Because my husband was one. Because I've dealt with cutthroats all my life, though they might be disguised as gentlemen. And because one of them has my daughter.
Beneath her diamond necklace, Marianne's skin slickened with perspiration. Kent saw too much—was getting too close. Fear and anticipation pulsed in her blood as she tried to summon a pithy response. She was saved from doing so by their hostess.
"I commend you, Mr. Kent, for your concern over Lady Draven's well-being," Helena said gently. "As a policeman, you must see tragedies happen every day. We can only be grateful that Lady Draven's brave actions did not result in injury to her person."
Kent looked as though he might say something else—likely argue with the use of the word brave—but he gave a brusque nod instead. His gaze remained fixed on Marianne. Feeling the thrum of panic, she reacted with venom. The surest way to shake him off.
"As you say, Lady Helena, Mr. Kent is a policeman," she said, infusing the last word with amused disdain. "One can clean up a man and put him in a new set of clothes, but beneath he'll always be who he is, won't he?"
Silence fell upon the table. In other circles, her hauteur would have won her points; here, her barb was greeted with shock ... and disapproval. Harteford was frowning, and even Percy was giving her a puzzled look.
"I'm sure Lady Draven does not mean—" Helena began.
"It's quite alright," Kent said quietly. "She said nothing that is untrue."
His calm acceptance of her attack made Marianne feel smaller than an insect.
She lifted her chin. "If you'll excuse me, I have another engagement this evening." She rose, and chairs scraped as the men followed suit politely. "Thank you for supper. I shall see myself out."
Though shamed by the heat of curious stares, she departed the dining room with her head held high.
*****
Fog rolled off the nearby Thames, saturating the summer night with a wet chill. Looking up at the building that housed the offices of Mr. Reginald Leach, Esquire, Marianne shivered in spite of her black velvet cloak. The place was part of a brick terrace off Fleet Street, and from the back lane, she could see that Leach's building stood taller than the rest; the addition of a third floor created a crooked peak in the otherwise flat roofline.
Lugo inserted a tool into the gate's lock, and the iron fence swung open.
"Let us make haste, my lady," he said in a low voice. "I've got a bad feeling in my bones."
"Is anyone inside?" she whispered as she followed him to the back door.
"Leach's clerks left hours ago. Didn't see anyone go in or out before I went to fetch you at the Hartefords'." Forehead creased, Lugo made quick work of this lock as well. The click sounded as loud as a gunshot to Marianne's ears; casting a sharp glance around and seeing nothing, she followed her servant into the house.
Leach was apparently a skinflint for the interior of the building was as cool as the outside. A narrow corridor led them toward the front of the building. The first chamber they entered looked to be the domain of the clerks. Windowless and lined with cracked paint, the room's centerpiece was a long table covered with ledgers and books. Stools lined the table, and Marianne could picture Leach's apprentices hunched over, scribbling in the smoking light of the tallow candles.
"Where are Leach's suites?" she asked.
Lugo jerked his head toward a pair of doors.
Passing through, they found themselves in an atrium outfitted as a waiting area. Here, the furniture gleamed with polish and fresh flowers sprouted from vases. Seeing yet another set of doors, Marianne headed through them.
This third chamber, obviously Leach's inner sanctum, was warm and scented with beeswax and tobacco. Dark drapery covered windows that faced the street. Handsome leather furniture and tall bookshelves contributed to the ambience of authority and affluence. Marianne lit one of the lamps and methodically searched through the cabinets; her search yielded nothing of import. Going over to the large desk, she jiggled the drawers. Locked.
"Let's have a look inside," she said to Lugo.
While he went to work on the lock, she thought of Kent, and shame again crept over her. Which was rich, really. Because here she was presently engaged in an illegal break and entry, and she did not experience an ounce of guilt. Yet she felt remorse over a snub she'd given to a policeman?
Besides, Kent had left her little choice. He'd crowded her with those intrusive questions, that penetrating gaze. 'Twas as if he suspected her secrets and meant to find out everything about her, to bare the darkness of her soul—
"Here you go, my lady."
Marianne exhaled and drew her focus back to the task. Crouching down, she examined the first of the four drawers, all filled with leather portfolios. Flipping open the top file, she leafed through the documents: bills of service from the last year. Ever the discreet solicitor, Leach had only included the name of the client and the amount of his fees. There was no notation concerning the nature of the legal transaction.
She snapped the file shut; she'd have to dig back three years to find the transaction Leach had conducted with Kitty Barnes.
"While I go through these," she said to Lugo, "check the rest of the place. See if there are other files stored elsewhere."
As Lugo strode off, Marianne sorted through the portfolios, looking for the right date. The answer had to be here. If she couldn't ascertain the identity of Rosie's captor tonight, then she'd have to question the solicitor personally. She'd have to threaten Leach, a man of the law—and potentially alert his iniquitous client to her quest.
Will that put Rosie in greater jeopardy? What choice do I have?
She was on the last drawer now. She opened the first portfolio and found documents from the wrong year. She reached for the next one. 1817. The year Draven had died and Primrose had been sold. With trembling hands, Marianne riffled through the thick stack of parchment. Her breath stuck in her throat when she found what she'd been looking for.
A bill for services rendered in the month that Mrs. Barnes had sold Rosie. The fees noted on the receipt were astronomical—but Leach's client could afford them. The Earl of Pendleton had untold wealth at his disposal, after all.
Pendleton. Excitement coursed in her veins. A lead at last.
She withdrew the parchment, and she spied the paper beneath it. Bloody hell, another receipt for the same month. Same ungodly fees. Only in this instance, Leach had provided legal services to Viscount Ashcroft.
Ashcroft or Pendleton? Which of the bounders had purchased her girl?
Confounded, Marianne continued sifting through the papers. She found one other bill dated for the same month. This one was addressed to Marquess Boyer.
She let out a quivering breath. Damn Leach's eyes. The rotter had been busy. A marquess, an earl, and a viscount: which of the blackguards had her babe?
"My lady." The panicked whisper dragged her attention to the door, where Lugo stood. Even from the distance, she could see his tense features. "We must go. Now."
She shoved the three receipts into her reticule. "Why?"
"Leach is dead," Lugo said tersely. "Murdered. Next door in the sitting room."
Instantaneously, she heard the voices in the distance, footsteps approaching outside. Loud banging sounded on the front door. Mr. Leach, we're here from Bow Street. We'd like to have a word with you.
Marianne shot to her feet, her pulse a fierce staccato. Without another word, she raced out of the office behind Lugo. They sprinted through the waiting area and back the way they'd come. Marianne's mind spun with frantic thoughts as she followed Lugo's broad back through the doorway of the clerks' chamber.
Have they surrounded the back entrance? Good God, they'll think we killed Leach—
Her mind went blank as an arm appeared from nowhere, grabbed her by the waist. A large hand muffled her scream. Heart thundering in her ears, she fought, biting and kicking to get away from her captor.
FIFTEEN
"'Tis me, Kent," Ambrose growled. "St
op bloody struggling or we'll both end up in Newgate."
Even in the dimness, he could see the glassy panic in Marianne's eyes.
"There are constables outside. If you want to get out of here, you'll follow my instructions. Understand?" When she nodded, Ambrose jerked his chin at the looming Lugo. "That goes for your man, too."
The African's eyes narrowed, but he indicated his assent. Ambrose released Marianne, who stumbled away from him.
"Why are you here?" she said in a choked voice.
"No time for that now. They've got the place surrounded."
The voices outside grew in volume. Gut twisting, Ambrose raced through the options. If they caught Marianne breaking into a man's office—whatever the reason—the magistrates would toss her in a cell. Combined with the other circumstantial evidence Coyner had, she might be tried for crimes against the establishment.
Ambrose had convinced himself that he was capable of objectivity—of carrying out his duty, no matter the outcome. He'd believed that his logic ruled his emotions.
At this instant, his error in judgment stunned him: how could he have been in such denial?
Then his instincts kicked in, overriding his thoughts. Every muscle tensed, readying to get Marianne out of this mess. He'd save her now and get his answers later.
"We'll have to go up top. Follow me," he growled.
He led the way to the stairwell he'd seen just past the clerks' room. With the other two close behind, he took the steps to the uppermost floor. They entered an attic room, the gloom relieved by a silvery luminescence. He followed the light to the window, which he wrenched open, swiftly looking left and right. No constables were within visual range, although he could hear their voices coming from the front of the building: the men were planning to break down the door.
He looked down at the neighboring rooftop. The fog and darkness obscured his vision, but he estimated a drop of maybe ten feet. A risk they'd have to take.
"I'll go first," he said. "Lady Draven follows. And Lugo, shut the window behind you—we don't want anyone tailing us."
Ambrose climbed onto the outside ledge of the window. He jumped, landing lightly on the shingles. He dropped low, tensing, waiting for any sign that he'd been seen. But no alarm sounded; in fact, the voices had quieted. The constables must have already gotten into the house. Looking up, he saw Marianne's pale face at the open window.
"Go on, I'll catch you," he said as loudly as he dared.
She gave a quick nod and, after an instant's hesitation, came hurtling toward him. He caught her easily. He gestured to Lugo, who took the leap, landing solidly beside them. With no time to waste, Ambrose grabbed Marianne's hand. She grasped onto him tightly as they ran. He kept close to the stacks, stopping now and again to make sure they hadn't been detected.
When they reached the end of the terrace, Ambrose pulled her behind the shelter of the chimney. Breathing hard, he peered around at Leach's building, now six or seven houses away. Fog swirled in the distance they'd crossed, covering their tracks; there was no sign that their rooftop escape had been discovered.
"Our best chance is to wait here," he said, panting, his back flat against the brick. "Once the constables leave, we'll find a way to get down."
Marianne bit her lip, her eyes inscrutable in the moonlight.
"Mayhap this will help, Mr. Kent?" This came from Lugo, who reached into the satchel on his shoulder and pulled out a thick coil of rope.
Incredulity swamped Ambrose, followed by a blast of relief.
"Bloody hell, I should say so," he said, grinning.
It may have been a trick of light, but for an instant the manservant seemed to grin back.
*****
The ride back to Marianne's was too short to address the questions roiling in Ambrose's head. So he bided his time, focused on getting a rein on his temper. Now that the immediate danger had passed, he grew edgy, his blood simmering close to a boil. What the devil was she up to in that office? What kind of mischief is she mixed up in? He'd followed her there from supper, arriving in time to hear her shuffling around in the solicitor's study. Then the magistrates had started banging on the door, and he'd acted on instinct.
Now, Marianne sat with uncharacteristic quietness in her corner of the carriage. He felt a pang at her pallor, the tight grip of her hands upon one another. Hands, he reminded himself, capable of breaking into a man's office.
His anger surged at her—at himself. How could he have allowed himself to get entangled in this mess? He'd betrayed his ethics, his obligation to the assignment. And why? The truth astounded him. Because he couldn't stand to see Marianne come to harm. Because a primal, irrational part of him insisted on protecting a woman who refused to be protected. And because, despite all evidence to the contrary, his gut told him that she was no anarchist.
That she harbored a secret, he did not doubt. He'd have his reckoning with the reckless widow before the night was out.
The carriage stopped. The door opened, and Lugo let down the steps.
Marianne cleared her throat. "It's rather late," she began.
"You're not getting off that easily," Ambrose said, daring her to disagree. "After the events of the evening, I daresay you owe me the courtesy of an explanation."
Her lips clamped shut. She alighted, saying gracelessly over her shoulder, "Very well. Come along if you must."
Once inside, she did not lead him to the drawing room as he'd expected, but upstairs to her chambers. His belly tautened at the sight of her luxurious bed. He heard a snort, and his gaze shot to the sitting area by the fire. He recalled the brown-haired abigail from his last visit, and she appeared no friendlier this time around. Finishing with her task of laying out a collation—the scent of coffee and spiced fruit curled warmly in his nostrils—she scowled at him and said to her mistress, "Are you certain you don't need me to stay, milady?"
"Go to bed, Tilda. I'll be fine," Lady Marianne replied.
"But you'll need 'elp changin' your clothes—"
"I can manage. Besides," her mistress drawled, "I'm sure I can locate an extra pair of hands if I need them."
The innuendo sent heat creeping up Ambrose's neck. And to other portions of his person. All of a sudden, he became aware of the tension in his body—how rigidly he was holding himself in check. God help him if she pushed him tonight …
The door closed behind the maid, and they were left alone.
"It's been a long evening, hasn't it?" With a languid motion, Lady Marianne stripped off her gloves.
"Enough games," he said curtly. "What the devil were you doing in that place?"
"I could ask you the same."
Proceed with care. Do not give the mission away. His insides knotted. After all he'd already compromised this eve, he must not betray Coyner and the client further. If nothing else, he'd keep his word to safeguard the confidentiality of the case.
"I followed you from the Hartefords. You seemed upset, and I wanted to make sure you were alright." He did not wish to lie to her; what he said was at least part of the truth. "I did not expect you to go from supper to burglarizing a man's office. I repeat, what were you after, my lady?"
Her brows lifted. "Is this an official police interrogation? If so, I shall make myself more comfortable."
Before he could reply, she sauntered off to the dressing screen by the bed. She shed her cloak along the way, the velvet skin fluttering to the carpet. Ambrose swallowed as her silhouette appeared behind the silk panels. The flickering candlelight revealed every perfect line of her figure. As he watched, mesmerized, she undressed, her hands roaming over her curves, undoing, unfastening …
Focus, man. She's accused of being an anarchist. You have to find out the truth—have to find a way to protect her if the allegations are false.
Frowning at himself, he forced himself to turn around. He stared into the roaring flames of the fire, his thoughts in chaos. Sweat broke upon his forehead, and he yanked off his greatcoat, tossing it onto one of the chairs.
Why did he persist in believing in her innocence when the evidence suggested otherwise? He prided himself on his logical mind, yet around her his judgment took a backseat to other instincts. Ones he found, to his great frustration, that he could not override.
"You owe me an explanation, Lady Draven," he ground out.
"I should think we're past formalities at this point." Her wry voice floated from behind him. "You have permission to use my given name."
"Fine. Marianne, then," he said, his jaw clenched, "what the devil were you up to in that solicitor's office?"
A hush fell, broken only by the soft swish of fabric. The tension pulled at his nerves, and, despite knowing better, he turned back toward the screen. His mouth went dry, his manhood rising in an immediate salute. Behind the screen, Marianne's silhouette revealed her flawless figure in what had to be the skimpiest of undergarments. His blood pounded as her hands smoothed upward along the slim curve of her hips, the sharp indentation of her waist. When she reached her breasts—for an instant cupping those beauties—he bit back a groan.
But he couldn't hold back the animal sound that left him when she stepped from behind the dressing partition. Sweat glazed his brow.
Devil and damn. Bloody hell. This cannot be happening.
Like a figment from some feverish erotic fantasy, Lady Marianne Draven stood before him, wearing nothing but a sheer petticoat and corset. He'd never imagined—let alone seen—garments so scandalous. Thin lacy straps held up a bodice with a plunging neckline; the short corset pushed up her breasts so that the smooth, rounded tops nearly burst from the bodice. Below the corset, the sheer skirt of the petticoat revealed her shapely calves and ankles. Lace frothed at the hem, brushing against her pretty bare toes.
"Do you think to distract me with your seductive wiles?" he said hoarsely.
Her lips quirked, her gaze roaming over him. "I'm not certain. Can it be done?"
Bloody hell, yes.
"No," he said firmly and dragged his gaze to her face. Told himself to keep it there.
"What did you witness tonight at Leach's office?" she asked.
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 11
