Page 29 of Where the Heart Leads
“Won’t be spoken to, either.” She paused, then said, “I, however, can still move among the locals. They know who I am—they trust me. I’m still one of them.”
He’d tensed. A dark turbulence came into his eyes. “I can’t let you do that. It’s too dangerous.”
She shrugged. “I’ll dress down, let my accent come through. And there’ll be far less danger for me than for you.”
He held her gaze, and she knew he was torn.
“You need my help—those boys need my help.”
Lips compressed, he stared at her, then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I’ll agree to you asking questions on one condition, and one condition only. I go with you.”
She opened her mouth to point out the obvious.
He silenced her with an upraised hand. “I can pass well enough in disguise, as long as I don’t have to talk. You can do the talking. I’ll be there purely for your protection—but I must be there, or you don’t go.”
She longed to ask him how he intended to stop her, but if her father heard she was asking questions about schoolmasters he would worry, and there was no question but that having Stokes at her shoulder would, even in the roughest sections of the East End, count as very good protection.
Relaxing back against the seat, she nodded. “Very well. We’ll go together.”
Some of the tension holding him eased.
She glanced out, and realized they were back in St. John’s Wood High Street. The carriage rocked to a halt before her door. Stokes descended, and handed her out. She could, she decided, get used to being treated like a lady.
Shaking out her skirts, she glanced at her door, then turned and met his gaze. “So when should we go back?”
He frowned. “Not tomorrow. I should share the information we’ve uncovered with a colleague—the one who brought the case to my attention. He might have news that will help us to fix on which of our possible villains is the most likely.”
“Very well.” She inclined her head. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
He fell in beside her as she walked the few feet to her front steps. As she climbed them, then hunted for her key and unlocked the door, she was aware of him looking at the shop, as if with new eyes.
The door open, she turned and regarded him, brows lifting faintly in query.
His elusive smile flashed. He looked down for a moment, then lifted his head. “I was just thinking you must have worked very hard to get from the East End to here.” His eyes trapped hers. “That in itself is a significant accomplishment. That you’ve retained the ability to move in your original circles—while I’m grateful for the benefits that brings my investigation”—he paused, then continued, his voice lower, softer—“I also find that admirable.”
He held her gaze for a breathless instant, then inclined his head. “Good evening, Miss Martin. I’ll be in touch in a day or so, once I have news.”
He turned and made his way unhurriedly down the steps.
It took a moment and more to shake free of her surprise, to register that yes, he had indeed paid her a compliment, and no little one at that. Feeling suddenly exposed, she stepped inside and shut the door, then hesitated. With one fingertip she eased aside the blind—and watched his departing back, savoring the elegant lines, the muscular grace of his stride, until he climbed into the hackney and shut the door.
With a mental sigh, she let the blind fall and listened to the clop of hooves slowly fade.
That evening, Barnaby did something he’d never done. He propped one shoulder against a fashionable matron’s wall and over the heads of the assembled throng studied a young lady across the room.
For once he was grateful that the matron in question, Lady Moffat, had a drawing room whose small size was at odds with her extensive acquaintance. Despite the continuing exodus of ton families from the capital, enough remained to ensure that the crowd packed into the limited space gave him adequate cover.
Within the ton, such cover was thinning by the day. Just when, for the first time in his life, he had need of it. His mother, he felt sure, would laugh herself into stitches if she learned of his predicament.
She’d laugh even more if she could see him.
He didn’t have any question to ask Penelope yet here he was, watching her. He’d decided he may as well obsess over her in person, rather than sit at home staring into the fire and seeing her face in the flames. Alone, by himself, he would think of nothing but her; no other subject, not even the puzzling case she’d brought him, served to break her spell.
The saner, more rational part of him felt he should be stubbornly resisting her lure. The rest of him, led by a more primitive side he hadn’t previously thought he possessed, had already surrendered.
As if the notion flitting about the corners of his mind were inevitable.
As if it were a truth he couldn’t—wouldn’t be able to no matter how hard he tried—deny.
