Page 125 of Where the Heart Leads
Smiling, Penelope inclined her head. “I’ll remind them.”
They parted; she watched as Lady Paignton swept up to a tall, well-set-up gentleman, extremely distinguished with silver wings in his dark hair. He was the first of the gentlemen to reappear in the drawing room. Viscount Paignton was one of the major landowners in Devon and had become increasingly influential, especially in Home Office affairs.
She hadn’t intended to visually eavesdrop, but the light in Lord Paignton’s eyes—a mixture of pride, joy, and happiness as he looked on his wife—was impossible to miss.
Impossible to mistake.
Entirely unexpectedly, Penelope was struck by a sudden, very specific yearning—that a man would, one day, look at her with just such a light in his eyes. Not the rather innocent and naïve light, the untested light one saw in a newly married couple’s eyes, but that deeper, mature, and abiding glow that spoke of an enduring love.
She blinked and looked away, and wondered where that thought—that want—had come from, from where within her it had suddenly sprung.
Lady Curtin paused beside her. “So very heartening, my dear, to see Adair dancing attendance on you.” Before Penelope could correct her—Barnaby was there in lieu of his father—her ladyship rolled on, “I’m an old friend of Dulcie, his mother, and I have to tell you that boy—well, man as he now is—has driven her to distraction with his absolute refusal to engage with marriageable females, let alone properly look about him for a wife. The way he avoids ton females—well, the marriageable sort anyway—you’d think they carried the plague! According to Dulcie, he’s elevated avoidance to an art form. Why, even when he appears as Cothelstone’s deputy, as he has tonight, he usually refuses utterly to play the game.”
Finally pausing to draw a longer breath, Lady Curtin studied her. “You aren’t quite the normal run of young ladies, yet regardless you’re entirely eligible. If an odd kick to your gallop is what’s needed to fix his attention, then so be it—I know Dulcie will swoon at your feet.”
With a brisk pat on Penelope’s wrist, Lady Curtin swept on.
Leaving Penelope slightly dazed.
Unbidden, her gaze traveled to the doorway through which more gentlemen were ambling, those at the rear still caught in discussions. At the very back of the crowd, she saw a gilded head, bent to catch what Lord Carlingford was saying.
Alone for the moment on the other side of the room, she seized the chance to study him. To consider…her recent thoughts, Lady Curtin’s revelations, Lady Parkdale’s arch comments, the light in Lord Paignton’s eyes.
Barnaby didn’t look at her like that…but could he?
If she followed the path her heart was increasingly urging her down, would he, one day in the future?
He parted from Lord Carlingford; scanning the room, he saw her, smiled, and started toward her.
She watched him approach, his attention fixed on her. Recalled she’d heard Lady Curtin’s comments echoed by others; the Honorable Barnaby Adair did not dance attendance on marriageable females.
Except her.
He smiled, reclaimed her hand and laid it on his sleeve. “I’ve said all I wish to about the police tonight. Have you any others you wish to speak with?”
Deciding to be wise, she smiled and directed him to Lord Fitchett.
Tonight she had to leave with her mother, which was, perhaps, just as well. She needed to think about Barnaby Adair. And thinking about him in a rational, logical manner was difficult, not to say impossible, while in his arms.
The man who called himself Mr. Alert stood in the shadows beneath the old tree at the center of the cemetery at the corner of St. John’s Wood High Street. The fog clung close as a shroud; he heard Smythe approaching long before the man came into view, slipping between two large gravestones to reach the tree.
Eyes screened beneath the brim of an old cap pulled low over his forehead, Smythe halted and scanned the darkness under the tree.
Alert smiled to himself. “I’m here.”
Smythe ducked beneath the canopy. “It’s a poor night for walking—a much better night for burgling.”
“I daresay tomorrow night will be the same. Are you ready?”
“Aye. The boys are as ready as I can make them, leastways in so short a time. Lucky they’re quick and sharp enough to know it’s in their best interests to work hard.”
“Good.” Pulling a set of folded papers from his pocket, Alert handed it to Smythe. “These are the details of the items to be lifted from the first four houses, in the order in which I want the burglaries performed. You don’t need to read any of it now. I’ve described each item, well enough so any fool could recognize it. Also noted is the location, in detail, of the item inside the house, not just where it will be found but what doors and locks might be in the way. There’s nothing the merest child couldn’t handle in the way of locks.”
Unfolding the pages, Smythe tilted them so they caught what light there was. He couldn’t read anything, but could see the wealth of detail provided.
“As we discussed,” Alert went on, “I’ll be driving a small, black town carriage, unmarked, around the streets. I’ll be dressed as a coachman. I’ll rendezvous with you at the corner noted at the bottom of each description, close by each house, and relieve you of the item lifted. None are too big for the boys to get out of each house, but all are unwieldy enough that you won’t want to chance walking any great distance with them.”
Smythe’s head came up. “And you’ll hand over the down payment for each item as we deliver it?”
