Page 13 of Where the Heart Leads
“Mr. Adair.” Lady Calverton held out her hand, recalling him.
He took her gloved fingers and bowed over them. “Lady Calverton.”
Behind their gold-rimmed spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. He met them, and politely inclined his head. “Miss Ashford.”
She smiled easily; social assurance was something neither she nor Portia lacked. Turning to her mother, she said, “Mr. Adair is assisting me with inquiries into the backgrounds of certain of our charges.” She looked at Barnaby. “I daresay you have more questions, sir.”
“Indeed.” He, too, could play the social game. He glanced at the lawns nearby. “I wonder, Miss Ashford, if perhaps we might stroll while we talk?”
She smiled approvingly. “An excellent idea.” To her mother she said, “I doubt we’ll be long.”
Swinging open the carriage door, he offered her his hand. She grasped it and climbed down. Releasing him, she shook out her skirts, then seemed mildly surprised when he offered his arm.
She took it, hesitantly laying her hand on his sleeve; to him her touch seemed almost wary.
Interesting. He doubted there was much in the ton, or out of it, that could make her…cautious. Yet he sensed it was that—and perhaps a need to seize control—that had her saying as they moved away from the carriage and the other strollers nearby, “I take it you spoke with your friend, Inspector Stokes. Have you learned anything?”
“Other than that Stokes is inclined to amuse himself by investigating these disappearances?”
The look she turned on him was gratifyingly wide-eyed. “You persuaded him to take up the case?”
Temptation bloomed, but chances were that she would meet Stokes at some point. “Not so much persuaded as assisted him to find reasons he should. Personally he was quite willing, but the force has its priorities. In this instance, Stokes felt he could make a case for action that would appeal to the commissioner.” He met her eyes. “He hasn’t yet received permission to put this case on his list, but he seemed confident of gaining approval.”
Penelope nodded and looked ahead. Police support was far more than she’d expected. Consulting Barnaby Adair had clearly been the right thing to do—even if her witless senses hadn’t yet learned how to be calm when near him. “You called Stokes a friend. Have you known him long?”
“Several years.”
“How did you meet?” She looked up. “Well—an earl’s son and a policeman. There had to be some event that brought him into your orbit. Or was it through your own investigating?”
He hesitated, as if remembering. “A bit of both,” he eventually conceded. “I was present at the scene of a crime—a series of thefts at a country house party—and he was sent to investigate. I was a close friend of the gentleman most wished to blame. Both Stokes and I were, in different ways, a little out of our depth. But we found we dealt well together, and our combined knowledge—mine of the ton, Stokes’s of the ways of criminals—proved successful in addressing the crime.”
“Simon and Portia were much struck by Stokes. They spoke highly of him after the events at Glossup Hall.”
Adair’s smile turned subtly affectionate. Penelope sensed he was pleased and proud on his friend’s behalf even before he said, “That was Stokes’s first major murder case in the ton alone. He did well.”
“How was it you didn’t accompany him into Devon? Or don’t you always work together on cases within the ton?”
“Usually we work together—it’s quicker and more cerain that way. But when the report came in from Glossup Hall, we were in the middle of a long-standing case involving members of the ton here in London. The commissioner and the governors elected to send Stokes to Devon, leaving me to continue the investigation here.”
She’d heard of the scandal that had ensued; naturally, she had questions, which she promptly posed. Said questions were so insightful and so succinctly phrased, he found himself answering readily, seduced by a mind that saw and understood. Until one of the park gates loomed before them. He blinked, then glanced around. They’d walked, more or less in a straight line, away from the Avenue. She’d distracted him with her interrogation—he hadn’t even asked her what he’d come there to learn. Lips setting, he checked and turned her about. “We should return to your mother.”
Penelope shrugged. “She won’t mind. She knows we’re discussing serious matters.”
But none of the other grande dames do.Biting back the words, he quickened his stride.
“So what questions did Stokes raise?” Penelope asked. “I assume there were some.”
“Indeed. He asked if there were any traits or characteristics the four missing boys share.” He forbore giving her any example, not wanting to color her response.
She frowned, her straight dark brows forming a line above her nose. They continued to walk, rather briskly, while she thought. Eventually she volunteered, “They are, all four of them, rather thin and slight, but they’re healthy and strong enough—wiry, if you like. And all struck me as nimble and quick. But they aren’t all the same height. In fact, I can’t think of any other characteristic they have in common. They weren’t even the same age.”
It was his turn to frown. After a moment, he asked, “How tall was the tallest?”
She held up her hand level with her ear. “Dick was about this tall. But Ben—the second one who disappeared—was more than a head shorter.”
“What about their general appearance—were they attractive children, or…?”
She shook her head decisively. “Plain and totally unremarkable. Even if you dressed them well, they would never rate a second glance.”
