Page 17 of Where the Heart Leads
It was his investigative self she smiled at, the intellectual side of him. That was what had made him feel so strangely touched. It was refreshing to have his manly attributes overlooked—dismissed as inconsequential—and instead be appreciated for his mind and his accomplishments. Penelope might wear spectacles, but her vision was a great deal more incisive than her peers’.
They finally reached the corner. There they were somewhat isolated from the main body of guests, cut off by the traffic into and out of the salon. They could talk freely, yet were in full view of the company.
“Perfect.” Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him. “So! What did Inspector Stokes deduce?”
He suppressed the urge to inform her that Stokes hadn’t been the only one deducing. “After considering all the possible activities in which boys of that age might be employed, it seemed that by far the most likely in this case would be burglary.”
She frowned. “What do burglars want with young boys?”
He explained. She exclaimed.
Eyes sparkling behind her lenses, she categorically stated, “We must rescue our boys without delay.”
Taking note of the determination ringing in her tone, Barnaby kept his expression impassive. “Indeed. While Stokes is assessing his contacts in order to search for this school, there’s another route I believe we should consider.”
She met his gaze. “What?”
“Are there any other similar boys who might be orphaned soon?”
She stared at him for an instant, her dark eyes wide. He’d expected her to ask why; instead, in a bare instant, she’d fathomed his direction and, from her arrested expression, was only too ready to follow it.
“Are there?” he prompted.
“I don’t know, not off the top of my head. I go on all the visits, but sometimes a year can pass between a child being entered into our files and the guardian actually dying.”
“So there’s a list of sorts, of potential upcoming orphans?”
“Not a list, unfortunately, but a stack of files.”
“But the files have an address, and a basic description of the boy?”
“Yes to the address. But the description we take is just age and eye and hair color—not enough for your purpose.” She met his gaze. “However, I can often remember the children, certainly those I’ve seen recently.”
He drew breath. “Do you think—”
“Miss Ashford.”
They both turned to see a young gentleman bowing extravagantly.
He straightened and beamed at Penelope. “Mr. Cavendish, Miss Ashford. Your mama and mine are great friends. I wondered if you’d care to dance? I believe they’re preparing for a cotillion.”
Penelope frowned. “No, thank you.” She seemed to hear the frost in her tone; she thawed enough to add, “I’m not especially fond of cotillions.”
Mr. Cavendish blinked. “Ah. I see.” He was clearly unaccustomed to being refused.
Although Penelope’s discouraging mien didn’t ease, he shifted as if to join their conversational group.
She reached out and seized his arm, and forcibly turned him about. “That’s Miss Akers over there.” She directed his attention down the room. “The girl in the pink dress with the rosebuds rioting over it. I’m sure she’d love to dance the cotillion.” She paused, then added, “She’s certainly dressed for it.”
Barnaby bit his lip. Cavendish, however, meekly bobbed his head. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He glanced hopefully at Penelope, who nodded, brisk and encouraging. “Of course.” She released his arm.
With a nod to Barnaby, Cavendish took himself off.
“Now.” Penelope turned back to Barnaby. “You were saying?”
He had to cast his mind back. “I was wondering—”
