For the moment at least he was hers, all hers, and she knew it.
Reaching out, she laid one hand on his chest, then slowly slid it down—over the heavy muscle bands, down over his ridged abdomen to the indentation of his navel, then lower, to that part of him that always seemed eager for her touch. That despite their recent couplings, still grew beneath her hand.
The fact sent a sense of power shivering through her.
Not that the rest of him—all of him—hadn’t been glad to see her. Even though they’d made no assignation, when she’d knocked on his door earlier that night, he’d been waiting to open it; Mostyn had been nowhere in sight. He’d escorted her upstairs to his bedroom and locked the door behind them—all with an intent alacrity that had warmed her. That had set her heart pounding, set her senses stretching in anticipation.
She’d turned into his arms—all but flung herself at him—and simply let her hunger free. Let it burn. For him. And he’d reciprocated. They’d wrestled, as they always did, control first his, then hers, then his again. He’d finally pinned her, naked, beneath him on the bed, and joined with her in a frenzy that had left them both wrung out, deliciously sated.
Content again.
It had seemed that he’d missed her, too.
That had been the first time. The second…she had an excellent memory; she could recall in vivid detail the various positions described in the esoteric texts she and Portia had studied years before in their drive to educate themselves on all aspects of life. Those texts had been quite illuminating.
And clearly accurate. When she’d risen up on her hands and knees and asked whether they could try it that way, he’d been stunned—for all of a heartbeat. Then he’d been behind her, and inside her, joining with her through long, deep, excruciatingly controlled thrusts; he’d demonstrated very thoroughly just why that position had featured in most texts.
Afterward, they’d collapsed in a tangled heap, mutually sated to their toes.
Now…after the heady glow of aftermath had faded, she’d been left with a pervasive warmth, her body thrumming with a steady, purring content and a quiet joy she hadn’t known it was possible to feel.
She was lightly, gently, stroking his chest, fascinated as always by the contrasts. Her hand looked so tiny, so puny, against the muscled, inherently powerful expanse; he was hard to her soft, heavy to her slight, large to her small—yet they seemed, in so many ways, complementary.
And not just physically.
On the surface, interludes such as this were all about satisfying physical cravings, yet before and beneath, what gave rise to the cravings in the first place and what, in achieving true satiation, was the more powerful and dominant hunger assuaged, was very definitely not physical. At least not for her.
And, she was starting to believe, not for him, either.
Possessiveness, protectiveness, need, and care were all part of what now lay between them, and at least within the confines of his bed acknowledged as such—there in his touch, investing his loving and hers—evidence of an emotional connection that was only growing stronger and more profound with every day that passed.
After spending the last three days apart, the notion of losing that connection, of ending it…suffice it to say that her mind was assessing ways and means of ensuring that connection continued indefinitely.
She was aware he was watching her, studying her face from beneath heavy lids. Shifting her head on the pillows, she met his blue, blue gaze; after a moment, she arched a brow.
He smiled. Raising one hand to her cheek, he brushed back a lock of hair, setting it behind her ear. “Stokes and I will start first thing tomorrow…” He glanced at the window. “Today. But unless we’re lucky, it’ll take time to identify Alert—if we even can. And time is a commodity that for us is limited.”
She turned on her side so she could look into his face. “If you can’t find Alert before the burglaries take place, we won’t be able to rescue the boys before they’re…implicated.”
Barnaby grimaced. “As long as we rescue them before Alert’s plan is complete, we’ll be able to argue them free of the courts, but if his plan is successful, once it’s over and done and time passes, the boys will be held to be as criminally responsible as Smythe and Alert.” After a moment, he went on, “There’s also the not insignificant consideration that if Alert’s plan is successful, the police force is going to be severely discredited, and Peel and the commissioners are going to have the devil of a time defending its existence.”
He met Penelope’s eyes. “There are many who would be perfectly happy to see the force disbanded.”
She humphed disapprovingly and lay back. Staring at the ceiling, she asked, “What sort of person could Alert be? Where are you and Stokes going to start?”
Perfectly content with the conversation’s direction, he settled to tell her. He’d deliberately distracted her, and himself, by mentioning the investigation; there were only two subjects currently in his mind, and the way the moment between them had been evolving, the weight of it just before he’d spoken…the temptation had been great and burgeoning, but he didn’t want to risk speaking of that other subject too soon.
Not before she’d made up her own mind and reached the conclusion he’d already reached.
Interviewing Carlton Riggs had been a God-given excuse he’d seized with both hands. Riggs’s family estate was in Leicestershire, not all that far from Calverton Chase. After questioning Riggs, he’d declined an invitation to stay the night, and had instead driven across to drop in on Luc, Viscount Calverton, Penelope’s elder brother and guardian.
Luc and his wife, Amelia, had welcomed him; they’d met him on numerous social occasions within their wider family, and Luc had interacted with him on a previous investigation. Luckily, with three children demanding Amelia’s attention, it hadn’t been difficult to engineer time alone with Luc in his study.
He’d lost no time declaring his hand and making a formal offer for Penelope’s. After swallowing his surprise, after shaking his head in disbelief, then commenting that Barnaby was the last man he’d have expected to lose his head—which comment had prompted Luc to ask just how well Barnaby knew his sister, to which Barnaby had tersely replied, “Too well,” which had led to a moment of tension—Luc, by that time narrow-eyed, very much the shrewd, sharp gentleman-with-four-sisters, had nodded, and given his permission for Barnaby to pay his addresses to Penelope—if she would let him.
Barnaby knew well enough not to take that last for granted—even with her lying naked and sated beside him in his bed.
But at least he no longer felt guilty about having her lying naked and sated beside him in his bed. Her being in that state might have come about through her own very deliberate instigation, yet he’d been waiting, ready, and very willing to accommodate her.
“Stokes and I…we’ll probably start by making a list of all gentlemen known to be associated with the police. The commissioners and their staffs, and those involved with the force through other authorities, like the Home Office and the Water Police.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Given what we’ve assumed is his plan, Alert must be someone who not only knows other gentlemen of the ton—through his club, for instance—but who visits their homes. How else could he know which houses he wants to target?” She met Barnaby’s eyes. “So Alert must be someone with a certain social standing.”
He frowned, nodded. “You’re right. Once we have our list, we can use that to refine it, to eliminate those not likely.” After a moment, he added, “Very few clerks would have the social entrée Alert must have. We’ll have to see who turns up in our net.”
19
The next day was Sunday. In the morning, Barnaby and Stokes met at his office and made a good start on their list. Penelope’s observation eliminated a good few names without further examination; others—such as the commissioners and many on their staffs—Barnaby was going to have to inquire into more closely.
But
Sunday afternoon wasn’t a good time to go trawling through the ton. Leaving Stokes to his own devices—which he suspected would involve a visit to St. John’s Wood High Street—Barnaby returned to Jermyn Street—to discover Penelope waiting, not patiently, in his parlor.
They didn’t remain in the parlor for long.
The afternoon was fading into November twilight when, after a delightful, calming, and somehow reassuring afternoon of lovemaking interspersed with games of chess, Penelope followed Barnaby down the stairs and through the door at the back of his hall to the rear door of his lodgings.
On learning that she’d come in her brother’s town carriage and it was waiting for her farther along the street, Barnaby had gone out and ordered her coachman to bring the carriage into the lane behind the house. Even in the gathering dusk of a November Sunday, Jermyn Street, the premier haunt of the ton’s bachelors, was sure to have someone walking along. Someone to see her being helped into her carriage at that telltale hour, someone who might recognize her and talk.
She understood perfectly well why Barnaby had ordered the carriage to pull up in the lane. While she might be fairly cavalier with her reputation, that he was anything but made her feel cared for, rather than annoyed.
Being cared for was one of the emotional benefits of their interaction she was starting to grow quite fond of; she’d caught herself excusing behavior on his part, accepting and tolerating possessive or protective acts that from any other gentleman would have earned a harsh rebuke. With Barnaby, she found herself smiling with fond affection, both inwardly and outwardly.
The changes he and their relationship were making in her were a trifle unsettling. She didn’t readily suffer fools, or any impinging on her will or her directions, yet with him…she felt not softer but less rigid, less defensive, and therefore willing and able to accommodate him within certain bounds. Within some structure she’d yet to define; she’d yet to decide whether their relationship would be—could be—compatible with marriage.
Whether marriage to Barnaby Adair might work.
Whether marriage to him was her true destiny.
Reaching the rear door, he glanced back at her. “Wait here while I check.” Opening the door, he stepped out, partially closing it behind him, protecting her from the gust of chilly wind that tried to barrel into the house, and from any potentially curious eyes.
She contemplated the half-open door, and the calmness that held her. Her frustration with the investigation—her impatience, and the hurdles that seemed so insurmountable she had to consider that despite all they did they might not be able to rescue Dick and Jemmie—would normally have had her pacing and railing.
Uselessly, but she would still have railed, both silently and vociferously in turn. Which would have been a great waste of energy, and most likely would have given her a headache.
Instead, she’d come to Barnaby, and now felt calm and somehow stronger. Better able to deal with whatever demands the investigation made of her, more confident that, somehow, they—he, she, Stokes, and Griselda—would triumph.
That confidence had no firm basis, yet still it buoyed her, giving her hope and the resolve to go on.
Barnaby returned, pushing the door wider to offer his hand.
She smiled, placed her fingers in his—still felt that special thrill as his fingers closed around hers—and let him draw her over the threshold.
The carriage was waiting. She turned to farewell Barnaby. A distracted frown in his eyes, he reached for the hood of her cloak and lifted it over her loosely pinned hair; half of her pins still lay scattered about his bedroom floor.
Smiling, she raised a hand and laid her palm briefly against his cheek. “Thank you.” For an afternoon that had meant more to her than she’d known any interlude could, for taking care of her and her complex needs unasked, spontaneously.
He caught her hand, kissed her fingers. “The instant Stokes or I learn anything relevant, I’ll come and tell you.”
She nodded. She was about to turn away when a movement in the corridor behind Barnaby caught her eye.
It was Mostyn. He must have returned early from his afternoon off. Like any experienced gentleman’s gentleman, he made himself scarce when she was with Barnaby; he’d come out of the kitchen unaware they were at the rear door. He saw them, froze, then, after a moment’s hesitation, to her considerable surprise—she was perfectly aware he didn’t approve of her—he bowed. A very correct acknowledgment untainted by any hint of disrespect.
Before she could react, Barnaby, unaware of her distraction, grasped her arm and urged her to the carriage. Turning, she followed his direction.
Opening the carriage door, he helped her in. “Let me know if you hear—or think—of anything pertinent.”
“I will.” As he shut the door, she glanced back, but could no longer see into the corridor. “Good-bye.”
Barnaby stepped back and saluted her, then signaled to her coachman. With a jingle of the harness, the carriage pulled away.
The following afternoon, Penelope was sitting on the chaise in old Lady Harris’s drawing room, sipping tea and pretending to listen to the babble of conversations about her, when the select gathering of some of the ton’s most influential ladies—those still in town because their husbands held senior posts within the government and were therefore not yet free to retreat to the country—was disrupted in spectacular fashion by the entrance of a policeman.
Few of the ladies had met one before. Consequently, Silas, Lady Harris’s butler’s announcement—“A member of the constabulary has called, ma’am”—was greeted with a profound silence little else could have achieved.
The constable, a middle-aged man in a tightly fitting uniform who had followed in the imposing Silas’s wake, looked taken aback by the stares directed his way. But when Lady Harris in her sweet bemused way inquired as to his business, he collected himself and looked around the room. “I’m here to fetch Miss Ashford.”
Penelope set down her cup and rose. “I’m Miss Ashford. I take it Inspector Stokes sent you?”
The constable frowned. “No, miss. I’m here because the ladies at the Foundling House said as you were the one in charge. My sergeant just executed a warrant against the house. You’re wanted there to answer questions.”
Penelope stared at him.
The constable waved to the door. “If you’ll come along with me, miss?”
She went, leaving considerable consternation in her wake—and not a small amount of gossip. Her mother would smooth things over—as far as was possible—but Penelope gave thanks she was not the sort of young lady to be easily affected by the ton’s opinion; her life and her happiness, thankfully, were not dependant on the ton’s approbation.
The hackney the constable had had waiting pulled up outside the Foundling House. She forced herself to let the constable descend first and hold the door for her; such little things emphasized her rank, something she would very likely need to wield in dealing with the constable’s sergeant.
She swept into the house, consciously drawing on the quiet superiority her mother and the Lady Harrises of the world used to command. Stripping off her gloves, she cast a critical glance around. “Where’s your sergeant?”
“This way, miss.”
“Ma’am.” She allowed the constable to precede her down the long corridor.
He cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder. “Begging your pardon, miss?”
“Ma’am. Given my age, and that I run the Foundling House, a position of some responsibility, then regardless of marital status, the correct form of address is ‘ma’am.’” It never hurt to keep potentially annoying people in their places, and while the constable had yet to do anything to spark her ire, she doubted his sergeant—he who had executed a warrant on the Foundling House—would prove so innocuous, but the master would likely take his tone from his servant’s.
“Oh.” Frowning, the constable worked to digest the lesson.
They found the sergeant, one hip propped
against the desk in her office, watching two constables searching through the tall cabinets that stood against one wall; one swift glance at her desk showed they’d already searched there. Two constables were likewise pawing through the files in the row of cabinets in the anteroom, much to Miss Marsh’s evident distress.
Sizing up the sergeant in one sharp glance, and not liking what she saw—he was a swaggering braggart, she felt sure—Penelope swept around the desk, set her reticule upon it, and sat in her chair, pulling it up to the desk.
Reasserting control.
“I have been told you have a warrant, Sergeant.” She’d yet to meet the man’s eye, instead looking over her desk with a faint frown, as if noting the changes due to their search; she extended a hand, imperiously waggling her fingers. “If I could see it?”
Predictably, the man frowned; from the corner of her eye, she watched as he reluctantly straightened away from her desk. He glanced at his three subordinates; as she’d guessed, he spent a moment longer assessing the reaction of the constable who’d fetched her, before, regrettably, making the wrong decision. He hiked up his belt, and pugnaciously declared, “I don’t know as that’s proper. We’re here in pursuit of the law, doing our job to ferret out—”
“The warrant, Sergeant.” Her words cut coldly. Looking up, she met his gaze, this time reaching for the haughty arrogance of Lady Osbaldestone and the Duchesses of St. Ives—both the Dowager and Honoria; in dealing with such situations, those three were role models par excellence. “I believe that as the representative of the owners of this place, as well as in my capacity as administrator, that prior to any search being instituted, proper procedure dictates that I, the effective owner and occupier of the premises, should have been shown the warrant. Is that not correct?”
She was guessing, but she’d discussed police procedures with Barnaby and that sounded right.
From the way he shifted, and the glances he threw his three constables—the two searching had slowed, then stopped their rifling through the files, waiting—the sergeant suspected she was right, too.
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