As the carriage rattled on, she pondered that dangerous quality she sensed in him; it wasn’t a characteristic he’d assumed for the role but something intrinsic, inherent in him.
Her earlier thoughts returned to her, now colored by a deeper insight. In view of her strengthening suspicion that Barnaby Adair was as one with her brother, cousin, brother-in-law, and their ilk, it seemed obvious—as demonstrated by the present situation—that with such men, the sophistication they displayed when going about their tonnish lives was the disguise. It was when they stripped off the outer trappings of polished civility—as Barnaby now had—that one glimpsed the reality concealed.
Given that reality…she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with her revelation. How she should react.
Whether she should react at all, or instead pretend she hadn’t noticed.
They passed the journey in silence, she busy with her thoughts, fueled by burgeoning curiosity.
The carriage eventually halted outside Griselda’s shop. Barnaby uncrossed his long legs, opened the door, and stepped down. He hunted in his pocket and tossed some coins to the driver—leaving Penelope to descend from the carriage on her own.
She did, then closed the carriage door. Barnaby cast her a sharp glance, checking, then, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he slouched up Griselda’s steps, flung open the door, waited for Penelope to join him, then—stepping entirely out of character—he extravagantly bowed her through.
“Strewth! He’s a toff!”
The muttered words came from the jarvey on the box.
Pausing in the doorway, Penelope glanced at Barnaby’s face as he straightened and looked at the driver; the lean planes appeared harder, more edged, than she’d ever seen them. As she watched, his blue eyes narrowed to flinty shards. A muffled curse from the driver was immediately followed by the sound of hooves as he whipped up his horse and rattled away.
Without waiting to catch Barnaby’s eye, she swept on into the sanctuary of the shop. She wasn’t at all sure she didn’t share the jarvey’s reservations about the man who followed at her heels.
Griselda had heard the tinkling bell. She came through the curtain behind the counter, set eyes on Barnaby—and very nearly stepped back. Her eyes widened, unconsciously matching those of her two apprentices who’d been working on the table between the counter and the curtain. They were now frozen, needles in midair.
After a fraught moment, Griselda’s gaze shifted to Penelope.
Who smiled. “Good morning, Miss Martin. I believe you’re expecting us?”
Griselda blinked. “Oh—yes, of course.” Coloring faintly, she held back the curtain. “Please come through.”
They went forward, Barnaby at Penelope’s shoulder. She noticed he even moved differently—more aggressively. They passed the two girls, who dropped their gazes.
In frank amazement, Griselda shook her head at Barnaby when he halted before her. She waved them on. “Go on upstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Penelope started up the stairs. Behind them she heard Griselda, voice muffled by the curtain, instructing her apprentices on their day’s work.
Stepping into the parlor, Penelope paused. Barnaby moved past her; he went to the bow window and stood looking out over the street. She seized the moment to study him, to examine again the fundamental hardness his unaccustomed guise allowed to show through.
A moment later, Griselda joined her.
“Well.” Like her, Griselda surveyed the figure before the windows. “You’ll certainly pass muster.”
Barnaby turned his head and looked at them, then, with his chin, indicated Penelope. “Let’s see what your magic can make of her.”
Griselda caught Penelope’s eye. She tipped her head toward her bedroom. “Come in here—I’ve got the clothes laid out.”
Turning away from the presence by the window, Penelope meekly followed Griselda into the other room.
It took some time, and not a little hilarity, to transform Penelope into a Covent Garden flowerseller. Griselda firmly shut the bedroom door, giving them some privacy in which to work.
Once she was satisfied with the picture Penelope presented, Griselda had to change her own clothes. “I decided appearing down on my luck will make those who recognize me more likely to talk. Parading around as a successful milliner might get respect, but it isn’t going to garner any sympathy in the East End.”
Seated before Griselda’s dressing table, Penelope used the mirror to adjust the angle of her hat. It was an ancient, dark blue velvet cap that had seen much better days, but with a spray of silk flowers attached to the band it looked exactly like something a flowerseller from the streets around Covent Garden would wear.
Her clothes consisted of a full skirt in cheap, bright blue satin, a once white blouse now a soft shade of gray, and a waisted jacket in black twill with large buttons.
They’d wound ribbon around the earpieces of her spectacles, and rubbed wax on the gold frames to make them look tarnished. A trug, the mark of her trade, had been discussed, but abandoned; she wasn’t interested in selling any wares today.
Eyeing the overall result with satisfaction, Penelope said, “This disguise is wonderful—thank you for your help.”
Tying the cords of an old petticoat at her waist, Griselda glanced at her. She hesitated, then said, “If you want to return the favor, you can relieve my curiosity.”
Penelope swung around on the stool. She spread her hands. “Ask what you will.”
Griselda reached for the skirt she’d chosen. “I’ve heard of the Foundling House, and the children who go there—the education they receive there. By all accounts, you and a handful of other ladies, some your sisters, have arranged all that. You still actively run the place.” She paused, then said, “My question is this: Why do you do it? A lady like you doesn’t need to sully her hands with the likes of that.”
Penelope raised her brows. She didn’t immediately answer; the question was sincere, and deserved a considered—equally sincere—response. Griselda glanced at her face, saw she was thinking, and gave her time.
Eventually, she said, “I’m the daughter of a viscount, now the sister of a very wealthy one. I’ve lived, and still live, a sheltered life of luxury in which all my needs are met without me having to lift a finger. And while I wouldn’t be honest if I claimed that all that was anything other than extremely comfortable, what it’s not is challenging.”
Looking up, she met Griselda’s gaze. “If I just sat back and let my life as a viscount’s daughter unfold in the way that it would were I to surrender the reins, then what satisfaction would I gain from it?” She spread her hands wide. “What would I achieve in my life?”
Letting her hands fall to her lap, she went on, “Being wealthy is nice, but being idle and achieving nothing is not. Not satisfying, not…fulfilling.”
Drawing in a breath, she felt that truth resonate within her. Holding Griselda’s gaze, she concluded, “That’s why I do what I do. Why ladies like me do what we do. People call it charity, and for the recipients I suppose it is, but it serves an important role for us, too. It gives us what we wouldn’t otherwise have—satisfaction, fulfillment, and a purpose in life.”
After a moment, Griselda nodded. “Thank you. That makes sense.” She smiled. “You now make sense in a way you didn’t before. I’m very glad Stokes remembered me and asked me to help.”
“Speaking of Stokes…” Penelope held up a finger. They both listened and heard, muffled but distinguishable, the jingling of the bell on the door.
“His timing is excellent.” Griselda shrugged into a loose jacket with a torn pocket, then picked up a shabby bonnet and placed it over her hair. They heard Barnaby’s heavy bootsteps cross to the stairs and go down. Glancing in the mirror past Penelope, Griselda settled the bonnet, then nodded. “I’m done. Let’s join them.”
Griselda descended the stairs first. When she reached for the curtain, Penelope caught her hand and tugged her back. “What about your
apprentices? Won’t they think this is all rather odd?”
“Undoubtedly. Odd and more.” Griselda grinned reassuringly. “But they’re good girls and I’ve told them to keep their eyes open but their mouths firmly shut. They’ve got good positions here and they know it—they won’t risk them by talking out of turn.”
Penelope nodded. Releasing Griselda, she drew in a steadying breath; butterflies fluttered as if she were about to step out on a stage.
Griselda led the way. Looking past her, Penelope saw Barnaby and Stokes standing, talking, in the middle of the shop, two dark and dangerous characters incongruously surrounded by feathers and frippery.
The sight tugged her lips into a smile. Griselda stopped by the counter to speak with her apprentices. Stokes and Barnaby were discussing something. Stokes, facing the counter, saw her first—and stopped speaking.
Alerted by the sudden blankness in Stokes’s face, Barnaby swung around.
And saw her—Penelope Ashford, youngest sister of Viscount Calverton, connected by birth and marriage to any number of the senior families in the ton—in a guise that effectively transformed her, spectacles and all, into the most refreshingly fetching, utterly engaging trollop who had ever strolled the Covent Garden walks.
He very nearly closed his eyes and groaned.
Stokes muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath; Barnaby didn’t need to hear it to know that he’d be spending every minute of that day glued to Penelope’s side.
She came up to them, smiling delightedly, clearly taken with her new persona.
Even as he looked down into her dark eyes, a niggling warning took shape in his brain. When stepping into the shoes of someone from a much lower station, as now, he’d always found it easy to shrug off the social restraints that applied to a gentleman of his class.
In far too many aspects, Penelope was proving to be much like him.
His jaw tightened until he thought it might crack.
She blinked up at him. “Well? Will I pass?”
It took a second to master his growl. “Well enough.” Glancing over her head, he saw Griselda come forward. “Come on.” He reached for Penelope’s arm, then remembered and grasped her hand instead.
She started fractionally at the unexpected contact, but then smiled—still transparently delighted—up at him, and curled her fingers around his.
Swallowing a curse, he turned and towed her to the door.
They piled into a hackney for the journey to Petticoat Lane. They whiled away the minutes discussing the order in which they would approach the names on Stokes’s list, and making plans should they decide to split into two groups—a decision they deferred until they were on the ground and had assessed the possibilities.
Leaving the hackney at the north end of the long street, they plunged into the teeming mass of humanity filling the space between the twin rows of stalls lining the pavements, spilling over the gutters and into the road. No driver would dream of taking his carriage down that street with the market in full cry.
Sounds and smells of all kinds assailed them. Barnaby glanced at Penelope, wondering if she might quail. Instead her expression suggested that she was eager to get on. She appeared to have no difficulty ignoring all she did not wish to notice, and drinking in all that was new, all that had been until now unknown to her.
He seriously doubted that any other viscount’s daughter had ever rubbed shoulders with the denizens of Petticoat Lane.
For their part, said denizens cast her shrewd looks, but all seemed to take her at face value. With the hem of her full skirt, rather shorter than would have been acceptable in any ton venue, flirting about the tops of her well-worn half-boots, with her trim figure set off by the tight-waisted jacket, the lapels of which gaped provocatively at her breasts, all combined with her native confidence and perfectly sincere delight in all she saw, with her local accent setting the final seal on acceptance, it was hardly surprising that the locals swallowed her disguise whole.
Luckily, they also swallowed his. His face set, his expression an open warning, he hovered at Penelope’s shoulder like a prepared-to-be-vengeful demon. No angel had ever looked as black and menacing as he did, not even Lucifer. It wasn’t difficult to project such menace—because that was precisely what he felt.
When a grimy pickpocket edged too close to her, he met Barnaby’s shoulder and a blue glare. Eyes wide, the man righted himself and scrabbled away into the crowd.
Stokes halted beside Barnaby. Directly before them, Penelope and Griselda were exclaiming over a collection of tawdry bows displayed on a rickety stand.
Glancing around, over the sea of heads, Stokes said, “Why don’t you and Penelope take this side, while Griselda and I take the other?”
His gaze on Penelope, Barnaby nodded. “Figgs, Jessup, Sid Lewis, and Joe Gannon—they’re the ones we’re after today.”
Stokes nodded. “Either along here, or in Brick Lane, we should be able to get a bead on those four. This is their turf—people here will know them. But don’t push too hard—and don’t let Miss Ashford, either.”
Barnaby answered with a grunt. Quite how Stokes imagined he might accomplish the latter he’d love to hear. Penelope was entirely beyond his control…
The notion, or rather the notion of controlling a female in his present guise—and hers—sparked an idea. A glimmer of a possible means of survival. When Stokes moved forward to draw Griselda away, Barnaby swooped in, seized Penelope’s hand, and tugged her along to the next stall.
She stared at him. “What’s the matter?”
He explained Stokes’s plan, then waved down the line of stalls. “This is our side, and we have to get on. However, now we’ve split up, we’ll need to remain close, so I’m going to play the role of jealous lover disgruntled over the time you’re spending on furbelows.”
She stared even more at him. “Why?”
“Because it’s a role the locals will recognize—one they’ll accept.” And it would require no effort whatever for him to play the part.
She humphed; the glance she threw him suggested she didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
He answered it by looping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. She stiffened; she started to glare, but he grinned evilly and tapped her nose—thoroughly distracting her.
“No Covent Garden flowerseller would react like that,” he murmured. “You claimed the role, now you have to play it.”
She had to force herself to relax, but gradually, she managed it. They moved down the line of stalls, stopping to chat here and there, dropping the names of their targets whenever they encountered anyone who looked like they might know something.
He let Penelope choose which stallholders to approach; she seemed to have a knack for knowing who she could strike up a useful conversation with. He left most of the talking to her—her accent was faultless—and confined himself largely to grunts, snorts, or single-syllable replies.
Penelope had to admit that his ploy worked, further encouraging all who saw them to recognize them as something familiar, thus allowing them to insinuate questions about their targets into more general conversations.
Unfortunately, there was a cost. His nearness—the solidity of his body whenever he pulled her close, the wall of male muscle against which she was pressed every time the crowd surged and forced her against him, the rampant possessiveness in his touch, in the large hand that wrapped about her waist, or, in the few instances where he allowed her greater freedom, clamped about her hand—sparked a debilitating surge of emotions, an unsettling mix of excitement and wariness, the skittering thrill of trepidation laced with disconcerting pleasure.
As the minutes ticked by, she felt increasingly distracted. Increasingly seduced into her assumed role.
But courtesy of their combined histrionic talents, they learned the likely whereabouts of two of the men they sought.
Against that, she had to count the damage to her nerves and temper as fair exchange.
Barnaby covered her hand with his. “I can’t see Stokes.” He surveyed the lane. “All right. Let’s look. But you stay in your role and play the part—which means you do what I tell you.”
“Are you sure all males in the East End are this dictatorial?”
“Count yourself lucky. As far as I’ve seen, they’re worse.”
She humphed, but kept pace beside him as he strolled down the lane in the shadow of the southern walls.
Drawing level with the fifth hovel from the corner, she could see, through the open door, movement within. But there were few passersby in the tiny lane; loitering would draw attention—and someone was coming out of the house.
Barnaby stepped back into a doorway, hauling her with him—into his embrace. “Play along,” he hissed. His head dipped; his lips cruised her cheek.
It took her a moment to steady her reeling head, to drag enough breath into her lungs—only to find her senses filled with him. His warmth surrounded her, wrapped about her—and somehow softened her bones. Somehow made her want to lean into him, to sink against the pure masculine temptation of his muscled chest.
Her reaction made no sense, but there was no denying it.
More than her wits were reeling; her senses were having a field day. She quivered inside, waiting—senses hovering, yearning—for the next elusive brush of his lips. It was lucky he was holding her, for she felt strangely weak.
Then she realized he was watching the activity across the lane around the edge of her cap.
He was using her as a shield.
She narrowed her eyes, not that he could see. Temper was an emotion she recognized and understood; she grabbed hold of it and used it to ground her.