nodded. “Just remember your promise.” He trapped Jemmie’s gaze. “We’ll be back to fetch you when the time comes.”
Turning away, he took Penelope’s arm. They made their way back toward Arnold Circus.
Looking ahead, Penelope said, “Thank you. That was very well done.”
Barnaby shrugged. He glanced back at Mrs. Carter’s door; it was shut. “So how do we keep Jemmie out of the hands of our villains?”
Penelope grimaced. “I had assumed we’d warn Mrs. Carter, and Jemmie, too, but as he said, she doesn’t need any more worries.”
Barnaby nodded. “And neither does he.” After a moment, he went on, “And warning him won’t do any good anyway. If our villains want him, they’ll snatch him, and scrawny as he is he won’t be able to fight them. Better for him if he doesn’t try.”
The bustle and brighter, less-shadowed gloom of Arnold Circus drew nearer. “I’ll speak with Stokes.” Barnaby glanced around as they emerged into the circular space. “He’ll get the local bobbies to keep an eye on the house. What about neighbors? Are there any we could approach?”
“Unfortunately, neighbors aren’t much use in this case. Mrs. Carter has only recently moved here—they used to live in a better street, but once she could no longer work, and Jemmie had to spend more time looking after her, they couldn’t meet the rent. Her landlord here is an old friend of the family—he’s not charging them anything for the rooms. It was he who convinced Mrs. Carter to send for us. But there’s no one nearby she’s comfortable with—no one she’d be happy watching over the place, or her and Jemmie. The landlord lives some streets away.”
Reaching the hackney, Penelope halted, jaw firming. “I’ll send to the landlord and alert him. I’m sure he’ll keep as close an eye on the Carters as he can. I’ll ask him to send word if he or anyone he knows sees anything suspicious.”
Opening the door, Barnaby grasped her hand and helped her climb up, then followed her into the carriage. The instant the door clicked shut, the jarvey called to his horse and they set off on the long journey back to more fashionable streets.
“That seems all we can do.” Barnaby looked out at the drab streetscape. His tone suggested he wished it weren’t so, that there was something more definite they could reasonably do to protect Jemmie while not worrying his mother, possibly unnecessarily.
Penelope grimaced again; she, too, looked out of the window. And inwardly wrestled with not her conscience but something closely aligned—her sense of rightness, of truth, of giving praise where it was due.
Of acknowledging the totality—the humanity—of Barnaby Adair.
She would much rather consider him a typical ton gentleman, far distanced from the world through which the hackney was rolling—a man uninterested in and untouched by the wider issues she confronted every day.
Unfortunately, his vocation—the very aspect of him that had compelled her to seek his help—was proof positive that he was otherwise.
Seeing him deal with Jemmie, hearing the commitment in his voice when he’d told Mrs. Carter, a poor woman with no claim on his notice other than her need, that he would keep Jemmie safe, had made closing her eyes and her mind to his virtues—so much more attractive to her than any amount of rakish charm—impossible.
When he’d arrived at the Foundling House that morning, she’d been determined to keep him rigidly at a distance. To keep all their dealings purely business, to suppress each and every little leap her unruly nerves might make, giving him no reason whatever to imagine he had any inherent effect on her.
Her resolve had wavered—illogically—when he’d arrived early, demonstrating a far better grasp of her determination and will than any man of her acquaintance. But she’d quickly bolstered her resolve with said will and determination, and stuck to her plan of how to deal with him.
And then…he’d
Turning away, he took Penelope’s arm. They made their way back toward Arnold Circus.
Looking ahead, Penelope said, “Thank you. That was very well done.”
Barnaby shrugged. He glanced back at Mrs. Carter’s door; it was shut. “So how do we keep Jemmie out of the hands of our villains?”
Penelope grimaced. “I had assumed we’d warn Mrs. Carter, and Jemmie, too, but as he said, she doesn’t need any more worries.”
Barnaby nodded. “And neither does he.” After a moment, he went on, “And warning him won’t do any good anyway. If our villains want him, they’ll snatch him, and scrawny as he is he won’t be able to fight them. Better for him if he doesn’t try.”
The bustle and brighter, less-shadowed gloom of Arnold Circus drew nearer. “I’ll speak with Stokes.” Barnaby glanced around as they emerged into the circular space. “He’ll get the local bobbies to keep an eye on the house. What about neighbors? Are there any we could approach?”
“Unfortunately, neighbors aren’t much use in this case. Mrs. Carter has only recently moved here—they used to live in a better street, but once she could no longer work, and Jemmie had to spend more time looking after her, they couldn’t meet the rent. Her landlord here is an old friend of the family—he’s not charging them anything for the rooms. It was he who convinced Mrs. Carter to send for us. But there’s no one nearby she’s comfortable with—no one she’d be happy watching over the place, or her and Jemmie. The landlord lives some streets away.”
Reaching the hackney, Penelope halted, jaw firming. “I’ll send to the landlord and alert him. I’m sure he’ll keep as close an eye on the Carters as he can. I’ll ask him to send word if he or anyone he knows sees anything suspicious.”
Opening the door, Barnaby grasped her hand and helped her climb up, then followed her into the carriage. The instant the door clicked shut, the jarvey called to his horse and they set off on the long journey back to more fashionable streets.
“That seems all we can do.” Barnaby looked out at the drab streetscape. His tone suggested he wished it weren’t so, that there was something more definite they could reasonably do to protect Jemmie while not worrying his mother, possibly unnecessarily.
Penelope grimaced again; she, too, looked out of the window. And inwardly wrestled with not her conscience but something closely aligned—her sense of rightness, of truth, of giving praise where it was due.
Of acknowledging the totality—the humanity—of Barnaby Adair.
She would much rather consider him a typical ton gentleman, far distanced from the world through which the hackney was rolling—a man uninterested in and untouched by the wider issues she confronted every day.
Unfortunately, his vocation—the very aspect of him that had compelled her to seek his help—was proof positive that he was otherwise.
Seeing him deal with Jemmie, hearing the commitment in his voice when he’d told Mrs. Carter, a poor woman with no claim on his notice other than her need, that he would keep Jemmie safe, had made closing her eyes and her mind to his virtues—so much more attractive to her than any amount of rakish charm—impossible.
When he’d arrived at the Foundling House that morning, she’d been determined to keep him rigidly at a distance. To keep all their dealings purely business, to suppress each and every little leap her unruly nerves might make, giving him no reason whatever to imagine he had any inherent effect on her.
Her resolve had wavered—illogically—when he’d arrived early, demonstrating a far better grasp of her determination and will than any man of her acquaintance. But she’d quickly bolstered her resolve with said will and determination, and stuck to her plan of how to deal with him.
And then…he’d
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