Page 38 of Where the Heart Leads
Barnaby held his breath. Once again he was tempted to speak and state the obvious—that there was no disguise that would adequately dim Penelope’s startling vitality, let alone her innate aristocratic grace. Once again instinct cautioned him to keep his lips tightly shut. He exchanged a glance with Stokes; his friend was similarly on tenterhooks, wanting to influence the outcome and knowing they would be damned if they tried.
Penelope bore Griselda’s scrutiny with unimpaired confidence.
Eventually, Griselda pronounced, “You’ll never pass as an East Ender.”
Barnaby wanted to cheer.
“But,”Griselda continued, “I could, in the right clothes, with the right hat and shawl, see you as a Covent Garden flowerseller. They come to the markets quite often, plying their wares there during the hours the nobs aren’t around their normal haunts, and most importantly, many of them are…well, they’re by-blows, so your features won’t mark you as a fraud.”
Barnaby shot a horrified look at Stokes.
Stokes returned it with interest.
Then Griselda grimaced. “Be that as it may, while we might be able to disguise your appearance, the instant you open your mouth you’ll give yourself away.”
Barnaby glanced at Penelope, expecting to see her deflating with disappointment. Instead, she glowed.
“You needn’t worry about me, love.” Her voice sounded quite different—still her, but a different her. “I can speak any number of languages—Latin, Greek, Italian, Spanish, French, German, and Russian among them—so East End to me is just another language, one easier to master, and one I hear every day.”
Barnaby hated to admit it, but he was impressed. Crossing his arms, he sank back against the sofa; glancing at Stokes—seeing his own inner consternation mirrored in his eyes—he shrugged.
They’d lost the battle, too.
Griselda was openly amazed. “That was…perfect. If I wasn’t looking at you, I would have thought you were from…oh, somewhere around Spitalfields.”
“Indeed. So once adequately disguised, I’ll be able to help gather the information we need.” She glanced at Barnaby, and sweetly asked, “I assume you’ll be accompanying us, too?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Count on it.” He looked at Griselda. “Don’t worry about me—Stokes can confirm my disguise will work.”
Stokes nodded. “As will mine.” To Griselda he said, “We’ve done this before.”
She studied his face, then nodded. “Very well.” She looked back at Penelope. “So we have to put together your disguise.”
They eventually decided that Griselda would borrow a suitable skirt, blouse, and jacket from the maids from a nearby house. “I do their Easter bonnets for them—they’ll be happy to help. And they’re your size.”
That settled, Stokes brought out his list of names. Together, he and Griselda worked out a sensible order in which to tackle the list.
They agreed to meet at the shop at nine o’clock the next morning.
“That’ll give me time to set my apprentices to their work. Then we’ll have to disguise you”—she nodded at Penelope—“and then get to Petticoat Lane. We should arrive there by half past ten, which will be the perfect time to start moving through the stalls. The crowds will be big enough by then for us to merge in.”
With all decided, they shook hands, Penelope and Griselda both patently pleased with their new acquaintance, then trooped down into the shop.
Griselda showed them to the door. Following Penelope and Barnaby, Stokes paused on the doorstep to exchange a few words.
Barnaby left him to it. The hackney was waiting to return him and Penelope to Mayfair; he handed her up, then followed, shutting the door.
Dropping onto the seat beside her, he stared straight ahead, considering—not happily—what tomorrow would bring.
Beside him Penelope continued to beam, radiating eager enthusiasm. “Our disguises will work perfectly—there’s no need to worry.”
He crossed his arms. “I’m not worrying.” His tone suggested he was far beyond that.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’ll be perfectly safe with Griselda and Stokes. He is a policeman, after all.”
He managed not to growl. “I’ll be there.” A moment ticked past, then he flatly stated, “In fact, I’ll be glued to your side.” His temper rose as the possibilities continued to reel through his mind. “Can you imagine what your brother would say if he knew you were trooping about the East End passing yourself off as a Covent Gardenflowerseller?” Usually more accurately termed a Covent Garden whore.
“I can, actually.” She remained entirely unperturbed. “He’d go pale, as he always does when he’s reining in his temper, then he’d argue, in that tight, clipped, frightfully controlled voice of his, and then, when he lost the argument, he’d lose his temper and throw his hands in the air and storm out.”
