Her Protector's Pleasure

by Callaway, Grace

  Guilt, shame—no time for that now. Later, Marianne would punish herself anew for her recklessness, her stupidity. For now she had to concentrate on getting Primrose back.

  "My daughter has paid for my mistakes." The words abraded her throat. "I will do anything to find her. What is it that you want in exchange for information of her whereabouts, Mr. Corbett? Money? I have plenty of it. Name your price."

  Corbett continued to stare at her. Lines flickered at the sides of his mouth.

  "I can't do this here," he said in a low voice.

  Her heart quickened. "Where, then?"

  "I'll come to you." With a quick glance around, he raked his hands through his hair, mussing the coiffed curls.

  When he began to untie his robe, Marianne narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

  "Mrs. Wilson will be inspecting us when we emerge from our love nest." He parted the brocade, exposing his naked, sculpted form. Cheeks burning, Marianne looked away as he continued in matter-of-fact tones, "She'll expect to find the usual signs of fornication—she likes to examine me post coitus. If you don't want your motive exposed, you had best do something about yourself, too." He paused, cocking a brow. "Unless you'd care to exchange a helping hand?"

  At that, Marianne cast him a withering look.

  "Right-o," he muttered. "I'll keep my hands and my eyes to myself." So saying, he turned his broad shoulders. The jerking of his arm left no doubt as to how he meant to pass his employer's scrutiny.

  Her stomach knotting, Marianne retreated a few steps back. She'd do anything to regain Rosie, and for the first time in a very long while, she saw a faint glimmer on the dark horizon. She let out a resigned breath. With a slight tremor to her hand, she reached for her bodice.

  TWO

  The tavern was noisy, smoky, and to Ambrose Kent's mind, a dismal place to interview for a job. Yet Sir Gerald Coyner had suggested meeting at The White Hart rather than the Bow Street offices, and wanting to get things off on the right foot with the magistrate—and, potentially, his future employer—Ambrose had agreed.

  In the decade he'd spent working for the Thames River Police, Ambrose had learned to judge a man's character quickly. When training new recruits, Ambrose emphasized two things: observation and patience. Being a successful waterman, in his view, was less about brute force and more about collecting facts, missing no details, and waiting for the pieces to come together.

  For instance, he could tell a lot about Coyner from the quarter hour they'd spent together. Well-nourished and dressed in fashionable clothes, Coyner was obviously a man of means. Without so much as a glance at the menu, he'd ordered the most expensive items the tavern had to offer. His accent was educated, yet not of the highest class, and though his thinning brown hair and lined features put him in his fifth decade, he wore no wedding band. He had the fastidious habits of a man who lived on his own, wiping his mustache after each sip from his foaming tankard.

  Ambrose looked down at his own barely touched ale. Though the amber liquid had tasted smooth and delicious and his stomach was growling, he had to stretch the drink to make it last the duration of the meeting. As it was, he'd had to choose between that single beverage and a hackney ride home afterward—he hadn't coin enough for both.

  Which focused him on his goal: he needed money. His full-time position with the River Police could not provide what was required, so he had to secure additional employment. He cleared his throat, readying to make his pitch for contract work with Bow Street.

  Before he could speak, the serving wench returned to the table.

  "'Ere you go, sir." Red-haired and plump-cheeked, the woman's generous bosom jiggled as she set a platter heaped with beef and creamed potatoes in front of the magistrate.

  Ambrose swallowed; typically, his stringent self-discipline overrode his impulses, but now 'twas as if all his hungers were spread before him. For food … and for female companionship. Thinking of Jane—of her dark, laughing eyes and bountiful curves—he experienced a pang.

  Did you think I'd wait around forever, Ambrose? I may be a widow, but I'm still young, and I've got a future ahead of me. You had a choice: me or your family—and as you've made your decision, I've made mine. I won't go down with a sinking ship.

  Though a year had passed, the loss of Jane still stung. Yet he understood: it had been too much to ask of Jane or any woman to tie herself to a man with his troubles. He had put his family first, and given the same scenario, he'd do so again.

  The family is counting on you. Buck up, man, and get the job done.

  "Rare an' juicy—the way gents like it," the wench said, winking at Coyner.

  With a disinterested nod, the magistrate cut into his beef.

  She swiveled to Ambrose, her tone losing its friendly sauce. "An' you, sir? Nothin' more than the ale?"

  Ambrose felt his cheekbones heat. "No, thank you," he said.

  "Up to you." Her plump lips curled with disdain. "Though you could use some meat on those bones, if you ask me."

  Ambrose was not unused to such comments. Hovering at six feet and a goodly number of inches besides, he'd been lanky to begin with; now, having made do on a steady diet of bread and cheese for months, he was approaching rawboned. He saw no reason to defend himself against what was fact, however. He took no stock in personal vanity.

  Coyner spoke up. "That's enough lip from you, miss. Don't you have customers to see to?"

  Flipping her hair over her shoulders, the wench sauntered off.

  Coyner's brow furrowed, knife and fork suspended above his plate. "Sure you don't want anything, Kent? Hate to eat alone. My treat, eh?"

  "Thank you, but I'm not hungry." Though he might not have two shillings to rub together, Ambrose still had his pride. "Please enjoy your supper. If you don't mind, however, I'd like to discuss an opportunity to work with Bow Street."

  The other man swallowed a mouthful. "Your reputation precedes you, Kent. From what I hear, you're a dedicated member of the Thames River Police. Made Principle Surveyor over at Wapping Station—though by my reckoning it took too long for a man of your talent." The magistrate gave him a keen look. "Not much for politics, eh?"

  If by politics, Coyner meant toadying up to Ambrose's own magistrate and superior, John Dalrymple, then the answer was no. Several years ago, Dalrymple had approached Ambrose with a suggestion to overlook a certain piece of evidence in exchange for recompense. Dalrymple had called it a favor; Ambrose had seen it as a bribe. He'd refused that and subsequent "favors" as well. In retribution, Dalrymple had stalled Ambrose's promotions and tried to blacken his reputation. Without solid proof of his superior's wrongdoing, Ambrose had borne the attacks in silence, believing that justice would prevail.

  Now he drew his shoulders back. "My only concern is justice, sir," he said flatly. "If you've heard anything different—"

  "Ease up, Kent. Dalrymple's not my only source," Coyner said. "Your peers speak highly of your ethics and ability."

  Some of Ambrose's tension eased. "They are too kind. I merely do my job."

  "They said you were overly modest, too." Coyner reached for his tankard. "Take it from me, Kent: if you want to get somewhere in life, you best get used to sounding your own trumpet. Hard work will only get you so far."

  "Yes, sir," Ambrose said.

  His father Samuel had always claimed that success came from honest, honorable toil. Yet despite a lifetime devoted to educating young minds as the village schoolmaster, Samuel now found himself mired in debt. His future and that of Ambrose's five younger siblings teetered in the balance. Beneath the table, Ambrose's hands balled.

  "I don't doubt your abilities or your work ethic," Coyner continued, "but I find myself circling a delicate question. If I may?"

  "I have no secrets."

  The magistrate's thin eyebrows winged above his faded blue eyes. "Not many a man could claim that. My question, then, is this: why are you in need of additional employ? As a Principle Surveyor, you earn a decent living. And you're not marri
ed, are you?"

  "I am not." Ambrose faltered; unaccustomed to speaking of his troubles, he didn't know how to go about it. "My father has had health troubles of late. And I have siblings in need of care."

  "What about your mother?"

  "She passed when I was a young boy. 'Twas my stepmother who raised me and my siblings—or half-siblings, I should say. She was taken from us two summers ago."

  Ambrose oft forgot that he did not share a biological mother with his siblings. His stepmother Marjorie had treated him like her own blood. Loving and practical, she had been the family's Rock of Gibraltar; the loss of her had left them all floundering—and his father especially.

  "My condolences." The other man cleared his throat. "Don't mean to pry, but between you and me, I've had some problems with past employees I've taken on independent contract. Men with vices, who'd do anything for extra coin." His mouth firmed. "A Bow Street Runner must represent justice. Like Caesar's wife, he must be above suspicion."

  Ambrose saw no argument with that. "You have my word that I would uphold my duties."

  For a minute, Coyner studied him. "I believe you would, Kent."

  "I have the job, then?"

  "When I have a fitting assignment, I'll let you know."

  Some of Ambrose's hope faded. "How long will that take, sir?" The payment on his family's cottage was due by the end of the month. If he didn't come up with the extra money, the Kents would lose the roof over their heads—and his shrew of a landlady would never allow his family to join him in his Spartan one-room apartment. Nor did he want his young, country-bred brother and sisters introduced to the harsh realities of city life.

  "Can't predict. But since the Cato Street Conspiracy last year, there's been plenty of mayhem afoot. Mark my words," the magistrate said darkly, "the anarchists are merely biding their time."

  Last year, Bow Street had played an instrumental role in the capture of a group of radicals dedicated to overthrowing the government and instituting social reform. Whilst Ambrose had sympathy with some of their beliefs—the government-sponsored massacre at Peterloo had been an atrocity through and through—he did not agree with their methods. Change must be made through law and order, not chaos. The Cato Street ruffians had planned on assassinating Members of Parliament, including the Prime Minister; thanks to the hard work of the magistrates, the plot had been foiled and the perpetrators punished for their crimes.

  "If there's any ongoing investigation in need of an extra pair of hands, I should be glad to—" Ambrose began.

  "Everything's under wraps at the moment." Finishing the last of his supper, the magistrate signaled to have his tankard refilled. "Not to worry. You'll be the first to know when a new case comes up."

  Ambrose had to content himself with that. After bidding the magistrate farewell, he exited the tavern into the cool summer night. At this hour, Covent Garden's collection of bawdy houses, theatres, and gaming hells threw together people of all classes, and the resulting mishmash overflowed the streets. Beneath a lamppost, a well-dressed cove bartered for the evening's pleasure with a pretty, bored-looking whore. A gang of young swells roared with laughter as one of their own cast up his accounts, splattering his Hessians in the process. Dirt-streaked urchins scampered about with sharp eyes and ready hands.

  Weary of vice—he'd spent the first ten hours of his day chasing down river thieves—Ambrose began his journey home. He had a two-mile trek back to his room in Cheapside. On the street corner, he passed a hawker selling paper cones filled with chestnuts. The rich, sugary smell of the browning nuts caused his belly to growl, but he walked on. He'd treat himself to a supper of toast and eggs when he arrived home.

  The promise of hot food lengthened his stride. Up ahead, he spotted a disturbance: two carts had collided, spilling produce and goods everywhere. Angry shouts rang through the night, and a mob began to gather, blocking off the street. Any opportunity to pillage and plunder. Disgruntled, Ambrose switched his path, cutting right down the next lane.

  He found himself on a quiet block lined with well-maintained Palladian buildings. Brothels, he guessed, from the muted red glow emanating from the shuttered windows. The night breeze carried a cloying scent which irritated Ambrose's nose. He had never understood the attractions of paid pleasure. All his life, he'd respected his stepmother and protected his four younger sisters; the idea of using someone else's womenfolk for selfish ends was despicable. For him, there'd be no enjoyment in knowing that his bed partner was selling her favors—and, more likely than not, out of pure desperation.

  His mouth twisted with wry humor. It hardly matters what you think, does it? Because you haven't even the entry fee to such an establishment. So enough of your high-brow views and onto more important concerns.

  Such as how to keep his family afloat.

  Devil and damn, if only Father hadn't tried to hide the money troubles. Last year, Samuel Kent had suffered an apoplectic fit; it had cost him his health and his thirty year tenure at the village school. Ever a proud man, he'd reassured Ambrose that he was receiving a pension and that all was well. In reality, the pension had turned out to be a paltry, one-time payment—one that, in a fit of desperation, Samuel had invested recklessly in a mining scheme. In the end, Father had lost everything. And he'd been too proud to say a word until it was nearly too late.

  Ambrose had poured all his savings into staving off the family's debts. The money he'd put aside for marriage, for that tidy brick cottage Jane had wanted … that had been the first to go. And his bride-to-be along with it. Yet that had been only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. As he strode through the shadows, his ever-present worries surfaced: in addition to keeping everyone housed and fed, he had to find a way to keep Harry in school, to pay for his father's and Dorothea's medical bills, to keep Violet and Polly in petticoats, and to provide relief for Emma who was somehow managing it all—

  A flash of movement caught Ambrose's eye. His policeman's instincts kicked in. His mind blanked, his senses sharpening. His hand gripping the solid oak truncheon at his hip, he peered steadily into the alleyway to his left. A mouth of darkness ... yet he sensed the presence lurking in the shadows. His muscles bunched, his eyes probing the corridor of pitch—

  A scuffling noise. Then, "Bloody bitch bit me!"

  A feminine scream rent the night.

  The fear in that cry galvanized Ambrose into action. He ran into the alley. His eyes adjusting to the dimness, he could discern hulking figures, two of them, holding a slim captive against the wall. A hood obscured the victim's face, yet her voice was shrill with terror. Ambrose went in low and fast, his truncheon connecting with a satisfying crack against a kneecap. One of the villains groaned in pain, falling to the ground.

  "Release her," Ambrose commanded to the other brute.

  In response, the cutthroat charged him like a bull.

  His shoulder blades jammed against brick, his club slipping from his grasp. His attacker raised a ham-sized fist, and Ambrose dodged it at the last moment, jerking his knee up as he did so. The bastard groaned, doubling over at the strike to the gut. Taking swift aim, Ambrose followed up with a jab-and-hook combination, snapping the other's jaw back. The man crumpled to the ground. Lungs burning, Ambrose stood over his opponent and nudged the fallen figure with his boot. No response; the cull would be out for a while.

  A cloak streaked past him—the victim. The instinct to protect and serve made Ambrose go after her. He had to make sure she was unharmed, to get her medical attention if need be and justice as well. In his line of work, he'd seen all too often how the law turned a blind eye to crimes against the disadvantaged, and whores, in particular, received the shoddiest treatment. Well, if he had any say about it, the night's ruffians would be thrown in Newgate for attacking the hapless moll.

  With his long stride, he caught up to the fleeing prostitute and reached to tap her on the shoulder. "Beg pardon, miss, are you alright—"

  She whirled around. Her hood slid off ... and the rest of h
is words faded. Along with his capacity for thought. For there, before his eyes, was the most stunning female he'd ever seen.

  A creature of moonlight and water, too beautiful to be real. From the depths of his memory surfaced a tale told by his stepmother: about a selkie, an enchantress born of the ocean and imbued with the power to lure hapless males to their demise. He could almost believe that myth had manifested into reality. Beneath the dim street lamp, waves of silver-blonde hair tumbled around a perfect oval face; sea-green eyes appraised him, the vivid depths swirling with panic. In that same moment, he registered the rich velvet of her cloak and the string of emeralds circling her graceful throat.

  No whore … but a lady?

  Ambrose blinked. What the devil was the matter with him? He tried to summon his heretofore stalwart common sense. He opened his mouth to tell her that she had nothing to fear, that he wasn't going to hurt her. That he'd protect her and see her home safely.

  And that she could lower the delicate pistol she held aimed at his chest.

  As he struggled to find his voice, footsteps sounded from the alley behind him. Bloody hell, hadn't he taken care of the bastards? In the instant before he turned to face his foe, he saw the lady's magnificent eyes harden into icy gems. Her gloved fingers tightened on her weapon. All the hairs shot up on his skin.

  "Don't—" The word left him in shout.

  She pulled the trigger anyway.

  THREE

  "I can't believe you shot me," the stranger said and not for the first time since they'd boarded her carriage.

  "I wasn't aiming for you. You got in the way of my bullet," Marianne said.

  Really, the man could show a bit more gratitude seeing as how she'd saved his life. She'd let off the shot to deter the advancing cutthroat; seconds later, her trusted manservant Lugo had arrived. The sight of Lugo's imposing form and stern ebony profile—not to mention his double-barreled Flintlock—had sent the ruffians scurrying off into the night. She'd waved off Lugo's apologies (a mob in the street had detained his arrival) and asked him to load her would-be rescuer into the conveyance.