She laid her gloves on top of her muff. She wasn’t sure she appreciated his tone, but decided to ignore it. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but my sister Portia—she’s now married to Simon Cynster—three other ladies of the ton, and I, established the Foundling House opposite the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. That was back in ’30. The House has been in operation ever since, taking in foundlings, mostly from the East End, and training them as maids, footmen, and more recently in various trades.”
“You were asking Sarah about her orphanage’s training programs when we last met.”
“Indeed.” She hadn’t known he’d overheard that. “My older sister Anne, now Anne Carmarthen, is also involved, but since their marriages, with their own households to run, both Anne and lately Portia have had to curtail the time they spend at the Foundling House. The other three ladies likewise have many calls on their time. Consequently, at present I am in charge of overseeing the day-to-day administration of the place. It’s in that capacity that I’m here tonight.”
Folding her hands over her gloves, she met his eyes, held his steady gaze. “The normal procedure is for children to be formally placed in the care of the Foundling House by the authorities, or by their last surviving guardian.
“The latter is quite common. What usually occurs is that a dying relative, recognizing that their ward will soon be alone in the world, contacts us and we visit and make arrangements. The child usually stays with their guardian until the last, then, on the guardian’s death, we’re informed, usually by helpful neighbors, and we return and fetch the orphan and take him or her to the Foundling House.”
He nodded, signifying all to that point was clear.
Drawing breath, she went on, feeling her lungs tighten, her diction growing crisp as anger resurged, “Over the last month, on four separate occasions we’ve arrived to fetch away a boy, only to discover some man has been before us. He told the neighbors he was a local official, but there is no central authority that collects orphans. If there were, we’d know.”
Adair’s blue gaze had grown razor-sharp. “Is it always the same man?”
“From all I’ve heard, it could be. But equally, it might not be.”
She waited while he mulled over that. She bit her tongue, forced herself to sit still and not fidget, and instead watch the concentration in his face.
Her inclination was to forge ahead, to demand he act and tell him how. She was used to directing, to taking charge and ordering all as she deemed fit. She was usually right in her thinking, and generally people were a great deal better off if they simply did as she said. But . . . she needed Barnaby Adair’s help, and instinct was warning her, stridently, to tread carefully. To guide rather than push.
To persuade rather than dictate.
His gaze had grown distant, but now abruptly refocused on her face. “You take boys and girls. Is it only boys who’ve gone missing?”
“Yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “We’ve accepted more girls than boys in recent months, but it’s only boys this man has taken.”
A moment passed. “He’s taken four—tell me about each. Start from the first—everything you know, every detail, no matter how apparently inconsequential.”
Barnaby watched as she delved into her memory; her dark gaze turned inward, her features smoothed, losing some of their characteristic vitality.
She drew breath; her gaze fixed on the fire as if she were reading from the flames. “The first was from Chicksand Street in Spitalfields, off Brick Lane north of the Whitechapel Road. He was eight years old, or so his uncle told us. He, the uncle, was dying, and . . .”
Barnaby listened as she, not entirely to his surprise, did precisely as he’d requested and recited the details of each occurrence, chapter and verse. Other than an occasional minor query, he didn’t have to prod her or her memory.
He was accustomed to dealing with ladies of the ton, to interrogating young ladies whose minds skittered and wandered around subjects, and flitted and danced around facts, so that it took the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job to gain any understanding of what they actually knew.
Penelope Ashford was a different breed. He’d heard that she was something of a firebrand, one who paid scant attention to social restraints if said restraints stood in her way. He’d heard her described as too intelligent for her own good, and direct and forthright to a fault, that combination of traits being popularly held to account for her unmarried state.
As she was remarkably attractive in an unusual way—not pretty or beautiful but so vividly alive she effortlessly drew men’s eyes—as well as being extremely well-connected, the daughter of a viscount, and with her brother Luc, the current title holder, eminently wealthy and able to dower her more than appropriately, that popular judgment might well be correct. Yet her sister Portia had recently married Simon Cynster, and while Portia might perhaps be more subtle in her dealings, Barnaby recalled that the Cynster ladies, judges he trusted in such matters, saw little difference between Portia and Penelope beyond Penelope’s directness.
And, if he was remembering aright, her utterly implacable will.
From what little he’d seen of the sisters, he, too, would have said that Portia would bend, or at least agree to negotiate, far earlier than Penelope.
“And just as with the others, when we went to Herb Lane to fetch Dick this morning, he was gone. He’d been collected by this mystery man at seven o’clock, barely after dawn.”
Her story concluded, she shifted her dark, compelling eyes from the flames to his face.
Barnaby held her gaze for a moment, then slowly nodded. “So somehow these people—let’s assume it’s one group collecting these boys—”
“I can’t see it being more than one group. We’ve never had this happen before, and now four instances in less than a month, and all with the same modus operandi.” Brows raised, she met his eyes.
Somewhat tersely, he nodded. “Precisely. As I was saying, these people, whoever they are, seem to know of your potential charges—”
“Before you suggest that they might be learning of the boys through someone at the Foundling House, let me assure you that’s highly unlikely. If you knew the people involved, you’d understand why I’m so sure of that. And indeed, although I’ve come to you with our four cases, there’s nothing to say other newly orphaned boys in the East End aren’t also disappearing. Most orphans aren’t brought to our attention. There may be many more vanishing, but who is there who would sound any alarm?”
Barnaby stared at her while the scenario she was describing took shape in his mind.