Page 134 of Where the Heart Leads
“Lord Abingdon’s, in Park Place.” She sighed, looking forward. “Portia arranges all these affairs—and then goes off to the country with Simon and leaves me to attend them!” She paused, then went on, “I’ve never missed her so much as I do now. I hate having to concentrate on social niceties, on polite conversation, when there’s something so much more important to attend to.”
Soothingly stroking her fingers, he said, “In reality there’s nothing we can do tonight. We have no idea when Alert will attempt his next burglaries, whether he’ll spread them out over more than one night—we don’t even know how many more of the eight Smythe has yet to do. If Alert is well connected with the police, he’ll know they aren’t going to act until they hear back from the marquess about that urn. And even then what are they going to do? From the police’s point of view—the governors’ and Peel’s—it’s a devilishly difficult situation.”
She put her head back against the squabs. “I know. And Lord Abingdon is a kindly sort who helps us on several fronts. I can’t truly begrudge him the evening.” After a moment, she added, “Unfortunately, Mama can’t attend—she heard this morning that an old friend is failing and has gone off to Essex to see her before we have to leave for the Chase.”
Time was running out on more than one front. “I know Abingdon quite well. I helped him resolve a minor difficulty some years ago.” He caught her eyes when she looked at him. “I’ll escort you tonight, if you like.”
She looked at him for a long moment, studying his eyes, his face, then her lips lightly curved. “Yes. I’d like.”
He smiled. Raising her hand, he kissed her fingers again. “I’ll come for you at…what? Seven?”
Her smile deepening, she nodded. “Seven.”
At eleven o’clock that night, after a pleasant dinner with Lord Abingdon and two friends who, like his lordship, were interested in philanthropic works, Barnaby and Penelope descended the steps of his lordship’s town house to discover the fog had blown away, leaving the night crisp and clear.
“If I stare hard enough I can even see the stars.” Penelope tucked her hand in the crook of Barnaby’s elbow. “Let’s not bother with a hackney—it’ll be nice to walk.”
Barnaby glanced down at her as they started along the pavement. “We’ll have to cross half of Mayfair to reach Mount Street. You’re not, by any chance, hoping to run into Smythe along the way?”
Her brows rose. “Strange to say, that idea hadn’t crossed my mind.” She met his gaze; her lips were curved. “I wasn’t thinking of walking to Mount Street. Jermyn Street’s much closer.”
It was. He blinked. “Your mother…”
“Is in Essex.”
They reached Arlington Street; turning the corner, they continued strolling. “I feel I ought to point out that in the interests of propriety you shouldn’t be seen strolling down Jermyn Street on a gentleman’s arm at night.”
“Nonsense. In this cloak, with my hood up, no one will recognize me.”
He wasn’t sure why he was arguing; he was entirely content to have her come home with him—exactly as if they were already married, or at least an affianced couple—but…“Mostyn will be shocked.”
She snorted. “I could demand to see your menus for the week and all Mostyn would do is bow, murmur ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and hurry to fetch them.”
He blinked. It took a moment to digest all those few words conveyed. In the end, he said, “He addresses you as ‘ma’am’?”
She shrugged. “Many do.”
Many wasn’t Mostyn, his terribly correct gentleman’s gentleman. “I see.” They’d reached the corner of Bent Street. Without further argument, Barnaby turned them along it.
He glanced at her face; beneath her lighthearted, almost playful expression he could detect a certain determination. Given the unresolved state of their relationship, he suspected he’d be wise to graciously give way. And see where she was taking them.
It might very well be where he wanted to go.
Penelope was indeed plotting and planning—rehearsing suitable phrases with which to introduce the subject of marriage once they’d reached his house. In the parlor would be preferable; easier to talk there—less distraction, there being no bed.
She’d assumed any discussion of their relationship, of how it had evolved from the initial purely professional connection to something so much more, to the point that they now, as they had over the last two nights, appeared to all others as a couple, connected in that indefinable way that marked two people who were, or should be, married, would be better put off until after they’d rescued Dick and Jemmie.
But with Smythe proving so elusive…what was the point in waiting? In putting off the inevitable?
Especially when, as they’d proved time and again over the last week, the inevitable held significant benefits for them both.
She couldn’t believe that the reality of their relationship wasn’t as clear to him as it was to her. Shecouldbelieve, quite easily given her accumulated experience of gentlemen of his ilk, that he would vacillate over speaking—that even he would shy from declaring his heart.
She had no such reservations—was prey to no such hesitation. She felt perfectly able, and willing, to broach that particular subject.
But first they had to reach his parlor. She chatted blithely about this and that—curious about the gentlemen’s clubs she barely glimpsed as he whisked her across St. James—then they were strolling down Jermyn Street.
She felt her nerves tighten as his door came into view. He guided her up the steps, then released her to reach into his pocket for his key.
