Silence tautened before she replied, "During my pregnancy, Draven hadn't made husbandly demands of me. He'd explained that he wouldn't touch me while I carried another man's bastard, while I was ... dirty. Tainted." Her voice quivered with shame. "I didn't blame him, and, in truth, I was relieved. But after the birth, things changed. He pressed for his marital rights."
Rage simmered in Ambrose's veins. "He forced you?"
"No." Marianne shook her head. "He would not have needed to. After what he had done for me and Rosie, I fully intended to be a good wife in exchange. To do whatever he asked of me. As it turned out, however, he was the one who could not rise to the occasion." She gave a dry, brittle laugh. "He blamed me for his problem. Said I had unmanned him. And from that moment on, my life became a living hell."
Holding his anger in rigid check, Ambrose said, "What did he do to you, Marianne?"
"The name calling, the accusations about my character got worse. I had no defense against any of it." She shrugged, a casual movement that made Ambrose want to punch the wall. Only because the first option—beating Draven to a pulp—was no longer possible. "He was right. I had fornicated outside the marriage bed. I had given birth to a bastard. In truth, I was no better than a whore—"
"Stop it." His sharp tone cut her off, made her blink as if escaping a trance. "Stop repeating the bugger's words. You were seventeen, no more than a girl. You believed yourself in love. Yes, you acted impulsively, unwisely. But you're no whore, and I won't hear you call yourself that again. Is that understood?"
She said nothing, her gaze uncertain.
"Go on, then." Steeling himself, he asked, "Did the abuse go beyond words?"
"On occasion," she whispered.
Red flashed in Ambrose's vision. His muscles trembled in his effort to contain his fury.
Let her finish. The poison needs to bleed out.
"Physical cruelty was not Draven's preferred method, however. Whenever he whipped me, he took care not to break the skin. He wanted his possession to appear perfect on the outside." Her pained laugh pierced Ambrose's chest. "In truth, I preferred the beatings to ..."
"What did he do?" Ambrose said tersely.
She hugged her knees to her chest. "Because he blamed me for unmanning him, he said it was up to me to fix the problem. He made me … do things. Humiliating things. Night after night, he made me wear tawdry garments and pose myself, as if I were the lowliest of trollops. With a crop in hand, he made me kneel before him and try to stimulate him by …" Her voice broke.
Ambrose gathered her close. "It was no fault of yours, whatever he made you do. You know that, don't you?" he said roughly against her hair. "You were never to blame for his impotence. The bastard took pleasure in degrading you because he could not face his own failings as a man."
"It never worked, what he made me do," she said tremulously, "and that only enraged him further. He blamed me for dulling his desires, for being distracted and not applying myself to my wifely duties. So finally one day, as punishment, he … he took Rosie away from me."
Tears tracked silently down Marianne's face. Ambrose could do nothing but hold her more tightly, his own eyes stinging with helpless rage.
"He threatened to have Rosie harmed unless I did exactly as he said. For four years, he kept me a prisoner to his whims. I did everything he asked, and in return all I received was the occasional lock of Rosie's hair. A report that she was healthy and, oh God,"—her throat worked—"I never knew if he was lying. But I told myself I'd know if ... if …" She scrubbed her eyes with her fists. "I'd know if anything happened to my little girl. A mother's heart would know," she said fiercely, "and I vowed that I would never give up on finding her. No matter where my search leads or compels me to do, I will get her back."
"That is what brought you to London," Ambrose said.
In his mind, the pieces fell into place. By Jove, Marianne's visits to the stews, her much gossiped about lascivious behavior—had all of that been smoke and mirrors? A cover she'd created to hide her search for her little girl? It made sense now. The juxtaposition between her jaded exterior and the desperate fragility he'd discovered beneath …
"After Draven's death, I discovered that he'd placed Rosie with a bawd named Kitty Barnes. It has taken me three years to hunt the madam down, only to discover that she'd sold my daughter"—Marianne's voice cracked—"to a gentleman."
Ambrose's hands balled. As a policeman, he'd developed calluses against human evil; one had to in order to survive the job. Yet crimes against children always cut to the core. What good was justice if it failed to protect the innocent and the weak?
"Barnes claimed she'd never met the client herself," Marianne said, "because he'd conducted the transaction via the services of a solicitor."
The hairs rose on Ambrose's neck. "Leach."
She nodded, her lips tightening. "In his office that night, I found three bills of service. Though the receipts did not specify the nature of the transactions, Leach provided those services during the month Rosie was sold. One of those three clients must have my daughter."
"Ashcroft is one of your suspects?"
She shuddered. "He was. But I can take him off the list. Tonight I discovered the nature of his sins; repugnant though they are, they have naught to do with Rosie." She paused. "Which leaves me with two possible culprits: Marquess Boyer and—"
"The Earl of Pendleton," Ambrose said grimly.
She stared at him. "How … how did you know?"
How had things gotten so complicated? Ambrose wished to hell he'd never taken Coyner up on the case; knowing Marianne's secret now, he felt sick with guilt for those handful of days he'd spent tracking her. Monitoring her, for devil's sake, when she'd been the victim—when she'd so desperately needed his help.
How would Marianne react to his betrayal?
Self-loathing scorched his insides as he realized the full extent of his dilemma. Upon his honor, he'd sworn confidentiality to Coyner. If he told Marianne about the assignment, he'd be breaking his oath to the magistrate, and Coyner would destroy Ambrose's career if he found out. If it were just him, Ambrose might somehow find a way to deal with those consequences, but what about his family? Where would they live? How would they eat ... survive?
"How did you know?" Marianne repeated sharply.
Ambrose exhaled, hating the position he'd put himself in. "I found one of Leach's clerks and questioned him. He mentioned that Leach had had a recent altercation with Pendleton."
Silence met his words—and he hadn't even got to the confession yet. The next minute, she left the bed, reaching for a robe. When she turned to look at him, her face was a mask of anger.
"What gave you the right to nose into my business?"
Despite his guilt, the accusation stung.
"You wouldn't tell me what was going on between you and the solicitor, so I had to find out for myself. For God's sake, a man was murdered," he bit out. "You were in a precarious situation. I was only trying to help."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"Just like you didn't ask for my help with the cutthroats in the alley or Ashcroft tonight. Christ, Marianne, do you expect me to stand by and watch you risk your neck time and again?"
"I expect you not to do things behind my back. I expect to be able to trust you," she said, her voice frigid. "I expect you not to act like that bloody treacherous Runner!"
Ambrose's brow furrowed. "What Runner?"
"The one I hired to help me find Primrose. Burke Skinner claimed he did contract work for Bow Street, but I engaged him privately—I wanted as much discretion as possible." She gave a scornful laugh, but Ambrose could see the agitated cadence of her breath. "How could I have been such a fool?"
Ambrose went to her, took her chin in his hand. Though her eyes flashed at him, he saw beneath the anger to the fear. The glittering facets of helplessness.
"What did Skinner do, Marianne?" he said.
"He kept me dangling for months. Though I later learned he'd discovered clues
to Primrose's disappearance early on, he doled out the information, made me pay through the nose for it. Then one day," she said bitterly, "he wanted more than money."
Skinner had saw fit to make sexual advances upon a desperate, grieving mother? Skinner was going to pay. Ambrose vowed to see to it.
"What happened?" he rasped.
"He wouldn't take no for an answer. So I shot him." Her chin lifted. "I didn't kill him, but scared him into revealing all that he had discovered. Those facts led me to Kitty Barnes."
A faint memory resonated. You're not even the first man I've shot ... Despite the dire situation, Ambrose's chest warmed with pride. Though she struggled, he wrapped his arms around his brave girl and held on. How had one woman survived so much?
"You did exactly the right thing, sweetheart," he murmured against her ear. "He deserved to be shot. I wish I could have done it myself."
He could hear her uneven breaths. After a few moments, she stopped trying to get away. Her voice emerged muffled against his chest.
"You won't let me down, will you, Ambrose?" She tipped her head to look at him, and the sheen in her eyes devastated him. Ratcheted up his guilt. "I swore I'd never depend on anyone again. But I think with you ... I could make an exception."
The muscles of his chest stretched as if he were upon the rack. Only his instrument of torture was made not of steel and wood, but of conscience and desire. As much as he wanted to confess the truth to her, he knew the result if he did: she'd shut him out for good. Hadn't she nearly done so because he'd investigated Leach's clerk without informing her first? Her trust was a fragile thing. After all she'd suffered at the hands of men, he couldn't blame her.
But he also couldn't allow her to continue this perilous quest on her own. She needed his help, his protection—she was facing a powerful enemy. Conflict tore at him.
"Will you help me get my daughter back, Ambrose?" Her gaze searched his face.
And his decision was made.
"I vow to you, I won't rest until Primrose is safe in your arms once more," he said.
He'd do whatever it took to help her—his guilt and honor be damned.
She smiled through her tears, looking so angelic that his breath dammed in his throat. She tugged his head down for a kiss, and the hot, open sweetness of her mouth made his blood pound, drowning out his thoughts. She fitted her body to his, her eyes heavy-lidded with want, and her surrender made him hunger to give her everything he could. His kiss, his cock … mayhap even a piece of his soul.
As he tumbled her back onto the bed, he made a silent vow.
I'll find a way to make this work. I'll prove worthy of her trust. I won't let her down.
TWENTY-FIVE
The smoke rising from the stacks cast a purplish haze over the night sky. As Ambrose strode along Cheapside, his way lit by the candlelight spilling from windows, he drank in the familiar sights and sounds of his neighborhood. The smells of hops and roasting meat filled the air. The bells of St. Mary-Le-Bow church clanged with timeless insistence, signaling the nine o'clock curfew which saw the release of the apprentices from the toils of the day. Young men garbed in ubiquitous brown thronged toward the taverns, more than ready to make use of the night's freedom.
Despite the day's labors—which had included the search of several vessels and the eventual apprehension of a trio of smugglers—Ambrose moved with energy. He turned off Throgmorton Street toward his apartment, his steps quick and impatient. Before bed tonight, he planned to review the profiles he'd put together on Pendleton and Boyer. He and Marianne would be meeting tomorrow to discuss the progress of the investigation. Whilst she was finding out all she could about the peers through discreet queries in the ton's drawing rooms, Ambrose was doing the same in less rarefied realms.
As the first order of business, he'd tapped a man named Willy Trout to look into the suspects' financials. He'd met Trout a while back when he and his crew had put a stop to an extortion racket that had targeted boatmen on the Thames, including Trout's brother. Since then, Trout had proved a staunch ally. A discreet and free-thinking individual, the man could get information on most anything—for the right price.
For once, Ambrose was not limited by the Thames River Police's budgetary constraints; Marianne had made it clear that he had carte blanche when it came to conducting the search for Rosie. Ambrose had drawn the line, however, at her offer to pay him.
He'd compromised many things, but he'd be damned if he took money from the woman he was sleeping with. The woman for whom he had feelings. Feelings that bewildered him, shook the very tenets of his beliefs about himself and the world. And that made him feel more alive than he'd ever felt before. He blew out a breath. Told himself it was just a combination of powerful physical attraction and a primal need to protect her, to give her the justice she deserved.
On his own coin—he'd managed to add to his meager supply by securing a few extra hours at Wapping and had sent most of the money to his family—he'd also asked Trout to be on the lookout for Burke Skinner, the Runner who had betrayed Marianne. Despite Marianne's expedient handling of the bastard, Ambrose didn't trust that she'd heard the last from Skinner. He wanted to make certain that the blighter would never step foot near her again.
Tomorrow night, Ambrose thought that he and Marianne might make love again. Mayhap even fall asleep in each other's arms. Such was his optimism that he'd made a discreet stop at a Covent Garden shop to purchase more means of contraception; 'twas as much his responsibility as hers, after all. As he turned the corner toward his tenement, his loins tightened in anticipation—at the same time that his conscience picked up its berating refrain.
You can't go on deceiving her. A lie is a lie, even if it only lasted five days. You have to find a way to tell her about your stint with Bow Street.
But how? Once he'd made the decision to omit the truth, it became more and more difficult to bring it into the open. He knew she'd never trust him again, and the thought of her continuing her mission on her own … He quelled his scruples with iron resolve. He had to stay close, to watch over her and help her reunite with her girl. Until he could figure out a better solution, Marianne's welfare took precedence over his honor.
Reaching the landing, he froze. A figure sat huddled in front of his apartment. Her head rested against the doorframe, disheveled raven locks obscuring her visage, but he would know her anywhere.
"Emma?" he said incredulously.
She came awake with a start, pushing the hair from her face. His gut lurched at the sight of her swollen, reddened eyes, the dirt smudging her delicate cheekbones. She swayed to her feet.
"Ambrose?" she whispered.
Concern flooded him as he opened his arms. "What has happened, Em? Why are you here?"
His sister hurtled toward him, a sob breaking from her lips.
*****
Marianne peered out the carriage door at the tenements. Despite the late hour, raggedy bits hung neglected on the clothing lines that crisscrossed the dreary buildings. A few scruffy ruffians loitered at the entryways, swigging from bottles and clearly headed for oblivion. The din of squalling babes and arguing adults was nearly as loud as the clanging church bells had been. Life in Cheapside was not quiet.
"You are sure this is the correct address?" she said.
Standing by the carriage door, Lugo pointed to a door on the second floor. "Mr. Kent lives at number eight. Do you want me to fetch him, my lady?"
"No, thank you," she said. "I'll go myself."
She felt Lugo's watchful gaze as she made her way toward Ambrose's apartment. The drunks she passed were too far gone to do more than leer. The odor of cooking onions turned her stomach as she ascended the creaking steps. Her pulse quickened, not from the physical exertion, but from the uncertainty that had plagued her ever since she'd shared her secret with Ambrose.
Stop worrying and being so dashed suspicious. You can trust him.
Old habits died hard. She knew she'd overreacted when Ambrose had told her ab
out questioning Leach's clerk. It had been a knee-jerk response: suspicion and paranoia left over from her past. All that was in the past, she told herself. Ambrose had done nothing to rouse her anxiety. He'd protected her, believed her. And he'd vowed to help her get Rosie back.
Ambrose was like no man she'd ever met. He made her feel herself in ways that sparked opposing frissons of delight and alarm. For so long, she had mastered her emotions; she hadn't recognized the price of that self-control until he had come along and showed her the thrill of letting go. Of just being. With his persistence and tenderness, he was teaching her to trust bit by bit.
She could see herself changing in ways that both excited and frightened her. The impulsive nature she'd kept buried had come charging to the fore, brought her here to Ambrose's residence because she didn't want to wait until tomorrow night to see him. She wanted to see him now. She approached his door, her heart thudding with the giddiness of a debutante waiting for her first dance.
Has he missed me these past two days? Has he longed to make love again as I have?
She raised her gloved fist, rapped on the door.
No response came. She fought the disappointment. Perhaps he had not yet returned from work. Or perhaps he'd gone out with friends, to unwind as men were wont to do over drink … and wenches? She frowned—no, Ambrose wasn't the whoring type. Mayhap he was simply inside asleep in his own bed … The notion of Ambrose's bed made her heart pump faster. Not expecting success, she reached for the door handle. It turned in her grasp.
Anticipation quickening her breath, she went in. Her gaze skimmed over the dingy space with its sparse furnishings—and honed in on Ambrose. He was not alone. He occupied a chair next to a young woman, their dark heads bent together. Needles prickled in Marianne's chest as he cupped his guest's cheek, the gesture imbued with infinite tenderness. The two were so engrossed in their intimate conversation that neither looked up at her approach.
Marianne heard herself say in a strangely calm voice, "I am sorry to interrupt."
Ambrose jumped to his feet. He blinked, as if trying to register Marianne's presence, the bloody bastard. Marianne got a good look at the other woman for the first time, and a hot, foreign feeling swelled beneath her breastbone. With inky hair and large, doe-brown eyes, the female was younger than she'd first thought—young and quite pretty, with a smooth countenance that exuded freshness and innocence, qualities Marianne herself had lost years ago.
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 18
