The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,167

tilted his head. “To what do I owe this visit?”

This highly irregular, not to say potentially scandalous visit. She was a gently bred lady of marriageable age, calling on a single gentleman who was in no way related very late at night. Alone. Entirely unchaperoned.

He should protest and send her away. Mostyn certainly thought so.

Her fine dark eyes met his. Squarely, without the slightest hint of guile or trepidation. “I want you to help me solve a crime.”

He held her gaze.

She returned the favor.

A pregnant moment passed, then he gestured elegantly to the other armchair. “Please sit. Perhaps you’d like some refreshment?”

Her smile—it transformed her face from vividly attractive to stunning—flashed as she moved to the chair facing his. “Thank you, but no. I require nothing but your time.” She waved Mostyn away. “You may go.”

Mostyn stiffened. He cast an outraged glance at Barnaby.

Battling a grin, Barnaby endorsed the order with a nod. Mostyn didn’t like it, but departed, bowing himself out, but leaving the door ajar. Barnaby noted it, but said nothing. Mostyn knew he was hunted, often quite inventively, by young ladies; he clearly believed Miss Ashford might be such a schemer. Barnaby knew better. Penelope Ashford might scheme with the best of them, but marriage would not be her goal.

While she arranged her muff on her lap, he sank back into his armchair and studied her anew.

She was the most unusual young lady he’d ever encountered.

He’d decided that even before she said, “Mr. Adair, I need your help to find four missing boys, and stop any more being kidnapped.”

Penelope raised her eyes and locked them on Barnaby Adair’s face. And tried her damnedest not to see. When she’d determined to call on him, she hadn’t imagined he—his appearance—would have the slightest effect on her. Why would she? No man had ever made her feel breathless, so why should he? It was distinctly annoying.

Golden hair clustering in wavy curls about a well-shaped head, strong, aquiline features and cerulean blue eyes that held a piercing intelligence were doubtless interesting enough, yet quite aside from his features there was something about him, about his presence, that was playing on her nerves in a disconcerting way.

Why he should affect her at all was a mystery. He was tall, with a long-limbed, rangy build, yet he was no taller than her brother Luc, and while his shoulders were broad, they were no broader than her brother-in-law Simon’s. And he was certainly not prettier than either Luc or Simon, although he could easily hold his own in the handsome stakes; she’d heard Barnaby Adair described as an Adonis and had to concede the point.

All of which was entirely by the by and she had no clue why she was even noticing.

She focused instead on the numerous questions she could see forming behind his blue eyes. “The reason I am here, and not a host of outraged parents, is because the boys in question are paupers and foundlings.”

He frowned.

Stripping off her gloves, she grimaced lightly. “I’d better start at the beginning.”

He nodded. “That would probably facilitate matters—namely my understanding—significantly.”

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