Page 14 of Where the Heart Leads
“Blond hair or brown?”
“Both—varying shades.”
“You said they were nimble and quick—did you mean quick as in movement, or quick-witted?”
Her brows rose. “Both, actually. I was looking forward to teaching all four boys—they were bright, all of them.”
“What about backgrounds? They were all from poor homes, but were these four from more stable families, likely to be better behaved, perhaps easier to train, more tractable?”
She pursed her lips, but again shook her head. “Their families weren’t of any one sort, as such, although all four had gone through difficult times, even for the East End. That’s why the boys were destined for us. All I could say is that there was no hint of any criminal associations in any of the four families.”
He nodded, looking ahead—to where her mother waited in her carriage, staring rather pointedly their way.
Penelope hadn’t noticed; she was busy studying his face. “What does that—what they look like and so on—tell you? How does it help?”
His gaze raking the line of carriages, Barnaby inwardly swore. How long had they been away? He should never have allowed her to distract him with her questions. Countless dowagers were peering at them, some even wielding lorgnettes. “I don’t know.”But I can guess.“I’ll take your answers back to Stokes, and see what he says. He’s better acquainted with that world than I.”
“Yes, please do.” Penelope halted beside the carriage door and fixed her gaze on his face. “You will inform me of what he thinks, won’t you?”
Adair looked down and met her gaze. “Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes, ignoring all the curious glances focused so avidly on them. “As soon as practicable.”
His lips thinned.
Uncaring of propriety, she tightened her grip on his arm, perfectly prepared to cling if he dared try to leave without promising…
Blue eyes like flint, he tersely conceded, “As you wish.”
She smiled and let him go. “Thank you. Until next we meet.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. “Indeed. Until then.”
Steely warning rang in his tone, but she didn’t care; she’d won her point.
He handed her into the carriage, took his leave of her mother, then, with another curt nod, strode off. She noted his direction—toward Scotland Yard, where Peel’s police had their headquarters; leaning back against the seat, she smiled a satisfied smile. Despite her senses’ preoccupation with him, she’d managed that encounter rather well.
4
Stokes was on his feet behind his desk, tidying it before leaving for the day, when Barnaby strode in. Stokes looked up, took in his friend’s features. “What?”
Penelope Ashford is going to be a problem.Barnaby drew in a controlled breath. “I asked Miss Ashford about the four boys.”
Stokes frowned. “Miss Ashford?”
“Penelope Ashford, Portia’s sister, currently the Foundling House’s administrator. She said all four boys were thin, wiry, nimble, and quick—both in movement and wits. She considered them brighter than the norm. Other than that, they range in age from seven to ten years old, are of widely differing heights, totally unprepossessing, and have no other indicative characteristics in common.”
“I see.” Eyes narrowing, Stokes dropped back into his chair. He waited while Barnaby walked in and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, then said, “It sounds like we can cross all arms of the flesh trade off our list.”
Barnaby nodded. “And one at least is far too tall to be useful as a chimney boy, so that’s off the list, too.”
“I ran into Rowland of the Water Police an hour ago—he was here for a meeting. I asked if there was any shortage of cabin boys. Apparently the opposite is the case, so there’s no reason to imagine these boys are being pressed into service on the waves.”
Barnaby met Stokes’s gaze. “So where does that leave us?”
Stokes considered, then his brows rose. “Burglars’ boys. That’s the most likely use for them by far—thin, wiry, nimble, and quick as they are. The fact they’re unremarkable is an added bonus—they wouldn’t be looking for any boy too pretty or noteworthy in any way. And in that part of the city…”
After a moment, Stokes continued, “There have, on and off over the years, been tales—true enough by all accounts—of, for want of a better description, ‘burglary schools’ run in the depths of the East End. The area is crowded. In some parts, it’s a warren of tenements and warehouses that not even the local bobbies are happy going into. These schools come and go. Each doesn’t last long, but often it’s the same people behind them.”
