Her Protector's Pleasure

by Callaway, Grace

  He'd been ready to horsewhip Lugo; she'd intervened, claiming the accident as her own. For while she, too, had endured Draven's sadistic side, his abuses toward her had been less violent. He'd enjoyed her beauty too much to leave visible scars. Whenever he'd beaten her, he'd taken care not to break her skin; he'd scarred her in invisible places, ones that did not interfere with his pride of ownership. Or with the image of the benevolent husband that he'd projected to the world.

  After Draven's death, Lugo had become Marianne's trusted servant, filling the roles of butler, footman, and guard. Unspoken camaraderie existed between them: they were survivors of the same war. In his stoic way, Lugo had pledged himself to helping her find her little girl.

  "Good day, my lady," he said. His baritone carried the flavor of his native Africa, and his deeply carved features had a mask-like formality. "You instructed that I inform you of any arriving correspondence." He bowed his closely shorn head and held out a folded note. "This just arrived for you."

  Marianne's heart sped up a notch. In an instant, she was on her feet, yanking on her robe. With trembling hands, she took the letter from Lugo and broke open the wax seal. She scanned the brief lines. The words blurred as excitement gripped her.

  "What is it, milady?" Tilda asked.

  "An invitation," Marianne said breathlessly. "Ready the carriage, Lugo. We are going shopping."

  SIX

  An hour later, Marianne stepped into the Bond Street salon, one of the most exclusive in London. The tinkling silver bell announced her arrival, and within moments the famed modiste emerged from the back to greet her. As usual, Amelie Rousseau looked chic and severe in unrelieved black. A tight chignon confined her ebony hair, and her dark eyes snapped with energy.

  "Bonjour, Lady Draven." Amelie kissed the air near Marianne's cheeks. "The day brings such surprises, non?"

  "For me as well as you. I hope you have not been inconvenienced by this," Marianne said, "and you must allow me to compensate you for the use of your shop."

  "Normally, I would not condone such brouhaha on my premises, but for you, chérie, I shall make an exception. And there must be no talk of compensation between friends."

  "Merci, Amelie. Once again, I am in your debt." Marianne inclined her head. She had few friends and considered the clever dressmaker one of them.

  "Pas du tout. 'Twas your patronage, after all, that helped to launch my star. To this day, no one shines as bright as Baroness Draven." Amelie ran an appraising eye over Marianne's ensemble. "As usual, I was right about the marigold silk. C'est parfait."

  Marianne smiled at the satisfaction in the other's voice. "Now, Amelie, if I may conduct my business ...?"

  "Mais oui. The, ahem, ... gentleman is in the orchid dressing room."

  Hearing the subtle contempt in the other's voice, Marianne said, "Though I am not at liberty to say more, this isn't an amorous assignation, Amelie. That I can assure you."

  The modiste's narrow forehead smoothed. "I suspected as much. Your taste, my lady, has always been indisputable." She gave a quick nod. "You must attend to whatever intrigue awaits you. I shall remain in front to deter prying eyes."

  Thankful that the other did not ask further questions—Amelie was nothing if not discreet—Marianne passed through the curtain to the back of the shop. Like everything in the modiste's domain, the space was spotless and elegant. She passed by two dressing rooms before entering the final room to the right.

  She shut the door behind her. Standing in a far corner, Andrew Corbett turned in her direction. His tailored blue cutaway and buff trousers molded to his fit form. He held the spotted petal of an orchid between his manicured fingertips.

  "Pretty thing, ain't it?" His eyes assessed her; in the daylight, the brown orbs had depths to them that the darkness of the bawdy house had obscured. A self-deprecating smile edged his chiseled lips. "Had to see for myself if it was real."

  "Let us cut to the chase, Mr. Corbett," she replied. "How much?"

  "Beg pardon?"

  "For the information you bring today," she said impatiently. "Name your sum."

  He released the flower. "What makes you think I can be bought for any sum?"

  She lifted her brows. "You have gone to no small lengths to arrange this meeting, so surely you expect a reward for your efforts."

  "Perhaps, my lady, doing what is right is reward enough."

  Faint color slid along his high cheekbones. His youth suddenly shone through the mask of sophistication; with a jolt, Marianne realized Andrew Corbett could not be more than three-and-twenty at most. For all the rumors of his manly prowess, he had not left boyhood far behind.

  "If that is true," she said quietly, "then tell me what you know of Kitty Barnes and my daughter's whereabouts."

  For a minute, Corbett said nothing. Then his shoulders drew back. "I don't know the location of Kitty or your daughter. The truth is, I haven't had contact with Kitty for over three years."

  Another dead end. The familiar dark undertow dragged at Marianne. She fought the waves of despair closing over her head. I've failed you, Rosie ...

  "But I have an idea of how you might find them," he said.

  His words hooked her, yanked her gasping to the surface. "How?" she managed.

  His gaze went to the closed door, as if expecting someone to barge in at any moment. He drew in a breath. "Kitty engineered her disappearance because of debt. She'd overestimated her own success and invested badly besides. In the end, she owed a pile of blunt—and to a man not known for his patience. As a warning, he set one of her bawdy houses aflame. We barely escaped that night with the clothes on our backs."

  "But Kitty is alive. She is alive, and she has my daughter." Please, God, let that be true.

  "Last I knew, Kitty was headed to the country. She wouldn't tell me where—said she had some friends to turn to." Corbett paused. "At the time, she still had your little Primrose."

  Hearing her daughter's name battered at Marianne's composure. She shut her eyes against the hot welling of hope. In three years of searching, this was the first real news she'd had of her daughter. Longing seeped through the cracks, the hinges of her self-possession creaking as everything she'd locked away threatened to burst free.

  Rosie laughing as Marianne tickled her. Rosie splashing in her bath and soaking Marianne in the process. Rosie snug in her little pink ruffled bed one night—and gone the next morning.

  Oh, my darling ... wait for me. Mama's coming.

  Drawing a breath, Marianne numbed her heart. She shifted the acuity to her head. Now that she finally had Rosie's trail, she must focus.

  "Why didn't you go with them?" she said.

  "Kitty and I had been at odds for some time. We did not see eye to eye on the matter of your daughter." A muscle quirked along Corbett's smooth jaw. "Unlike her, I do not believe that children should be used in such a manner."

  Marianne swallowed over the razors in her throat. "Used?"

  "You said your husband was the one who sent Primrose to Kitty?"

  Marianne nodded numbly.

  Corbett's lips formed a grim line. "He must have been the one paying for her upkeep, then. Kitty said the cove paid fifty pounds a month, with the instruction to care for Primrose like her own child. And Kitty kept her end of the bargain—until the payments suddenly stopped coming three years ago."

  "When Draven died," Marianne said through dry lips.

  "Without the income and her own dire straits, Kitty's first priority was saving her own hide. Before we parted ways, she had talked of ... selling Primrose." The stark look in Corbett's eyes thrust the blade deeper into her heart. "I don't know if she did or not. But knowing this possibility—knowing what your daughter may have suffered, what she might have become if indeed she still lives—will you still want her then?"

  "I will always want her," Marianne said fiercely, her hands balling up. "Nothing can change that. And I'll stop at nothing to bring her home."

  Raw emotion flashed in Corbett's eyes and
vanished before she could know if she'd imagined it or not.

  "Then you will want to start with Bartholomew Black," he said.

  The hairs rose on Marianne's neck. She'd heard that name before. In her search for Primrose, she'd scoured the stews, and in that hotbed of vice and depravity, only one name consistently roused fear and trembling. A man notorious for his power, temper, and love of killing.

  Bartholomew Black: the rookery's most infamous cutthroat.

  "What has Black to do with this?" she asked.

  "Kitty owed him money. He was the reason she left Town. If he lifts the death warrant off her head, I have no doubt she'll pop up again." Corbett's lips formed a wry curve. "Kitty ain't cut out for rustication."

  "So if I pay off her debt to Black, then she can return?"

  Corbett shook his head. "'Tis not that easy. Black saw Kitty's flit as an act of cowardice and took personal affront. 'Tis her lack of honor as much as the money that has him up in the boughs."

  Marianne thought it over. "You'll help me contact Black?"

  "Like hell I will," Corbett said. "I'm a young man with a long life ahead of me—and I plan to keep it that way. Speaking of which, I must head back. Mrs. Wilson hates to be kept waiting; luckily, I have a set of Madame Rousseau's fine handkerchiefs to explain my absence. Paid for by you, of course." He made a leg and headed for the door.

  "Wait," Marianne called out.

  He stopped and pivoted with brows raised.

  "You are a true gentleman, Mr. Corbett," she said steadily, "and I cannot thank you enough."

  His face reddened. "Good afternoon, Lady Draven."

  A few moments later, Marianne heard the front door opening and closing. Amelie Rousseau came into the dressing room, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.

  "Comment ça va, ma chère?"

  "Bien. Tout est bien," Marianne said softly.

  And all would be well—as soon as she paid a visit to Bartholomew Black. Determination lifted her chin. Black might be the stew's most formidable villain, but he hadn't met her yet.

  SEVEN

  Ambrose entered the spacious office above the warehouse. Large windows framed the view of the West India docks, the water itself hidden beneath the crowded field of ships. Despite the early hour, lumpers marched along the wharves, conducting the flow of cargo to and from the vessels with the single-mindedness of ants. Light filtered through the morning fog and sparkling glass, gleaming off the dark head of the man who rose from behind the large desk.

  Ambrose bowed. "Good morning, my lord."

  Nicholas Morgan, the Marquess of Harteford, gave him a wry look. "Good might be an exaggeration," he said. "But it is morning, and I must thank you for coming this early, Kent. Especially after your assistance with Miss Fines last evening."

  "'Twas my duty, my lord," Ambrose said.

  Which wasn't precisely true. The Thames River Police did not typically concern itself with the affairs of young misses gone astray. But when the Marquess of Harteford—noted patron of said policing force—had requested help in retrieving a close family friend from a potentially ruinous situation last night, the Chief Magistrate had been more than willing to send Ambrose and as many Thames River constables as Harteford needed.

  Not that Ambrose had minded. He was grateful for Harteford's support of the River Police, and, more than that, he respected the man. Despite his wealth and position, the marquess was no snob—unlike certain other titled personages. Ambrose's jaw clenched as the mocking, beautiful visage flared in his head as it had done so many times in the past three days. With gritty resolve, he pushed aside the lowering memory and focused on the present. The marquess was watching him with sharp grey eyes honed by an unorthodox upbringing in the stews.

  "Duty or not, you have done me a favor," Harteford said, "and I plan to show my appreciation to you and the force."

  Though Ambrose's shoulders tensed at the mention of money, his ethics would not allow him to take beyond what he'd earned. "I have been amply rewarded through your patronage of the River Police, my lord." Before the other man could argue, he added, "And how is Miss Fines faring?"

  Harteford's expression grew stark, grooves deepening around his mouth. "The truth is, Kent, I remain concerned for her safety. Though we intervened before any … irrevocable damage had been done"—the marquess dragged a hand through his silver-shot hair—"that blackguard Gavin Hunt has her under his spell." In the ensuing silence, ghosts flitted through Harteford's eyes. He went to the window, staring out into the fog. "And I think you and I both know who Hunt is to me."

  Three years ago, Harteford had confided a part of his past to Ambrose. The marquess had survived a dark childhood, and not even his current power and position had dispelled its horrors completely. In particular, he remained haunted by the memory of a boy whom he'd wronged; in hopes of making amends, he'd entrusted Ambrose with the task of investigating the fate of that nameless urchin. But Ambrose's best efforts had yielded only dead ends.

  Now it seemed Harteford's childhood ghost had suddenly returned—no longer a helpless boy, but a powerful man hell-bent on revenge. It seemed Gavin Hunt meant to hurt the marquess by seducing Miss Persephone Fines, Harteford's sister in heart if not in blood. Last night, Ambrose and Harteford had arrived at Hunt's gaming hell to find Miss Fines; they'd been greeted by a scene of chaos. Hunt had suffered an attack by rival club owners, and Miss Fines had been caught in the thick of things. Luckily, she'd been unhurt—in a physical sense, at least. Her broken heart might prove a different matter. Though Ambrose had not been privy to the exchange that followed between her, Harteford, and Hunt, he could guess that it had been painful.

  Betrayal invariably was.

  "I see now that any notion of restitution was foolish," Harteford said, his voice bleak. "Hunt has every right to avenge himself against me. But I cannot allow him to do so by hurting Miss Fines." He turned, his hands curled at his sides. "That is why I summoned you today, Kent. I have yet another favor to ask of you."

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "I need you to keep an eye on Miss Fines. I fear Hunt will try to contact her, and I must have her protected from him until this matter is resolved. If you are willing, I will clear my request with your superiors at Wapping Station."

  Ambrose inclined his head. "I am at your service, my lord."

  "Thank you, Kent. I am glad for your support." Clasping his hands behind his back, Harteford looked out the window again and into the darkening sky. "I fear a storm brews ahead."

  *****

  The following morning, Ambrose reflected that his mission might not be as simple as it had first sounded. How difficult could it be to accompany a young heiress on her daily activities? Yet ensconced in a well-sprung carriage with Harteford's quasi-sister, Miss Persephone Fines, Ambrose quickly realized his error. Behind the pretty countenance and innocent eyes lay a miss with a strong will and mind of her own.

  He should know: he had four young sisters himself.

  In fact, something of Miss Fines' fresh beauty reminded him of Emma. His throat tightened as he thought of the eldest of his sisters. At sixteen, Emma had too much on her shoulders. With their father ill and Ambrose away earning the family's keep, poor Em was left with the day-to-day running of the Kent household. Though she'd never once complained and seemed to tackle all tasks with boundless energy, Ambrose wished a different life for her. One filled with balls and shopping, whatever a girl would enjoy.

  His chest constricted. Another brick dropped into the sack upon his shoulders. It was up to him to provide for Emma and all his family, and he was failing in that task.

  "Mr. Kent, might I solicit your advice on a matter?" Miss Fines' cheerful voice distracted him from the downward spiral of his thoughts.

  He gave a curt nod.

  "I'm wondering how one might locate the whereabouts of a criminal," she said.

  For a moment, he stared at her heart-shaped face, her guileless blue eyes. His lips twitched. Firming them, he said, "Are you inde
ed?"

  Her gaze darted briefly to the side before returning to his. A telltale sign of deception to any investigator worth his salt.

  "It's for my novel," she continued. "One of the characters is, um …"—her brief hesitation was another giveaway—"a detective. And he needs to search out a villain from the past."

  As she continued to spin her tale, Ambrose bit back a smile. It took a spirited girl to try to pump information from an experienced policeman. Entertained by her imagination, he listened as she rambled on. In this trait, she more resembled his middle sister, Violet, who, too, possessed a flair for drama.

  Ultimately, however, he could not allow Miss Fines to believe that she could interfere in the business between Lord Harteford and Gavin Hunt. By the sound of things, she still thought herself head over heels for Hunt, even though the man clearly meant to use her for his own ends. The bastard deserved to be strung up for involving an innocent in his plot for revenge.

  So in a gentle yet firm manner, Ambrose informed Miss Fines that she must, in a nutshell, stay clear of the matter. She sighed and turned to face the window, her hand reaching to fiddle with the unusual quill-shaped brooch upon her frock. In silence, they reached their destination. Hatchard's was a popular bookstore on Piccadilly frequented by many members of the upper and middling classes. Ambrose alighted from the carriage first.

  "Wait here, if you please, Miss Fines," he said. "I shall return in a moment."

  His gaze swept the territory. He saw no trouble, but he posted two of his men at the entrance to be certain. Inside, he did a quick check of the rows of bookshelves and detected nothing suspicious. He found a door hidden at a back corner of the shop; jiggling the lock, he found it secure. Satisfied, he returned to the carriage and escorted his charge inside.

  "I am going to browse around," Miss Fines announced, "and there's no use following me through the stacks. Perhaps you'd care to wait for me at an assigned place?"

  Seeing the pucker of impatience on her brow, Ambrose debated the best plan. He decided not to push his luck. From his experience with his sisters, he knew that pushing too hard led to the inevitable resistance. Besides, he could survey most of the store from the central point by the fireplace. Posted outside, his men had been given a likeness of Gavin Hunt and would nab the bastard if he tried to step foot into the shop.