Page 33 of Where the Heart Leads
He’d chosen carefully. Only one item from each address. Chances were they wouldn’t even be missed, not until the families returned in March, and possibly not even then. And once they were…the staff of the houses would be the obvious suspects.
By all accounts, Smythe was a master of his trade. He—or rather the boys he used—would be in and out without leaving any trace.
And there wouldn’t be any fences involved to later assist the authorities. He’d eliminated the need. Knowing the world of the ton as he did—and the Lord knew he’d studied it avidly—he’d appreciated that a judicious choice of items would ensure immediate resale, and on his terms.
He already had collectors keen to acquire the items, no questions asked. Selling to such people would ensure they never even contemplated exposing him. And the prices they were willing to pay would easily free him of the debt currently weighing him down, even with the constantly increasing load.
Slipping the list of houses back in his pocket, he smiled even more broadly. Of course, the items were much more valuable than he’d intimated to Smythe, but he couldn’t imagine that a burglar from the East End would ever guess their true worth.
He would need to be careful, but he could handle Smythe, and Smythe would handle Grimsby.
All was going precisely as he wished. And soon he would be as wealthy as everyone in his life thought him to be.
7
The following morning, on Barnaby Adair’s arm, Penelope climbed the steps of a nondescript building on Great Scotland Yard.
Her curiosity was running high. She’d heard all the commonly told tales of Peel’s Police Force, the tonnish rumblings that had accompanied its establishment and consequent development over the last years, but this was the first time she’d come into contact with members of said force. More, other than Adair, she knew of no one who had visited its headquarters; she was agog to see what the place was like.
As he ushered her into the front foyer—a depressingly ordinary area in uninspiring shades of gray—she looked around, keen to see whatever there was to be seen. Quite aside from appeasing her natural inquisitiveness, concentrating on absorbing all she could about the police force helped avoid absorbing more about Adair—his nearness, his strength, his unfailing handsomeness—items from which her misbehaving senses steadfastly refused to be distracted.
Inwardly lecturing herself, she studied the only distraction the foyer offered—a little man in a dark blue uniform seated on a high stool behind a raised counter along one side. He glanced up, saw her—but then saw Adair. Raising a hand in an acknowledging salute, the man returned to his ledgers.
She frowned and looked about. Other than some clerk disappearing into the nether regions there was no one else around. “Is this where they deal with criminals? It seems awfully quiet.”
“No. This building houses the senior investigating officers. There are bobbies in the building next door and a watch house down the street.” She felt Adair’s gaze touch her face. “We won’t be running into any villains today.”
Inwardly she grimaced, and prayed Stokes proved better fodder for distraction. After last night and the two reckless waltzes she’d shared with Adair, she needed something to focus on—something other than him. The increasing intensity of her reaction to him was disturbing in a way that tantalized as much as bothered her.
He steered her to the stairs at the end of the foyer. As they climbed, she reminded herself that thinking of him as Adair, rather than Barnaby, would help in keeping him at a sensible distance. Despite her earlier resolution, she’d yet to define a way forward—a way of dealing with him that would nullify the effect he had on her nerves, her senses, and, to her supreme irritation, sometimes her wits.
Unfortunately, her failure to devise an effective plan had left her wayward senses free to seize the day and slip their leash, and wallow as they would. As they had during those waltzes last night. As they had this morning when he’d arrived as promised to escort her there.
As they still were.
Mentally gritting her teeth, she vowed that the instant she had a moment to spare, she was going to find some way to make them stop.
At the head of the stairs Adair guided her to the right, down a long corridor. “Stokes’s office is down here.”
He led her to an open door; his hand brushed the back of her waist as he ushered her through, sending unwelcome awareness streaking through her.
Luckily, the man—gentleman?—seated behind the desk gave her something else to think about. He glanced up as she entered, then laid aside his pen and rose.
To his full, imposing six-foot height.
After returning from Glossup Hall, Portia had described Stokes to her, but as Portia had, by then, been engaged to Simon Cynster, her description had, Penelope now realized, lacked a certain depth.
Stokes was, to her eyes, quite fascinating. Not in the same way Adair, close by on her right, was, thank heaven; Stokes engaged her curiosity and piqued her interest on quite a different plane. She immediately sensed he was something of an enigma; while her mind instantly latched on to that promising fact, her senses and her nerves remained entirely unaffected.
Walking forward, she smiled and held out her hand. “Inspector Stokes.”
He studied her for a heartbeat, then reached across the desk and shook her hand. He shot a quick glance at Adair. “Miss Ashford, I presume?”
“Indeed. Mr. Adair and I are here to consult with you on the matter of our missing boys.”
Stokes hesitated, then looked at Barnaby, who had no difficulty reading the questions in his friend’s eyes.
“This Miss Ashford is even less conventional than her sister.” He let Stokes read his resignation—that he hadn’t brought her there willingly—then moved to position one of the chairs before the desk for her.
