Page 45 of Where the Heart Leads
It required no effort to look suitably interested. Especially as the information allowed her to say, “That must leave a bit of a hole hereabouts. Any word on who’s filling it?”
Charlie laughed. “You’re right about the hole, but there’s no word of anyone rushing in to take advantage. Then again, it’s the off-season. No doubt there’ll be more activity come next year.”
Stokes, beside her, roughly nudged her. Without looking around, he growled, “You’d best get to this, if you want any.”
She shot him a glance, realized he was telling her to stop her questioning. Turning back to Uncle Charlie and the other three men, she smiled. “I’d best eat, or I’ll miss out.”
They all chuckled and bobbed their heads in farewell.
Still smiling, Griselda swiveled back to face the others. “Well,” she said, “that was interesting.”
“Eat.” Stokes pushed the plate of steaming mussels and whelks toward her.
She glanced at him, aware of the dark tension still gripping his large frame, curious over what had caused it. But there was nothing—no clue—to be found in his face. With a mental shrug, she reached for a mussel. Lifting her spoon, she deftly opened the shell and scooped the mollusk in its warm juices into her mouth.
From across the table, Penelope watched, through narrowed eyes, admiring Griselda’s confident wielding of the spoon. If anyone had told her, survivor of countless ton dinner parties that she was, accustomed to dealing with courses and cutlery of every conceivable type, that one day she’d be defeated by a simple spoon and a shell, she’d have scoffed.
But so it had proved.
Her fingers just didn’t seem large enough, or strong enough, to hold the shell and insert and twist the spoon, at least not simultaneously.
She’d been reduced to accepting food from Barnaby’s hand—a fact he, and Stokes, found amusing. They hadn’t actually grinned, but she’d detected the expressions in their eyes, and she knew. Men!
Holding out her hand palm up, she waited until Barnaby set another opened mussel into it. Gripping the shell, she had to concentrate to scoop the flesh up and into her mouth without disaster, but that, at least, she could manage; if she’d had to let Barnaby feed her with a spoon, she would have lost her appetite.
Which would have been a pity. She’d never eaten such fare in her life—never sat outside in a crowded street to dine—but the little morsels of seafood were delicious, and she’d discovered she was seriously hungry.
She’d only taken a tiny sip of the ale; to her it tasted very bitter. Barnaby and Stokes, however, between them drained the jug.
Griselda quickly accounted for her share of the mussels and whelks. There were no napkins; Penelope noted the others wiped their mouths with their cuffs. Tugging the cuff of her shirt down so she could grip it, she did the same.
“You missed a drop.”
She glanced around, and found Barnaby studying her face. Before she could ask where, he raised a hand and brushed his thumb over the corner of her mouth.
The frisson that raced through her shocked her. Had she been standing, it would have brought her to her knees.
“There.” His eyes slowly rose and met hers. There was heat in the blue orbs, more than enough to steal her breath.
He held her gaze for a moment, and there was nothing remotely soft or gentle in his eyes.
Then his lids lowered; he smiled and eased back. With a wave, he encouraged her off the bench and to her feet.
She found herself upright, blinking, trying to get her bearings in what suddenly seemed a shifting landscape.
Stokes and Griselda—who glanced back and waved at her uncle Charlie and his mates—led the way up the street; his hand burning her back, then sliding around to rest possessively at her hip, Barnaby steered her in their wake.
She reminded herself that he was only doing it—all those unnerving, disconcerting touches—to make her regret insisting on participating in the day’s events.
Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t diminish the effect of said actions on her nerves, her senses.
They wended their way through Brick Lane market in much the same manner as in Petticoat Lane, but while the cheery stallholders in Petticoat Lane had offered a wide variety of wares for sale, fabrics and leather goods predominating, the Brick Lane stalls were peopled by sly-eyed characters, and fully half their goods remained concealed beneath the counter. Said goods were mostly ornaments or jewelry, or tatty furniture and bric-a-brac. Many of the trestles set out on the pavement were intended to lure customers into the gloomy sheds behind. Curious, Penelope ventured into one, and found it piled to the rafters with what appeared to be generations of musty old furniture, none of which would fare well in the light of day.
The owner, spotting her, came hurrying toward her, unctuously smiling. Looming at her shoulder, Barnaby scowled, grabbed her arm, and hauled her away.
It was Griselda who learned more of Joe Gannon, confirming that his present business premises were located in a building on Spital Street. He apparently specialized in “selling old stuff.” He was the last of the four sure to be known by those in the markets; although they kept their ears peeled, and Griselda did ask, they learned nothing of the other five men on Stokes’s list.
The afternoon was waning when they regrouped at the north end of Brick Lane.
