The carriage entered Arnold Circus, then drew in to the side of the narrow street.
“Far as I can go,” the jarvey called down.
Meeting Penelope’s gaze with a narrow-eyed look, Barnaby opened the door and stepped down. He glanced around, then moved to the side, giving her his hand as she descended and joined him. He looked up at the jarvey. “Wait here.”
The man met his eye, read the message therein, and tapped the bill of his cap. “Right, sir.”
Releasing Penelope’s hand only to grip her elbow, he faced south. “Which street?”
“Which miserable alley” would have been more accurate.
She pointed to the second opening yawning on their right. “That one.”
He guided her to it, then escorted her along, ignoring her narrow eyes and the thin-lipped looks she cast him. He wasn’t letting go of her, not in this area; if he did she’d sweep ahead, expecting him to follow in her wake—from where he wouldn’t be able to see trouble looming until after she walked into it.
He felt positively medieval.
She couldn’t complain; the cause lay at her door.
It had been gloomy in Bloomsbury, but as they entered the narrow passage a depressing darkness closed in. The air hung oppressively close; no sun could reach between the overhanging eaves to warm the dank stones and rotting timbers. No breeze stirred the heavy miasma of smells.
The street had once been cobbled, but few stones remained. He steadied Penelope as she picked her way along.
Teeth gritted against the sensation of his fingers—long, strong, and warm—wrapped about her elbow, his grip, firm and uncompromisingly male, distracting her in ways she hadn’t imagined possible, Penelope uttered a small prayer of relief when she recognized Mrs. Carter’s door.
“This is it.” Halting before it, she raised her free hand and rapped smartly.
While they waited for a response, she swore she would—without further delay—find some way to overcome Barnaby Adair’s effect on her. It was that or succumb, and that she’d never do.
The door cracked open with a protesting creak. At first she thought it had come unlatched of its own accord, but then she glanced down and spotted the narrow, pinched face of a child peering out from the darkness within.
“Jemmie.” She smiled, pleased her memories had been accurate.
When he didn’t respond—didn’t open the door wider—but remained staring warily up at her—and at Barnaby beyond—she realized that with the lack of light, he couldn’t see her well enough to recognize her.
Smile brightening, she explained, “I’m the lady from the Foundling House.” Waving at Barnaby, she added, “And this is Mr. Adair, a friend. We wondered if we might speak with your mother.”
Jemmie studied her and Barnaby with large unblinking eyes. “Mum’s not well.”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “We know she’s not very well at all, but it’s important that we speak with her.”
Jemmie’s lips quivered; he pressed them tight to still them. His small face tightened, holding worry and fear close. “If’n you’re here to tell her you can’t take me after all, you can just go. She don’t need to hear anything more to worry her.”
Moving slowly, Penelope crouched down so her face was level with Jemmie’s. She spoke even more gently. “It’s not that at all—just the opposite. We’re here to reassure her—to tell her that we’re definitely going to be looking after you, and that she’s not to worry.”
Jemmie stared into her eyes, then blinked rapidly. He studied her face, then glanced up at Barnaby. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” Barnaby left it at that, the simple truth.
The boy heard it, accepted it. After examining him for a moment more, Jemmie edged back from the door. “She’s in here.”
Penelope rose, eased the door wider, and followed Jemmie into the short hall. Barnaby followed, ducking beneath the lintel. Even inside, if he stood straight the top of his curls came uncomfortably close to the peeling ceiling.
“This way.” Jemmie led them into a room that was cramped, but infinitely cleaner than Barnaby had expected. Someone—he glanced at Jemmie—was making a huge effort to keep the place tidy and passably clean. More, there was a tattered bunch of violets perched in a pot on the windowsill, the splash of intense color incongruously cheery in the drab room.
A woman lay on a makeshift bed in one corner. Penelope moved past Jemmie and went to her side. “Mrs. Carter.” Without hesitation, Penelope lifted the woman’s hand from the rough blanket, cradling it between her own, even though, blinking in surprise, Mrs. Carter hadn’t offered it. Penelope smiled warmly. “I’m Miss Ashford from the Foundling House.”
The woman’s face cleared. “Of course. I remember.” A soft smile flitted over a face made gaunt by constant pain. Mrs. Carter had once been a pretty woman with fair hair and rosy cheeks, but the body in the bed was wasted, skin hanging on bone; her hand lay limp between Penelope’s.
“We’re here just to check on you and Jemmie, to make sure all’s as well as might be at present, and to reassure you that when the time comes, we’ll make sure Jemmie is taken care of. You’ve no need to worry.”
“Why, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Carter was too far gone for social awe to have much hold on her. Turning her head on the pillow, she looked toward her son and smiled. “He’s a good boy. He’s been taking such good care of me.”
Regardless of her body’s state, the brightness in Mrs. Carter’s blue eyes suggested that she was yet some way from departing this earth. She still had some time left with her son.
“Let me tell you what Jemmie will be doing once he joins us.” Penelope skimmed through the procedures Jemmie would go through in becoming a foundling, and moved briskly to the activities and facilities the house provided for its charges.
Barnaby glanced down at Jemmie, by his side. The boy wasn’t listening to Penelope’s words; his eyes were glued on his mother. As it became obvious Penelope’s choice of subject was indeed soothing the sick woman, the tension in Jemmie’s slight body eased.
Glancing back at the bed, Barnaby felt an unaccustomed tightness grip his chest. He couldn’t imagine watching his mother die, even worse watching her waste slowly away before his eyes. Even less could he imagine doing so all alone.
An entirely unexpected gratefulness for his family—even for his mother, annoyingly determined female that she was—was joined by a certain respect for Jemmie. The boy was coping, and coping well with a situation Barnaby wouldn’t want to face. Couldn’t imagine facing.
He looked again at Jemmie. Even in the poor light, it was clear he was unnaturally thin and scrawny.
“So that’s what will happen.” Smiling easily, brightly, Penelope scanned Mrs. Carter’s features. “We’ll leave you now, but rest assured we’ll fetch Jemmie when the time comes.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Carter looked up at Penelope as she straightened. “I’m glad my Jemmie’s to go with you. I know you’ll take good care of him.”
Penelope’s smile wobbled a trifle. “We will.”
She turned for the door.
The room was so cramped, Barnaby had to edge around to let her past. Before turning to follow, he looked at Mrs. Carter, met her gaze, and inclined his head. “Ma’am. We’ll make sure Jemmie’s safe.”
Turning to the door, he noticed Jemmie’s attention had remained on his mother. He touched the boy’s shoulder. When Jemmie looked up, he pointed to the hall.
A slight frown on his face, Jemmie followed him. With Penelope waiting just inside the front door, the tiny hall was crowded, but at least they could speak without disturbing Mrs. Carter. Jemmie paused just past the doorway, from where he could keep his mother in view.
Halting, Barnaby reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out all the small change he was carrying. He couldn’t give Jemmie any sovereigns; possession of such wealth would put the boy at risk. “Here.” Reaching out, he caught one of Jemmie’s bony hands, turned it up, and poured the coins i
nto his narrow palm.
Before Jemmie could react beyond a tightening of his jaw, he continued, “This isn’t charity. It’s a present for your mother. A surprise present. I don’t want you to tell her about it, but you have to promise faithfully that you’ll use the money in the one way that will mean most to her.”
Jemmie’s gaze had locked on the pile of copper and silver in his hand. His lips had pressed tight. A long moment passed before he looked up at Barnaby. His expression wasn’t suspicious but wary. “What’s the way that will mean most to her?”
“You have to eat.” Barnaby held Jemmie’s gaze. “I know her appetite is poor, but there’s nothing you or anyone can do about that. Don’t waste the money on delicacies to tempt her—they won’t work. She’s past that. But the one thing that will make her happy, make her last weeks and months happier, is to see you well. I know it’ll feel wrong when she’s not eating, but for her, you have to force yourself to eat—more than you have been.”
Jemmie dropped his gaze.
Barnaby paused, felt the tightness in his chest as he drew in another breath. “You are the most important thing in her life—the most important thing she’s leaving behind. You are the one thing that matters most to her now, and you need to respect that, and take care of that—take care of you—for her.”
He hesitated, then dropped a hand on Jemmie’s skinny shoulder, lightly gripped, then released him. “I know it’s not easy, but that’s what you have to do.” He paused, then asked, “Will you promise?”
Jemmie didn’t look up. He kept his gaze fixed on the pile of shiny coins. A glistening droplet fell to slide over and into the pile. Then he nodded. “Yes.” His voice was the barest whisper. “I promise.”
Barnaby nodded, even though Jemmie couldn’t see. “Good. Hide the coins.”
Turning away, he joined Penelope by the door. She’d been watching silently. Her gaze remained on his face for an instant longer, then she turned, opened the door, and stepped outside. Ducking again, Barnaby followed her into the murky lane.
Jemmie, rubbing his sleeve across his face, came to the door. “Thank you.” He looked up at Barnaby, then at Penelope. “Both of you.”
Barnaby nodded. “Just remember your promise.” He trapped Jemmie’s gaze. “We’ll be back to fetch you when the time comes.”
Turning away, he took Penelope’s arm. They made their way back toward Arnold Circus.
Looking ahead, Penelope said, “Thank you. That was very well done.”
Barnaby shrugged. He glanced back at Mrs. Carter’s door; it was shut. “So how do we keep Jemmie out of the hands of our villains?”
Penelope grimaced. “I had assumed we’d warn Mrs. Carter, and Jemmie, too, but as he said, she doesn’t need any more worries.”
Barnaby nodded. “And neither does he.” After a moment, he went on, “And warning him won’t do any good anyway. If our villains want him, they’ll snatch him, and scrawny as he is he won’t be able to fight them. Better for him if he doesn’t try.”
The bustle and brighter, less-shadowed gloom of Arnold Circus drew nearer. “I’ll speak with Stokes.” Barnaby glanced around as they emerged into the circular space. “He’ll get the local bobbies to keep an eye on the house. What about neighbors? Are there any we could approach?”
“Unfortunately, neighbors aren’t much use in this case. Mrs. Carter has only recently moved here—they used to live in a better street, but once she could no longer work, and Jemmie had to spend more time looking after her, they couldn’t meet the rent. Her landlord here is an old friend of the family—he’s not charging them anything for the rooms. It was he who convinced Mrs. Carter to send for us. But there’s no one nearby she’s comfortable with—no one she’d be happy watching over the place, or her and Jemmie. The landlord lives some streets away.”
Reaching the hackney, Penelope halted, jaw firming. “I’ll send to the landlord and alert him. I’m sure he’ll keep as close an eye on the Carters as he can. I’ll ask him to send word if he or anyone he knows sees anything suspicious.”
Opening the door, Barnaby grasped her hand and helped her climb up, then followed her into the carriage. The instant the door clicked shut, the jarvey called to his horse and they set off on the long journey back to more fashionable streets.
“That seems all we can do.” Barnaby looked out at the drab streetscape. His tone suggested he wished it weren’t so, that there was something more definite they could reasonably do to protect Jemmie while not worrying his mother, possibly unnecessarily.
Penelope grimaced again; she, too, looked out of the window. And inwardly wrestled with not her conscience but something closely aligned—her sense of rightness, of truth, of giving praise where it was due.
Of acknowledging the totality—the humanity—of Barnaby Adair.
She would much rather consider him a typical ton gentleman, far distanced from the world through which the hackney was rolling—a man uninterested in and untouched by the wider issues she confronted every day.
Unfortunately, his vocation—the very aspect of him that had compelled her to seek his help—was proof positive that he was otherwise.
Seeing him deal with Jemmie, hearing the commitment in his voice when he’d told Mrs. Carter, a poor woman with no claim on his notice other than her need, that he would keep Jemmie safe, had made closing her eyes and her mind to his virtues—so much more attractive to her than any amount of rakish charm—impossible.
When he’d arrived at the Foundling House that morning, she’d been determined to keep him rigidly at a distance. To keep all their dealings purely business, to suppress each and every little leap her unruly nerves might make, giving him no reason whatever to imagine he had any inherent effect on her.
Her resolve had wavered—illogically—when he’d arrived early, demonstrating a far better grasp of her determination and will than any man of her acquaintance. But she’d quickly bolstered her resolve with said will and determination, and stuck to her plan of how to deal with him.
And then…he’d behaved in ways few other gentlemen would have, and earned her respect in a way and to a degree that no other man ever had.
In less than an hour, he’d made her plan untenable. She wasn’t going to be able to ignore him—even pretend to ignore him—not when he’d made her admire him. Appreciate him. As a person, not just as a man.
Her gaze on the rundown houses slipping past, she inwardly acknowledged that in dealing with him, she would need to think again.
She needed a better plan.
Silence reigned until the hackney drew up outside the Foundling House. Barnaby shook himself free of his thoughts—of the disturbingly persistent need to stop Penelope from making visits such as the one just concluded. Opening the carriage door, he got out, handed her down, then paid off the jarvey, adding a hefty tip.
As the grateful jarvey rattled away, he turned, remembered not to grip her arm as he had in the stews—a protective action only their surroundings had excused—and instead took her hand and wound her arm in his.
She cast him a swift glance, but allowed it. He swung open the gate and they walked up the path to the house’s front door.
He rang the bell.
She drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “I’ll write a letter to Mrs. Carter’s landlord immediately.”
He nodded. “I’ll contact Stokes and explain the situation.” He met her eyes. “Where will you be this evening?”
Her large dark brown eyes blinked at him. “Why?”
Irritation swamped him, heightened by her transparently genuine blank look. “In case I think of anything more I need to know.” He made it sound as if he was stating the obvious.
“Oh.” She considered, as if mentally reviewing her diary. “Mama and I will be at Lady Moffat’s party.”
“I’ll look you up if I need any further information.” To his relief, the door opened. He nodded to Mrs. Keggs, bowed briefly to Penelope, then turned and walked away.
B
efore he said something even more inane.
6
At three o’clock that afternoon Stokes presented himself at Griselda Martin’s front door. She was waiting to let him in. The blinds screening the front window and the glass panel in the door were already drawn. Her apprentices were nowhere in sight.
She noted the hackney he had waiting in the street. “I’ll just get my bonnet and bag.”
He waited in the doorway while she bustled back behind the curtain, then reappeared a moment later, tying a straw bonnet over her dark hair. Even to Stokes’s eyes, the bonnet looked stylish.
She came forward, briskly waving him down the steps ahead of her. She followed, closing and locking the door behind her. Dropping the heavy key into her cloth bag, she joined him on the pavement.
He walked beside her the few paces to the hackney, opened the carriage door, and offered her his hand.
She stared at it for a moment, then put her hand in his. Very aware of the fragility of the fingers he grasped, he helped her into the carriage. “What direction should I give?”
“The corner of Whitechapel and New Road.”
He conveyed the information to their driver, then joined her inside. The instant the door shut, the carriage jerked and started rolling.
She was seated opposite him; he couldn’t stop his gaze from resting on her. She didn’t fidget, as most did under his eye, but he noticed she was clutching the bag she’d placed in her lap rather tightly.
He forced himself to look away, but the façades slipping past couldn’t hold his attention. Or his gaze; it kept returning to her, until he knew if he didn’t say something, his steady regard would unnerve her.
All he could think of was, “I want to thank you for agreeing to help me.”
She looked at him, met his gaze squarely. “You’re trying to rescue four young boys, and possibly more besides. Of course I’ll help you—what sort of woman wouldn’t?”
What sort of woman had he expected her to be?
He hastened to reassure her. “I only meant that I was grateful.” He hesitated, then went on, “And if truth be told, not all women would be keen to get involved with the police.”