Page 47 of Where the Heart Leads
She marched off, back up the alley.
He glanced at Gannon; the man’s expression stated very clearly he’d be happy never to meet such a disconcerting and disturbing female again.
With a last warning look, Barnaby swung around. In a few paces he was at Penelope’s heels. A tension unlike any he’d previously experienced was riding him; bending his head so he could speak in her ear, he quietly stated, “Don’t ever race into an alley ahead of me again.”
His tone was flat, his diction precise.
She glanced up and back at him, puzzled. “It was empty. I wasn’t in any danger.” She faced forward. “And at least we now know we can cross Gannon off our list.”
Emerging from the alley, she paused on the pavement. Taking note of the gathering dusk, she sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to leave the other five names until tomorrow.”
Seeing Stokes and Griselda on the opposite side of the street, Barnaby set his jaw, grasped her arm, and steered her in their direction, surprised to discover that, contrary to his expectations, he had something quite definite in common with Joe Gannon.
They found a hackney and piled in for the journey back to Griselda’s shop. Unfortunately the hackney was one of the smaller affairs, ensuring that Barnaby had to endure Penelope’s too-close proximity for the entire time.
Griselda and Stokes, seated opposite, spent the journey discussing how to tackle the five names remaining on Stokes’s list. The East End was large, and as yet they had no clue as to which area each man might be operating in. In the end it was decided that Griselda would visit her father again, to see if he’d gleaned any further details. Meanwhile Stokes would inquire more closely of his colleagues at the East End watch houses. They would gather again in two days’ time to assess what they’d learned, and make plans.
Penelope clearly chafed at the delay, but had little option but to acquiesce.
Eventually they reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Gaining the pavement, Barnaby left Stokes to hand the ladies down and went to deal with the driver.
When the carriage rattled off, he turned, and discovered Stokes taking his leave, first of Penelope, then of Griselda. Watching Stokes half bow over Griselda’s hand, watching her expression as she smiled into his eyes and bade him farewell, noting how Stokes held on to her fingers for rather longer than necessary…for the first time Barnaby thought to ask himself whether Stokes might have had an ulterior motive in fixing on Griselda Martin as his guide into the East End.
Well, well.
Rejoining the group, he nodded a farewell to Stokes. “I’ll call by tomorrow.”
Stokes nodded in reply. “I’ll ask around at headquarters, too, in case anyone has any idea where these five might be lurking.” With a last salute to the group, he turned and walked away.
For a moment, Griselda watched him go, then she recalled herself, threw a quick smile at Penelope and Barnaby, and led the way into her shop.
Her apprentices were ready to leave.
“Go on upstairs,” Griselda urged Penelope. “I’ll close up, then join you.”
With a nod, Penelope headed up the stairs. Barnaby would have preferred to wait by the door until she’d changed into her own clothes and joined him—but he felt stifled by the weight of frills and bows. And he was clearly distracting Griselda’s apprentices.
“I’ll wait in the parlor.” Girding his loins, he climbed the stairs.
Reaching the upper room, he found that Penelope had already retreated behind the bedroom door. Slouching over to the bow window, he stood, hands sunk in his pockets, looking out.
He felt…not at all like himself. No, not true. He feltentirelylike himself, but with his patina of sophisticated control abraded to a thin—too thin—veneer. He had no idea why Penelope Ashford so easily and consistently got within his shields, but there was no denying that she did—that he reacted to her, that she made him react, as no other female ever had.
It was disconcerting, disturbing, and beyond distracting.
She was driving him quietly insane.
The door to the bedroom opened. He glanced around to see her emerge, once again in her own clothes, restored to her customary severely stylish state.
She’d washed her face, removing the powder Griselda had applied to dim the glow of her porcelain skin. In the light of the fading day, it shone like the costliest pearl.
Eyeing him, clearly sensing his tension yet, he was perfectly aware, unconscious of its cause, she tilted her head. “I take it Griselda is still downstairs. Shall we go?”
Turning, he waved her to the stairs. She preceded him down them; as he followed he sensed—how he didn’t know, but he knew—that she had determined not to comment on what she regarded as his continuing churlish behavior.
Stepping off the last stair, she swept forward, head high, to where Griselda was checking through her cashbox.
“Thank you so much for all your help today.” Warmth filled Penelope’s face and colored her words. “We would never have got as far as we did without you.” She held out her hands.
