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CHAPTER 1
November, 1835.
London.
"Thank you, Mostyn." Slumped at ease in an armchair before
the fire in the parlor of his fashionable lodgings in Jermyn Street, Barnaby
Adair, third son of the Earl of Cothelstone, lifted the crystal tumbler
from the salver his man offered. "I won't need anything further."
"Very good, sir. I'll wish you a good night." The epitome of
his calling, Mostyn bowed and silently withdrew.
Straining his ears, Barnaby heard the door shut. He smiled, sipped. Mostyn
had been foisted on him by his mother when he'd first come up to town
in the fond hope that the man would instil some degree of tractability
into a son who, as she frequently declared, was ungovernable. Yet despite
Mostyn's rigid adherence to the mores of class distinction and his belief
in the deference due to the son of an earl, master and man had quickly
reached an accommodation. Barnaby could no longer imagine being in London
without the succor Mostyn provided, largely, as with the glass of fine
brandy in his hand, without prompting.
Over the years, Mostyn had mellowed. Or perhaps both of them had. Regardless,
theirs was now a very comfortable household.
Stretching his long legs toward the hearth, crossing his ankles, sinking
his chin on his cravat, Barnaby studied the polished toes of his boots,
bathed in the light of the crackling flames. All should have been well
in his world, but….
He was comfortable yet…restless.
At peace-no, wrapped in blessed peace-yet dissatisfied.
It wasn't as if the last months hadn't been successful. After more than
nine months of careful sleuthing he'd exposed a cadre of young gentleman,
all from ton families, who, not content with using dens of inquity had
thought it a lark to run them. He'd delivered enough proof to charge and
convict them despite their station. It had been a difficult, long-drawn
and arduous case; its successful conclusion had earned him grateful accolades
from the peers who oversaw London's Metropolitan Police Force.
On hearing the news his mother would no doubt have primmed her lips, perhaps
evinced an acid wish that he would develop as much interest in fox-hunting
as in villain-hunting, but she wouldn't-couldn't-say more, not with his
father being one of the aforementioned peers.
In any modern society, justice needed to be seen to be served even-handedly,
without fear or favor, despite those among the ton who refused to believe
that Parliament's laws applied to them. The Prime Minister himself had
been moved to compliment him over this latest triumph.
Raising his glass, Barnaby sipped. The success had been sweet, yet had
left him strangely hollow. Unfulfilled in some unexpected way. Certainly
he'd anticipated feeling happier, rather than empty and peculiarly rudderless,
aimlessly drifting now he no longer had a case to absorb him, to challenge
his ingenuity and fill his time.
Perhaps his mood was simply a reflection of the season-the closing phases
of another year, the time when cold fogs descended and polite society
fled to the warmth of ancestral hearths, there to prepare for the coming
festive season and the attendant revels. For him this time of year had
always been difficult-difficult to find any viable excuse to avoid his
mother's artfully engineered social gatherings.
She'd married both his elder brothers and his sister, Melissa, far too
easily; in him, she'd met her Waterloo, yet she continued more doggedly
and indefatigably than Napoleon. She was determined to see him, the last
of her brood, suitably wed, and was fully prepared to bring to bear whatever
weapons were necessary to achieve that goal.
Despite being at loose ends, he didn't want to deliver himself up at the
Cothelstone Castle gates, a candidate for his mother's matrimonial machinations.
What if it snowed and he couldn't escape?
Unfortunately, even villains tended to hibernate over winter.
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat shattered the comfortable silence.
Glancing at the parlor door, Barnaby realized he'd heard a carriage on
the cobbles. The rattle of wheels had ceased outside his residence. He
listened as Mostyn's measured tread passed the parlor on the way to the
front door. Who could be calling at such an hour-a quick glance at the
mantelpiece clock confirmed it was after eleven-and on such a night? Beyond
the heavily curtained windows the night was bleak, a dense chill fog wreathing
the streets, swallowing houses and converting familiar streetscapes into
ghostly gothic realms.
No one would venture out on such a night without good reason.
Voices, muted, reached him. It appeared Mostyn was engaged in dissuading
whoever was attempting to disrupt his master's peace.
Abruptly the voices fell silent.
A moment later the door opened and Mostyn entered, carefully closing the
door behind him. One glance at Mostyn's tight lips and studiously blank
expression informed Barnaby that Mostyn did not approve of whomever had
called. Even more interesting was the transparent implication that Mostyn
had been routed-efficiently and comprehensively-in his attempt to deny
the visitor.
"A…lady to see you, sir. A Miss-"
"Penelope Ashford."
The crisp, determined tones had both Barnaby and Mostyn looking to the
door-which now stood open, swung wide to admit a lady in a dark, severe
yet fashionable pelisse. A sable-lined muff dangled from one wrist and
her hands were encased in fur-edged leather gloves.
Lustrous mahogany hair, pulled into a knot at the back of her head, gleamed
as she crossed the room with a grace and self-confidence that screamed
her station even more than her delicate, quintessentially aristocratic
features. Features that were animated by so much determination, so much
sheer will, that the force of her personality seemed to roll like a wave
before her.
Mostyn stepped back as she neared.
His eyes never leaving her, Barnaby unhurriedly uncrossed his legs and
rose. "Miss Ashford."
An exceptional pair of dark brown eyes framed by finely wrought gold-rimmed
spectacles fixed on his face. "Mr. Adair. We met nearly two years
ago, at Morwellan Park in the ballroom at Charlie and Sarah's wedding."
Halting two paces away, she studied him, as if estimating the quality
of his memory. "We spoke briefly if you recall."
She didn't offer her hand. Barnaby looked down into her uptilted face-her
head barely cleared his shoulder-and found he remembered her surprisingly
well. "You asked if I was the one who investigates crimes."
She smiled-brilliantly. "Yes. That's right."
Barnaby blinked; he felt a trifle winded. He could, he realized, recall
how, all those months ago, her small fingers had felt in his. They'd merely
shaken hands, yet he could remember it perfectly; even now, his fingers
tingled with tactile memory.
She'd obviously made an impression on him even if he hadn't been so aware
of it at the time. At the time he'd been focused on another case, and
had been more intent on deflecting her interest than on her.
Since he'd last seen her, she'd grown. Not taller. Indeed, he wasn't sure
she'd gained inches anywhere; she was as neatly rounded as his memory
painted her. Yet she'd gained in stature, in selfassurance and confidence;
although he doubted she'd ever been lacking in the latter, she was now
the sort of lady any fool would recognize as a natural force of nature,
to be crossed at one's peril.
Little wonder she'd rolled up Mostyn.
Her smile had faded. She'd been examining him openly; in most others he
would have termed it brazenly, but she seemed to be evaluating him intellectually
rather than physically.
Rosy lips, distractingly lush, firmed, as if she'd made some decision.
Curious, he tilted his head. "To what do I owe this visit?"
This highly irregular, not to say potentially scandalous visit. She was
a gently bred lady of marriageable age, calling on a single gentleman
who was in no way related very late at night. Alone. Entirely unchaperoned.
He should protest and send her away. Mostyn certainly thought so.
Her fine dark eyes met his. Squarely, without the slightest hint of guile
or trepidation. "I want you to help me solve a crime."
He held her gaze.
She returned the favor.
A pregnant moment passed, then he gestured elegantly to the other armchair.
"Please sit. Perhaps you'd like some refreshment?"
Her smile-it transformed her face from vividly attractive to stunning-flashed
as she moved to the chair facing his. "Thank you, but no. I require
nothing but your time." She waved Mostyn away. "You may go."
Mostyn stiffened. He cast an outraged glance at Barnaby.
Battling a grin, Barnaby endorsed the order with a nod. Mostyn didn't
like it, but departed, bowing himself out, but leaving the door ajar.
Barnaby noted it, but said nothing. Mostyn knew he was hunted, often quite
inventively, by young ladies; he clearly believed Miss Ashford might be
such a schemer. Barnaby knew better. Penelope Ashford might scheme with
the best of them, but marriage would not be her goal.
While she arranged her muff on her lap, he sank back into his armchair
and studied her anew.
She was the most unusual young lady he'd ever encountered.
He'd decided that even before she said, "Mr. Adair, I need your help
to find four missing boys, and stop any more being kidnapped."
Penelope raised her eyes and locked them on Barnaby Adair's face. And
tried her damnedest not to see. When she'd determined to call on him,
she hadn't imagined he-his appearance-would have the slightest effect
on her. Why would she? No man had ever made her feel breathless, so why
should he? It was distinctly annoying.
Golden hair clustering in wavy curls about a well-shaped head, strong,
aquiline features and cerulean blue eyes that held a piercing intelligence
were doubtless interesting enough, yet quite aside from his features there
was something about him, about his presence, that was playing on her nerves
in a disconcerting way.
Why he should affect her at all was a mystery. He was tall, with a long-limbed,
rangy build, yet he was no taller than her brother Luc, and while his
shoulders were broad, they were no broader than her brother-in-law Simon's.
And he was certainly not prettier than either Luc or Simon, although he
could easily hold his own in the handsome stakes; she'd heard Barnaby
Adair described as an Adonis and had to concede the point.
All of which was entirely by the by and she had no clue why she was even
noticing.
She focused instead on the numerous questions she could see forming behind
his blue eyes. "The reason I am here, and not a host of outraged
parents, is because the boys in question are paupers and foundlings."
He frowned.
Stripping off her gloves, she grimaced lightly. "I'd better start
at the beginning."
He nodded. "That would probably facilitate matters-namely my understanding-significantly."
She laid her gloves on top of her muff. She wasn't sure she appreciated
his tone, but decided to ignore it. "I don't know if you're aware
of it, but my sister Portia-she's now married to Simon Cynster-three other
ladies of the ton, and I, established the Foundling House opposite the
Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. That was back in '30. The House has
been in operation ever since, taking in foundlings, mostly from the East
End, and training them as maids, footmen, and more recently in various
trades."
"You were asking Sarah about her orphanage's training programs when
we last met."
"Indeed." She hadn't known he'd overheard that. "My older
sister Anne, now Anne Carmarthen, is also involved, but since their marriages,
with their own households to run, both Anne and lately Portia have had
to curtail the time they spend at the Foundling House. The other three
ladies likewise have many calls on their time. Consequently, at present
I am in charge of overseeing the day-to-day administration of the place.
It's in that capacity that I'm here tonight."
Folding her hands over her gloves, she met his eyes, held his steady gaze.
"The normal procedure is for children to be formally placed in the
care of the Foundling House by the authorities, or by their last surviving
guardian.
"The latter is quite common. What usually occurs is that a dying
relative, recognizing that their ward will soon be alone in the world,
contacts us and we visit and make arrangements. The child usually stays
with their guardian until the last, then, on the guardian's death, we're
informed, usually by helpful neighbors, and we return and fetch the orphan
and take him or her to the Foundling House."
He nodded, signifying all to that point was clear.
Drawing breath, she went on, feeling her lungs tighten, her diction growing
crisp as anger resurged, "Over the last month, on four separate occasions
we've arrived to fetch away a boy, only to discover some man has been
before us. He told the neighbors he was a local official, but there is
no central authority that collects orphans. If there were, we'd know."
Adair's blue gaze had grown razor-sharp. "Is it always the same man?"
"From all I've heard, it could be. But equally, it might not be."
She waited while he mulled over that. She bit her tongue, forced herself
to sit still and not fidget, and instead watch the concentration in his
face.
Her inclination was to forge ahead, to demand he act and tell him how.
She was used to directing, to taking charge and ordering all as she deemed
fit. She was usually right in her thinking, and generally people were
a great deal better off if they simply did as she said. But…she needed
Barnaby Adair's help, and instinct was warning her, stridently, to tread
carefully. To guide rather than push.
To persuade rather than dictate.
His gaze had grown distant, but now abruptly refocused on her face. "You
take boys and girls. Is it only boys who've gone missing?"
"Yes." She nodded for emphasis. "We've accepted more girls
than boys in recent months, but it's only boys this man has taken."
A moment passed. "He's taken four-tell me about each. Start from
the first-everything you know, every detail, no matter how apparently
inconsequential."
Barnaby watched as she delved into her memory; her dark gaze turned inward,
her features smoothed, losing some of their characteristic vitality.
She drew breath; her gaze fixed on the fire as if she were reading from
the flames. "The first was from Chicksand Street in Spitalfields,
off Brick Lane north of the Whitechapel Road. He was eight years old,
or so his uncle told us. He, the uncle, was dying, and…"
Barnaby listened as she, not entirely to his surprise, did precisely as
he'd requested and recited the details of each occurrence, chapter and
verse. Other than an occasional minor query, he didn't have to prod her
or her memory.
He was accustomed to dealing with ladies of the ton, to interrogating
young ladies whose minds skittered and wandered around subjects, and flitted
and danced around facts, so that it took the wisdom of Solomon and the
patience of Jove to gain any understanding of what they actually knew.
Penelope Ashford was a different breed. He'd heard that she was something
of a firebrand, one who paid scant attention to social restraints if said
restraints stood in her way. He'd heard her described as too intelligent
for her own good, and direct and forthright to a fault, that combination
of traits being popularly held to account for her unmarried state.
As she was remarkably attractive in an unusual way-not pretty or beautiful
but so vividly alive she effortlessly drew men's eyes-as well as being
extremely well-connected, the daughter of a viscount, and with her brother
Luc, the current title holder, eminently wealthy and able to dower her
more than appropriately, that popular judgment might well be correct.
Yet her sister Portia had recently married Simon Cynster, and while Portia
might perhaps be more subtle in her dealings, Barnaby recalled that the
Cynster ladies, judges he trusted in such matters, saw little difference
between Portia and Penelope beyond Penelope's directness.
And, if he was remembering aright, her utterly implacable will.
From what little he'd seen of the sisters, he, too, would have said that
Portia would bend, or at least agree to negotiate, far earlier than Penelope.
"And just as with the others, when we went to Herb Lane to fetch
Dick this morning, he was gone. He'd been collected by this mystery man
at seven o'clock, barely after dawn."
Her story concluded, she shifted her dark, compelling eyes from the flames
to his face.
Barnaby held her gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded. "So somehow
these people-let's assume it's one group collecting these boys-"
"I can't see it being more than one group. We've never had this happen
before, and now four instances in less than a month, and all with the
same modus operandi." Brows raised, she met his eyes.
Somewhat tersely, he nodded. "Precisely. As I was saying, these people,
whoever they are, seem to know of your potential charges-"
"Before you suggest that they might be learning of the boys through
someone at the Foundling House, let me assure you that's highly unlikely.
If you knew the people involved, you'd understand why I'm so sure of that.
And indeed, although I've come to you with our four cases, there's nothing
to say other newly orphaned boys in the East End aren't also disappearing.
Most orphans aren't brought to our attention. There may be many more vanishing,
but who is there who would sound any alarm?"
Barnaby stared at her while the scenario she was describing took shape
in his mind.
"I had hoped," she said; the light glinted off her spectacles
as she glanced down and smoothed her gloves, "that you might agree
to look into this latest disappearance, seeing as Dick was whisked away
only this morning. I do realize that you generally investigate crimes
involving the ton, but I wondered, as it is November and most of us have
upped stakes for the country, whether you might have time to consider
our problem." Looking up, she met his gaze; there was nothing remotely
diffident in her eyes. "I could, of course, pursue the matter myself-"
Barnaby only just stopped himself from reacting.
"But I thought enlisting someone with more experience in such matters
might lead to a more rapid resolution."
Penelope held his gaze and hoped he was as quick-witted as he was purported
to be. Then again, in her experience, it rarely hurt to be blunt. "To
be perfectly clear, Mr. Adair, I am here seeking aid in pursuing our lost
charges, rather than merely wishing to inform someone of their disappearance
and thereafter wash my hands of them. I fully intend to search for Dick
and the other three boys until I find them. Not being a simpleton, I would
prefer to have beside me someone with experience of crime and the necessary
investigative methods. Moreover, while through our work we naturally have
contacts in the East End, few if any of those move among the criminal
elements, so my ability to gain information in that arena is limited."
Halting, she searched his face. His expression gave little away; his broad
brow, straight brown brows, the strong, well-delineated cheekbones, the
rather austere lines of cheek and jaw, remained set and unrevealing.
She spread her hands. "I've described our situation-will you help
us?"
To her irritation, he didn't immediately reply. Didn't leap in, goaded
to action by the notion of her tramping through the East End by herself.
He didn't, however, refuse. For a long moment, he studied her, his expression
unreadable-long enough for her to wonder if he'd seen through her ploy-then
he shifted, resettling his shoulders against the chair, and gestured to
her in invitation. "How do you imagine our investigation would proceed?"
She hid her smile. "I thought, if you were free, you might visit
the Foundling House tomorrow, to get some idea of the way we work and
the type of children we take in. Then…"
Barnaby listened while she outlined an eminently rational strategy that
would expose him to the basic facts, enough to ascertain where an investigation
might lead, and consequently how best to proceed.
Watching the sensible, logical words fall from her ruby lips-still lush
and ripe, still distracting-only confirmed that Penelope Ashford was dangerous.
Every bit as dangerous as her reputation suggested, possibly more.
In his case undoubtedly more, given his fascination with her lips.
In addition, she was offering him something no other young lady had ever
thought to wave before his nose.
A case. Just when he was in dire need of one.
"Once we've talked to the neighbors who saw Dick taken away, I'm
hoping you'll be able to suggest some way forward from there."
Her lips stopped moving. He raised his gaze to her eyes. "Indeed."
He hesitated; it was patently obvious that she had every intention of
playing an active role in the ensuing investigation. Given he knew her
family, he was unquestionably honor-bound to dissuade her from such a
reckless endeavor, yet equally unquestionably any suggestion she retreat
to the hearth and leave him to chase the villains would meet with stiff
opposition. He inclined his head. "As it happens I'm free tomorrow.
Perhaps I could meet you at the Foundling House in the morning?"
He'd steer her out of the investigation after he had all the facts, after
he'd learned everything she knew about this strange business.
She smiled brilliantly, once again disrupting his thoughts.
"Excellent!" Penelope gathered her gloves and muff, and stood.
She'd gained what she wanted; it was time to leave. Before he could say
anything she didn't want to hear. Best not to get into any argument now.
Not yet.
He rose and waved her to the door. She led the way, pulling on her gloves.
He had the loveliest hands she'd ever seen on a man, long-fingered, elegant
and utterly distracting. She'd remembered them from before, which was
why she hadn't offered to shake his hand.
He walked beside her across his front hall. "Is your carriage outside?"
"Yes." Halting before the front door, she glanced up at him.
"It's waiting outside the house next door."
His lips twitched. "I see." His man was hovering; he waved him
back and reached for the doorknob. "I'll walk you to it."
She inclined her head. When he opened the door, she walked out onto the
narrow front porch. Her nerves flickered as he joined her; large and rather
overpoweringly male, he escorted her down the three steps to the pavement,
then along to where her brother's town carriage stood, the coachman patient
and resigned on the box.
Adair reached for the carriage door, opened it and offered his hand. Holding
her breath, she gave him her fingers-and tried hard not to register the
sensation of her slender digits being engulfed by his much larger ones,
tried not to notice the warmth of his firm clasp as he helped her up into
the carriage.
And failed.
She didn't-couldn't-breathe until he released her hand. She sank onto
the leather seat, managed a smile and a nod. "Thank you, Mr. Adair.
I'll see you tomorrow morning."
Through the enveloping gloom he studied her, then he raised his hand in
salute, stepped back and closed the door.
The coachman jigged his reins and the carriage jerked forward, then settled
to a steady roll. With a sigh, Penelope sat back, and smiled into the
darkness. Satisfied, and a trifle smug. She'd recruited Barnaby Adair
to her cause, and despite her unprecedented attack of sensibility had
managed the encounter without revealing her affliction.
All in all, her night had been a success.
Barnaby stood in the street, in the wreathing fog, and watched the carriage
roll away. Once the rattle of its wheels had faded, he grinned and turned
back to his door.
Climbing his front steps, he realized his mood had lifted. His earlier
despondency had vanished, replaced with a keen anticipation for what the
morrow would bring.
And for that he had Penelope Ashford to thank.
Not only had she brought him a case, one outside his normal arena and
therefore likely to challenge him and expand his knowledge, but even more
importantly that case was one not even his mother would disapprove of
him pursuing.
Mentally composing the letter he would pen to his parent first thing the
next morning, he entered his house whistling beneath his breath, and let
Mostyn bolt the door behind him.
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