Reaching the hackney, Penelope halted, jaw firming. “I’ll send to the landlord and alert him. I’m sure he’ll keep as close an eye on the Carters as he can. I’ll ask him to send word if he or anyone he knows sees anything suspicious.”
Opening the door, Barnaby grasped her hand and helped her climb up, then followed her into the carriage. The instant the door clicked shut, the jarvey called to his horse and they set off on the long journey back to more fashionable streets.
“That seems all we can do.” Barnaby looked out at the drab streetscape. His tone suggested he wished it weren’t so, that there was something more definite they could reasonably do to protect Jemmie while not worrying his mother, possibly unnecessarily.
Penelope grimaced again; she, too, looked out of the window. And inwardly wrestled with not her conscience but something closely aligned—her sense of rightness, of truth, of giving praise where it was due.
Of acknowledging the totality—the humanity—of Barnaby Adair.
She would much rather consider him a typical ton gentleman, far distanced from the world through which the hackney was rolling—a man uninterested in and untouched by the wider issues she confronted every day.
Unfortunately, his vocation—the very aspect of him that had compelled her to seek his help—was proof positive that he was otherwise.
Seeing him deal with Jemmie, hearing the commitment in his voice when he’d told Mrs. Carter, a poor woman with no claim on his notice other than her need, that he would keep Jemmie safe, had made closing her eyes and her mind to his virtues—so much more attractive to her than any amount of rakish charm—impossible.
When he’d arrived at the Foundling House that morning, she’d been determined to keep him rigidly at a distance. To keep all their dealings purely business, to suppress each and every little leap her unruly nerves might make, giving him no reason whatever to imagine he had any inherent effect on her.
Her resolve had wavered—illogically—when he’d arrived early, demonstrating a far better grasp of her determination and will than any man of her acquaintance. But she’d quickly bolstered her resolve with said will and determination, and stuck to her plan of how to deal with him.
And then…he’d behaved in ways few other gentlemen would have, and earned her respect in a way and to a degree that no other man ever had.
In less than an hour, he’d made her plan untenable. She wasn’t going to be able to ignore him—even pretend to ignore him—not when he’d made her admire him. Appreciate him. As a person, not just as a man.
Her gaze on the rundown houses slipping past, she inwardly acknowledged that in dealing with him, she would need to think again.
She needed a better plan.
Silence reigned until the hackney drew up outside the Foundling House. Barnaby shook himself free of his thoughts—of the disturbingly persistent need to stop Penelope from making visits such as the one just concluded. Opening the carriage door, he got out, handed her down, then paid off the jarvey, adding a hefty tip.
As the grateful jarvey rattled away, he turned, remembered not to grip her arm as he had in the stews—a protective action only their surroundings had excused—and instead took her hand and wound her arm in his.
She cast him a swift glance, but allowed it. He swung open the gate and they walked up the path to the house’s front door.
He rang the bell.
She drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “I’ll write a letter to Mrs. Carter’s landlord immediately.”
He nodded. “I’ll contact Stokes and explain the situation.” He met her eyes. “Where will you be this evening?”
Her large dark brown eyes blinked at him. “Why?”
Irritation swamped him, heightened by her transparently genuine blank look. “In case I think of anything more I need to know.” He made it sound as if he was stating the obvious.
“Oh.” She considered, as if mentally reviewing her diary. “Mama and I will be at Lady Moffat’s party.”
“I’ll look you up if I need any further information.” To his relief, the door opened. He nodded to Mrs. Keggs, bowed briefly to Penelope, then turned and walked away.
Before he said something even more inane.
6
At three o’clock that afternoon Stokes presented himself at Griselda Martin’s front door. She was waiting to let him in. The blinds screening the front window and the glass panel in the door were already drawn. Her apprentices were nowhere in sight.
She noted the hackney he had waiting in the street. “I’ll just get my bonnet and bag.”
He waited in the doorway while she bustled back behind the curtain, then reappeared a moment later, tying a straw bonnet over her dark hair. Even to Stokes’s eyes, the bonnet looked stylish.
She came forward, briskly waving him down the steps ahead of her. She followed, closing and locking the door behind her. Dropping the heavy key into her cloth bag, she joined him on the pavement.
