuasion was going to land them—with her going into the East End in disguise—Barnaby had to, albeit grudgingly, admire her honesty, as well as her strategy.
Miss Martin had remained silent throughout Penelope’s declaration. She was studying Penelope’s face; the frown on her own had faded, but remained in her eyes.
Barnaby was tempted to say something, to try to mute Penelope’s appeal, but sensed if he spoke, he might well achieve the opposite. He was sure Stokes felt the same; with her characteristic directness, Penelope had shifted the discussion onto a plane on which they, mere men, held much less clout.
Everything hinged on how Miss Martin reacted to Penelope’s words.
Penelope tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on Miss Martin’s face. “I hope you can set aside any reservations you might have over my social status, Miss Martin. No matter the relative quality of our gowns, we are women before all else.”
A smile slowly broke over Miss Martin’s face. “Indeed, Miss Ashford. So I’ve always thought. And please, call me Griselda.”
Penelope beamed. “If you will call me Penelope. Now!” She turned to survey Barnaby and Stokes, then glanced at Griselda. “To our plans.”
Barnaby exchanged a thin-lipped look with Stokes; Penelope had won that skirmish before they’d fired a shot. But the battle wasn’t yet over.
Miss Martin—Griselda—waved to the rear of the shop. “If you’ll come up to my parlor, we can sit and discuss how best to manage things.”
She led the way past the counter and through the heavy curtain. Beyond lay a small kitchen, the space all but filled with a large deal table on which feathers, ribbons, lace, and beads lay spread.
Penelope surveyed the feminine clutter. “Do you decorate all your bonnets yourself?”
“Yes.” Griselda turned to a narrow flight of stairs. “I have two apprentices, but they’re not working today.”
She climbed the stairs, Penelope followed close behind. Barnaby went next; the stairs were so narrow he and Stokes had to angle their shoulders.
At the top of the stairs, Barnaby stepped into a cozy room that extended in a bow window over the front of the shop. At the other end, opposite the bow window, a wall cut across the space. Through an open door he glimpsed a bedroom, with a narrow window looking over the rear yard.
He followed the ladies to where a sofa and two mismatched armchairs were arranged before the small fireplace. A mound of coals was still glowing, throwing off a little heat, just enough to ease the chill. Barnaby eyed Penelope’s pelisse; it was still done up—she was warm enough. He and Stokes had opened their heavy greatcoats, but kept them on as they sat.
Griselda Martin, a woolen shawl about her shoulders, sank into one armchair as Penelope claimed that end of the sofa. Barnaby sat next to her; Stokes took the other armchair. Barnaby caught Griselda’s eye. “Stokes has explained the situation, and that we need to gain information about the individuals he’s identified, but that we must do so without raising any suspicions, not those of the individuals nor indeed of anyone else, or we risk losing the boys forever.”
Griselda nodded. “What I was going to suggest…” She glanced at Stokes; he nodded for her to go on. She drew breath, then said, “There’s markets in Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane. Most of the men my father named work in and around those areas. Both markets will be in full swing tomorrow—if I go and pretend to look over the various wares, it won’t be hard to slip in a question about this man or that here and there. People ask after others they know all the time at the market stalls. Because I have the right accent, no one will think twice about me asking—they’ll answer freely, and I know how to jolly them along to get anyone who knows something to tell me all.”
She glanced at Stokes. “The inspector has insisted that, as it’s a police matter I’m assisting with, he will accompany me.” She looked back at Penelope and Barnaby, and her expression was concerned. “But I honestly don’t think it would be wise for either of you to come with us. You’ll never pass. The instant people see you, they’ll know something’s afoot, and they’ll watch and say nothing.”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope. He intended to accompany Stokes and Griselda—Stokes had seen him in disguise and knew he could pull the transformation off. But if there was any chance Penelope would accept Griselda’s warning and agree not to go into the East End…there was no reason to mention his plans.
Penelope met Griselda’s eyes, held them. “You’re a milliner, so you know how different bonnets can change a woman’s appearance. You know what makes women look drab just as much as you know how to make them appear stunning.” She smiled, a swift, engaging gesture. “Think of me as a challenge to your skills—I need you to fashion a disguise that will allow me to move through the East End markets without anyone thinking I don’t belong.”
Griselda met her gaze, then openly studied her. Her eyes narrowed, considering.
Barnaby held his breath. Once again he was tempted to speak and state the obvious—that there was no disguise that would adequately dim Penelope’s startling vitality, let alone her innate aristocratic grace. Once again instinct cautioned him to keep his lips tightly shut. He exchanged a glance with Stokes; his friend was similarly on tenterhooks, wanting to influence the outcome and knowing they would be damned if they tried.
Penelope bore Griselda’s scrutiny with unimpaired confidence.
Eventually, Griselda pronounced, “You’ll never pass as an East Ender.”
Barnaby wanted to cheer.
“But,” Griselda continued, “I could, in the right clothes, with the right hat and shawl, see you as a Covent Garden flowerseller. They come to the markets quite often, plying their wares there during the hours the nobs aren’t around their normal haunts, and most importantly, many of them are…well, they’re by-blows, so your features won’t mark you as a fraud.”
Barnaby shot a horrified look at Stokes.
Stokes returned it with interest.
Then Griselda grimaced. “Be that as it may, while we might be able to disguise your appearance, the instant you open your mouth you’ll give yourself away.”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope, expecting to see her deflating with disappointment. Instead, she glowed.
“You needn’t worry about me, love.” Her voice sounded quite different—still her, but a different her. “I can speak any number of languages—Latin, Greek, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and Russian among them—so East End to me is just another language, one easier to master, and one I hear every day.”
Barnaby hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Crossing his arms, he sank back against the sofa; glancing at Stokes—seeing his own inner consternation mirrored in his eyes—he shrugged.
They’d lost the battle, too.
Griselda was openly amazed. “That was…perfect. If I wasn’t looking at you, I would have thought you were from…oh, somewhere around Spitalfields.”
“Indeed. So once adequately disguised, I’ll be able to help gather the information we need.” She glanced at Barnaby, and sweetly asked, “I assume you’ll be accompanying us, too?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Count on it.” He looked at Griselda. “Don’t worry about me—Stokes can confirm my disguise will work.”
Stokes nodded. “As will mine.” To Griselda
he said, “We’ve done this before.”
She studied his face, then nodded. “Very well.” She looked back at Penelope. “So we have to put together your disguise.”
They eventually decided that Griselda would borrow a suitable skirt, blouse, and jacket from the maids from a nearby house. “I do their Easter bonnets for them—they’ll be happy to help. And they’re your size.”
That settled, Stokes brought out his list of names. Together, he and Griselda worked out a sensible order in which to tackle the list.
They agreed to meet at the shop at nine o’clock the next morning.
“That’ll give me time to set my apprentices to their work. Then we’ll have to disguise you”—she nodded at Penelope—“and then get to Petticoat Lane. We should arrive there by half past ten, which will be the perfect time to start moving through the stalls. The crowds will be big enough by then for us to merge in.”
With all decided, they shook hands, Penelope and Griselda both patently pleased with their new acquaintance, then trooped down into the shop.
Griselda showed them to the door. Following Penelope and Barnaby, Stokes paused on the doorstep to exchange a few words.
Barnaby left him to it. The hackney was waiting to return him and Penelope to Mayfair; he handed her up, then followed, shutting the door.
Dropping onto the seat beside her, he stared straight ahead, considering—not happily—what tomorrow would bring.
Beside him Penelope continued to beam, radiating eager enthusiasm. “Our disguises will work perfectly—there’s no need to worry.”
He crossed his arms. “I’m not worrying.” His tone suggested he was far beyond that.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’ll be perfectly safe with Griselda and Stokes. He is a policeman, after all.”
He managed not to growl. “I’ll be there.” A moment ticked past, then he flatly stated, “In fact, I’ll be glued to your side.” His temper rose as the possibilities continued to reel through his mind. “Can you imagine what your brother would say if he knew you were trooping about the East End passing yourself off as a Covent Garden flowerseller?” Usually more accurately termed a Covent Garden whore.
“I can, actually.” She remained entirely unperturbed. “He’d go pale, as he always does when he’s reining in his temper, then he’d argue, in that tight, clipped, frightfully controlled voice of his, and then, when he lost the argument, he’d lose his temper and throw his hands in the air and storm out.”
She glanced sideways at him; even though he refused to meet her gaze, he could tell it was faintly amused. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
Lips tight, jaw set, he debated, then evenly replied, “No. Arguing with you is a waste of time.” And he now understood it was pointless.
Dealing with Penelope in his preferred manner—on a rational, logical basis—was never going to swing advantage his way. With other ladies, the rational, logical approach left him with the whip hand—but not with her. She was a past master at using the rational and logical to her own ends, as she’d just demonstrated.
Arms crossed, he kept his narrow-eyed gaze fixed ahead, steadfastly ignoring the effervescent triumph bubbling beside him.
Both he and Stokes had fallen in with Penelope’s wish to meet Griselda in the firm expectation that there would be—at best—a certain stiffness between the two women. Instead, Penelope had effortlessly reached out and bridged the social gap—and it had been she who’d done that, not Griselda. Griselda had watched and waited, but Penelope had made the effort and known just how to do it, so now there was a budding friendship there, one no one could have predicted.
So…where he and Stokes had been a team of two, there was now a team of four.
He’d imagined going into the East End with Stokes—the two of them had worked together in disguise before. With four of them…the hunt would indeed go faster. Penelope’s version of an East End accent had been startingly good. She could indeed pass as a local even better than he. The four of them could split up, and get through Stokes’s list faster.
Having Penelope on their team as well as Griselda would help locate the four missing boys that much sooner.
And all debate aside, that was their common goal.
He glanced up as the carriage swung around a corner; they’d already reached Mount Street. His gaze on the façades as the hackney slowed, he said, “Tomorrow morning get your footman to summon a hackney at half-past eight. When it arrives, give the driver Griselda’s direction and get in.”
The hackney halted. Reaching across to open the door, he met Penelope’s eyes. “I’ll join you in the hackney.”
Brows rising, she studied him. He moved past her and stepped down, assisted her out, then paid off the hackney and escorted her to her brother’s door.
He waited for her to ask—to demand to be told what he was planning. Instead, she turned to him with a confident smile and gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning then. Good day, Mr. Adair.”
Feeling somehow cheated, he bowed over her hand. The butler opened the door; with a nod for that worthy, he turned, descended the steps, and strode away.
8
Penelope had learned long ago that it was never wise to encourage any gentleman to believe she needed protection. Especially not when said gentleman was of the ilk of her brother Luc, or her cousin Martin, or her brother-in-law Simon Cynster. Some men simply could not be trusted to know where to draw the line—or to even recognize that a line existed—between smothering a lady in cotton wool and being a reasonable white knight. The inevitable result of any lady accepting their protection was an ongoing battle, one the lady was forced to wage to retain some workable degree of independence.
That had certainly been her observation in the case of the aforementioned males. As she rushed to be ready at half past eight the next morning, she was increasingly certain Barnaby Adair, regardless of his eccentric pastime, belonged to the same group.
Masterful men, experience warned, were masterful all the way through.
They didn’t—couldn’t—change their stripes, although they might at times disguise them.
With such wisdom resonating in her mind, she bolstered her enthusiasm with a quick but substantial breakfast, then hurried into her pelisse. She reached the front door just as the hackney she’d ordered to be summoned rolled up.
Farewelling Leighton, the butler, she glanced right and left as she went down the steps, but saw no one who might be Barnaby Adair. A footman was holding the carriage door, waiting to help her up.
She called up to the driver, “St. John’s Wood High Street—the milliner’s shop,” then climbed in.
Settling on the seat, she nodded a dismissal to the footman. He closed the door and retreated.
The door on the other side of the carriage opened; the carriage dipped as a man climbed in.
Even though she’d been expecting an appearance, Penelope’s mouth fell open. The only thing she recognized about the man who shut the door and slumped on the seat opposite was his blue, blue eyes.
The carriage started forward—then abruptly stopped, the jarvey having realized some man had joined his lady passenger.
“Miss? Is everything all right?”
Her eyes—round with amazement—still fixed on Barnaby’s face, Penelope simply stared. Barnaby scowled and roughly jerked his head toward the box seat, and she recalled herself and stammered, “Y-yes—perfectly all right. Drive on.”
The jarvey muttered something, then the carriage rattled into motion again. As they rounded the corner out of Mount Street, Penelope let her gaze descend, taking in all of this rather startling version of Barnaby Adair.
Disguises generally concealed, but sometimes, they revealed. She was somewhat stunned—and just a little wary—of what, courtesy of his present guise, she could see.
He frowned at her, the gesture little removed from his earlier scowl—an expression that somehow fitted his new face, the clean, austere lines smudge
d with soot, the lean squareness of his jaw somehow more dominant beneath the prickly growth of a day-old beard. The beard roughened his cheeks. His hair was an uncombed tumble of golden curls; he never normally looked windblown and rumpled, but now he did.
As if he’d just rolled out of some doxy’s bed.
The thought flashed across Penelope’s mind; she instantly banished it. Closing her mouth, she found she had to swallow; her throat had grown unaccountably dry. Her gaze continued traveling over him, across his shoulders and chest, clad in a threadbare jacket with a thin, limp, cotton shirt beneath. No cravat or collar hid the lean length of his throat.
His long thighs were encased in workman’s breeches; worn, scuffed boots were on his feet. He was the very picture of a rough-and-ready lout, a navvy who worked about the docks and warehouses doing this and that—whatever paid best at the time.
A certain dangerous quality emanated from him. The aura of a male not to be crossed.
Too dangerous to cross.
“What?” Through narrowed eyes, he challenged her.
She held his gaze—the only thing instantly recognizable about him—and knew that under the rough clothes and equally rough behavior he was still the same man. Reassured, she smiled mildly and shook her head. “You’re perfect for the part.” Of escorting me in my flowerseller’s disguise.
She didn’t voice the latter words, but if the sharpness in his gaze was any guide, he’d understood her meaning.
He humphed, then folded his arms across his chest, put his head back, and lapsed into uncommunicative silence.
Her smile spontaneously deepening, Penelope looked out the window so he wouldn’t see.
Where the Heart Leads Page 12