It helped not at all that a gentleman chose that moment to walk along the same stretch in the opposite direction. As he neared, Barnaby steered her to the side—his large strong hand burning her back, his body a shield between her and the unknown.
She bit her lip and forced herself not to react. That simple touch was an instinctive act, one gentlemen like he performed for ladies such as she. Usually it meant nothing…yet to her it did. The courtesy might be a common one, but it wasn’t one gentlemen used on her. She didn’t normally allow it—because it smacked of protection and she knew where that led.
They continued around the corner, and his hand fell away. Lifting her head, she eased out the breath trapped in her lungs. She wasn’t going to say anything, call any attention to the disturbing effect such little attentions from him had on her. While in light of their previous night’s discussion she might wonder if he was doing it on purpose, to wear down her resistance, she had no proof that was so—and she would certainly appear irrational if she protested on such grounds.
He raised an arm and summoned a hackney. Waiting beside him, she cast him a sidelong glance. Another reason she wasn’t going to say anything was because she needed him to help her rescue Jemmie.
That was her first and most important consideration, one that overrode any missish need to put distance between them. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, cutting off all contact was simply not possible.
When the hackney pulled up and he offered his hand, she calmly placed her fingers in his and allowed him to hand her in.
Sinking onto the padded seat beside her, Barnaby had no difficulty hiding his smile. She might be as transparent as glass, at least over her reaction to him and his touch, but he wasn’t such a fool as to take her—or her indomitable will—for granted. She was skittish and so aware; to win her he would need to play the age-old game very carefully.
Luckily, he thrived on challenge.
The carriage rolled swiftly toward Mayfair. After some time, her uncharacteristic silence registered. He glanced at her; her face was half turned toward the window, but what he could see of her expression was serene…which meant she was planning something.
“What?”
She looked at him; when she didn’t bother asking what he was referring to, he knew he’d read her abstraction correctly.
She considered him, then said, “Jemmie’s out there somewhere, alone in a sense, and probably afraid. I’m not inclined to wait until tomorrow to start searching for the next boy they’re likely to take. You said it yourself, there’s clearly some urgency over getting more boys—every hour we wait is time we can’t afford to waste.” She met his gaze steadily. “Unfortunately, I’m committed to accompanying my mother to a musicale this evening.”
The faint arching of one brow echoed the question in her tone.
Rather than appear too eager—too happy to fall in with her plans—he looked forward, then sighed. “I’ll meet you there, and we can slip away. Lord knows they never notice who’s there and who isn’t once the caterwauling starts, but we’ll have to keep an eye on the clock and get back before it ends.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her wave a dismissive hand. “No need.” With a sangfroid to match his, she stared out of the window. “I’ll develop a headache and claim your escort home. Mama won’t make a fuss. I’ll make sure she won’t check on me when she gets home, either, and Leighton knows to leave the front door on the latch unless he sees me come in.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “Once we leave Lady Throgmorton’s we can spend all night searching the files.”
As offers of how to spend an evening went, he’d had better, but her suggestion would allow him to advance his cause, both with her and in rescuing Jemmie Carter.
He nodded. “Lady Throgmorton’s then, at eight o’clock.”
By eight forty-five that evening they were sitting in Penelope’s office at the Foundling House surrounded by files. Stacks and stacks of them. Barnaby eyed the teetering piles. “There has to be a faster way.”
“Unfortunately there isn’t.”
“What about the files we looked through before—there weren’t as many of them.”
“Thosewere the files of children in cases where the guardian’s death was considered imminent—in Mrs. Carter’s case her health improved, but I’d already done the formal visit, which is why I remembered Jemmie.”
Seated behind her desk, Penelope surveyed the files—there were over a hundred—that Miss Marsh had gathered and piled on the desk and alongside it. “Theseare the files of all children registered with us as possible candidates to come here at some point in the future. These represent our unculled waiting list. The last lot of files—there were only a few dozen, if you recall—were the accepted and imminent list.”
Barnaby picked up the top file from the nearest stack. He started flicking through it. “These files are a lot thinner.”
“Because they only contain the initial registration, and at most one note. We haven’t yet followed up, got a doctor’s report, anything—and I haven’t been to visit these families, and neither has Keggs, so we won’t have any physical description of the child to help us.”
His expression grew wary. “What, exactly, are we searching for here?”
“For a boy between seven and eleven years old. One known as a potential orphan.” She ticked the points off on her fingers. “He has to live in the East End. And then we need to check if there’s any mention in the note about the guardian. How ill they are, whether they’re incapacitated or not.” She met his eyes. “I imagine that if they’ve a choice, these villains will target a guardian they can readily overcome.”
“That’s a reasonable guess.”
“Well, then.” She surveyed the files, then looked at him. “Shall we work out a plan of campaign?”
“Please.”
