He couldn’t think of any other young lady who would willingly go where she must; it was becoming obvious that making assumptions about her, or her likely behavior or reactions, based on the norm for young ladies of the ton was an excellent way to find himself wrong-footed.
She led him on, stopping in this classroom or that, showing him the dormitories, presently empty, and the infirmary and dining hall, lecturing him on their practices, introducing him to staff they met along the way. He drank it all in; he enjoyed studying people—he considered himself something of a connoisseur of character—and the more he saw, the more he found himself fascinated, most of all by Penelope Ashford.
Strong-willed, dominant as opposed to domineering, intelligent, quick-witted and mentally astute, dedicated and loyal; by the end of their tour he’d seen enough to be certain of those qualities. He could also add prickly when pushed, high-handed when challenged, and compassionate to her toes. The latter shone through every time she interacted with any of the children; he was prepared to take an oath that she knew every name and every history of the more than eighty children under the house’s roof.
Eventually they returned to the main foyer. Penelope couldn’t think of anything further she needed to show him to make her point; he was refreshingly observant and apparently able to deduce without having matters explained in minute detail. Halting, she faced him. “Is there anything further you need to know about our procedures here?”
He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head. “Not at present. All appears straightforward, well thought out, and established.” He glanced back into the house. “And on the basis of what I’ve seen of your staff, I agree that it seems unlikely any of them are involved, even in passing information to the…for want of a better word, kidnappers.”
His blue gaze refixed on her face; she fought to appear unconscious as he studied her eyes, her features.
“So my next step will be to visit the scene of the latest disappearance, and to question the locals and learn what they know.” His lips curved, beguilingly charming. “If you’ll give me the address, I won’t need to take up any more of your time.”
She narrowed her eyes, let her jaw firm. “You needn’t worry about my time—until we have our four boys back, this matter takes precedence over all else. Naturally I’ll accompany you to Dick’s father’s lodgings—aside from anything else, the neighbors don’t know you and are unlikely to readily speak to you.”
He held her gaze. She wondered if they were going to have the argument she knew would eventually come then and there…but then he inclined his head. “If you wish.”
His last word was drowned by the clatter of footsteps. Penelope swung around to see Mrs. Keggs, the matron, come hurrying up the corridor.
“If you please, Miss Ashford, I need a few minutes of your time before you go.” Coming to a halt, Mrs. Keggs added, “About the supplies for the dormitories and the infirmary. I really should get the order out today.”
Penelope hid her vexation—not for Mrs. Keggs, for the need was acute, but over the unfortunate timing. Would Adair try to use the delay as an excuse to cut her out of the investigation? She turned back to him. “This will take no more than ten…perhaps fifteen minutes.” She didn’t ask if he would wait, but forged on, “After that, we’ll be able to set out.”
He held her gaze steadily; she could read nothing in his blue eyes other than that he was evaluating, weighing. Then the line of his lips eased, not in a smile but as if he were inwardly amused.
“Very well.” From beyond the now open front door the sound of boys’ voices reached them; he tipped his head in that direction. “I’ll wait outside, observing your charges.”
She was too relieved to ask what he expected to observe. She nodded briskly. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Giving him no chance to change his mind, she turned and, with Mrs. Keggs, set off down the corridor to her office.
Barnaby watched her go, appreciatively noting the brisk sway of her hips as she strode so purposefully along, then he turned and, smiling more definitely, went out into the gloomy day.
Standing on the porch, he scanned the yard to the right; a bevy of children, boys and girls about five and six years old, were laughing and shrieking as they chased one another and threw soft balls. Looking to the left, he discovered a similar number of boys, all in the seven-to twelve-years-old age group into which the missing boys would have merged.
Stepping down, he let his feet take him in that direction. He wasn’t looking for anything specific, yet experience had taught him that snippets of what at the time seemed extraneous information often turned out to be crucial in solving a case.
Leaning against the side of the house, he let his gaze range over the group. They came in all sizes and shapes, some pudgy, heavyset, and thuggish looking, others scrawny and thin. Most moved freely in their games, but a few limped, and one dragged one foot.
Any similar group of tonnish children would have been more physically homogenous, with similar features, similar long limbs.
The one element these children shared, with one another and with children from his sphere, was a certain carefreeness not normally found in pauper children. It was a reflection of confidence in their security—that they would have a roof over their heads and reasonable sustenance, not just today but tomorrow as well, and into the foreseeable future.
These children were happy, far more than many of their peers would ever be.
A tutor was seated on a bench on the opposite side of the playground, reading a book but glancing up every now and then at his charges.
Eventually one of the boys—a wiry, ferret-faced lad of about ten—sidled up to Barnaby. He waited until Barnaby glanced down at him before asking, “Are you a new tutor, then?”
“No.” When more was clearly expected, he added, “I’m helping Miss Ashford with something. I’m waiting for her.”
Other boys edged closer as the first mouthed an “Oh.” He glanced at his friends, then felt emboldened enough to ask, “What are you, then?”
The third son of an earl. Barnaby grinned, imagining how his interrogators would react to that. “I help people find things.”
“What things?”
Villains, generally.“Possessions or people they want to find.”
