When Stokes looked back at her, she trapped his gaze. “Is Miss Martin assisting you in that endeavor?”
Stokes’s eyes widened fractionally; he hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, “Miss Martin has agreed to assist us in furthering our investigations along the lines you’ve indicated.”
“Excellent!” Penelope beamed.
Stokes, seeing her smile, wasn’t the only one suddenly uneasy. Eyeing her delight, Barnaby felt his instincts go on full alert.
“So”—Penelope glanced from Stokes to Barnaby, then back again—“when are we to meet with Miss Martin to make our plans?”
Shocked into immobility by the implication of her words, Barnaby didn’t shake free fast enough to stop Stokes from admitting, “I intend to meet with her tomorrow afternoon.” Stokes regarded Penelope with a disbelief even greater than Barnaby’s. “But—”
“You aren’t going.” Barnaby infused the statement—a statement that plainly had to be made—with absolute, unshakable conviction.
Turning her head, Penelope blinked at him. “Of course I am. We have to sort out the details of our disguises, and how best to work to uncover what we need to learn.”
Stokes dragged in a breath. “Miss Ashford—you cannot venture into the East End.”
She turned her gaze—growing darker by the second—on Stokes. “If a milliner from St. John’s Wood can transform herself back into a woman who would pass without comment in the East End, then she’ll know how to disguise me to a similar degree.”
Barnaby found himself literally lost for words. He knew she would scoff if he described her as a beauty, but she was the type of lady who turned men’s heads. Effortlessly. And that was a feature that couldn’t be disguised.
“If Mr. Adair”—Penelope cast him a hard look—“who I’m sure is expecting to join in your hunt, but will need to be equally disguised to do so, and I, join you and Miss Martin in pursuing our inquiries, those inquiries will proceed significantly faster.”
“Miss Ashford.” Clasping his hands on the desk, Stokes made a valiant effort to retreat to a formal, authoritarian position. “It would be unconscionable of me to allow a lady like you—”
“Inspector Stokes.” Penelope’s voice acquired a precise diction that brooked no interruption whatever. “You will notice that Mr. Adair is remaining silent. That’s because he knows that argument on this issue is futile. I do not require permission from you, nor him, to pursue this matter. I’m bound and determined to see our four boys rescued and the villains prosecuted. Moreover, as administrator of the Foundling House, I am arguably morally obliged to do all I can in that endeavor.” She paused, then added, “I’m sure, if I request Miss Martin’s help in this matter, she will assist me regardless of your views.”
Barnaby glimpsed salvation, the way out of this argument for him and Stokes. He caught Stokes’s gaze. “Perhaps, in light of Miss Ashford’s strongly held notions, we should leave the question of her involvement until after we’ve met with Miss Martin?”
Thus leaving it to Miss Martin to pour the cold water of reality over Penelope’s enthusiasm. He had little doubt that a sensible, worldly milliner—someone used to dealing with fashionable, head-strong ladies—would know just how to convince Penelope that she needed to leave the investigating to others. Miss Martin would unquestionably do a better job of dissuading Penelope than either he or Stokes.
Doubtless having reached the same conclusion, Stokes slowly nodded. “That’s a reasonable suggestion.”
“Good. That’s settled.” Penelope looked at Stokes. “What time tomorrow, and where shall we meet?”
They agreed to meet outside Miss Martin’s shop in St. John’s Wood High Street at two o’clock the following afternoon.
“Excellent.” Penelope rose and shook hands with Stokes.
Turning to the door, she caught Barnaby’s eye. “Are you remaining, or leaving, too, Mr. Adair?”
“I’ll see you home.” Barnaby waited for her to start for the door before exchanging a long-suffering glance with Stokes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Stokes nodded. “Indeed.”
Turning, Barnaby fell in at Penelope’s heels—following in her wake. He no longer minded; the view from that position was sufficient compensation.
“Grimsby? You there, old man?” Smythe ducked beneath the low beams of Grimsby’s ground-floor room. Word had it that Grimsby owned the whole house—all three floors of rickety tenement on Weavers Street.
Hearing a grumbled response from above, Smythe waited by the dusty counter. Around him all manner of old wares clogged the floor, piled here and there with no apparent order. Grimsby claimed to sell bric-a-brac, but Smythe knew most of the goods traded through the shop were stolen. He’d sold stuff he’d lifted through Grimsby himself on occasion.
A heavy, shuffling step on the stairs at the back of the shop heralded the descent of the store’s owner from his rooms on the first floor. The floor above that was where the boys Grimsby tutored learned their lessons. The attic above, concealed unless you knew where to look, was where the boys slept.
Smythe straightened as Grimsby appeared out of the dusty murk. The man was aging, and now carried a considerable paunch, but there was intelligence still alive in the beady eyes that narrowly studied Smythe.
“Smythe.” Grimsby nodded. “What’re you after?”
“I’m after bearing a message from our mutual friend.”
