Where The Heart Leads by Stephanie Laurens Page A

behaved in ways few other gentlemen would have, and earned her respect in a way and to a degree that no other man ever had.
    In less than an hour, he’d made her plan untenable. She wasn’t going to be able to ignore him—even pretend to ignore him—not when he’d made her admire him. Appreciate him. As a person, not just as a man.
    Her gaze on the rundown houses slipping past, she inwardly acknowledged that in dealing with him, she would need to think again.
    She needed a better plan.
    Silence reigned until the hackney drew up outside the Foundling House. Barnaby shook himself free of his thoughts—of the disturbingly persistent need to stop Penelope from making visits such as the one just concluded. Opening the carriage door, he got out, handed her down, then paid off the jarvey, adding a hefty tip.
    As the grateful jarvey rattled away, he turned, remembered not to grip her arm as he had in the stews—a protective action only their surroundings had excused—and instead took her hand and wound her arm in his.
    She cast him a swift glance, but allowed it. He swung open the gate and they walked up the path to the house’s front door.
    He rang the bell.
    She drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “I’ll write a letter to Mrs. Carter’s landlord immediately.”
    He nodded. “I’ll contact Stokes and explain the situation.” He met her eyes. “Where will you be this evening?”
    Her large dark brown eyes blinked at him. “Why?”
    Irritation swamped him, heightened by her transparently genuine blank look. “In case I think of anything more I need to know.” He made it sound as if he was stating the obvious.
    “Oh.” She considered, as if mentally reviewing her diary. “Mama and I will be at Lady Moffat’s party.”
    “I’ll look you up if I need any further information.” To his relief, the door opened. He nodded to Mrs. Keggs, bowed briefly to Penelope, then turned and walked away.
    Before he said something even more inane.

6
    A t three o’clock that afternoon Stokes presented himself at Griselda Martin’s front door. She was waiting to let him in. The blinds screening the front window and the glass panel in the door were already drawn. Her apprentices were nowhere in sight.
    She noted the hackney he had waiting in the street. “I’ll just get my bonnet and bag.”
    He waited in the doorway while she bustled back behind the curtain, then reappeared a moment later, tying a straw bonnet over her dark hair. Even to Stokes’s eyes, the bonnet looked stylish.
    She came forward, briskly waving him down the steps ahead of her. She followed, closing and locking the door behind her. Dropping the heavy key into her cloth bag, she joined him on the pavement.
    He walked beside her the few paces to the hackney, opened the carriage door, and offered her his hand.
    She stared at it for a moment, then put her hand in his. Very aware of the fragility of the fingers he grasped, he helped her into the carriage. “What direction should I give?”
    “The corner of Whitechapel and New Road.”
    He conveyed the information to their driver, then joined her inside. The instant the door shut, the carriage jerked and started rolling.
    She was seated opposite him; he couldn’t stop his gaze from resting on her. She didn’t fidget, as most did under his eye, but he noticed she was clutching the bag she’d placed in her lap rather tightly.
    He forced himself to look away, but the façades slipping pastcouldn’t hold his attention. Or his gaze; it kept returning to her, until he knew if he didn’t say something, his steady regard would unnerve her.
    All he could think of was, “I want to thank you for agreeing to help me.”
    She looked at him, met his gaze squarely. “You’re trying to rescue four young boys, and possibly more besides. Of course I’ll help you—what sort of woman wouldn’t?”
    What sort of woman had he expected her to be?
    He hastened to reassure her. “I only meant that I was grateful.” He