As far as she was able while continuing to work with him on the investigation.
Hurrying down the stairs, juggling the three files while pulling on her gloves, she reflected that at least today she wouldn’t have to exercise any great ingenuity to stick to her plan. She’d already taken steps to ensure he wouldn’t be with her; she didn’t need an escort to look over three boys.
Smiling at Leighton, waiting by the front door to swing it wide, she paused to check her bonnet in the hall mirror. It was barely eight-thirty, far too early for any tonnish gentleman to be up and about, and as she had three addresses to call at, even when he realized she’d left him behind the chances of him correctly guessing which one she was headed for were slim to none.
For today, she was safe. Turning from the mirror, she nodded her thanks to Leighton as he opened the door. Stepping over the threshold, a satisfied smile curving her lips—
She froze, stopped in her tracks by the sight of the bright curly head atop the pair of broad shoulders, from which a modish greatcoat hung, that were presently leaning against the railing above the area steps.
Behind her, Leighton murmured, “Mr. Adair said he was happy to wait outside for you, miss.”
So she would have no warning that her plan had been sprung. “Indeed.”
The morning was chilly and damp; mist wreathed the street, wisps draping the hackney and its horse by the curb. It would certainly have been warmer to wait indoors.
Eyes narrowing, she went down the steps.
He heard and turned, and smiled—an easy, charming smile that held no hint of triumph. Pushing away from the railing as she reached the pavement, he strolled to the carriage, opened the door, and held out his hand.
Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. She thrust the three files into his hand, grabbed up her skirts, and clambered into the carriage unaided.
If he chuckled, at least she didn’t hear it. Dropping onto the seat in the far corner, she quickly arranged her skirts, then looked out of the window.
He climbed in and shut the door; she felt the seat give as he settled beside her.
The carriage started off. She hadn’t heard him give the driver any directions; she frowned, glanced at him. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t meet her gaze, merely settled his head against the squabs and made himself comfortable. “The driver’s from the East End—he knows the area well. We discussed the best route—he’ll take us to Gun Street first, then North Tenter, and then around to Black Lion Yard.”
It would be childish to sniff disparagingly just because he’d arranged things so well. “I see.” Turning her head, she looked out at the passing streetscape, and told herself she shouldn’t sulk.
By the time they reached the first address, in Gun Street opposite Spitalfields Market, her irritation had largely evaporated. He’d left her with no excuse to protest, and being with him, simply being near him, tended to erode her resistance.
Regardless, she sternly lectured herself to concentrate on the matter at hand—identifying any other boy who might be at risk from their villains—and to ignore her senses’ giddy preoccupation with Barnaby Adair and all his works.
Steeling herself, she let him hand her down at the corner of Gun Street.
Gun was a short street, and within a second of setting eyes on the boy they’d come to see, it was plain he wasn’t a candidate for a burglary school. He was squat and heavy-bodied; one glance at his father, consumptive though he was, suggested the boy would only grow larger with every month.
Penelope excused their visit on the grounds of checking details in their file. Barnaby stood by her side as she spent a few minutes easing the father’s concern over the Foundling House having questions.
She’d worn a garnet-red pelisse for the excursion; it set off her pure complexion and brought out the red in her sleek dark hair. The gown possessed no frills, no furbelows. While he would have wagered that anything she wore beneath would be silk, he was increasingly intrigued by the question of whether her private garments would be weighed down by the usual ribbons and lace, or if, like the rest of her wardrobe, they would be severely plain.
He wasn’t sure which option he would find more arousing; while the former would be a surprise—suggesting she was, beneath her outer screens, much like other ladies—the latter…in the same way that her severe gowns somehow emphasized her vivid allure, would severe undergarments also emphasize the…glory of what they concealed?
It was a point that understandably exercised his mind.
A sharp prod recalled him to the present; he blinked, and discovered Penelope regarding him with a frown.
“Mr. Nesbit has answered all our questions. It’s time to leave.”
He smiled. “Yes, of course.” With a nod to Nesbit, he followed her from the cramped hovel, and helped her back into the carriage.
Settling beside her on the seat, he continued to smile.
Their next stop, in North Tenter Street, was equally brief.
Back in the carriage, Penelope remarked, “No burglar would ever take such a simpleton as a helper. He’d most likely forget what he was supposed to fetch, and go and wake the housekeeper to ask if she could help him.”
