Free Where The Heart Leads by Stephanie Laurens Page B

hadn’t expected, either.
    Penelope watched his broad shoulders until he passed out of sight. Only then did she even bother to try to marshal her wits and assess the situation.
    When she did… “Damn!” She muttered the word beneath her breath. She could find no fault with Barnaby Adair—not in his investigative capabilities, nor yet, and most surprisingly, in his gentlemanly attributes. That was not a good sign. Normally, certainly after she’d conversed with a gentleman twice, she’d already dismissed him from her mind.
    Barnaby Adair she couldn’t dismiss. Not least because he wouldn’t be dismissed.
    Quite what she was going to do about him she didn’t know, but it was patently clear she would have to do something. It was either take some action to nullify his effect, or continue to suffer her wayward wits and wretchedly preoccupied senses.
    The latter wasn’t an option. And until she accomplished the former, she wasn’t—clearly wasn’t—going to be able to manage him as she wished.

5
    T he next morning at nine o’clock, Inspector Basil Stokes stood on the pavement in St. John’s Wood High Street, staring at the door of a small shop. After a moment, he squared his shoulders, walked up the two steps, opened the door, and went inside.
    A bell above the door jangled; two girls working at a bench at the rear of the narrow rectangular space looked up. They blinked, then exchanged quick glances. One—Stokes took her for the elder—laid aside the bonnet she was trimming and came forward to the small counter.
    Hesitantly she asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
    He could understand her confusion; he wasn’t the usual run of customer for a milliner’s establishment. Glancing around, he almost winced at the feathers, lace, ribbons, and fripperies draped over pegs and adorning hats of various shapes. He felt comprehensively out of place, as if he’d stepped uninvited into a lady’s boudoir.
    Returning his gaze to the girl’s round face, he stated, “I’m here to see Miss Martin. Is she in?”
    The girl eyed him nervously. “Who shall I say wants her, sir?”
    He was about to give his title, then realized Griselda—Miss Martin—would likely not appreciate her staff knowing she was being visited by the police. “Mr. Stokes. I daresay she’ll remember me. I’d like a moment of her time, if she can spare it.”
    Like many others, the girl couldn’t decide his social status; she bobbed a curtsy just to play safe. “I’ll ask.”
    She disappeared through a heavy curtain that cut off the back of the shop. Stokes looked around. Two mirrors hung along one wall.He caught sight of himself in one, framed by confections of feathers and lace, fake flowers and spangles displayed on the wall behind him. He quickly looked away.
    A mumble of voices came from beyond the curtain, drawing nearer. He locked his gaze on the curtain as it parted—and a vision every bit as lovely as he recalled walked through.
    Griselda Martin was neither tall nor short, neither plump nor slender. She had a round face with pleasant features—large cornflower-blue eyes framed by lush black lashes, a wide brow, an upturned nose across which a band of freckles marched, rosy cheeks, and rosebud lips. Her thick, sable hair, secured in a knot at the back of her neck, framed her face. Although her style was a far cry from tonnish beauty, she was, to Stokes, perfect in every way.
    Her eyes were the sort that should have been twinkling, but when she looked at him they were serious, careful—a trifle wary. “Mr. Stokes?”
    She, too, avoided using his title. He inclined his head. “Miss Martin, I wonder if you could spare me a moment—I’d like to discuss a business matter.”
    She appreciated his sensitivity in not mentioning the police before her staff. She thawed slightly; after a second’s consideration, she turned to her assistants. “Imogen, Jane—you can take the deliveries around now.”
    Both girls, who’d been listening and