“It’s possible the notices might gain us a clue,” Barnaby said. “At least point to which area we should focus on.”
“What about the Bushels? Mary and Horry?” Penelope looked at Stokes. “Have you visited yet?”
Stokes nodded; he glanced at Barnaby. “Your message reached me in good time—I got to Black Lion Yard late that afternoon. I spoke with Mary Bushel and the Wills boys. Between us, we’ve worked out a plan that should keep Mary and Horry safe, but leave the door invitingly open, so to speak, in the hope these blackguards will make a move.”
Stokes’s expression turned feral. “I just hope they do. Between the Willses and the local force, the villains won’t find it easy to get out of Black Lion Yard.”
Barnaby raised his brows. “I hadn’t thought of it, but the yard does lend itself to being an excellent trap.”
“Exactly. So Horry and his grandmother are as well protected as they could be, and our trap is in place.” Stokes nodded. “Now we need to see if we can get a bead on who we’re likely to catch in it.”
He picked up the box of notices. “Griselda and I will hand these out as we pass the markets.” He glanced at the other three. “We need to learn where this schoolmaster is keeping the boys, and get them out of his clutches, preferably before he sends them out to work.”
Barnaby grimaced. “Parliament rises next week. A few days after that and Mayfair will be all but deserted. If our hypothesis of the reason this schoolmaster’s training so many boys at once is correct, then we’ve only got until then to find them.”
They all exchanged glances, then Griselda waved to the stairs. “We’d better get going then.”
They all trooped down, then out of the shop, leaving the apprentices staring.
Once outside, they headed around the church to find hackneys in the street beyond. Stokes and Griselda took the first, Barnaby and Penelope insisting their task was the more urgent.
Standing on the pavement watching the carriage rattle away to the east, Penelope shifted restlessly.
Beside her, his gaze on the retreating carriage, too, Barnaby said, “If you think of anything you, I, or we can do to learn what we need to learn faster, let me know.”
She glanced at his profile. “Do you promise to do the same?”
He looked down at her. “Yes. All right.”
“Good.” She nodded. “If I think of anything, I’ll send word.”
13
Everything was in place, yet nothing had happened.
Late that night, wreathed in a thick November fog, Barnaby strolled along St. James and considered the state of their investigation. He’d just left White’s after spending a quiet evening in the almost empty, and therefore blissfully silent, club, deeming it wiser to while away the evening there rather than in some ballroom in Penelope’s wake—a deliberate ploy to evoke her impatience, leaving her curiosity unappeased, thus prodding her to consider slaking her thirst for knowledge with him. Being the intelligent lady she was, her mind would then follow the obvious path, which would lead her to the conclusion he wished her to reach.
That marrying him would be in her best interests.
That doing so was the route to attaining all the knowledge she might wish on the subject currently—courtesy of their recent interaction—occupying her mind.
He fervently hoped that subject was occupying her mind; other than their investigation—presently stalled—it was the only consideration in his.
Even that—their lack of forward momentum in finding the missing boys—was likely to work in his favor. Stokes and Griselda had distributed the notices, but they’d yet to elicit any response. As for the five names on Stokes’s original list, they’d confirmed that Slater and Watts were, if not leading entirely blameless lives, at least not in possession of extraneous boys.
Which left Hornby, Grimsby, and Hughes as their best candidates for the schoolmaster involved, but no avenue had yet yielded any clue as to the latter two’s whereabouts.
Otherwise, the trap they’d set in Black Lion Yard two days ago remained primed, but as of this evening, unsprung.
And neither he nor Penelope had managed to think of anything more they could reasonably do to find the missing boys.
So they were waiting.
Patience, he suspected, wasn’t her strong suit; it was perfectly possible—even likely—that starved of progress on one front, she would turn her energies toward a different goal.
The notion of said energies being his to guide sent a thrill of expectation through him—something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, not since he’d been a green youth.
And perhaps not even then.
Smiling to himself, he turned into Jermyn Street. Swinging his cane, he walked on, ignoring the ever-thickening fog.
The issue of marriage was one he’d avoided, but not because he had any intrinsic dislike or distrust of the state. If truth be known the opposite was true; as the years had rolled by and he’d seen his friends marry, seen the depths of their happiness in their shared lives, he’d grown envious. Yet still he’d been convinced that marriage was not for him, because he’d never met a tonnish female likely to—or even able to—cope with his vocation, his passion for criminal investigations.
Penelope was the sole exception, the lady who broke every rule. She wouldn’t just acquiesce to his investigating, she’d actively encourage him. And her intellect was such that, against all the odds, he was looking forward to sharing cases with her—listening to her opinions and suggestions, discussing villains and their traits.
His necessary first step toward what he now saw as his most desirable future was to secure Penelope’s hand in marriage. That her brother, Luc, and her family, would find his suit acceptable he had no real doubt; the third son of an earl was a perfectly acceptable match for the daughter of a viscount, and his status and fortune were nothing to sneer at. Gaining her agreement was the only hurdle, and if his stoking of her curiosity and impatience was playing out as planned…
Smiling confidently, he twirled his cane. He fully expected her to indicate some interest very soon. He rather thought he should call on her tomorrow.
A discreet black town carriage stood outside the door before his. He noticed it, but pointedly didn’t glance that way; he wondered who Elliard, his neighbor, was entertaining that night.
His mind filled with visions of entertaining Penelope. Soon, he assured himself. Very soon. Smiling even more broadly, he swung up the steps to his door, fishing in his waistcoat pocket for his latchkey, glancing down as he did.
Behind him, he heard the black carriage’s harness jingle, then the horses’ hooves started to clop, the carriage rolling along the street…
He froze, premonition snaking down his spine.
He hadn’t seen or heard anyone getting into or out of the carriage, no door shutting—why was it suddenly leaving?
He started to turn—in the same instant sensed the onrush of an assault. Whirling, he saw a cloaked figure rushing up the steps, a…baton?…in one hand.
His brain froze, unable to reconcile what he was seeing. The figure was short, and the cloak covered skirts. And there was a glint of gold beneath the hood, at eye level.
In that split second he recognized his assailant, registered that she’d come from the carriage that had pulled away. He glanced at the departing carriage—then saw, too late, the cosh she raised.
She hit him on the forehead.
Not all that hard, yet enough to make him blink and fall back a step—he half staggered and fetched up against the wall.
Absolutely stunned. Speechless, he stared at her.
She grabbed his coat—apparently mistakenly thinking she’d incapacitated him sufficiently that she needed to stop him falling down.
If he fell at all, it would be from sheer, utter disbelief.
What the devil was she doing?
He blinked again. She tucked the cosh away beneath her cloak, then peered into his face. Apparently reassured he was still
compos mentis, she hissed, “Play along!”
What the hell was her script?
One hand still clenched in his coat, she reached out and hammered on his door.
He wondered if he should point out that his latchkey was in his hand, but decided against it. He assumed he was supposed to be incapacitated, so slumped against the wall, eyes half closed.
It wasn’t all that hard to summon a pained frown. He could feel a heated throb where she’d hit him; he suspected she’d left a bruise.
Penelope all but jigged with impatience. What was taking his damned man so long?
Then she heard footsteps; a second later, the door opened.
She looked at Barnaby. “Help me! Quickly!” She glanced behind her, down the empty street. “They might come back.”
The man frowned. “Who might—” Then he saw Barnaby slumped against the wall. “Oh, my goodness!”
“Exactly.” Penelope grabbed Barnaby’s arm and dragged it across her shoulders. Slipping her other arm around his waist, she hauled him away from the wall.
She staggered, and only just managed to right herself, and him, before toppling backward down the steps. Lord, he was heavy!
But she could hardly complain when he was doing exactly as she’d asked.
She weaved for an instant before his man—Mostyn, that was it—came to his startled senses and seized his semicomatose master from the other side.
“There now—gently.” Mostyn helped her shuffle Barnaby through the open door. “Oh, my heavens!” He stopped, staring at the red mark on Barnaby’s forehead.
Penelope cursed under her breath; the man was an old woman! “Shut the door and help me get him upstairs.”
She was no longer so certain she hadn’t truly injured him; he was leaning very heavily on her. She told herself she hadn’t swung the cosh all that hard, but anxiety started to churn in her stomach.
Mostyn rushed to close the door, then reappeared to take Barnaby’s other arm.
Barnaby moaned as they headed for the stairs—far too realistically for her peace of mind.
Damn! She had hurt him. Guilt joined the anxiety in a nauseating mix.
“But what happened?” Mostyn asked as they started up the stairs.
She had her story ready. “I convinced him to go out searching for our villains. They waylaid us not far away and coshed him over the head. He took a fearful knock—see the bruise?”
That was all it took; Mostyn tut-tutted and carried on about the dangers his master never seemed to have a care for, how he’d often warned him that something terrible would one day come of his investigating…and much more in that vein until Penelope was extremely sorry she’d ever thought up such a tale—adding lashings of more guilt to that already swirling through her. She had to bite her tongue against the urge to caustically defend Barnaby; she had to remember her own role in this drama—that of female accomplice seriously concerned for her white knight’s health.
She literally gave thanks when they reached the top of the steep single flight, and could lurch toward, then through, the doorway leading into a sizable room. It took up most of the first floor—a very large bedroom, with a very large bed, plus a small sitting area with a desk and a comfortable armchair angled before the hearth. The fire was cheerily burning, throwing heat and light through the room. A dressing room opened to one side; she glimpsed a bathing chamber beyond.
A pair of tallboys stood against opposing walls, and matching side tables flanked the bed, but it was the bed itself that dominated the room—and fixed her attention.
A four-poster in dark wood with barley-sugar poles, it was hung with figured damask the color of his eyes. The curtains were looped back with tasseled golden cords, revealing a massive expanse of blue satin coverlet, with gold-silk-encased pillows forming a small mountain against the headboard.
In unspoken accord, she and Mostyn teetered toward the bed. Mostyn managed to steer Barnaby—who emitted another dreadful groan—until his back was propped against the nearest pole.
“Miss—if you can steady him there for a moment, I’ll ready the bed.”
Mostyn warily took his hands from Barnaby, then dove for the head of the bed, but before he could grasp the coverlet and drag it down, Barnaby groaned again, and staggered sideways.
“Oh!” Penelope tried desperately to hold him upright—but then he toppled backward, nearly jerking her off her feet and onto the bed with him as he sprawled on his back across the mattress; it was only because she lost her grip on his coat that she managed to stay on her feet.
Eyes still closed, he winced, then moaned. Weakly, he raised a hand to his head.
Penelope dived to catch his hand. “No—don’t touch it. Just lie there and let us get you out of your coat.”
He was either an excellent actor, or he really was in pain—she had no idea which.
Thrown entirely off balance, Mostyn fussed and fretted. Penelope shrugged out of her cloak and laid it aside, then rustled back to the bed. Between them, they managed to ease the heavy overcoat off Barnaby’s shoulders. The coat beneath, one of Shultz’s creations, proved a great deal more difficult to remove; Mostyn had to support Barnaby, holding him upright, while Penelope clambered onto the bed behind him and tugged the tight-fitting garment free.
She shuffled quickly aside as Mostyn let Barnaby back down—to the accompaniment of another excoriating groan.
His waistcoat and cravat were much easier to deal with; she dispensed with those, tugging both free, while Mostyn removed his shoes and stockings.
The instant Mostyn stood again, she snapped, “Fetch some cold water and a cloth.”
Mostyn hesitated, but the quite genuine concern ringing in her voice had him moving to the dressing room door. “I’ll just be a moment.”
Penelope glanced after him; he passed through to the bathing chamber beyond, but with both doors open she didn’t dare ask Barnaby if his head really hurt that much, or if he was acting.
The guilt that he might not be, that she really had coshed him harder than she’d intended, contrarily made it easier, when Mostyn returned, to put the next stage of her plan into action.
Taking the basin from him, she set it on one bedside table, briskly wrung out the cloth, then leaned over Barnaby and applied the compress gently to the reddened patch on his wide forehead. The spot wasn’t that raised or contused; it was probably just as well she was covering it, especially as Mostyn had moved around the bed to light the candelabra on the other bedside table. The candles flared, then steadied, spilling light over Barnaby as he lay sprawled across the bed.
Without looking directly at Mostyn, she said, “You may go.”
It took a moment for her words to penetrate, then he stared at her, stupefied. “I can’t do that! It wouldn’t be proper.”
Slowly, she lifted her gaze and stared—down her nose—at him. “My dear good man.” She’d borrowed both words and tone from Lady Osbaldestone, a lady whose ability to lord it over the opposite sex was legendary; she couldn’t do better than to borrow from a master. “I do hope”—she kept her voice low, yet her tone was incisive—“that you’re not about to suggest there is anything improper in my tending to Mr. Adair in his current injured state, especially as it was in response to a request of mine—indeed, in protecting me—that he was injured?”
Mostyn blinked, frowned.
Before he had a chance to gather any wits, she continued in the same, chilly, impossibly superior tone, “I have two adult brothers, and have tended their hurts often enough.” An outright lie; both were much older than she. “I have lived more than twenty-eight years in the haut ton, and never have I heard it sugggested that tending an injured gentleman in a state of incapacitation was in any way considered fast.”
Having lied once, she saw no reason not to compound the sin; Mostyn couldn’t possibly know how old she was.
Returning her attention to her patient—who had remained silent throughout—she struggled to recall useful terms Mrs. Keggs employed
in similar situations, which occurred all too frequently at the Foundling House. “It’s very likely he has a concussion.”
Alarm flared in Mostyn’s eyes. “Mulled wine! My mentor always swore by it.” He rushed for the door.
“No.” Penelope raised her head and frowned. “He most certainly shouldn’t have any hot drinks—and certainly not alcohol. Not wine or brandy. Which shows how much you know.” With every evidence of disgust, she waved him away. “I’ll sit and watch over him, and keep a cold compress on his injury. When he wakes, I’ll ring for you.”
“But—” Wide-eyed, Mostyn looked from her to his comatose master.
Penelope sighed, dropped the cloth in the basin, then advanced determinedly on Mostyn—who naturally backed away. “I have no time for this discussion—I need to tend to your master.”
She continued to march forward until Mostyn’s back hit the door. Halting, planting her hands on her hips, she glared, and lowered her voice to an acid whisper. “All this noise is no doubt hurting his poor head. Now begone!”
Dramatically she pointed to the door.
Mostyn goggled at her, swallowed, cast a last glance at the figure on the bed, then turned, opened the door, and slid through.
He closed it softly behind him.
Disinclined to take chances, Penelope stepped closer and pressed her ear to the panels. She waited until she heard Mostyn’s footsteps descending the stairs, then she slid the bolt on the door.
On a huge sigh, she closed her eyes for an instant and leaned her forehead against the panels.
The sound of rustling reached her.
Opening her eyes, turning, she saw Barnaby propped up against the pillows. There was no sign of vagueness in the blue eyes that pinned her.
“What,” he asked, “is this all about?”
His diction was precise—no slurring. The relief that swamped her was disconcertingly intense. A spontaneous, delighted smile curving her lips, she started back to the bed. “Good! You aren’t really hurt.”
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