She was lightly, gently, stroking his chest, fascinated as always by the contrasts. Her hand looked so tiny, so puny, against the muscled, inherently powerful expanse; he was hard to her soft, heavy to her slight, large to her small—yet they seemed, in so many ways, complementary.
And not just physically.
On the surface, interludes such as this were all about satisfying physical cravings, yet before and beneath, what gave rise to the cravings in the first place and what, in achieving true satiation, was the more powerful and dominant hunger assuaged, was very definitely not physical. At least not for her.
And, she was starting to believe, not for him, either.
Possessiveness, protectiveness, need, and care were all part of what now lay between them, and at least within the confines of his bed acknowledged as such—there in his touch, investing his loving and hers—evidence of an emotional connection that was only growing stronger and more profound with every day that passed.
After spending the last three days apart, the notion of losing that connection, of ending it…suffice it to say that her mind was assessing ways and means of ensuring that connection continued indefinitely.
She was aware he was watching her, studying her face from beneath heavy lids. Shifting her head on the pillows, she met his blue, blue gaze; after a moment, she arched a brow.
He smiled. Raising one hand to her cheek, he brushed back a lock of hair, setting it behind her ear. “Stokes and I will start first thing tomorrow…” He glanced at the window. “Today. But unless we’re lucky, it’ll take time to identify Alert—if we even can. And time is a commodity that for us is limited.”
She turned on her side so she could look into his face. “If you can’t find Alert before the burglaries take place, we won’t be able to rescue the boys before they’re…implicated.”
Barnaby grimaced. “As long as we rescue them before Alert’s plan is complete, we’ll be able to argue them free of the courts, but if his plan is successful, once it’s over and done and time passes, the boys will be held to be as criminally responsible as Smythe and Alert.” After a moment, he went on, “There’s also the not insignificant consideration that if Alert’s plan is successful, the police force is going to be severely discredited, and Peel and the commissioners are going to have the devil of a time defending its existence.”
He met Penelope’s eyes. “There are many who would be perfectly happy to see the force disbanded.”
She humphed disapprovingly and lay back. Staring at the ceiling, she asked, “What sort of person could Alert be? Where are you and Stokes going to start?”
Perfectly content with the conversation’s direction, he settled to tell her. He’d deliberately distracted her, and himself, by mentioning the investigation; there were only two subjects currently in his mind, and the way the moment between them had been evolving, the weight of it just before he’d spoken…the temptation had been great and burgeoning, but he didn’t want to risk speaking of that other subject too soon.
Not before she’d made up her own mind and reached the conclusion he’d already reached.
Interviewing Carlton Riggs had been a God-given excuse he’d seized with both hands. Riggs’s family estate was in Leicestershire, not all that far from Calverton Chase. After questioning Riggs, he’d declined an invitation to stay the night, and had instead driven across to drop in on Luc, Viscount Calverton, Penelope’s elder brother and guardian.
Luc and his wife, Amelia, had welcomed him; they’d met him on numerous social occasions within their wider family, and Luc had interacted with him on a previous investigation. Luckily, with three children demanding Amelia’s attention, it hadn’t been difficult to engineer time alone with Luc in his study.
He’d lost no time declaring his hand and making a formal offer for Penelope’s. After swallowing his surprise, after shaking his head in disbelief, then commenting that Barnaby was the last man he’d have expected to lose his head—which comment had prompted Luc to ask just how well Barnaby knew his sister, to which Barnaby had tersely replied, “Too well,” which had led to a moment of tension—Luc, by that time narrow-eyed, very much the shrewd, sharp gentleman-with-four-sisters, had nodded, and given his permission for Barnaby to pay his addresses to Penelope—if she would let him.
Barnaby knew well enough not to take that last for granted—even with her lying naked and sated beside him in his bed.
But at least he no longer felt guilty about having her lying naked and sated beside him in his bed. Her being in that state might have come about through her own very deliberate instigation, yet he’d been waiting, ready, and very willing to accommodate her.
“Stokes and I…we’ll probably start by making a list of all gentlemen known to be associated with the police. The commissioners and their staffs, and those involved with the force through other authorities, like the Home Office and the Water Police.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “Given what we’ve assumed is his plan, Alert must be someone who not only knows other gentlemen of the ton—through his club, for instance—but who visits their homes. How else could he know which houses he wants to target?” She met Barnaby’s eyes. “So Alert must be someone with a certain social standing.”
He frowned, nodded. “You’re right. Once we have our list, we can use that to refine it, to eliminate those not likely.” After a moment, he added, “Very few clerks would have the social entrée Alert must have. We’ll have to see who turns up in our net.”
19
The next day was Sunday. In the morning, Barnaby and Stokes met at his office and made a good start on their list. Penelope’s observation eliminated a good few names without further examination; others—such as the commissioners and many on their staffs—Barnaby was going to have to inquire into more closely.
But Sunday afternoon wasn’t a good time to go trawling through the ton. Leaving Stokes to his own devices—which he suspected would involve a visit to St. John’s Wood High Street—Barnaby returned to Jermyn Street—to discover Penelope waiting, not patiently, in his parlor.
They didn’t remain in the parlor for long.
The afternoon was fading into November twilight when, after a delightful, calming, and somehow reassuring afternoon of lovemaking interspersed with games of chess, Penelope followed Barnaby down the stairs and through the door at the back of his hall to the rear door of his lodgings.
On learning that she’d come in her brother’s town carriage and it was waiting for her farther along the street, Barnaby had gone out and ordered her coachman to bring the carriage into the lane behind the house. Even in the gathering dusk of a November Sunday, Jermyn Street, the premier haunt of the ton’s bachelors, was sure to have someone walking along. Someone to see her being helped into her carriage at that telltale hour, someone who might recognize her and talk.
She understood perfectly well why Barnaby had ordered the carriage to pull up in the lane. While she might be fairly cavalier with her reputation, that he was anything but made her feel cared for, rather than annoyed.
Being cared for was one of the emotional benefits of their interaction she was starting to grow quite fond of; she’d caught herself excusing behavior on his part, accepting and tolerating possessive or protective acts that from any other gentleman would have earned a harsh rebuke. With Barnaby, she found herself smiling with fond affection, both inwardly and outwardly.
