Releasing Penelope’s hand only to grip her elbow, he faced south. “Which street?”
“Which miserable alley” would have been more accurate.
She pointed to the second opening yawning on their right. “That one.”
He guided her to it, then escorted her along, ignoring her narrow eyes and the thin-lipped looks she cast him. He wasn’t letting go of her, not in this area; if he did she’d sweep ahead, expecting him to follow in her wake—from where he wouldn’t be able to see trouble looming until after she walked into it.
He felt positively medieval.
She couldn’t complain; the cause lay at her door.
It had been gloomy in Bloomsbury, but as they entered the narrow passage a depressing darkness closed in. The air hung oppressively close; no sun could reach between the overhanging eaves to warm the dank stones and rotting timbers. No breeze stirred the heavy miasma of smells.
The street had once been cobbled, but few stones remained. He steadied Penelope as she picked her way along.
Teeth gritted against the sensation of his fingers—long, strong, and warm—wrapped about her elbow, his grip, firm and uncompromisingly male, distracting her in ways she hadn’t imagined possible, Penelope uttered a small prayer of relief when she recognized Mrs. Carter’s door.
“This is it.” Halting before it, she raised her free hand and rapped smartly.
While they waited for a response, she swore she would—without further delay—find some way to overcome Barnaby Adair’s effect on her. It was that or succumb, and that she’d never do.
The door cracked open with a protesting creak. At first she thought it had come unlatched of its own accord, but then she glanced down and spotted the narrow, pinched face of a child peering out from the darkness within.
“Jemmie.” She smiled, pleased her memories had been accurate.
When he didn’t respond—didn’t open the door wider—but remained staring warily up at her—and at Barnaby beyond—she realized that with the lack of light, he couldn’t see her well enough to recognize her.
Smile brightening, she explained, “I’m the lady from the Foundling House.” Waving at Barnaby, she added, “And this is Mr. Adair, a friend. We wondered if we might speak with your mother.”
Jemmie studied her and Barnaby with large unblinking eyes. “Mum’s not well.”
“I know.” Her voice softened. “We know she’s not very well at all, but it’s important that we speak with her.”
Jemmie’s lips quivered; he pressed them tight to still them. His small face tightened, holding worry and fear close. “If’n you’re here to tell her you can’t take me after all, you can just go. She don’t need to hear anything more to worry her.”
Moving slowly, Penelope crouched down so her face was level with Jemmie’s. She spoke even more gently. “It’s not that at all—just the opposite. We’re here to reassure her—to tell her that we’re definitely going to be looking after you, and that she’s not to worry.”
Jemmie stared into her eyes, then blinked rapidly. He studied her face, then glanced up at Barnaby. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” Barnaby left it at that, the simple truth.
The boy heard it, accepted it. After examining him for a moment more, Jemmie edged back from the door. “She’s in here.”
Penelope rose, eased the door wider, and followed Jemmie into the short hall. Barnaby followed, ducking beneath the lintel. Even inside, if he stood straight the top of his curls came uncomfortably close to the peeling ceiling.
“This way.” Jemmie led them into a room that was cramped, but infinitely cleaner than Barnaby had expected. Someone—he glanced at Jemmie—was making a huge effort to keep the place tidy and passably clean. More, there was a tattered bunch of violets perched in a pot on the windowsill, the splash of intense color incongruously cheery in the drab room.
A woman lay on a makeshift bed in one corner. Penelope moved past Jemmie and went to her side. “Mrs. Carter.” Without hesitation, Penelope lifted the woman’s hand from the rough blanket, cradling it between her own, even though, blinking in surprise, Mrs. Carter hadn’t offered it. Penelope smiled warmly. “I’m Miss Ashford from the Foundling House.”
The woman’s face cleared. “Of course. I remember.” A soft smile flitted over a face made gaunt by constant pain. Mrs. Carter had once been a pretty woman with fair hair and rosy cheeks, but the body in the bed was wasted, skin hanging on bone; her hand lay limp between Penelope’s.
“We’re here just to check on you and Jemmie, to make sure all’s as well as might be at present, and to reassure you that when the time comes, we’ll make sure Jemmie is taken care of. You’ve no need to worry.”
“Why, thank you, dear.” Mrs. Carter was too far gone for social awe to have much hold on her. Turning her head on the pillow, she looked toward her son and smiled. “He’s a good boy. He’s been taking such good care of me.”
Regardless of her body’s state, the brightness in Mrs. Carter’s blue eyes suggested that she was yet some way from departing this earth. She still had some time left with her son.
“Let me tell you what Jemmie will be doing once he joins us.” Penelope skimmed through the procedures Jemmie would go through in becoming a foundling, and moved briskly to the activities and facilities the house provided for its charges.
