The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (44 page)

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 Job 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 glinting 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 this 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.

About the Author

#1
New York Times
bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors.
The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh
is her fifty-second work. All of her previous works remain in print and readily available.

Readers can contact Stephanie via e-mail at
[email protected]
.

For information on all of Stephanie’s books, including updates on novels yet to come, visit Stephanie’s website at
www.stephanielaurens.com
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