Page 130 of Where the Heart Leads
“Looks like he’s still writing it,” Miller reported, voice lower, too.
Stokes sighed. He waved Miller in the direction he’d looked. “Go and make sure it’s sent off express. We have to cover ourselves at least that much.”
Once Miller had gone, Barnaby said, “From which comment I take it your superiors are still unwilling to admit they might have a series of extremely upsetting burglaries being committed right now, under their noses?”
Stokes nodded. “They don’t want to believe it. The thought sends them into a panic, and they don’t know what to do—and the truth is there’s precious little wecando, short of flooding Mayfair with constables, which is not only impractical but would cause a panic of its own.”
Heaving a huge sigh, Stokes sat back. He met Barnaby’s eyes. “The truth is we—the police force—are facing a political nightmare.”
He didn’t need to elaborate; if anything Barnaby could see the ramifications even better than Stokes. The police were going to appear inept fools, unable to protect the property of wealthy Londoners from the depredations of a single clever thief. In the current political climate, that was a setback the still youthful and evolving force didn’t need. Holding Stokes’s gaze, Barnaby flatly stated, “There has to be something we can do.”
Wrapped in her cloak, Penelope climbed the steps to Barnaby’s front door. Her brother’s carriage dallied by the curb even though she’d given the coachman—an ally of long standing—instructions to drive home to the mews behind Mount Street; he’d go once he saw her safely within doors. Steeling herself, she eyed the door, then raised a hand and rapped smartly.
Mostyn opened the door. His eyes widened.
“Good evening, Mostyn. Has your master returned yet?”
“Ah…no, ma’am.” Mostyn fell back, giving way as she walked in.
“Close the door. It’s chilly outside.” She pulled off her gloves and put back the hood of her cloak while he complied. When he turned to face her, she continued, “Your master and I were at Lord Montford’s when he—Adair—was called away urgently on some matter pertaining to our current investigation.” Turning, she walked toward the parlor. “I have to wait here for him to return.”
A statement of fact, one Mostyn didn’t question. He hurried to open the parlor door; she swept in and he followed. “Tea, ma’am?”
The fire was burning brightly. She walked to stand before it, warming her hands. “No, thank you, Mostyn.” She glanced around, then moved to the chair she’d occupied weeks before, when she’d first come to ask for Barnaby’s help. “I’ll just sit here by the fire, and wait.”
Sinking into the chair, she looked at Mostyn. “Please do retire—he may be quite late.”
Mostyn hesitated, but then bowed. “Very good, ma’am.”
He quietly withdrew, leaving the door ajar so she could see into the hall.
She listened to Mostyn’s footsteps fading, then, with a sigh, settled deeper into the chair and closed her eyes; she wasn’t content, but at least she was where she needed to be. She had no idea how long it might be before Barnaby came home, but she’d told Mostyn the unvarnished truth: she had to wait for him to return. She had to be there to see that he’d come to no harm—there was no point attempting to sleep until she knew he was safe.
The powerful, flaring need had hit her the instant he’d passed out of her sight at Lord Montford’s, in the moment she’d realized she had no notion what he was going out to face.The game is on.Who knew what Stokes had meant by that? They might, at that very moment, be chasing that devil Alert through alleyways and slums, out across the docks, dodging who knew what dangers.
Equally, they might be sitting in Stokes’s office, but how could she tell?
In the face of her need to know he was safe, the notion of falling asleep had been laughable. She’d traveled home with her mother, tipped her coachman the wink, waited for the house to quiet, then had slipped out the back door and into the mews.
She knew on some distant rational level that she was very likely worrying over nothing.
That didn’t change anything; the worry was still there. Potent, powerful, forceful enough to ensure she accepted that this was where she had to be—waiting for him to come home so she could see with her own eyes that he was unharmed.
She didn’t bother pondering why she felt so. The reason was no longer in question; it simply was. Undeniable, and obvious, as Lord Montford had made abundantly clear.
She would have to deal with that reason soon, but for tonight…it was enough to see him home safe and sound. The rest, the reason, could wait…for now.
It was the dead of night when Barnaby let himself in through his front door. He and Stokes had waited at Scotland Yard, hoping some other burglary would be reported, but none had been. Eventually accepting that nothing further would be known until morning, they’d left for their respective beds.
Sliding the bolt home, he headed for the stairs. The parlor door had been left open; he glanced in—and halted.
In the red glow of the dying fire, she was little more than a shapeless bundle in the chair, her face hidden, tucked to one side. But he knew it was she—knew it in his bones through some primitive sense that would recognize her anywhere, no matter the lack of detail.
Silently he went in, crossing to stand before the chair.
In that moment, he couldn’t put a name to what he felt, to the emotions that swelled, welled, and poured through him. He held still, made no sound, let the moment stretch, savoring it, hoarding the feelings, and the emotions, greedily holding them to his heart.
No one had ever waited up for him; no one had ever been there waiting when he came home at night, often tired and dejected, disappointed, sometimes disillusioned. And of all the people in the world, she was the one he wanted to be there, to be waiting for his return. She was the one in whose arms, for him, comfort lay.
