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

8.2

Still smiling, Griselda swiveled back to face the others. “Well,” she said, “that was interesting.”

“Eat.” Stokes pushed the plate of steaming mussels and whelks toward her.

She glanced at him, aware of the dark tension still gripping his large frame, curious over what had caused it. But there was nothing—no clue—to be found in his face. With a mental shrug, she reached for a mussel. Lifting her spoon, she deftly opened the shell and scooped the mollusk in its warm juices into her mouth.

From across the table, Penelope watched, through narrowed eyes, admiring Griselda’s confident wielding of the spoon. If anyone had told her, survivor of countless ton dinner parties that she was, accustomed to dealing with courses and cutlery of every conceivable type, that one day she’d be defeated by a simple spoon and a shell, she’d have scoffed.

But so it had proved.

Her fingers just didn’t seem large enough, or strong enough, to hold the shell and insert and twist the spoon, at least not simultaneously.

She’d been reduced to accepting food from Barnaby’s hand—a fact he, and Stokes, found amusing. They hadn’t actually grinned, but she’d detected the expressions in their eyes, and she knew. Men!

Holding out her hand palm up, she waited until Barnaby set another opened mussel into it. Gripping the shell, she had to concentrate to scoop the flesh up and into her mouth without disaster, but that, at least, she could manage; if she’d had to let Barnaby feed her with a spoon, she would have lost her appetite.

Which would have been a pity. She’d never eaten such fare in her life—never sat outside in a crowded street to dine—but the little morsels of seafood were delicious, and she’d discovered she was seriously hungry.

She’d only taken a tiny sip of the ale; to her it tasted very bitter. Barnaby and Stokes, however, between them drained the jug.

Griselda quickly accounted for her share of the mussels and whelks. There were no napkins; Penelope noted the others wiped their mouths with their cuffs. Tugging the cuff of her shirt down so she could grip it, she did the same.

“You missed a drop.”

She glanced around, and found Barnaby studying her face. Before she could ask where, he raised a hand and brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth.

The frisson that raced through her shocked her. Had she been standing, it would have brought her to her knees.

“There.” His eyes slowly rose and met hers. There was heat in the blue orbs, more than enough to steal her breath.

He held her gaze for a moment, and there was nothing remotely soft or gentle in his eyes.

Then his lids lowered; he smiled and eased back. With a wave, he encouraged her off the bench and to her feet.

She found herself upright, blinking, trying to get her bearings in what suddenly seemed a shifting landscape.

Stokes and Griselda—who glanced back and waved at her uncle Charlie and his mates—led the way up the street; his hand burning her back, then sliding around to rest possessively at her hip, Barnaby steered her in their wake.

She reminded herself that he was only doing it—all those unnerving, disconcerting touches—to make her regret insisting on participating in the day’s events.

Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t diminish the effect of said actions on her nerves, her senses.

They wended their way through Brick Lane market in much the same manner as in Petticoat Lane, but while the cheery stallholders in Petticoat Lane had offered a wide variety of wares for sale, fabrics and leather goods predominating, the Brick Lane stalls were peopled by sly-eyed characters, and fully half their goods remained concealed beneath the counter. Said goods were mostly ornaments or jewelry, or tatty furniture and bric-a-brac. Many of the trestles set out on the pavement were intended to lure customers into the gloomy sheds behind. Curious, Penelope ventured into one, and found it piled to the rafters with what appeared to be generations of musty old furniture, none of which would fare well in the light of day.

The owner, spotting her, came hurrying toward her, unctuously smiling. Looming at her shoulder, Barnaby scowled, grabbed her arm, and hauled her away.

It was Griselda who learned more of Joe Gannon, confirming that his present business premises were located in a building on Spital Street. He apparently specialized in “selling old stuff.” He was the last of the four sure to be known by those in the markets; although they kept their ears peeled, and Griselda did ask, they learned nothing of the other five men on Stokes’s list.

The afternoon was waning when they regrouped at the north end of Brick Lane.

Stokes looked at Barnaby. “We’ve learned all we can from around here.” He tipped his head to the east. “Spital Street’s not far. I’m going to go and check that address we have for Gannon. He might be there. He might have moved.” Stokes shrugged. “I’ll go and see.”

“I’ll come with you.” Griselda waited for Stokes to meet her eyes. “We can see what the place is like—if it’s a shop it’ll be easy enough to walk in and look around.”

“I’ll come, too,” Penelope stated. “If there’s any chance the missing boys are there, I should be present.”

She looked not at Stokes but at Barnaby. His expression hard, lips compressed, he met her gaze. He wanted to argue, but recognized the futility. Curtly, he nodded, then looked at Stokes. “We’ll all go.”

They turned off Brick Lane into narrower streets that were more like passages with the upper stories of the buildings frequently meeting overhead. Reaching Spital Street, they walked along, Stokes with Griselda, her arm linked with his, in front, Penelope and Barnaby, his arm around her shoulders, following a few yards behind.

The directions they’d been given led them to an old wooden house. Narrow, its timbers faded, the windows shuttered, it fronted directly onto the street. There were two rickety stories and an attic above, no basement; an alley, just wide enough to allow a man to pass, ran down one side. There was no sign declaring it a shop of any kind, but the door was wedged ajar.

They strolled past, but saw no signs of life.

Stokes halted farther on. He and Griselda spoke, then he waited for Barnaby and Penelope to reach them. “We’ll go inside. Why don’t you two wait out here, just in case our inquiries lead to any action.”

Barnaby nodded. He moved to lounge against a nearby wall, taking Penelope with him, his hand gripping her waist, anchoring her beside him. She rolled her eyes, but forbore to comment.

Stokes and Griselda crossed the street and disappeared into the house.

A minute ticked past. Penelope shifted her weight from one foot to the other—and immediately decided not to do so again. The movement had rubbed her hip against Barnaby’s thigh. She studiously ignored the resultant wash of heat beneath her skin, and sternly lectured her witless senses to stop swooning.

They stood directly opposite the alleyway alongside the building. Staring down the length of the side wall, she noticed an irregularity.

She stepped forward. “There’s a side door.”

Whether she’d surprised Barnaby, or had simply broken his grip, his hand slipped from her waist. Taking advantage, she hurried across the lane and plunged into the alley. She heard him swear as he followed her. But the alley was clearly empty; she was patently not rushing into danger, so while he quickly closed the gap between them, he didn’t try to catch her and pull her back.

Nearing the side door, she slowed, wondering if it led into the shop, or was another premises entirely. Caution had already laid its hand on her spine when the door cracked open, then quietly swung wide enough to allow a man to slip out. His back was to them. Peering into the building, he started to shut the door, easing it closed.

“Mr. Gannon?”

The man jumped and swore. He whirled around, flattening himself against the side of the house.

Penelope frowned at him. “I take it you are Mr. Joe Gannon, and that being so, we have some questions for you.”

Gannon blinked. He looked at Penelope, and regained some of his color. But then he looked past her at Barnaby, looming at her shoulder, and transparently didn’t know what to think. Warily, he asked, “Oo might be asking?”

Penelope replied without hesitation, “I’m asking with the full weight of the Metropolitan Police.”

Gannon’s eyes went wide. “The perlice?” He tried to see past them, then glanced the other way, to the other end of the alley. “’Ere—I ain’t done nuthin’.”

“That would be physically impossible.” Penelope planted her hands on her hips; she’d dropped her disguise, and was now very much the haughty, demanding, commanding lady, which was what was confusing Gannon so much. “Don’t lie to me, sir.” Leaning for ward, she all but wagged her finger in his face. “What do you know of Dick Monger?”

Gannon blinked, thoroughly rattled. “Oo?”

“He’s about this tall”—Penelope held a hand at shoulder height—“a towheaded lad. Do you have him in your employ?”

She rapped the question out; Gannon all but recoiled.

“No! Only lad I got is me sister’s—me nevvy. Right layabout he is, too. What would I want wif another? ’Specially if he’s wanted by the rozzers.” Clearly out of his depth, Gannon looked to Barnaby as if he were a lifeline. “’Ere—if you’re one of them rozzers in disguise, you shouldn’t let a female like this loose. She’s dangerous.”

Barnaby had been thinking much the same; the sheer fear that had spiked through him in the instant before he’d realized Gannon was no threat—that instant when Penelope had been between him and the man—was something he never wanted to experience again. However…“Just answer her questions, and we—and the police—will leave you alone. Do you know, or have you heard, anything at all about a lad like she described?”

Eager to cooperate with the voice of reason, Gannon frowned and gave the matter due thought, but eventually he shook his head. “Ain’t seen any tyke like that about ’ere. And I ain’t ’eard nothing, either—not about ’im, or any other.” A certain craftiness lit his eyes. “If you and the lady are after a lad that’s been snitched, and yer imagining I might be using his services as a burglar’s boy, I’ll ’ave you know I ’aven’t been on that gamble fer over two years now, not since my last stretch in the nick.”

Truth rang in his voice. Barnaby glanced at Penelope, and saw she’d heard it, too. She nodded, and the stiffness of battle went out of her slight frame. “Very well,” she said to Gannon, and there was still a latent warning in her tone. “I believe you. Take care you stay on the right side of the law from now on.”

With that, she swung around. Coming face-to-face with Barnaby’s chest. He stepped aside and let her through.

She marched off, back up the alley.

He glanced at Gannon; the man’s expression stated very clearly he’d be happy never to meet such a disconcerting and disturbing female again.

With a last warning look, Barnaby swung around. In a few paces he was at Penelope’s heels. A tension unlike any he’d previously experienced was riding him; bending his head so he could speak in her ear, he quietly stated, “Don’t ever race into an alley ahead of me again.”

His tone was flat, his diction precise.

She glanced up and back at him, puzzled. “It was empty. I wasn’t in any danger.” She faced forward. “And at least we now know we can cross Gannon off our list.”

Emerging from the alley, she paused on the pavement. Taking note of the gathering dusk, she sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to leave the other five names until tomorrow.”

Seeing Stokes and Griselda on the opposite side of the street, Barnaby set his jaw, grasped her arm, and steered her in their direction, surprised to discover that, contrary to his expectations, he had something quite definite in common with Joe Gannon.

They found a hackney and piled in for the journey back to Griselda’s shop. Unfortunately the hackney was one of the smaller affairs, ensuring that Barnaby had to endure Penelope’s too-close proximity for the entire time.

Griselda and Stokes, seated opposite, spent the journey discussing how to tackle the five names remaining on Stokes’s list. The East End was large, and as yet they had no clue as to which area each man might be operating in. In the end it was decided that Griselda would visit her father again, to see if he’d gleaned any further details. Meanwhile Stokes would inquire more closely of his colleagues at the East End watch houses. They would gather again in two days’ time to assess what they’d learned, and make plans.

Penelope clearly chafed at the delay, but had little option but to acquiesce.

Eventually they reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Gaining the pavement, Barnaby left Stokes to hand the ladies down and went to deal with the driver.

When the carriage rattled off, he turned, and discovered Stokes taking his leave, first of Penelope, then of Griselda. Watching Stokes half bow over Griselda’s hand, watching her expression as she smiled into his eyes and bade him farewell, noting how Stokes held on to her fingers for rather longer than necessary…for the first time Barnaby thought to ask himself whether Stokes might have had an ulterior motive in fixing on Griselda Martin as his guide into the East End.

Well, well.

Rejoining the group, he nodded a farewell to Stokes. “I’ll call by tomorrow.”

Stokes nodded in reply. “I’ll ask around at headquarters, too, in case anyone has any idea where these five might be lurking.” With a last salute to the group, he turned and walked away.

For a moment, Griselda watched him go, then she recalled herself, threw a quick smile at Penelope and Barnaby, and led the way into her shop.

Her apprentices were ready to leave.

“Go on upstairs,” Griselda urged Penelope. “I’ll close up, then join you.”

With a nod, Penelope headed up the stairs. Barnaby would have preferred to wait by the door until she’d changed into her own clothes and joined him—but he felt stifled by the weight of frills and bows. And he was clearly distracting Griselda’s apprentices.

“I’ll wait in the parlor.” Girding his loins, he climbed the stairs.

Reaching the upper room, he found that Penelope had already retreated behind the bedroom door. Slouching over to the bow window, he stood, hands sunk in his pockets, looking out.

He felt…not at all like himself. No, not true. He felt entirely like himself, but with his patina of sophisticated control abraded to a thin—too thin—veneer. He had no idea why Penelope Ashford so easily and consistently got within his shields, but there was no denying that she did—that he reacted to her, that she made him react, as no other female ever had.

It was disconcerting, disturbing, and beyond distracting.

She was driving him quietly insane.

The door to the bedroom opened. He glanced around to see her emerge, once again in her own clothes, restored to her customary severely stylish state.

She’d washed her face, removing the powder Griselda had applied to dim the glow of her porcelain skin. In the light of the fading day, it shone like the costliest pearl.

Eyeing him, clearly sensing his tension yet, he was perfectly aware, unconscious of its cause, she tilted her head. “I take it Griselda is still downstairs. Shall we go?”

Turning, he waved her to the stairs. She preceded him down them; as he followed he sensed—how he didn’t know, but he knew—that she had determined not to comment on what she regarded as his continuing churlish behavior.

Stepping off the last stair, she swept forward, head high, to where Griselda was checking through her cashbox.

“Thank you so much for all your help today.” Warmth filled Penelope’s face and colored her words. “We would never have got as far as we did without you.” She held out her hands.

Griselda’s answering smile as she placed her hands in Penelope’s was equally warm. She assured Penelope she was pleased to have been asked.

Penelope squeezed her hands, then stretched up and touched her cheek to Griselda’s. It was a common form of affection between tonnish ladies; from the surprise Barnaby glimpsed in Griselda’s eyes, she recognized the gesture—and was utterly stunned that Penelope would bestow it on her.

If Penelope realized what she’d done, she gave no sign; still smiling warmly, she stepped back, drawing her hands from Griselda’s and turning to the door. “We’ll leave you then. Doubtless we’ll meet again once Stokes or you have more news.”

Griselda followed Penelope to the door. She opened it; with a last smile, Penelope went through. Barnaby summoned a smile for Griselda and saluted her as he stepped past. “Until next we meet.”

She smiled. “Indeed. Good night.”

Following Penelope down the steps, Barnaby halted beside her. As she had already done, he looked up and down the street. There was no hackney in sight.

He glanced around the roofline, getting his bearings. “We should be able to find a hackney on the next corner past the church.”

She nodded and fell into step beside him.

Whether it was the habit of the day, or more likely ingrained gallantry surfacing instinctively, he put his palm to the small of her back as they angled across the street.

She sucked in a breath and almost jumped away from him. “Oh, do stop that. The day is over. I’m not in disguise any longer.”

Caught entirely off guard, he frowned at her. “What the devil’s your disguise got to do with it?”

“My disguise.” With a dismissive flick of her hand, she started marching for the corner. “Your reason for behaving as you have been all day—all those little touches expressly designed to overset me.”

He blinked. Lengthening his stride, he quickly overhauled her. “My reason for deliberately oversetting you.” His temper started to slip its leash. “If I might ask, just how did you deduce that?”

They’d reached the church on the corner. She halted and swung to face him, the high stone wall at her back. Eyes narrowed, lit by sparks, she glared at him. “ Don’t think to play the innocent with me. Pretending to be my disgruntled lover. Holding my hand—and me—as if you owned me. Pretending to kiss me in that doorway! As I told you at the time, I was perfectly aware you were only doing such things because you didn’t approve of me being there!”

She’d been serious? He could only stare blankly in the face of her tirade, shocked, not by her anger, but by the response she sparked in him.

She continued, ire unabated, “No doubt you imagine such behavior will put me off going out in disguise again. Permit me to inform you that you’re sadly mistaken.”

“That wasn’t my intention at all.” Anyone who knew him would have taken warning from his far too even, impossibly mild tone.

Penelope didn’t know him that well. Eyes alight, locked on his, she drew in a huge breath. “Well, what was your intention then? What possessed you to behave as you have been all the damned day?”

For one tense moment, he held her gaze, then he raised his hands, captured her face, stepped close as he tipped it up and brought his lips down on hers.

And gave her her answer.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss.

He was furious that she would imagine him the sort of man who would play on her senses to punish her.

When in reality he’d spent the entire day fighting the urge to ravish her.

That she’d so misjudged his motives seemed utterly incomprehensible.

And equally unforgivable.

So he took her lips, then her mouth, then he stole her breath.

Then gave the same back to her, along with the raging need he’d kept pent up all the long day.

That and only that was what had possessed him, what had driven him in a way he’d never before been.

That ragged, desperate, hungry need welled and poured through him, and into the kiss. As kisses went, this one was…ungovernable. One step beyond control, edged with a wildness he’d never before felt. Her lips were as ripe and luscious as he’d imagined, the soft cavern of her yielded mouth a delectable delight.

One he plundered.

Without restraint.

And she let him.

Penelope’s wits weren’t reeling—they’d flown. Entirely. For the first time in her life she discovered herself hostage to her senses, wholly at their mercy. And they were merciless.

Or rather the effect he had on them was ruthless, relentless, and utterly consuming.

His lips moved on hers, steely and firm, masterfully commanding, demanding in a way that sent hot thrills down her spine. His arm had locked around her, holding her trapped; his hand anchored her head so she was his to devour.

And she didn’t care. All she cared about was experiencing more, tasting more, feeling more.

Her lips had somehow parted, letting him fill her mouth, letting his tongue lay claim in a manner she found exciting, thrilling, a dark, hot promise of pleasure.

The physical sensations wreathed her mind, fogged it, hazed her wits. The sensual temptation tugged in a way she couldn’t explain.

She wanted. For the first time in her life she felt desire stirring—something more powerful than simple will. Something addictive, that seethed with a demand she felt compelled to sate.

She wanted…to kiss him back, to respond in whatever way he wanted, in whatever way would appease and satisfy. Not just him, but her, too. The concept of giving in order to take bloomed in her mind, along with a growing certainty that in this arena, that was how exchanges worked.

Her hands had come to rest against his chest; easing their compul sive grip, she sent them sliding upward, to his shoulders, broad and hard, then farther to his nape, and the silky curls that feathered over her fingers.

She played.

Her touch affected him; he slanted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers in heated persuasion.

A thrill shot through her. Emboldened, she hesitantly kissed him back—tentative, unsure.

His response was a revelation—a wave of passionate desire that seemed to come from his soul, that poured through him and infused the kiss, and rocked her to her toes.

The power, the hunger—the raw need she sensed behind it—should have shocked her to her senses, back into the grip of self-preservatory reason.

Instead, it lured her in.

On. Tempted her into kissing him back more definitely, into letting her tongue tangle with his, into sinking against him.

Into wanting to learn even more.

Through the kiss, through the hard lips pressed to hers, through the hard hands that held her tight against his unyielding body, she sensed a primitive male satisfaction—that she’d permitted, that she’d responded, that she’d invited.

The latter was unwise; even with her wits disengaged, she knew it well enough. Yet the moment, the here and now, held no threat.

No matter how her senses stretched, all she detected was heat and welling pleasure, and, elusively laced through all, underneath and between, a power that was addictive. That called to her at some feminine level she’d never before broached. Never before known was open to her.

Her response to that shocked her—opened her eyes to the woman within. And her yearnings.

She drew back, broke the kiss on a soft gasp. Stared, stunned, into his eyes.

Burning blue, lit by what she now understood was desire, he stared back.

The expression in his eyes, the way his jaw slowly firmed, told her he’d seen, and understood…too much.

With a spurt of fear-induced strength, she wrenched out of his arms and spun around to walk on. She was not going to—absolutely refused to—discuss or even refer to the kiss. Even allude to it.

Not when she felt so shaken. So unlike herself.

So exposed.

So vulnerable.

He didn’t say anything. In two strides he’d ranged alongside her, keeping pace easily.

She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed ahead. Head up, she marched on.

They rounded the church and reached a more frequented thoroughfare. Barnaby hailed a hackney. He opened the door and she climbed in without taking his hand.

He followed her inside and shut the door.

Somewhat to her surprise, to her increasing consternation, he slumped on the seat beside her, with enough space between them that she didn’t feel crowded. Propping an elbow on the carriage windowsill, he stared out at the passing houses, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Leaving her to hers.