A knock on the street door took Griselda downstairs; she returned with Barnaby in her wake.
To Penelope, he seemed more intent than she’d expected. He helped himself to three pikelets and Griselda handed him a mug of tea. He sipped as she said, “We were just discussing what Smythe will do with the boys. Stokes thinks he might put them out as apprentices.”
She glanced at Stokes. “You don’t think he’ll kill them?” The nightmare that lurked in the back of her mind.
Stokes met her gaze steadily. “I can’t say he won’t. If he feels they pose a real threat to him, he might.” He looked at Barnaby. “Where have you been?”
Barnaby lowered his mug. “Checking with Lord Winslow—he’s one of the law lords. If it can be proved the boys, as minors operating under an adult’s thumb, were forced to burgle houses against their wishes—and we can prove that by personal testimonies including mine and that of Miss Ashford here—then they’ll be excused the crime and can bear witness against their oppressor.”
Stokes’s expression grew grimmer. “So if we find them, they will indeed pose a threat to Smythe.”
Barnaby nodded. He met Penelope’s eyes. “They’ll be regarded as innocent, if we can find them. But we need to find them soon, and get them out of Smythe’s hands. He might not know what ‘under duress’ means, that the boys can testify against him without implicating themselves, but they know too much and, like Grimsby, Smythe will know all about making bargains with the police—he’ll assume the boys will be encouraged to tell all they know in return for lighter sentences.” Sober, he held her gaze. “Which means that whichever way Smythe thinks about it, once Alert’s burglaries are over, Jemmie and Dick are very real threats to him.”
That summation, its implication, settled like a grim reality upon them.
They went over all they knew yet again. Unfortunately, knowing more burglaries would take place didn’t help in doing anything about them, or in locating Smythe and his charges.
“Alert really has tied this up tight.” Stokes set down his mug. “He’s anticipated what we, the police, will do, and from the first worked around us.”
They’d talked themselves to a standstill again. Penelope glanced out the window and saw that the dull day had closed in to an even duller evening. She sighed; setting down her mug, she rose. “I have to go. I’ve another fund-raising dinner tonight.”
Barnaby scanned her face. Setting down his mug, he rose, too. “I’ll see you home.”
Again they had to walk past the church with its cemetery alongside to reach the main road and find a hackney. Once in the carriage rattling toward Mount Street, Barnaby studied Penelope’s profile, then closed his hand about one of hers, lifted it to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers.
She shot him a sidelong, questioning glance.
He smiled. “Where’s this dinner?”
“Lord Abingdon’s, in Park Place.” She sighed, looking forward. “Portia arranges all these affairs—and then goes off to the country with Simon and leaves me to attend them!” She paused, then went on, “I’ve never missed her so much as I do now. I hate having to concentrate on social niceties, on polite conversation, when there’s something so much more important to attend to.”
Soothingly stroking her fingers, he said, “In reality there’s nothing we can do tonight. We have no idea when Alert will attempt his next burglaries, whether he’ll spread them out over more than one night—we don’t even know how many more of the eight Smythe has yet to do. If Alert is well connected with the police, he’ll know they aren’t going to act until they hear back from the marquess about that urn. And even then what are they going to do? From the police’s point of view—the governors’ and Peel’s—it’s a devilishly difficult situation.”
She put her head back against the squabs. “I know. And Lord Abingdon is a kindly sort who helps us on several fronts. I can’t truly begrudge him the evening.” After a moment, she added, “Unfortunately, Mama can’t attend—she heard this morning that an old friend is failing and has gone off to Essex to see her before we have to leave for the Chase.”
Time was running out on more than one front. “I know Abingdon quite well. I helped him resolve a minor difficulty some years ago.” He caught her eyes when she looked at him. “I’ll escort you tonight, if you like.”
She looked at him for a long moment, studying his eyes, his face, then her lips lightly curved. “Yes. I’d like.”
He smiled. Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers again. “I’ll come for you at…what? Seven?”
Her smile deepening, she nodded. “Seven.”
At eleven o’clock that night, after a pleasant dinner with Lord Abingdon and two friends who, like his lordship, were interested in philanthropic works, Barnaby and Penelope descended the steps of his lordship’s town house to discover the fog had blown away, leaving the night crisp and clear.
“If I stare hard enough I can even see the stars.” Penelope tucked her hand in the crook of Barnaby’s elbow. “Let’s not bother with a hackney—it’ll be nice to walk.”
Barnaby glanced down at her as they started along the pavement. “We’ll have to cross half of Mayfair to reach Mount Street. You’re not, by any chance, hoping to run into Smythe along the way?”
Her brows rose. “Strange to say, that idea hadn’t crossed my mind.” She met his gaze; her lips were curved. “I wasn’t thinking of walking to Mount Street. Jermyn Street’s much closer.”
It was. He blinked. “Your mother…”
“Is in Essex.”
They reached Arlington Street; turning the corner, they continued strolling. “I feel I ought to point out that in the interests of propriety you shouldn’t be seen strolling down Jermyn Street on a gentleman’s arm at night.”
“Nonsense. In this cloak, with my hood up, no one will recognize me.”
He wasn’t sure why he was arguing; he was entirely content to have her come home with him—exactly as if they were already married, or at least an affianced couple—but…“Mostyn will be shocked.”
She snorted. “I could demand to see your menus for the week and all Mostyn would do is bow, murmur ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and hurry to fetch them.”
He blinked. It took a moment to digest all those few words conveyed. In the end, he said, “He addresses you as ‘ma’am’?”
She shrugged. “Many do.”
Many wasn’t Mostyn, his terribly correct gentleman’s gentleman. “I see.” They’d reached the corner of Bent Street. Without further argument, Barnaby turned them along it.
He glanced at her face; beneath her lighthearted, almost playful expression he could detect a certain determination. Given the unresolved state of their relationship, he suspected he’d be wise to graciously give way. And see where she was taking them.
It might very well be where he wanted to go.
Penelope was indeed plotting and planning—rehearsing suitable phrases with which to introduce the subject of marriage once they’d reached his house. In the parlor would be preferable; easier to talk there—less distraction, there being no bed.
She’d assumed any discussion of their relationship, of how it had evolved from the initial purely professional connection to something so much more, to the point that they now, as they had over the last two nights, appeared to all others as a couple, connected in that indefinable way that marked two people who were, or should be, married, would be better put off until after they’d rescued Dick and Jemmie.
But with Smythe proving so elusive…what was the point in waiting? In putting off the inevitable?
Especially when, as they’d proved time and again over the last week, the inevitable held significant benefits for them both.
She couldn’t believe that the reality of their relationship wasn’t as clear to him as it was to her. She could believe, quite easily given her accumulated experience of gentlemen of his ilk, that he would vacillate over speaking—that even he would shy from declaring his heart.
She h
ad no such reservations—was prey to no such hesitation. She felt perfectly able, and willing, to broach that particular subject.
But first they had to reach his parlor. She chatted blithely about this and that—curious about the gentlemen’s clubs she barely glimpsed as he whisked her across St. James—then they were strolling down Jermyn Street.
She felt her nerves tighten as his door came into view. He guided her up the steps, then released her to reach into his pocket for his key.
Hearing footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, she swung to face it.
Barnaby looked up as the door opened and Mostyn stood there, filling the doorway.
Before he could blink, Penelope swept in. Mostyn gave way, bowing respectfully.
“Tea, please, Mostyn. In the parlor.”
Tone and attitude were perfectly gauged; she was behaving exactly as if she were his wife. Leaving him gawping on the doorstep.
She glanced briefly back at him, then turned toward the parlor. “Your master and I have matters to discuss.”
What matters? Brows rising along with welling hope, Barnaby took a step forward.
“Hist!”
Hist? Still on his front step, Barnaby turned and saw a man waiting by the area railings. The man beckoned, furtively glancing around.
Puzzled, Barnaby walked to the edge of the wide top step. “What is it?”
“You’re Mr. Adair?”
“Yes.”
“I was sent with a message, sir. Urgent like.” The man beckoned again.
Frowning, Barnaby stepped down. One step gave him a better perspective on the street. Abruptly he halted, staring through the darkness, premonition prickling across his nape. Seeing three—he glanced the other way—no, four—men hanging back in the shadows to either side of his house, he started to step back.
They saw—and flung themselves at him.
He caught the first with a kick to the chest, throwing him against the side railings, but before he could recover the others swarmed up the steps and over him. He downed another with a blow to the gut, but the others pressed up and in, hemming him in so he couldn’t move enough to get any force behind his blows.
They were trying to grab him, to wrestle him down the steps. To subdue and take him, but not to harm him. No knives, thank God.
He was wrestling with one, simultaneously trying to block the others from getting behind him to push, when he sensed someone else at his back. The heavy head of his grandfather’s cane appeared over his shoulder, striking at the head of the man he was wrestling with.
Mostyn had flung himself into the breach.
His attacker yelled as the blows connected; two others tried to intervene, but the cane slashed first one way, then the other, and they fell back.
The cane returned to hit the man still holding Barnaby; he put up a hand to protect his head—loosening his grip.
In the same instant, smaller hands clutched the back of Barnaby’s coat, steadying him—then hauling back with surprising strength.
A strength he used to help him wrench free of the man’s desperate hold.
With a hoarse bellow the man ignored the thumping cane, flung himself forward, lower to the step, and seized Barnaby’s flapping coat again. He got a good handful and tried to tumble Barnaby down the steps, but with Penelope’s added weight to anchor him, Barnaby set his feet and wrenched his coat free, then whirled and pushed Penelope back over the threshold, gathered Mostyn—still slashing mightily with the cane—and bundled him back, too.
Flinging himself after them, he just had time before the wrestler picked himself up and his friends joined him, hurling themselves up the steps, to slam the door in their faces.
They hit the door with significant force.
Leaning against it, Barnaby reached up and threw the bolts. Mostyn quickly took care of the lower set.
The door shook under a fresh assault.
Mostyn rushed to add his weight to Barnaby’s. The pounding continued. Mostyn put their combined incredulity into words. “This is Jermyn Street, for heaven’s sake! Don’t they know?”
“It appears they don’t care.” Grim-faced, Barnaby fished in his waistcoat pocket. He pulled out a police whistle on a ribbon. Still struggling to bolster the shaking door, he held it out to Penelope. “The parlor window.”
Wide-eyed, she grabbed the whistle and rushed into the parlor.
In the warmly lit parlor, Penelope flung back the curtains, unlatched the casement window, swung it wide, dragged in a huge breath, leaned out as far as she dared over the area steps, put her lips to the whistle, and blew with all her might.
The shrill sound was enough to shatter eardrums.
She looked to see what effect it had had on the men pounding on the door—with a squeak, she ducked back just in time to avoid the brick that came sailing through the window.
Outrage welled. Furious, she dragged in a breath.
“Penelope?”
Eyes narrowed, she cast a dark glance at the window, then whirled and raced out into the hall. “I’m all right.” The pounding on the door resumed. Barnaby and Mostyn pressed hard against the shuddering panels. “I’m going upstairs.”
Grabbing her skirts, she held them up and took the stairs at a run. Racing into Barnaby’s bedroom, she rushed to the window overlooking the street, flung wide the curtains, wrestled with the sash. Eventually pushing it up, she hiked herself up onto the wide sill, leaned out, glanced down at the men below, then put the whistle to her lips again.
She blew and blew.
The men looked up, swore, and shook their fists at her, but she was beyond their reach.
She grew giddy and stopped blowing, but by then she could see movement down the street. The sound of running footsteps—many heavy pounding footsteps—rolled up out of the night as constables of the watch converged from all directions.
With grim satisfaction, she watched as Barnaby’s attackers turned to face the police.
What followed puzzled her.
The attackers didn’t flee, as she felt attackers should. Instead, they flung themselves at the watch. In seconds, a melee had erupted, filling the street. More constables ran up—and, she noticed, a few more from the other side slid from the shadows to join the fight.
“How odd.” It was as if the attackers’ real target hadn’t been Barnaby at all, but the police…
Stepping away from the window, she stared unseeing across the room. “Oh, my God!”
Grabbing up her skirts, she raced for the door. She flung herself recklessly down the stairs.
The much-abused front door stood open. She ran out—and uttered a prayer of relief when she found Barnaby on the front step rather than in the heaving jumble of bodies that continued to swell, jamming the street.
As she had done, he was frowning at the melee as if he couldn’t work it out.
She grabbed his arm and hauled him around to face her. “It’s a diversion!” She had to all but scream to be heard over the grunts and shouts.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“A diversion!” She swung out an arm, encompassing the crowd. “Look at all the police here—all the watch constables from around about. They’re here—so they can’t be on the beats they’re supposed to be patrolling.”
Understanding lit his blue eyes. “They’re doing more burglaries tonight.”
“Yes!” She literally jigged with impatience. “We have to go and look!”
“I know it’s drawing a long bow, I know it’s potentially dangerous, but we can’t just sit at home and wait and wonder.” Penelope marched along at Barnaby’s side, scanning the houses they passed.
Although she’d kept her voice low, her words rang with a determination Barnaby couldn’t—didn’t have it in him—to dispute; he was no more inclined to passive patience than she.
It had been impossible to break up the melee. He’d waded in and collared a young constable; dragging the lad free, he’d sent him hotfoot to Scotland Yard with a messag
e for Stokes. He had no idea whether Sergeant Miller would be on duty, or anyone else he could count on to act. And he had even less idea where Stokes might be; he had a sneaking suspicion his friend might be in St. John’s Wood, in which case he was too far away to be of any material help.
So here they were, just the two of them, wandering Mayfair’s streets.
December was around the corner, as evidenced by the crisp chill in the air; like the mansions they passed, the streets were largely deserted. An occasional hackney or town carriage clopped past. It was after midnight; the few couples still in town would have returned from their evening’s engagements and be tucked up in bed, while the tonnish bachelors wouldn’t yet have left their clubs.
These were the hours during which burglars struck.
They’d walked up Berkeley Street, and around the square, then down Bolton Street. They were presently walking up Clarges Street. Reaching the corner where it intersected with the mews, they turned left toward Queen Street. Ahead of them, a black carriage slowly rolled across the end of the mews, going up Queen Street.
Penelope frowned. “I could have sworn I saw that carriage before.”
Barnaby grunted.
Penelope didn’t say more. The carriage was a small black town carriage, the sort every major household had sitting in their stables, their second carriage. Why it had stuck in her head—why she was so convinced she’d seen that particular carriage earlier…she remembered where. They’d been crossing the northwest corner of Berkeley Square when the carriage had cut across Mount Street a block ahead of them, trundling in that same slow manner up Carlos Place.
She’d turned her head and looked at it; the angle of her view of the horse, carriage, and coachman on the box had been exactly the same as it had been a few minutes ago.
But why such a sight—to her, in this area, such a common sight—should so nag at her, why the certainty that it was the same carriage should be so insistently fixed in her brain, she had no clue. She puzzled over it as they walked quietly along, carefully scanning shadows, glancing down area steps, but came to no conclusion.
Where the Heart Leads Page 40