Page 121 of Where the Heart Leads
She turned. In the faint light of the single candle Barnaby had left on the hall table, she saw Mostyn shrugging into his coat as he came hurrying from the nether regions.
He saw her, slowed, then halted.
Even in the poor light, she saw him blush.
“Ah…I heard the door…” Collecting himself, he drew breath, drew himself up, and bowed. “Pray excuse me, ma’am.” He colored more definitely. “Miss.”
He hesitated as if unsure whether to leave her; puzzled by what she sensed from the man, she did as she usually did and took the bull by the horns.
“Mostyn, I realize the situation is somewhat awkward, however…I’m confused. When I first called on your master—incidentally he’s down the street fetching my carriage, too far away to hear—when we first met I was under the impression you disapproved of me. Yet you’ve now seen me leaving in illicit fashion twice, and—do correct me if I’m wrong, Mostyn, but instead of growing more disapproving, you seem to have unbent toward me.” She frowned, curious not censorious. “Why is that? Why are you now more approving rather than less?”
As she spoke, Mostyn had looked increasingly conscious, which only strengthened her desire to understand. He didn’t immediately reply, but she waited.
Eventually, shifting closer to where he could see out of the door, he cleared his throat. “I’ve worked for the master since he first came on the town. I know his ways.” Having confirmed said master was nowhere in sight, Mostyn met Penelope’s eyes. “He’s never brought any other lady here.” He colored again, but went on, “No other female of any degree. So when I saw you…well…”
Penelope caught his drift; she felt her expression blank. “Ah. I see.” She looked away, out of the door—hoping to see Barnaby striding back. He still wasn’t visible. She nodded. “Thank you, Mostyn. I understand.”
The man thought she and Barnaby…
In some ways Mostyn knew his master better than she.
Her mind in a whirl, she waited for Mostyn to leave her.
He hovered beside her, a pace deeper into the hall. After a moment, he cleared his throat again. “May I say, ma’am—miss—that I hope my conjecture isn’t unwelcome, nor that it’s amiss.”
His sincerity touched her. She turned to look at him. “No.” She drew breath and went on, “No, Mostyn, your conjecture isn’t unwelcome at all.”
The sound of Barnaby’s approaching footsteps reached them. She inclined her head to Mostyn, and turned to face the door, murmuring, “As for it being amiss, we’ll have to see.”
“Indeed, ma’am. I’ll hope to hear good news soon. I’ll bid you a good night.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mostyn bow, then silently withdraw, merging into the shadows at the rear of the hall.
Barnaby materialized out of the driving rain, and came quickly up the steps. She drew her cloak tighter and went out to meet him as her carriage rolled quietly up.
20
There was no way we could tell the order was fake, sir.” The captain of the Holborn watch house leaned across the plain table and poked at the order he’d received from Scotland Yard. “It’s on the right form, all filled out properly and signed, just like always.”
The order sat in the center of the table. Barnaby, seated opposite the captain, Stokes beside him, studied it, as did the sergeant who’d executed the subsequent warrant to search the Foundling House.
“It certainly appears genuine,” Stokes allowed. “Unfortunately, the signature isn’t that of anyone at the Yard, or indeed, on the force.”
The captain grimaced. “Aye, well, we couldn’t have known that. If we checked with the Yard to see if every signature on every order was genuine, we’d never have time to carry the orders out.”
Stokes nodded. “You’re right. Which is what our villain counted on.” He picked up the order, folding it.
The sergeant was frowning. “If I could ask, sir, who could this villain be, to be able to get hold of an order form and know just how to fill it out, and then get it sent to us in the official bag?”
Stokes smiled tightly. “That’s what I, and Mr. Adair, intend to find out.”
Leaving the watch house, Barnaby and Stokes emerged from Procter Street and turned into the mid-morning bustle of High Holborn. Halting at the curb, looking about for a hackney, Barnaby asked, “What was the signature? I didn’t see it well enough to make out.”
Stokes grunted. “Grimsby.”
Barnaby turned to stare at him. After a moment, he looked away. “Our Mr. Alert has a sense of humor.”
“He’s playing with us.”
