Page 116 of Where the Heart Leads
The changes he and their relationship were making in her were a trifle unsettling. She didn’t readily suffer fools, or any impinging on her will or her directions, yet with him…she felt not softer but less rigid, less defensive, and therefore willing and able to accommodate him within certain bounds. Within some structure she’d yet to define; she’d yet to decide whether their relationship would be—could be—compatible with marriage.
Whether marriage to Barnaby Adair might work.
Whether marriage to him was her true destiny.
Reaching the rear door, he glanced back at her. “Wait here while I check.” Opening the door, he stepped out, partially closing it behind him, protecting her from the gust of chilly wind that tried to barrel into the house, and from any potentially curious eyes.
She contemplated the half-open door, and the calmness that held her. Her frustration with the investigation—her impatience, and the hurdles that seemed so insurmountable she had to consider that despite all they did they might not be able to rescue Dick and Jemmie—would normally have had her pacing and railing.
Uselessly, but she would still have railed, both silently and vociferously in turn. Which would have been a great waste of energy, and most likely would have given her a headache.
Instead, she’d come to Barnaby, and now felt calm and somehow stronger. Better able to deal with whatever demands the investigation made of her, more confident that, somehow, they—he, she, Stokes, and Griselda—would triumph.
That confidence had no firm basis, yet still it buoyed her, giving her hope and the resolve to go on.
Barnaby returned, pushing the door wider to offer his hand.
She smiled, placed her fingers in his—still felt that special thrill as his fingers closed around hers—and let him draw her over the threshold.
The carriage was waiting. She turned to farewell Barnaby. A distracted frown in his eyes, he reached for the hood of her cloak and lifted it over her loosely pinned hair; half of her pins still lay scattered about his bedroom floor.
Smiling, she raised a hand and laid her palm briefly against his cheek. “Thank you.” For an afternoon that had meant more to her than she’d known any interlude could, for taking care of her and her complex needs unasked, spontaneously.
He caught her hand, kissed her fingers. “The instant Stokes or I learn anything relevant, I’ll come and tell you.”
She nodded. She was about to turn away when a movement in the corridor behind Barnaby caught her eye.
It was Mostyn. He must have returned early from his afternoon off. Like any experienced gentleman’s gentleman, he made himself scarce when she was with Barnaby; he’d come out of the kitchen unaware they were at the rear door. He saw them, froze, then, after a moment’s hesitation, to her considerable surprise—she was perfectly aware he didn’t approve of her—he bowed. A very correct acknowledgment untainted by any hint of disrespect.
Before she could react, Barnaby, unaware of her distraction, grasped her arm and urged her to the carriage. Turning, she followed his direction.
Opening the carriage door, he helped her in. “Let me know if you hear—or think—of anything pertinent.”
“I will.” As he shut the door, she glanced back, but could no longer see into the corridor. “Good-bye.”
Barnaby stepped back and saluted her, then signaled to her coachman. With a jingle of the harness, the carriage pulled away.
The following afternoon, Penelope was sitting on the chaise in old Lady Harris’s drawing room, sipping tea and pretending to listen to the babble of conversations about her, when the select gathering of some of the ton’s most influential ladies—those still in town because their husbands held senior posts within the government and were therefore not yet free to retreat to the country—was disrupted in spectacular fashion by the entrance of a policeman.
Few of the ladies had met one before. Consequently, Silas, Lady Harris’s butler’s announcement—“A member of the constabulary has called, ma’am”—was greeted with a profound silence little else could have achieved.
The constable, a middle-aged man in a tightly fitting uniform who had followed in the imposing Silas’s wake, looked taken aback by the stares directed his way. But when Lady Harris in her sweet bemused way inquired as to his business, he collected himself and looked around the room. “I’m here to fetch Miss Ashford.”
Penelope set down her cup and rose. “I’m Miss Ashford. I take it Inspector Stokes sent you?”
The constable frowned. “No, miss. I’m here because the ladies at the Foundling House said as you were the one in charge. My sergeant just executed a warrant against the house. You’re wanted there to answer questions.”
Penelope stared at him.
The constable waved to the door. “If you’ll come along with me, miss?”
She went, leaving considerable consternation in her wake—and not a small amount of gossip. Her mother would smooth things over—as far as was possible—but Penelope gave thanks she was not the sort of young lady to be easily affected by the ton’s opinion; her life and her happiness, thankfully, were not dependant on the ton’s approbation.
The hackney the constable had had waiting pulled up outside the Foundling House. She forced herself to let the constable descend first and hold the door for her; such little things emphasized her rank, something she would very likely need to wield in dealing with the constable’s sergeant.
She swept into the house, consciously drawing on the quiet superiority her mother and the Lady Harrises of the world used to command. Stripping off her gloves, she cast a critical glance around. “Where’s your sergeant?”
“This way, miss.”
