"Black smells a Charley, and you'll be dead before you reach twenty paces of his place." Hunt's blunt words jerked her back; she could not agree with his assessment more. "It has to be me."
"Risky. If you get detained, then Percy ..." Harteford's grey eyes turned hard as flint.
The ransom note had demanded that Hunt be the one to meet the captors. The exchange was to take place at midnight, at an old blacking factory on the outskirts of the city. Like the others in the room, Marianne knew it was a suicide mission, with little hope of Hunt or Percy getting out alive.
Marianne's throat tightened. Sometimes, destiny had a way of making one's decisions. She'd already prepared herself to walk into the lion's den; what difference would it make to go to Black a day earlier?
"I'll do it," she said. Rising, she picked up the letters.
"The hell you will." Kent was on his feet the next instant. His gaze pinned her, the darkness of his pupils edging out the amber; above the crumpled mess of his cravat, his neck muscles corded, and she saw a vein pulse beneath his jaw. The possessiveness in his tone was unmistakable.
Ignoring the ridiculous shiver that chased over her nape, she said calmly, "I don't require your permission, Mr. Kent." She tucked the packet into her reticule, and Kent's jaw grew even tighter. Really, if the man was not careful he might crack a tooth.
"This is far too dangerous—" Harteford began.
Oh, for heaven's sake. Why do men persist in believing that we're the weaker sex?
Resisting the upward impulse of her eyes, she said, "Black may be dangerous, but he is just a man. We all have our expertise, and mine happens to be the opposite sex. Do you doubt that I am well equipped to deal with Black—or any male for that matter?"
She didn't have to say more. It wasn't an issue of vanity, but of fact. She knew her own attractions, and for once they might prove of use.
"Lady Draven has a point." This came from Hunt—apparently the only one of the fellows with an iota of common sense. "She has a better chance of getting an audience with Black than any of us. If nothing else, he'll see her out of curiosity."
"Out of the question." Kent spoke through his teeth.
He looked ready to throttle someone—perhaps her, though for some reason her instincts told her he wouldn't harm her. Unlike Draven, Kent hadn't the guile to disguise his true desires, and she could read his wish to protect her in the rigid lines of muscle, the grooves flickering around his mouth. Wryly, she acknowledged her own perverse nature: though she needed and wanted no man's protection, the idea that she could rattle this proud policeman's self-control almost ... charmed her.
Though, of course, she would not allow him to sway her decision or actions in any way.
"I ask you to reconsider, my lady. Helena would have my head if anything happened to you," Harteford said.
Marianne squelched a bubble of amusement. The large, imperious marquess looked genuinely concerned about the reaction that might greet him at home. Perhaps he had more brains than she credited him for.
"You do your part, I'll do mine," she told him. "See you at midnight."
Kent planted himself in her path, blocking her from the door. Flames lit his eyes, and his large hand clamped around her arm. "This has gone far enough," he snapped.
Her eyes thinned, her amusement fleeing. 'Twas one thing for Kent to try to dissuade her—quite another for him to manhandle her. Heat rose in her cheeks.
"No man touches me without my permission. Release me this instant," she said coldly.
"Not until you give up this asinine plan."
Asinine? She was many things: stupid was not one of them. Though it was no business of this interfering policeman, she had a plan to deal with Bartholomew Black.
"I said release me," she repeated in a voice of unmistakable warning.
Kent did not budge. As if he had every right to dictate her actions, he glowered at her, his hold unyielding. Her temper escalated when she found herself unable to escape from his strong grasp. He left her no choice, really.
Slipping her free hand into her skirt's hidden pocket—her modiste was a genius in so many ways—Marianne pulled out her pistol. She trained it upon Kent. Just left of his heart.
Still, the stubborn man refused to let her go. She cocked the pistol to show him she meant business. Their gazes locked; her fingers trembled against the smooth metal.
"Stand down, Kent. You cannot stop her, and obviously she can take care of herself."
Harteford's warning seemed to finally pierce Kent's thick skull. The latter's dark lashes veiled his bright gaze, his grip tightening for an instant. Then whatever internal battle he was fighting ended. With obvious reluctance, he let go of her arm—good thing, really, because she didn't wish to shoot him again.
Not unless he made her do it.
"Perhaps Lady Draven would agree to take a few men as escorts?" Harteford said with a worried frown.
"Men are the last thing I need." She said the words whilst looking at Kent. His expression grew even starker. "I can take care of myself."
With that excellent parting line, she exited.
*****
Though situated in the heart of the rookery, Bartholomew Black's fortress was every bit as imposing as any grand Mayfair residence. The foggy night and the tall, spiked iron gate hid the building from the street; Marianne's carriage was let through only after her identity was verified by the guards. A shiver passed through Marianne when she descended the carriage and saw the looming brick edifice. Like Draven, Black had a propensity for the gothic style.
Moonlight dappled the stone gargoyles perched on the rooftop; they peered down with gimlet eyes and mischievous smiles. An eerie orange light flickered behind the mullioned windows. Recessed beneath a pointed arch, the front entrance lay in shadow.
"I don't have a good feeling about this," Lugo said.
Rarely did her stalwart manservant express doubt about her plans; the fact that he was now doing so increased her own sense of unease. Her gaze flitted to the dark-coated guard who stood waiting to escort her inside.
"We'll get this over with as quickly as possible," she said in a low voice. "Stay close."
They started forward.
"Only 'er ladyship comes in." The guard jabbed a finger at Lugo. "You wait 'ere."
"He is my footman—" Marianne began.
"Don't care if 'e's the Archbishop o' Canterbury. I got my orders. Mr. Black says you come in alone or not at all."
In for a penny.
Marianne gave Lugo a nod. "Wait here, then."
"But, my lady—"
"I'll be fine." She had to be, for Percy's sake and Rosie's. Addressing the guard, she said briskly, "Lead the way."
The man took her into the shadows. He knocked on the door, a complicated sequence of raps that might have been a code of some sort. The door creaked open, and he ushered Marianne inside. Her brows climbed. The light of a hundred candles blazed in the brass chandelier; the marble atrium could have graced a townhouse on Grosvenor Square. She was led down a hallway where priceless landscapes adorned burgundy silk walls.
"Mr. Black will meet with you in 'ere," the guard said, opening a door.
She walked in, and her estimation of Black's taste rose even further. The man might be a villainous cutthroat, but he lived like a king. Richly outfitted in mahogany and leather, the high-ceilinged library put many a lord's to shame. Tall windows fitted with forest green drapery lined one wall, and costly antiques littered the room. At the sight of the collection hanging next to the fireplace, her blood went cold.
Like a sleepwalker, she found herself moving toward the gleaming objects mounted on the wall. There were perhaps a dozen riding crops in all: antiques made of Malacca cane and exotic woods, some fitted with leather thongs, others without. The handles ranged from carved ivory to molded brass. Panic rose in her throat, the memory of degradation crawling over her skin.
Draven had had a similar collection.
"Like my toys, do you
, my lady? The set belonged to a French King—one o' 'em Louies."
Marianne spun to face the owner of the deep, booming voice. Her palms clammy beneath her gloves, she forced herself to calm, to tamp down the past. The future was at stake. Draven had tried to break her, but he hadn't. He'd only hardened her, taught her the skills of survival. And she would survive this—if only to get Rosie back.
Her eyes narrowed at Black. He stood a few feet away, posed as regally as a Gainsborough portrait. Though short of stature, he held his barrel chest high, and one hand grasped a jewel-knobbed walking stick as if it were a scepter. His grey periwig and knee britches displayed his preference for the fashion of the past century; a man as powerful as Black could dress as he pleased.
Regaining her composure, she said, "Good evening, sir."
As she dipped into a graceful curtsy, she reviewed her three-tier strategy. The first line of attack: appeal to Black's self-interest. The second—and riskier—line: find his weakness and use it. If necessary, the third: do whatever it takes to get Rosie back and ensure Percy's safety.
He returned her courtesy with a flourished bow. "Please, be seated," he said.
She chose one of the studded wingchairs by the fire, and he took the adjacent seat. His piercing black gaze roved over her. Fair enough, since she was assessing him in return.
"'Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. Though I wasn't expectin' you this evenin'." A note of censure edged his tone.
"My apologies, Mr. Black. You see, a rather urgent situation has come up." She paused. "One that I believe you would care to know about it."
"Urgent, eh? Let's 'ear it then."
She drew a breath. "The matter concerns your daughter."
"Mavis? What's this got to do with 'er?"
Black's bushy brows lowered in menace. Apparently paternal feelings had naught to do with class; cutthroats could have them whereas country squires might not. Marianne tucked the information away for later. For now, she withdrew the packet of letters and held them out. Snatching them from her, Black broke the string and unfolded the first note. His face turned florid. The paper crumpled in his fist. He repeated the process for the remaining letters until balls of parchment piled over the buckles of his shoes.
"I'm goin' to gut the bastard. My dogs will 'ave 'is innards for supper."
The calmness of Black's declaration sent a shiver down Marianne's spine. But she said only, "The villain will be at Watson's Blacking factory at midnight."
"'E'll rue the day 'e crossed me. I never forget a wrong," Black growled as he rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I 'ave to go attend to the business."
Marianne exhaled. She'd secured Percy's safety. Now onto Rosie.
"I am not yet finished, Mr. Black," she said in dulcet tones.
His eyes thinned at her. "What do you want, then?"
"You said you never forget a wrong. Can I assume that you also never forget a favor?"
Black looked at her a minute. Then he let out a guffaw. "Nice try, my lady. No doubt you're a clever one. But I don't owe you nothin'."
She forced a smile. "But I came all the way to deliver those letters."
"For your own benefit as much as mine. A man doesn't get to the top by bein' a fool. Gavin Hunt set you up to this—'e wants me to 'elp defeat our common enemy so 'e can get 'is little chit back."
Marianne swallowed. "You know about Percy?"
"I know about everything that 'appens in the rookery," Black said flatly. "So don't go tryin' to pull the wool over my eyes, my lady."
So much for appealing to his self-interest. Onto the second line of attack. Now what is his Achilles' heel?
She rose and curtsied again. "You are not only powerful, but intelligent, Mr. Black. I should never presume to deceive you in any way."
He snorted, but she could tell her flattery pleased him. "Best that you don't."
"And it is precisely because you are so wise and influential that I wish to ask a boon of you," she said, keeping her eyes wide and guileless.
"Spit it out, then."
She drew another breath. "It concerns Kitty Barnes." Seeing the bushy brows lower again, she plunged on. "I understand that Mrs. Barnes owes you a vast debt and that she fled Town because of it. I would like to request that you allow her to return so that I may speak with her."
"What do you want with that blowsy bunter, eh?"
"'Tis a private matter."
"Private my arse. You're askin' me a favor, my lady—an' a big one at that." Black pointed the sparkling knob of his walking stick first at her, then at the door. "You'll tell me the nature o' your business, or you can take your leave."
He had her cornered; there was no place to run. Her only escape would be through the truth.
Through a constricted throat, she said, "Seven years ago, my husband stole my bastard daughter from me and sold her to Mrs. Barnes. Ever since his death, I've been searching for my little girl. Kitty Barnes was the last person seen with her."
Black's eyes widened. "Blimey. Your lord was a sick bastard, weren't 'e?"
"Indeed." Marianne released a breath. "Will you help me?"
"Why should I? Ain't none o' my business, is it."
Her heart plummeted. "You're a father, Mr. Black. You understand what it is to love a daughter. To do anything within your power to see her safe from harm."
Something flickered in his obsidian gaze. "Anything, you say?"
Marianne's mouth went dry. The third defense. No more lines left to cross. Her gaze flitted to the riding crops, and her insides quivered. She told herself that she could endure any depravity, no matter how despicable. She had survived years of Draven's abuse; what difference would it make to barter what remained of her tattered soul?
She was a woman with nothing left to lose ... and a child to regain.
"Anything," she said.
Black nodded. "Alright, then."
"Alright? Then you'll … help me?"
"I'll let that bitch Barnes drag 'er arse back. And I'll 'ave 'er brought to you."
"Thank you, Mr. Black." Inhaling back the tears of relief, Marianne forced herself to ask, "And what shall I offer in return?"
His black gaze did not waver. "Don't know as yet. But one day soon I'll come lookin' for my due, an' I'll 'ave your word that you'll fulfill your end o' the bargain."
A deal with the devil. Though her stomach churned, she didn't hesitate.
"You have it," she said.
ELEVEN
The gentleman waited in the shadows as the door swung open on creaky hinges. The cutthroat, who went by the name of Murdoch, staggered into the filthy hovel, bringing with him a malodorous mix of gin, urine, and God only knew what else. The gentleman fought the urge to bring a handkerchief to his nostrils. Instead, he struck a match and lit the tallow stub upon the table.
"What the bloody 'ell?" Murdoch squinted at the sudden light. "What're you doin' 'ere?"
The gentlemen rose, stretching his lips into a smile. "I came to check in on your progress. Haven't heard from you for days now, Murdoch. You took my gold but you've yet to produce results."
The cutthroat blinked bloodshot eyes. "It ain't like I 'aven't tried," he said, "but that Draven bitch is bloody 'ard to kill. She shot me—right in the arm!"
The big brute held up his left arm, which did indeed have a dirty-looking bandage wrapped around the jacket sleeve. A nasty crust had formed along the edges of the crude dressing. A shudder ran through the gentleman. Not so much at the other's festering wound, but at the failure.
You'll never amount to anything. You're just like your Papa—a disappointment through and through!
Though his pulse skittered, the gentleman shut out his mother's voice. The harridan was dead, Praise God. Now he answered to no one but himself.
"How unfortunate," he said. "When will you try again?"
With a sudden show of bravado, Murdoch slammed his bottle of blue ruin on the table. "When I get paid eno' for the job, that's when. I ain't riskin
' my neck for naught, your lordship."
"I paid you fifty pounds."
"Ain't nothin' compared to what I suffered."
Seeing the greed in Murdoch's beady gaze, the gentleman stifled a sigh. He'd suspected it would come to this. He'd had to deal with a similar situation with Murdoch's predecessor; cutthroats were an unreliable bunch.
From his leather satchel, he removed a bottle of whiskey. He placed it upon the table along with two glasses he'd had the foresight to bring along. Murdoch's eyes widened, and the disgusting fellow actually licked his lips.
"What would be adequate recompense then?" the gentleman inquired as he poured out the fine spirits.
Murdoch's gaze remained glued to the stream of liquor. "One 'undred quid."
"Done. Shall we drink to it?" the gentlemen held out a glass.
A feral expression sharpened the cutthroat's face. "Answered that a might quickly, didn't you, guv? Know what that tells me?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"That you'd be willin' to pay a whole lot more. That maybe you've been sellin' me short all this time," Murdoch sneered. "Well, I'll 'ave my due."
"Fine. How much do you want?"
The cutthroat's forehead lined in concentration. Likely the brute had difficulty counting as high as his greed demanded. "A thousand quid," Murdoch said triumphantly.
"That's ridiculous," the gentleman snapped. "I'd never pay you such a sum."
"You will if you don't want it bandied 'bout that you 'ired me to kill Lady Draven," Murdoch said, chortling.
The gentleman's teeth ground together. He told himself to relax, that such strain was not good for his delicate stomach. Exhaling, he said, "So you mean to blackmail me?"
"Not if you pay as you should. A thousand quid an' not a penny less."
The gentleman considered his options. Sighing, he said, "Alright, you win. I'll have the money to you on the morrow."
A leering grin spread across Murdoch's face, and he reached for the glass. "I'll drink to that."
The gentleman raised his own cup. He had to wait less than a minute before Murdoch gasped, the latter's empty glass falling to the ground and shattering. The cutthroat's body followed, accompanied by gasps and gurgles. When all was silent, the gentleman crossed over to peer down at Murdoch's unseeing eyes. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot.
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 8
