Where The Heart Leads (34 page)

His expression had assumed the impassivity of all good legal personnel. Penelope nodded. “Indeed.” She turned back to the sergeant.

In the end, she sent for Stokes. The sergeant continued to insist that it was Scotland Yard that had ordered the search. “In that case,” she snapped, all patience long gone, “the inspector will support you, and the search will go ahead. But until I hear confirmation of this nonsensical order from someone directly associated with Scotland Yard, you and your men will touch not one thing in this place.”

Folding her arms, she sat back in her chair, and waited.

She didn’t invite the sergeant or his constables to sit; given the turmoil of her feelings, she felt she was letting them off lightly.

It took some time to fetch Stokes; the light was fading by the time she glimpsed him coming through the front gate.

A minute later, he stood beside her desk, looking from the warrant to the copy of their notice, then back again.

Frowning, he looked at the sergeant, now standing to attention before the desk. “I, myself, am in charge of the case of these missing boys, Sergeant. No order regarding the case would be issued by Scotland Yard without my knowledge, indeed, without my signature.” He held up the warrant. “I have no knowledge whatever of any order regarding the Foundling House.”

The sergeant blinked; his expression blanked. “But…I saw the order myself, sir. Came in last night in the satchel from the Yard.”

“I see.” Stokes’s frown didn’t ease. After a moment, he glanced at Penelope. “My apologies, Miss Ashford, to you and your staff. There appears to be someone playing games with our investigation.”

He looked at the sergeant. “I accept, Sergeant, that you were only following orders. However, those orders were false. Indeed, fake. I’ll return with you to”—he glanced at the warrant—“Holborn and explain to your superiors. I’d like a word with them, to see if they can shed any light on these spurious orders.”

The sergeant’s face had fallen, but in the circumstances he was happy to leave. He waited for Stokes to lead the way out; he started to follow, but then, with grudging respect, paused to nod to Penelope. “My apologies, too, Miss Ashford.”

Penelope met his eyes, then inclined her head in acceptance.

The police presence withdrew in Stokes’s wake.

It took another hour of calming and reassuring to settle the house
and its occupants back into their regular routine. By the time she finally returned to her office, Penelope felt wrung out.

Miss Marsh was waiting in the anteroom. “I checked all the files—the ones in your office, too. I couldn’t find anything amiss.”

“Thank you.” Penelope smiled tiredly. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

Miss Marsh smiled shyly; she seemed about to say something, then apparently thought better of it. Bidding Penelope a good night, she left.

Glancing out the window, Penelope saw that evening had drawn in. It was already dark, the yellow flare of street lamps shining like moons through the encroaching fog.

Another day had gone by and they’d got no further; instead, she felt drained after dealing with the vexatious sergeant and his unfounded charges.

Walking into her office, she sighed—and saw Barnaby standing by her desk.

He opened his arms—without a word, she walked into them and let them close around her. Leaning her head against his chest, she sighed again. “It’s been an awful day.” After a moment, she asked, “How did you know to come?”

“Stokes sent word.” He hugged her, then released her and urged her to sit in her chair. Pulling one of the other chairs around the desk, he set it near hers and sat close, studying her face. “Stokes’s message was brief—just that there’d been some bother here arising out of a falsely sworn warrant. I want you to tell me everything you can remember about the warrant and anything else the constables here said.”

“There was a sergeant in charge.” She sat back and described the warrant, and how their notice had been put with it to lend the accusation credence.

“The sergeant said the notice was sent
with
the order for the search?”

She cast her mind back, then nodded. “Yes. Specifically with. He took it as an explanation for the search.”

After a moment, she said, “I didn’t want to risk taking the high moral ground and letting them search, just in case there was something in the files to be found.” She caught his eye. “Something none of us here knew about.”

Taking her hand, he gently squeezed. “That was good thinking. Did I hear Miss Marsh say she hadn’t found anything?”

Penelope nodded.

“Regardless, you were wise not to take the risk. This was distressing enough—had someone planted some evidence of something nefarious, the scandal could have seriously damaged the standing of the Foundling House.”

And her reputation.
Barnaby studied her face, the unrelenting stubborness that masked her tiredness. “How did you learn of the search? Where were you?”

She grimaced and told him. “Despite there being so few ladies still in residence, the news that the Foundling House was the subject of a warrant will be all over town come morning.”

“No it won’t. Not if we act appropriately tonight. What did you have planned for this evening?”

Frowning, she took a moment to recall. “Lady Forsythe’s dinner. I have to go because some of our major donors will be there. Mama was already promised to an old friend, Lady Mitchell—this is their last chance to get together before winter, so I’ll be going to Lady Forsythe’s alone.”

Barnaby thought, then said, “I have an idea.”

“What?”

He glanced at her, and smiled. “First, I need to speak with your mother.”

Penelope was too tired to argue, to demand to be told; she uncharacteristically surrendered and let him take her home. It was an odd hour when they arrived in Mount Street—six o’clock; Minerva, the Dowager Viscountess Calverton, received them in her dressing room.

She listened patiently and sympathetically while Penelope related the outcome of her return to the Foundling House and the saga of the warrant.

“And now,” Penelope concluded, “I have to appear at Lady Forsythe’s and attempt to scotch the inevitable rumors.”

“Which,” Barnaby cut in, “is a point where I believe I can help.” He spoke directly to Minerva. “Neither Inspector Stokes nor I am inclined to dismiss this false order as merely vexatious. We believe
that our villain has attempted to use the police to his own ends, to strike back at Penelope and the Foundling House because they’ve largely thwarted his plans, at the very least made them much harder to carry out.”

He paused, then went on, “To take that one step further, it’s possible the villain, whoever he is, specifically intended to harm Penelope. Most ladies wouldn’t have known to stand firm against the warrant, let alone known to contact Stokes. But as someone who lives within the ton, as our villain assuredly does, would know, rumors can cause a great deal of harm within our circle. With a view to ensuring that we quash all possible rumors before they gain hold, I believe it would be wise for me to accompany Penelope to Lady Forsythe’s this evening. Even if Penelope denounces the warrant as having no validity, some may remain unconvinced, if not of her innocence then that all at the Foundling House is aboveboard. However, if I, with my known connections with the police, were to denounce the warrant as being falsely laid, few would not accept that as fact, absolving both Penelope and the Foundling House from all suspicion.”

Minerva smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mr. Adair—that’s a very kind offer, and one I, for one, would gladly accept.” She turned her dark eyes on her daughter. “Penelope?”

Penelope had been studying Barnaby, a considering expression on her face; she shook free of her absorption and nodded. “Yes. I have to admit I’ll feel much happier having some support in facing this down.”

Barnaby noticed Minerva’s blink, her surprise, quickly masked, at Penelope’s ready acceptance of his assistance, and his escort.

“Well,” Minerva said, “in that case I’ll send a note to Amarantha Forsythe and beg her indulgence in adding you to her table at such short notice.” She smiled. “Not that she won’t be thrilled. At this time of year there are so few of us present, adding another leaf will be no trouble, and if I drop a hint of the reason for your presence, Mr. Adair, I guarantee she’ll be delighted to welcome you.”

Barnaby bowed. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Minerva’s dark eyes caught his; hers twinkled. “Indeed. I was just reading a letter from my son, conveying a few matters of interest from Leicestershire.”

Penelope perked up. “What did Luc say?”

Barnaby inwardly swore, prayed…

Minerva’s smile deepened a fraction. She glanced at her daughter. “Just the usual family matters, dear—and, of course, a strict injunction to watch over you.”

“Oh.” Penelope immediately lost interest. She glanced at the clock. “Look at the time. I have to get ready.”

Barnaby rose as she did. He caught Minerva’s eyes, held them for an instant, then bowed, a touch lower than the norm. “I’ll take good care of Miss Ashford, ma’am. You may count on that.”

Minerva nodded graciously. “Oh, I do, Mr. Adair. I do.”

Somewhat relieved, Barnaby escaped in Penelope’s train. He took his leave of her in the hall, and went off to get ready himself.

“It was true, wasn’t it? What you told Mama?”

Much later that night, after they’d attended Lady Forsythe’s dinner and slain all rumors with the truth, Penelope lay snuggled in Barnaby’s arms, the shadowed billows of his bed a warm and comforting resting place, his arms and body even more so.

She’d never felt so safe and protected—had never previously wanted to feel so. Never previously appreciated the feeling. Even now, with the villainous Mr. Alert trying to maliciously damage her reputation, she doubted she would have found comfort, been able to take comfort, from any other man.

Barnaby Adair, third son of an earl, investigator of tonnish crimes, was different. Very different.

He didn’t, for instance, need any further words to understand to what she was alluding. To know what her mind was dwelling on.

He moved his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Sadly, yes. I think Alert took a specific tilt at you, not just at the Foundling House. If you think of it in those terms, his message is plain: if you hurt me, I’ll hurt you.”

After a moment of frowning into the dark, she asked, “But how did he do it? We’ve realized he knows a lot about how the police operate, but to falsify orders from Scotland Yard? Surely there can’t be many people who could do that.”

“One would hope not.” Without hesitation, Barnaby went on, “I spoke with Stokes before I came to fetch you for dinner. He and I will
go to the Holborn watch house tomorrow and retrieve the original order sent from Scotland Yard—he was too late to get hold of it this evening. We’ll trace it back to whoever issued it, if we can.”

“He’ll have covered his tracks, surely?”

“I would assume our backtracking will come to a halt at some point short of a single identity, but we might get far enough to greatly reduce the number of potential suspects.”

Warm and snug, with the dramas of the day dealt with and all possible damage nullified, Penelope discovered she could view the events with a greater detachment. Wriggling around in Barnaby’s arms, she rose up and leaned on his chest so she could look into his face. “How ironic if, in taking a tilt at me, Alert opened up an avenue through which you and Stokes could unmask him.”

His hands cruising upward from her thighs, over her bottom, to glide, artfully caressing, up her sides, Barnaby raised his brows. “Ironic. And appropriate.”

Sliding more fully over him, she smiled down into his eyes. “Have I thanked you for standing beside me tonight, through all the tedious questions?”

“I believe you did mention it once or twice—but that was, as it were, in the heat of the moment. I don’t think I heard.”

“Ah…” Sirenlike, she slid her body side to side over his, delighting in the instantaneous hardening of his powerfully muscled frame. Hers, all hers. “Perhaps,” she purred, “I should thank you again. More definitely. To make sure you remember that I did.”

Barnaby stared into the dark mysterious depths of her eyes. “Perhaps you ought.”

She did. With a devastating thoroughness, an unswerving, unwavering commitment that had him shuddering, reduced to blind need.

After the first time she’d suggested a new position, he’d realized her intellectual curiosity had extended to this sphere, too; she was forever eager to explore, to learn more about things she’d clearly studied but had never experienced. Even so, as his hands fisted in her hair and he fought to breathe, her devotion to knowing all, experiencing all, was not something to be taken lightly.

No more than her hot mouth; initially untutored, she’d quickly learned how to drive him wild. How to, with excruciating exactitude, shred his control so he was wholly and completely in her power.

Her lips, those gloriously lush, ripe lips he’d fantasized about from the first, had become a wicked reality, pandering to his senses, caressing him with a wanton joy that sank to his bones. Being the absolute focus of her supremely sexual attentions cast a net over him, and held him effortlessly, made him her willing slave.

He gasped, spine bowing as she took him deep, as her small hands played, possessed.

Being hers, all hers, was in that moment all he wanted. Everything he wanted.

And when the heat and the passion, the fierce need that gripped them both became too much, she rose up and took him in, sheathed him in her body and rode him with a slow delicious languor that forced full awareness of every single sensation upon them both.

She had a will to match his, maintaining that slow pace even when their bodies, their ravenous senses, clamored for more. Hands spread on his chest, arms braced, she closed her eyes and rode him, steady and sure, deliberate and determined. Devoted, beyond question, to his delight and her own.

To pleasure—pleasuring him, and taking pleasure in doing so.