Where The Heart Leads Read Online Free

office, sir. If you’ll go through?”
    Barnaby paused on the threshold of the anteroom. Inside, a prim young woman was sitting, head down, at a small desk in front of a phalanx of closed cabinets, busily sorting through a stack of papers. Smiling slightly, Barnaby thanked his escort, then walked across the room to the inner sanctum.
    Its door, too, stood open.
    On silent feet, he approached and paused, looking in. Penelope’s office—the brass plaque on the door read HOUSE ADMINISTRATOR —was a severe, undecorated, white-walled square. It contained two tallcabinets against one wall, and a large desk set before a window with two straight-backed chairs facing it.
    Penelope sat in the chair behind the desk, her concentration fixed on a sheaf of papers. A slight frown had drawn her dark brows into an almost horizontal line above the bridge of her straight little nose.
    Her lips, he noted, were compressed into a firm, rather forbidding line.
    She was wearing a dark blue walking dress; the deep hue emphasized her porcelain complexion and the lustrous bounty of her richly brown hair. He took due note of the glints of red in the heavy mass.
    Raising a hand, he rapped one knuckle on the door. “Miss Ashford?”
    She looked up. For one instant, both her gaze and expression remained blank, then she blinked, refocused, and waved him in. “Mr. Adair. Welcome to the Foundling House.”
    No smile, Barnaby noted; she was all business. He told himself that was refreshing.
    His own expression easy, he walked forward to stand beside one chair. “Perhaps you could show me around the place, and you could answer my questions as we walk.”
    She considered him, then glanced at the papers before her. He could almost hear her mentally debating whether to send him on a tour with her assistant, but then her lips—those ruby lips that had eased back to their natural fascinating fullness—firmed again. Laying aside her pen, she stood. “Indeed. The sooner we can find our missing boys, the better.”
    Coming around the desk, she walked briskly out of the room; brows rising faintly, he turned and followed—once again in a woman’s wake, although this time his guide did not figure in his mind as the least bit matronly.
    She nevertheless managed a commendable bustle as she crossed the outer office. “This is my assistant, Miss Marsh. She was once a foundling herself, and now works here ensuring all our files and paperwork are in order.”
    Barnaby smiled at the mousy young woman; she colored and bobbed her head, then refixed her attention on her papers. Following Penelope into the corridor, Barnaby reflected that the denizens of theFoundling House were unlikely to encounter many tonnish gentlemen within their walls.
    Lengthening his stride, he caught up with Penelope; she was leading him deeper into the house, striding along almost mannishly, clearly dismissive of the currently fashionable glide. He glanced at her face. “Do you have many ladies of the ton involved in your work here?”
    “Not many.” After a moment, she elaborated. “Quite a few come—they hear of it from me, Portia, or the others, or our mothers and aunts, and call intending to offer their services.”
    Halting at the intersection with another corridor leading into one wing, she faced him. “They come, they look—and then they go away. Most have a vision of playing Lady Bountiful to suitably grateful urchins.” A wicked light gleamed in her eyes; turning, she gestured down the wing. “That’s not what they find here.”
    Even before they reached the open door three doors down the corridor, the cacophany was evident.
    Penelope pushed the door wide. “Boys!”
    The noise ended so abruptly the silence rang.
    Ten boys ranging in age from eight or so to twelvish stood frozen, caught in the throes of a general wrestling match. Eyes wide, mouths acock, they took in who had entered, then quickly disengaged, jostling to line up and summoning innocent smiles that regardless