Where the Heart Leads (Casebook of Barnaby Adair #1)

8

Penelope had learned long ago that it was never wise to encourage any gentleman to believe she needed protection. Especially not when said gentleman was of the ilk of her brother Luc, or her cousin Martin, or her brother-in-law Simon Cynster. Some men simply could not be trusted to know where to draw the line—or to even recognize that a line existed—between smothering a lady in cotton wool and being a reasonable white knight. The inevitable result of any lady accepting their protection was an ongoing battle, one the lady was forced to wage to retain some workable degree of independence.

That had certainly been her observation in the case of the aforementioned males. As she rushed to be ready at half past eight the next morning, she was increasingly certain Barnaby Adair, regardless of his eccentric pastime, belonged to the same group.

Masterful men, experience warned, were masterful all the way through.

They didn’t—couldn’t—change their stripes, although they might at times disguise them.

With such wisdom resonating in her mind, she bolstered her enthusiasm with a quick but substantial breakfast, then hurried into her pelisse. She reached the front door just as the hackney she’d ordered to be summoned rolled up.

Farewelling Leighton, the butler, she glanced right and left as she went down the steps, but saw no one who might be Barnaby Adair. A footman was holding the carriage door, waiting to help her up.

She called up to the driver, “St. John’s Wood High Street—the milliner’s shop,” then climbed in.

Settling on the seat, she nodded a dismissal to the footman. He closed the door and retreated.

The door on the other side of the carriage opened; the carriage dipped as a man climbed in.

Even though she’d been expecting an appearance, Penelope’s mouth fell open. The only thing she recognized about the man who shut the door and slumped on the seat opposite was his blue, blue eyes.

The carriage started forward—then abruptly stopped, the jarvey having realized some man had joined his lady passenger.

“Miss? Is everything all right?”

Her eyes—round with amazement—still fixed on Barnaby’s face, Penelope simply stared. Barnaby scowled and roughly jerked his head toward the box seat, and she recalled herself and stammered, “Y-yes—perfectly all right. Drive on.”

The jarvey muttered something, then the carriage rattled into motion again. As they rounded the corner out of Mount Street, Penelope let her gaze descend, taking in all of this rather startling version of Barnaby Adair.

Disguises generally concealed, but sometimes, they revealed. She was somewhat stunned—and just a little wary—of what, courtesy of his present guise, she could see.

He frowned at her, the gesture little removed from his earlier scowl—an expression that somehow fitted his new face, the clean, austere lines smudged with soot, the lean squareness of his jaw somehow more dominant beneath the prickly growth of a day-old beard. The beard roughened his cheeks. His hair was an uncombed tumble of golden curls; he never normally looked windblown and rumpled, but now he did.

As if he’d just rolled out of some doxy’s bed.

The thought flashed across Penelope’s mind; she instantly banished it. Closing her mouth, she found she had to swallow; her throat had grown unaccountably dry. Her gaze continued traveling over him, across his shoulders and chest, clad in a threadbare jacket with a thin, limp, cotton shirt beneath. No cravat or collar hid the lean length of his throat.

His long thighs were encased in workman’s breeches; worn, scuffed boots were on his feet. He was the very picture of a rough-and-ready lout, a navvy who worked about the docks and warehouses doing this and that—whatever paid best at the time.

A certain dangerous quality emanated from him. The aura of a male not to be crossed.

Too dangerous to cross.

“What?” Through narrowed eyes, he challenged her.

She held his gaze—the only thing instantly recognizable about him—and knew that under the rough clothes and equally rough behavior he was still the same man. Reassured, she smiled mildly and shook her head. “You’re perfect for the part.” Of escorting me in my flowerseller’s disguise.

She didn’t voice the latter words, but if the sharpness in his gaze was any guide, he’d understood her meaning.

He humphed, then folded his arms across his chest, put his head back, and lapsed into uncommunicative silence.

Her smile spontaneously deepening, Penelope looked out the window so he wouldn’t see.

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.

They reached the corner of a narrow lane down which Sid Lewis was said to live. By mutual accord, they halted. While Barnaby looked back up the street, trying to locate Stokes and Griselda, Penelope peered down the lane. “Fifth door down on the north side. I can see it.” She grabbed Barnaby’s coat—he had his arm around her waist, anchoring her beside him—and tugged, trying to gain his attention. “The door’s open. There are people inside.”

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.

Barnaby knew the instant she snapped free; he had to fight the urge to shift his lips to the left—so they could meet hers, those lush, ripe lips that haunted him. Instead, with his lips he brushed the rim of her ear—and felt a sensual shiver sweep through her, sensed her momentary pause, that instant when he succeeded in resuborning her wits.

The feel of her in his arms, soft, feminine, yet vibrantly alive, curvaceous yet supple, was distracting, a revelation he hadn’t expected. The way she fitted so snugly against him as if she were made just for him fed that notion hovering at the edge of his consciousness, giving it more substance, more life.

Given their disguises, the relative roles they’d claimed, and that notion, he had to fight the compulsive urge to take what his alter ego would have—her lips, her mouth. Her.

While a part of his brain watched the activity across the lane, most was engaged in battling his instincts, in holding them down, keeping them back. Leashed. Controlled.

Predictably, she didn’t stay distracted for long. “Don’t,” he hissed, sensing she was about to struggle.

She dragged in a breath, then hissed back through clenched teeth, “You’re only doing this to pay me back for insisting on coming today.”

As if he needed the internal turmoil. “Think what you will,” he growled. “All that matters is that they believe our performance.”

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her more fully against him; bending his head farther, he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear—and heard her gasp. Felt the resistance in her hands, pressed against his chest, ease, fade.

He inhaled, and the fragrance that was her wreathed through his brain. Sank to his bones. Her hair, sleek, dark, and silken, smelled of sunshine. He gritted his teeth against the inevitable effect, and whispered, “Someone’s coming out.”

He spread his hands on her back, shifted his head so that it appeared as if he were devouring her. At the very least kissing her witless, into submission—as the more primitive side of him wished he was.

She didn’t struggle. After a moment, he murmured, his tone dry, “It appears we can cross Sid Lewis off our list.”

“Why?”

Lifting his head, he eased his hold on her, setting her back on her feet but keeping her facing him. He studied the three men who’d come out of the hovel. “Unless I miss my guess, Sid Lewis is looking to shore up his position with God. Unlikely he’d be running a burglary school while entertaining the local vicar.”

She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, then faced him again. “Sid Lewis is the short bald one.” She’d extracted a description from one of the stallholders. “He looks ill.”

“Which explains his sudden interest in religion.” The man was leaning heavily on a cane. They could hear his wheezing from where they stood.

“Come on.” Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he nudged her out of the doorway and started back up the lane. “Let’s find Stokes. We’ve still got three others to investigate today.”

They came up with Stokes and Griselda close to the southern end of the market. On hearing their report on Sid Lewis, Stokes grimaced. “Figgs is out of contention, too. He’s in Newgate. That leaves us with Jessup and Joe Gannon in this area. Jessup, by all accounts, is a dangerous customer.”

He met Barnaby’s eyes.

“In that case, we’ll just have to exercise greater caution.” Penelope was glancing around. “Where should we try next?”

Stokes looked at Griselda. “How about stopping at a tavern for some lunch?”

The suggestion met with approval all around. Griselda suggested a public house she knew of on the corner of Old Montague Street and Brick Lane. “It’s supposed to have more reliable food, and we have to head up Brick Lane anyway—the market stalls there are the most likely place for us to learn about Jessup and confirm Gannon’s address.”

They trooped back to Wentworth Street and cut across to Brick Lane, to the Delford Arms. The door to the taproom was set wide; after one glance inside, Stokes and Barnaby drew Griselda and Penelope on a few paces past the door. There were rough-hewn trestles with benches set on the pavement on either side of the entrance; most were occupied, but people were coming and going constantly.

“You two wait here,” Stokes said. “We’ll get the food and come back.” He looked at the tables. “With luck, one will be free by then.”

Griselda and Penelope nodded and dutifully waited, watching as their two cavaliers turned and entered the pub. Having seen the jostling throng in the tap, neither had been keen to brave it. Nevertheless…“They seem to share a penchant for giving orders,” Penelope observed.

“Indeed,” Griselda replied, distinctly dry. “I’ve noticed.”

They both smiled, and continued to wait.

Having spent the last hours immersed in a constant babel of East End accents, Penelope’s ear had improved significantly. She was indulging her skill, idly listening to the conversation of the four old but still hulking men hunched over the nearest trestle, empty plates spread before them, pint pots in their gnarled hands, when she heard the name “Jessup.” She blinked, and listened harder.

After a moment, she nudged Griselda. When Griselda glanced at her, she indicated the table with her eyes. Griselda looked, then looked back at her, brows rising; the men were still talking, but no longer about anything relevant.

Penelope was about to turn and whisper when Barnaby reappeared, two plates piled with steaming shells in his hands. Just behind him, Stokes balanced a jug and four glasses on a tray.

At that moment, two men who’d been seated at the table next to the men who’d mentioned Jessup rose and shuffled away. Two others, in the dark, dusty coats of clerks, were still seated close by the wall.

Penelope grabbed Barnaby and steered him to that table. He glanced at her, but did as she wished. While he set down the plates and then slid along the bench, leaving the open end for her, she turned to Stokes and Griselda and whispered, “Those men”—surreptitiously she pointed at the next table—“mentioned Jessup. They were talking about something illegal, but I couldn’t make out what.”

Griselda glanced at the men again, then looked at Stokes. “I know one of them. I think he’ll talk to me. Don’t interrupt, or even look across. He’s a leery sort, but he’s known me and my family all my life.”

Stokes hesitated, then, features hardening, nodded. He went to the bench and slid along it, opposite Barnaby, leaving the position at the end, closest to the men in question, for Griselda.

Both she and Penelope sat.

Griselda glanced around as she settled her skirts, as if checking who was at her back. She started to turn back, but then stopped. Leaning to the side, she openly peered around the man directly behind her at the older man sitting opposite. “Uncle Charlie?”

The man she’d addressed stared at her for a moment, then his face creased in a smile. “Young Grizzy, ain’t it? Haven’t seen you in a good long while. Heard tell you’d moved up town and taken up making hats for the nobs.” Shrewd eyes took in her less-than-prosperous attire. “Not doing so well these days?”

Griselda grimaced. “Fashions come and go. Turned out it wasn’t such a good lark as I’d thought.”

“So you’re back home, then. How’s yer da? Heard he’s not so well these days.”

“He’s so-so. Doing well enough.” Smiling easily, she asked after his family—the perfect way to ease into the world of local crime. The other men joined in, throwing information her way when she explained she’d only recently returned to the area; talking about crime was a local sport.

She bided her time; if at all possible, she didn’t want to ask about Jessup directly. Remembering the man’s reputation, his status among local criminals, and the fact they’d mentioned him at all, she eventually ventured, “So have there been any changes among the bigger villains recently?”

Charlie scrunched up his face as if thinking. “Only recent change would be Jessup. You’ll remember him. Used to be big in burglary and such like. Taken himself off to Tothill Fields, he has, and set himself up in the usual trade.” The “usual trade” in Tothill Fields meant prostitution.

It required no effort to look suitably interested. Especially as the information allowed her to say, “That must leave a bit of a hole hereabouts. Any word on who’s filling it?”

Charlie laughed. “You’re right about the hole, but there’s no word of anyone rushing in to take advantage. Then again, it’s the off-season. No doubt there’ll be more activity come next year.”

Stokes, beside her, roughly nudged her. Without looking around, he growled, “You’d best get to this, if you want any.”

She shot him a glance, realized he was telling her to stop her questioning. Turning back to Uncle Charlie and the other three men, she smiled. “I’d best eat, or I’ll miss out.”

They all chuckled and bobbed their heads in farewell.