Page 36 of Where the Heart Leads
Grimsby’s expression—of canny malicious avarice—didn’t change. “What’s he want?”
“He wants to be assured that you’ll provide the tools for his lark as agreed.”
Grimsby’s features eased. He shrugged. “You can tell him we’ve encountered no difficulties.”
Smythe narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were two boys short?”
“Aye, we are. But unless he’s changed his timetable, we’ve plenty of time to get the last two in and trained up fer you.”
Smythe hesitated, then glanced back at the shop door, confirming there was no one lurking. He lowered his voice. “You still picking off the orphans?”
“Aye—best source of what we need with no one to raise a ruckus. Used to be we had to pick ’em off the streets, and there’s always the risk of a hue and cry that road. But taking the orphans from round here—no one’s fussed.”
“So what’s your prospects for these last two boys? When will you have them?”
Grimsby hesitated, then, beady eyes narrowing, said, “I don’t tell you how to run your business, now do I?”
Smythe straightened. “Give over, Grimsby—I’m the one who has to deal with Alert. And what he’s got on is big.”
“Aye—and just who put your name up for that, heh?”
“You, you old reprobate, but that’s all the more reason I’ll hold you to your promise to get me all eight boys. Eight, all properly trained and trialed. And that takes time—time you’re running out of.”
“What in thunder do you need eight fer, anyway? Never heard of a caper that needs eight all at once.”
“Never you mind why. The way Alert’s playing this, it’s possible I might need all eight boys to do what he wants.”
Grimsby looked suspicious. “You aiming to leave the nippers behind?”
“Not aiming to, no. But I don’t want to have to tell Alert I can’t finish his runs because some boy got stuck in a window, or tripped over a footman on his way out. Trained or not, they make mistakes, and Alert—as you know—isn’t a forgiving man.”
“Aye, well, that’s the only reason I’ve come out of retirement—to appease Mr. Bloody Alert.”
Smythe studied Grimsby. “What’s he got on you, old man?”
“Neveryoumind. Getting you to see him, and then getting you these boys, that’s my end of things.”
“Exactly what Alert sent me to remind you.” Smythe’s gaze hardened. “So what of these last two boys? I need them—I want to be able to tell Alert that we have all eight as planned.”
Grimsby eyed him for a long moment, then said, “Plenty of orphans littering the streets, but not the sort we need. Suddenly they’re all lumbering oxes, or simpletons, or worse. No use, is what they are.” He paused, then leaned nearer, lowering his voice, “When I told you I’d have the eight, I had eight in mind. We’ve got six of ’em. But with these last two, their sick relatives ain’t turned out to be as sick as I’d heard.”
Smythe read Grimsby’s expression, read his beady little eyes—read between his words. Thought of Alert and his high-stakes game. “So…how sick are they—these ailing relatives? More to the point, what’s their names and where do they live?”
Throughout the next day, Sunday, Penelope was forced to possess her soul with what patience she could—until at last she and Barnaby—Adair—reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Instructed to stop outside the milliner’s shop, the hackney slowed, rolling along as the driver studied the façades.
The carriage halted before a single-fronted, white-painted shop. Drawn blinds screeened the interior, but the sign swinging above the door readGRISELDA MARTIN, MILLINER.
Barnaby—Adair—got out and handed her down. While he paid the jarvey, Penelope considered the three steps leading up to the front door, then turned and saw Stokes walking down the street toward them.
He nodded politely as he joined her. “Miss Ashford.” Over her head, he nodded to Barnaby. “Miss Martin should be expecting us.”
Penelope promptly walked up the steps and tugged the bellpull beside the door. She heard the bell peal inside.
A minute later, light footsteps came hurrying toward the door. A click sounded, and the door swung inward. Penelope looked up into lovely blue eyes set in a sweet, round, rosy-cheeked face. She smiled. “Hello. You must be Miss Martin.”
The woman blinked, then noticed Barnaby and Stokes on the pavement. Stokes quickly stepped forward. “Miss Martin, this is—”
“Penelope Ashford.” Stepping forward, Penelope held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
