Page 59 of Where the Heart Leads
“Let’s work progressively, taking our points in order—you start, and check each file for whether it’s a boy or a girl. Girls set aside, boys pass on to me.” Leaning forward, she pointed to the top right corner of the file he’d reopened. “See there? Boy or girl?”
“Boy. One for you.” He tossed the file on the desk in front of her and reached for the next.
“I’ll check their age and the address.” Pulling the file to her, she opened it. “East End or not.” She frowned and looked up. “Is it likely they’ll extend their reach outside the East End?”
“It’s possible”—he dropped the second file to the floor beside his chair—“but only if they can’t find a suitable boy on their own patch.” He reached for the next file. “Villains tend to stick to specific neighborhoods—like a territory that’s somehow their domain for whatever nefarious purpose.”
She nodded, and checked the address on the file she had—Paddington. Closing the file, she dropped it to the floor by her chair just as Barnaby slid another her way.
They settled into a silent rhythm as the house quieted around them. When they’d arrived, the older children had been awake, and the staff had been about, overseeing them and tucking the younger ones into bed. The sounds of a bustling family, multiplied significantly, echoed along the corridors. But as the clock on top of the cabinet ticked relentlessly on, all such sounds faded, leaving the dry rustling of paper and the occasional slap of a discarded file the only punctuations in the enfolding silence.
When the clock chimed, signifying the half hour, Penelope glanced up and saw it was half past eleven. With a sigh, she dropped the last of the files to be discarded on the latest pile, then studied, as Barnaby was, the small pile that remained on her blotter.
Reaching out, she riffled the spines. “Fifteen.” Fifteen East End boys aged between seven and eleven who were registered as potential foundlings.
Barnaby eyed the discarded files. “I hadn’t any notion there would be so many potential orphans.” He lifted his gaze to her face. “You can’t take in all these.”
She shook her head. “We’d like to, but we can’t. We have to choose.” After a moment, she added, “As it happens, we base our decision on some of the traits these villains look for—quickness of mind, and preferably of body. Size we don’t take into account, but knowing we have to choose, we long ago decided that we had to take the children who would make the most of the opportunities we provide.”
“And that means quick wits and reasonable health.” He reached for the top file of the remaining fifteen. “So now we try to find some indication of the guardian’s physical state.”
Even with only fifteen files to assess, that took time; they had to read not only what was written, but also to some extent between the lines.
In the end, the pile reduced to three. Three boys they both agreed were the only likely targets among all the files they’d waded through.
Hands folded on her desk, Penelope looked at the three files. “I keep worrying that there will be others, boys who haven’t been registered.” She raised her eyes to Barnaby’s face. “What if the villains go after one of them and leave these boys”—she nodded at the files—“alone?”
He grimaced. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take. But so far you’ve lost five of your registered candidates—chances are these boys are, or will become, targets of these villains.” He paused, then added, “We have to assume that and go forward with our plan. There are no certainties, but it’s the best we can do.”
She studied his eyes as if reading his sincerity, then nodded. “You’re right.” Looking down at the files, she sighed. “There’s nothing in these to say if the boys themselves are physically suitable. They might be too big, or clumsy, or…I’ll have to visit them tomorrow and see.”
The clock chimed—one o’clock.
Barnaby rose, rounded the desk, took her hand and drew her to her feet. “We’ll go together tomorrow morning, and take a closer look at these three.”
Reaching across, he turned down the desk lamp they’d set high to give them light enough to read, then capturing both her hands, he drew her to face him. “We’ve accomplished all we can for tonight…on that front.”
She heard his change of direction in his tone. Her eyes widened, searching his. “What…?”
Lips curving, he drew her into his arms, bent his head, and kissed her confusion from her lips. Tasted them, making it clear just what subject he was intent on investigating.
Her. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue.
How she felt in his arms, how she fitted so snugly against him.
He’d anticipated some resistance; instead, all he sensed was a moment of blankness—as if her mind had seized, simply frozen.
Then her lips, already parted when he’d covered them, firmed beneath his—but she didn’t try to clamp them shut and deny him; she pressed them more firmly to his and kissed him back.
Definitely—no tentativeness this time. Her sudden change in tack left him mometarily following rather than leading.
Then her hands, braced against his chest, slid up over his shoulders to slip beneath his curls and caress his nape. He had to fight to suppress a shudder, surprised that such a simple touch from her slim fingers on his exposed skin could be so evocative.
But then she stepped into him—and his world quaked.
She pressed against him and yielded her mouth—and he lost touch with his immediate world, transported in a heartbeat to one where his civilized guise was gone and his primitive nature ruled.
He spread his hands on her back, pulled her flush against him. The heat of her response, the offered heat of her mouth, the wanton stroke of her tongue urged him on; he angled his head, laid claim to all she offered, and blatantly, flagrantly, molded her hips to his.
