Page 85 of Where the Heart Leads
He held her gaze. “I’m not exactly a gentleman, yet I’m not your average rozzer, either.”
She smiled. “I’d noticed.” She studied him, then asked, “So where do you hail from? And how did that—being betwixt and between like me—come about?”
He gazed at the green door. “I was born in Colchester. My father was a merchant, my mother a clergyman’s daughter. I was an only child, as my mother had been. My grandfather—her father—took an interest in me, and had me educated at the local grammar school.”
Looking back, he met Griselda’s eyes. “That’s where the ‘almost a gentleman’ part comes from, and that sets me apart from most of those in the force. I’m not one of the higher-ups, but I’m not one of the men, either.” He held her gaze. “I’m not a gentleman.”
Her expression was serious as she studied his eyes, but then her lips curved; she leaned confidingly closer. “Just as well—I don’t know that I’d feel all that comfortable sitting here with a gentleman.”
The girl came out bearing a tray with their meal—two bowls of surprisingly appetizing stew and bread, a trifle hard but edible. The aroma of the stew gave Griselda a chance to compliment the girl sincerely. She thawed somewhat, but again Griselda let her go.
Stokes told himself to trust her instincts. He applied himself to his bowl and kept his gaze on the green door.
He and Griselda had finished their meal and were sitting waiting patiently for the waitress to come back when the green door opened and a blowsy brunette in her twenties stepped out. Leaving the door ajar, she strode for the tavern.
Hands on hips, she stopped just inside the door. “Here—Maida! Get me five pints, there’s a dear.”
Maida, the waitress, ducked her head and disappeared into the rear. She returned minutes later bearing a wooden tray with five brimming pint pots balanced on it.
“Ta.” The brunette hefted the tray. “Put it on our tab. Arnold’ll be around later to settle.”
Maida bobbed her head again. Standing in the doorway wiping her hands on a rag, she watched the brunette cross the narrow street and go in through the green door. It shut behind her.
“A bit of action across the way?” Griselda murmured.
Maida glanced at her, and pulled a face. “You could say that.” She looked back at the green door. “Wonder how many they have in there this morning.” She glanced back at Griselda. “Johns, I mean.”
Griselda’s brows rose. “That’s the way of it, is it?”
“Aye.” Maida settled her weight, disposed to chat. “There’s three of them there—girls, that is. Poor old Arnold. I thought, when he said they were his nieces come to stay, he was spinning a yarn, but I’ve heard them have at him. Reckon they must be related. Poor old codger—if he’s getting rent money from them, he’ll be lucky. But the girls are doing all right, and they’re good enough neighbors, all in all.”
“No nephews?” Stokes asked, as if he were merely curious. Discussing all manner of crime was, after all, normal East End gossip.
“Nah.” Maida shifted. “Not much of that this way—more the toffs who go fer that sort of thing and we’re too far from their playgrounds. Mind you, I’m sure Arnold wouldn’t mind having some male in the house to share the load—those girls keep him in there most of the time. He may be old, but he’s a hulking sort—good protection. And if he’s their uncle, what’s he to do? Got him all tied up, those girls have, no mistake.”
Griselda frowned, as if remembering. “My old da used to know an Arnold somewhere round here—used to be a bit of a fence, in that game anyway. What was his name?” She stared at Stokes as if searching for inspiration, then her face lit. She looked at Maida. “Ormsby—that was it. Arnold Ormsby.”
“Hornby,” Maida corrected. “Aye, that’s our Arnold. He was in that game, but he ain’t in it now. Farthest he gets from his house is in here. Moans about the old days and how he’s lost all his contacts and how’s a man to get along.” She shrugged. “Unless his nieces leave, he’s got no hope—they’ve got first call on his time, seems.”
And that, Stokes judged, was all they were likely to get from Maida. He caught Griselda’s eye. “We’d better get on.”
She nodded. He stood, waited for her to do the same, then dropped a few coins on the table. Turning, he flipped a sixpence at Maida. “Thanks, love. It was good grub.”
Moving faster than a hornet, Maida’s hand snagged the sixpence out of the air. She grinned and nodded as they passed her. “Aye, well—stop by again sometime.”
Griselda smiled and waved.
Stokes caught her arm and steered her determinedly back toward the city and civilization as he knew it, the words “not in this lifetime” ringing in his mind.
Penelope lurked in Lady Carnegie’s drawing room, pretending to listen to the political discussions going on about her. Her ladyship’s November dinner was a major event in political circles, one of the last before Parliament rose and most members retreated to their far-flung estates for the winter.
For them, tonight was their chance to rally for the last surge of activity in the houses.
For her, tonight figured as a gilt-edged opportunity to learn more.
Barnaby would have been invited. Quite aside from being his father’s son—and the earl had his finger in numerous political pies—his connection with Peel and the police force made him a sought-after source of information for those present tonight; they would far rather question him—one of their own—than any of Peel’s official deputies.
Regardless, in this company, she could disappear for a few hours and not be missed, and after the initial round of questioning in the drawing room prior to going in to dinner, Barnaby, too, should be ranked as excusable.
