Page 101 of Where the Heart Leads
“Oh?” Griselda hesitated, then said, “I thought all ton ladies visited each other all the time. Morning teas, afternoon teas, high teas.”
“Lots of teas,” Penelope conceded. “But I only attend in my mother’s train, and although ladies call on her, they never call on me.”
Griselda tilted her head. “Why?”
Picking up a shortbread, Penelope nibbled. “Because I don’t have any real friends among the younger ladies. The older ladies, yes, but they expect me to call on them, of course.” Without waiting for Griselda to ask, she continued, “I think I scare them—the younger ladies, I mean.”
Griselda grinned. “I can see how that might be.”
“Hmm…perhaps.” Penelope focused on her. “But I don’t scare you.”
Griselda looked at her, then shook her head. “No, you don’t.”
Penelope smiled. “Good.” She waved the remnant of her biscuit. “These are excellent, by the way.”
Griselda smiled, and the kettle chose that moment to sing.
They busied themselves filling the pot and collecting mugs, then Griselda hefted the tray, Penelope carried the biscuit plate, and they returned to the parlor above.
Supplied with tea and biscuits, the men left politics and policing and the talk returned to the one topic that exercised all their minds. They ate, drank, and racked their brains for some avenue they’d yet to pursue, some brilliant way to locate the boys that they’d failed to see—but there was nothing.
“Nothing,” Penelope reiterated; she sounded disgusted. “We’ve notices out. We’ve offered a reward. We’ve people looking. We have a trap set.” She glowered at the teapot. “You’d think something wouldhappen.”
None of the others had anything to add; they sat, sipped, sharing her disgruntlement.
Griselda glanced around the small circle, conscious of how easy in one another’s company they’d all grown in a short time. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined sitting in her small parlor entertaining the third son of an earl, the daughter of a viscount, and an inspector from Scotland Yard. Yet here they all were, linked by common cause…and friendship.
A friendship that had grown and deepened, that had come to be because they all shared one trait—a liking for justice, for seeing justice served. They differed in many ways, but that they all shared—it linked them and always would.
She felt Stokes’s gray gaze. She met his eyes—held them for an instant, glorying in the connection, in what she could see and feel, then, knowing she’d blush if she looked too long, she looked down and sipped.
The conversation grew intermittent, desultory.
The tea had grown cold; she was contemplating refreshing the pot when a heavy pounding rattled her front door.
They all looked up. Then Stokes and Barnaby were on their feet, heading for the stairs. Penelope set down her mug and followed. Griselda brought up the rear.
The pounding didn’t stop. Stokes reached the door first. He threw the bolts and hauled it wide.
The young boy who’d been thumping jumped back, eyes flaring wide.
Stokes pinned him with a hard stare. “What’s going on?”
When that just elicited a frightened stare, he tried to soften his tone. “Who did you want to see?”
“Me, obviously.” Griselda pushed past him. She recognized the lad. “Barry—what’s happened?”
Reassured, relieved, the boy came closer. “Me brothers said fer you to come right away, miss—t’ Black Lion Yard. Some beggar tried to kill Horry’s gran’ma.”
The four crowding the front door exchanged one glance, then Penelope fled to fetch her coat, Barnaby at her heels. Griselda turned back to Barry Wills. “Wait here—we’ll be with you in an instant.”
It was evening by the time they reached Black Lion Yard. Leaving the hackney at the entrance, they hurried across the cobbles, dodging the crates and boxes to reach Mary Bushel’s home.
Stokes led the way in. None of them knew what they would find, but all were relieved to see Mary hale and whole in her chair by the fire, flanked by two burly Wills boys.
Both Wills brothers and the small room looked the worse for wear. Barnaby recognized Joe, now sporting a developing black eye and a split lip.
Joe nodded in greeting. “The blackguards came.” He glanced at Mary, satisfaction in his eyes. “Didn’t get Mary nor Horry, either.” He looked at Stokes, and grimaced. “But we couldn’t hold them—they got away.”
