She glanced sideways at him; even though he refused to meet her gaze, he could tell it was faintly amused. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
Lips tight, jaw set, he debated, then evenly replied, “No. Arguing with you is a waste of time.” And he now understood it was pointless.
Dealing with Penelope in his preferred manner—on a rational, logical basis—was never going to swing advantage his way. With other ladies, the rational, logical approach left him with the whip hand—but not with her. She was a past master at using the rational and logical to her own ends, as she’d just demonstrated.
Arms crossed, he kept his narrow-eyed gaze fixed ahead, steadfastly ignoring the effervescent triumph bubbling beside him.
Both he and Stokes had fallen in with Penelope’s wish to meet Griselda in the firm expectation that there would be—at best—a certain stiffness between the two women. Instead, Penelope had effortlessly reached out and bridged the social gap—and it had been she who’d done that, not Griselda. Griselda had watched and waited, but Penelope had made the effort and known just how to do it, so now there was a budding friendship there, one no one could have predicted.
So…where he and Stokes had been a team of two, there was now a team of four.
He’d imagined going into the East End with Stokes—the two of them had worked together in disguise before. With four of them…the hunt would indeed go faster. Penelope’s version of an East End accent had been startingly good. She could indeed pass as a local even better than he. The four of them could split up, and get through Stokes’s list faster.
Having Penelope on their team as well as Griselda would help locate the four missing boys that much sooner.
And all debate aside, that was their common goal.
He glanced up as the carriage swung around a corner; they’d already reached Mount Street. His gaze on the façades as the hackney slowed, he said, “Tomorrow morning get your footman to summon a hackney at half-past eight. When it arrives, give the driver Griselda’s direction and get in.”
The hackney halted. Reaching across to open the door, he met Penelope’s eyes. “I’ll join you in the hackney.”
Brows rising, she studied him. He moved past her and stepped down, assisted her out, then paid off the hackney and escorted her to her brother’s door.
He waited for her to ask—to demand to be told what he was planning. Instead, she turned to him with a confident smile and gave him her hand. “Until tomorrow morning then. Good day, Mr. Adair.”
Feeling somehow cheated, he bowed over her hand. The butler opened the door; with a nod for that worthy, he turned, descended the steps, and strode away.
8
Penelope had learned long ago that it was never wise to encourage any gentleman to believe she needed protection. Especially not when said gentleman was of the ilk of her brother Luc, or her cousin Martin, or her brother-in-law Simon Cynster. Some men simply could not be trusted to know where to draw the line—or to even recognize that a line existed—between smothering a lady in cotton wool and being a reasonable white knight. The inevitable result of any lady accepting their protection was an ongoing battle, one the lady was forced to wage to retain some workable degree of independence.
That had certainly been her observation in the case of the aforementioned males. As she rushed to be ready at half past eight the next morning, she was increasingly certain Barnaby Adair, regardless of his eccentric pastime, belonged to the same group.
Masterful men, experience warned, were masterful all the way through.
They didn’t—couldn’t—change their stripes, although they might at times disguise them.
With such wisdom resonating in her mind, she bolstered her enthusiasm with a quick but substantial breakfast, then hurried into her pelisse. She reached the front door just as the hackney she’d ordered to be summoned rolled up.
Farewelling Leighton, the butler, she glanced right and left as she went down the steps, but saw no one who might be Barnaby Adair. A footman was holding the carriage door, waiting to help her up.
She called up to the driver, “St. John’s Wood High Street—the milliner’s shop,” then climbed in.
Settling on the seat, she nodded a dismissal to the footman. He closed the door and retreated.
The door on the other side of the carriage opened; the carriage dipped as a man climbed in.
Even though she’d been expecting an appearance, Penelope’s mouth fell open. The only thing she recognized about the man who shut the door and slumped on the seat opposite was his blue, blue eyes.
The carriage started forward—then abruptly stopped, the jarvey having realized some man had joined his lady passenger.
“Miss? Is everything all right?”
Her eyes—round with amazement—still fixed on Barnaby’s face, Penelope simply stared. Barnaby scowled and roughly jerked his head toward the box seat, and she recalled herself and stammered, “Y-yes—perfectly all right. Drive on.”
The jarvey muttered something, then the carriage rattled into motion again. As they rounded the corner out of Mount Street, Penelope let her gaze descend, taking in all of this rather startling version of Barnaby Adair.
Disguises generally concealed, but sometimes, they revealed. She was somewhat stunned—and just a little wary—of what, courtesy of his present guise, she could see.
