Luckily, she accepted his explanation with a shrug, and duly wrote down what he’d told her.
Consulting one of her lists, she filled in the names of the five boys, then rang for Miss Marsh and asked her to fetch Mrs. Keggs. As Miss Marsh departed, Penelope explained, “Keggs was with me when I did the visits. She might remember different aspects of the boys’ appearance.”
Mrs. Keggs duly arrived. Barnaby set the other chair for her, then retreated to the window, leaving her and Penelope to put together the descriptions.
Hands in his pockets, he stood looking out—watching the children play in the yard, smiling at their antics.
Once again an appreciation of just how much, not only in social terms but in terms of the individual lives of the boys and girls so unrestrainedly enjoying themselves in the yard, the Foundling House achieved rolled through him. And how much of that was directly fashioned, driven, brought to life, and kept in action by Penelope and her indomitable will.
Her independence, her will, were tangible things. Not to be taken lightly, nor to be tampered with, let alone opposed, without due consideration.
That could be—would be—an ongoing and ineradicable source of difficulty for any gentleman who married her. Not insurmountable, yet an issue that would need careful handling. The fruits of her independence, of her indomitable will, were too valuable for any man to quash, to squander. To deny.
The realization slid into his mind, and settled.
Behind him, chair legs scraped. Turning, he saw Mrs. Keggs bustling out.
Penelope was blotting the sheet. “Here you are.” She scanned it one last time, then held it out to him. “Five names, descriptions, and an announcement of a reward.”
He read through it swiftly. “Excellent.” Looking up, he met her eyes. “I’ll get this printed up overnight. And then I thought I’d ask Griselda about how best to distribute them throughout the East End.”
“Indeed—I’m sure she’ll know.” Penelope hesitated, but it was part of the investigation after all. “I’ll come with you when you pick up the notices—I’d like to see a printer’s works—and we can take them directly to Griselda.”
His smile was back, playing about his lips, but it wasn’t overt, not something she needed to frown at. He inclined his head. “If you wish.”
Folding the sheet, he placed it in his pocket. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
With a graceful half-bow, he turned and walked to the door.
She smelled a rat. She narrowed her eyes on his back—was he hiding something? Planning something? Something without her?
As he reached the archway, she called, “If you have any news tonight, I’ll be at Lady Griswald’s ball. You’ll be able to find me there.”
Lifting her pen, she watched as, in the archway, he glanced back. She’d made her announcement matter-of-factly, yet unholy amusement danced in his blue eyes.
And she suddenly, simply, knew. He hadn’t asked her where she’d be that evening—because if he had she wouldn’t have told him.
His smile deepened. He saluted her. “Excellent. I’ll come hunting for you there.”
She glared, then looked around for something to throw at him—but by then he was gone.
12
Later that evening, Penelope paced the dark, deserted minstrel’s gallery overlooking one end of Lady Griswald’s ballroom, and wondered what had possessed her to fall for Adair’s trap.
Just the look on his face…insufferable! And she could just imagine how he would behave once he found her, which was why she was haunting the gallery. If she had any say in the matter, he wasn’t going to find her at all.
In the ballroom below, Lady Griswald’s party to celebrate her niece’s betrothal was in full swing. Ladies and gentlemen were dancing, couples were conversing, dowagers seated on chaises were gossiping for all they were worth. As her ladyship was a close friend of her mother’s, Penelope had had no option but to come; she’d done the pretty for half an hour, but the inevitable tension of keeping a constant watch for approaching gilded heads had taken its toll. Rather than snap any more direfully at her would-be suitors, she’d excused herself, swanned past the withdrawing room, and taken refuge in the gallery.
Safe from gentlemen who were entirely too arrogantly certain of themselves.
The problem was, while she might be safe, hiding was only putting off the inevitable—at some point she was going to have to deal with Barnaby Adair.
By falling for his ploy, she’d all but “invited his attention”; if he managed to find her, she’d have little grounds to dismiss him, at least not outright. Which, of course, had been his goal.
Regardless, her problem—how to deal with him—remained, and on that subject she was in a totally uncharacteristic dither.
One part of her mind was convinced that any closer acquaintance with him would be inimical to her future—to her continued independence.
