Ambrose betrayed me ... for coin. Everything that happened between us was a lie.
She realized she was shaking. With rage—with other emotions that might annihilate her composure if she didn't leave that very instant.
"Involve me in any other ethical endeavor, and I vow you'll answer for defamation," she spat.
She left the office. With each step, her emotions receded. No anger, no pain—only numbness that seemed to well from her soul. That had merely been biding its time, waiting for her foolish happiness to wither and die.
Lugo met her at the carriage. He must have read her expression, for lines of concern carved into his broad features as he handed her up. "My lady, what will you do?"
"What I should have been doing all along. I'm going to find Rosie on my own." The truth echoed hollowly in the cabin. "Make haste, Lugo, for we have a journey ahead of us."
THIRTY-ONE
It was nearing midnight by the time Ambrose jogged up the steps to Marianne's townhouse. He let himself in with the key she'd given him. As he strode into the dark foyer, anticipation simmered in his veins: this evening, Willy Trout had delivered Marquess Boyer's secret. As it turned out, Leach had helped the marquess to cover up a scandal; it did not involve Primrose, however, but a pair of twin footmen.
Which narrowed the field of suspects down to one: Pendleton.
Like any investigator, Ambrose had a sixth sense that told him when a development showed promise, and his instincts told him they were turning a corner with the case. He could not wait to tell Marianne, to see the hope light her eyes. After all she had survived, she deserved happiness. Such was his optimism that he allowed himself hope as well. When he returned Primrose to her and he could finally tell her the truth, might she forgive his deception?
Could there be some sort of future for them after all?
In his haste toward the stairwell, he nearly bumped into one of the maids.
"Dear me, you gave me a fright!" The girl's hands flew to her chest.
He remembered to remove his hat. Raking his hand through his fog-dampened hair, he said with an apologetic smile, "Alice, isn't it? I do apologize. I have an important matter to discuss with Lady Draven."
"Her ladyship is not in, sir."
Ambrose frowned. Though he knew Marianne's reputation for carousing, as far as he knew she'd curtailed late night activities to spend time with his family. In truth, it had touched him to see her rub along so well with his brother and sisters. Who'd have thought that the haughty Baroness Draven would enjoy games of charades and hide-the-slipper? Seeing her smiles, genuine and unguarded, had only fueled his reckless dreams.
"When do you expect her back?" he said.
"I'm not sure, sir. It might be days," the maid said.
"Days?"
He had not even realized that he'd raised his voice until steps came down the hallway.
"Is that you, Ambrose?" Emma rushed into the anteroom. She wore an old flannel robe, her hair hanging in a braid over her shoulder. Their father hobbled behind her on a cane.
"Is something amiss?" Ambrose said. "Why are the two of you still up? Where is Marianne?"
"Father and I were just discussing the situation over hot milk. Come, Ambrose," Emma said quietly, "or you'll wake the others. It took quite some coaxing to get Polly to bed this eve."
Growing more uneasy by the moment, Ambrose followed her to the drawing room. The instant the door closed, he said, "Tell me what is going on."
Emma and his father exchanged glances.
"Marianne left this evening. She wouldn't say where." Emma tugged nervously on her braid. "But she took an awful lot of luggage, and Lugo and Tilda went with her."
Ambrose stared at his sister, his mind reeling. "She said nothing to you at all about where she was headed and when she would be back?"
"She said she was ... bored," Emma admitted in a small voice. "And in need of diversion."
"I don't understand." Ambrose rubbed his neck, trying to think over the mangled morass in his head. In his chest.
Bored? In need of diversion? What the bloody fuck is that supposed to mean?
"She didn't send you word, my boy?" His father peered up at him from one of the wingchairs.
"No." Ambrose's fists clenched at his sides.
Though his relationship with Marianne was far from settled, he'd believed that a degree of intimacy had grown between them. That even without promises to one another, they had a certain ... understanding. One that, at the very least, involved her telling him when she planned to take off on a bleeding trip.
"Perhaps she sent a message and it got lost?" Emma suggested.
Ambrose didn't think so. From the looks on the others' faces, they didn't think so either. He braced an arm against the mantle, brooded into the flames for he didn't know what else to do. His emotions veered dangerously, volatile and beyond his control. He hated the feeling.
"Did the two of you have a lover's spat, my boy?"
Ambrose slid his father a startled glance. Behind Samuel's chair, Emma stood, her gaze widening. She shook her head, mouthing the words, I didn't say anything.
"Er, I don't know what you mean," Ambrose said.
Samuel snorted. "I may be old, but I'm not a fool. I was young once."
Despite his own turmoil, Ambrose was relieved to see the sharp-witted look behind his father's spectacles. Marianne had been right after all. Then again, she often was ... the ache in his chest grew.
"I know love when I see it," Samuel went on. "Didn't think I saw it with you and that other chit, and turns out I was right, wasn't I? But this one, she's different. You'd be a fool to let her go."
"It's not that simple."
"Young folk always complicate things," Samuel sighed. "It's exceedingly simple, actually. Either you love her or you don't. Which is it?"
I love her. Arse over elbows, like a sodding fool.
"She's a baroness," he said gruffly, "and I'm ... nobody."
"You're a damn fool if you believe that. A damn fool." Rapping his cane against the floor for emphasis, Samuel declared, "Happiness depends upon ourselves. How many times have I told you that?"
Ambrose raked a hand through his hair. "Enough for me to know that comes from Aristotle."
"Then you'll recognize this as well: Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. Now is that or isn't that the case with you and Marianne?"
It was for him. When he and Marianne were apart, his thoughts returned constantly to her. And with her gone, he felt half-whole. Half-alive, devil take it.
"I don't know how she feels about it," he said in hoarse tones.
"Why? Because she is rich? Beautiful?" Samuel gave him a keen look. "She's proud and independent, no doubt about it. But so are you, son. Never saw two people more alike in that regard. Far as I can tell, the pair of you need each other."
Could his father be right? Ambrose could certainly see where he needed Marianne—but did she need him? Beyond his promise to find her daughter? He struggled to believe that Fortune would smile upon him in that manner.
Besides, if that were true, why in blazes had Marianne gone in search of diversion?
His gut knotted, but anger began to edge out despair. Damn it, he would not let her go without an explanation. Without a fight. He had to search her out—but where should he begin?
You're a bleeding investigator, aren't you? Think, man.
"I'll question her staff in the morning," he said. "For now, I'll search her bedchamber for any clues to her whereabouts."
He headed to the door, but his sister's quivering voice halted him. "Ambrose?"
"What is it, Em?" he said, turning.
To his surprise, her eyes filled with tears. "I think I know why Marianne left. All of this is my fault!"
"Your fault?"
Emma drew a shuddery breath. "Earlier today, I poked my nose where I oughtn't have. I ... I asked Marianne about the nature of your relationship."
Ambrose frowned.
&
nbsp; "I know, I know, everyone is always telling me I'm too managing," his sister wailed, "and here I've gone and done it again."
"Tell me what transpired during the conversation," he said.
"I asked Marianne if she planned to ... to ..."
"Spit it out, child," Samuel said.
"I asked her if she planned to marry Ambrose." Biting her lip, Emma looked up at Ambrose through her lashes. "I am sorry. I was only trying to help."
Ambrose's throat felt like sandpaper. "How did Marianne respond?"
"She said it was a private matter. Between the two of you." Em hung her head. "I know I oughtn't have pried in your affairs, but I was worried for you. After what happened with Jane … oh, Ambrose, I just want you to be happy."
Numbly, he realized why Marianne had left. She was spooked about a future with him; he'd been right about her reaction the last time. To have his sister bring it up a second time … that must have prompted Marianne to bolt. You're a sinking ship, man—did you honestly expect a woman like her to stay? To take you on?
"You have always taken care of us—but who is to care for you?" Emma said in a small voice. "I wanted her ladyship to know that she would not be getting a bad bargain. That we would not interfere with your marital bliss."
Ambrose rubbed his temples, which had begun to throb. "Of course you wouldn't," he said distractedly. "It isn't about you, is it now?"
"It was with Jane. You had to give her up for us."
Despite his own disappointment, Ambrose saw his sister's chin wobble. Sighing, he said in a gentler voice, "Jane wasn't mine in the first place. Father was right. I have no regrets over what happened."
"And Marianne?" Emma hesitated. "If things ... do not work out, will you have regrets about her?"
For the rest of my days.
He gave a weary shrug. "Don't worry your head over it, Em. When Marianne returns, she and I will sort matters out." His chest tight, he said roughly, "More change for all of you, I'm afraid."
Though he'd never intended for his family to get used to living in the present circumstances, his search for a more permanent place for them had thus far yielded options he'd rather not consider. But he'd figure something out. The Kents would not stay where they were not wanted.
Emma came to him and took his hand in hers. "As long as we're together, everything will be fine," she said earnestly.
"Hear, hear," their father said.
Ambrose wished he shared their optimism.
*****
Marianne peered out the curtain as the carriage rolled past the gates and along the paved drive. Immaculate lawns lined both sides, beyond which spread woods reputed to be the finest hunting grounds in all of Berkshire. The main house came into view, a stately Georgian residence with sprawling wings and a spectacular dome above the entrance.
Across from her, Tilda let out a light snore. They'd travelled all through the night to arrive mid-morning. As the carriage came to a stop, she heard one of the footmen outside query Lugo about their business, and a minute later Lugo appeared at the door.
In a low, urgent voice, he said, "I beg you to reconsider, my lady. It is not too late. We can turn back."
"Nonsense. We are close to finding Rosie." Marianne adjusted her décolletage and smoothed her gloves. For the next step in her plan, it was critical that she look her very best. "We are certainly not going to turn back now."
Lugo glanced behind him before whispering, "If Pendleton is the villain as you suspect, then he is dangerous, and we are entering his territory unprepared. I cannot take on all his men alone. Please, my lady, let us go back and speak to Mr. Kent. He's a decent sort. Perhaps there's been a misunderstanding—"
Pain pierced her armor, sharper than any blade. It took everything in her to stuff her emotions back into their old box. To remain numb, focused on the only goal that mattered.
"There's no misunderstanding," she said flatly. "We've been over it. Sir Coyner as much as told me that Kent was working for him. Kent betrayed me, Lugo—I'll never trust him again."
I never should have trusted him in the first place. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice … shame on me.
Her throat swelled. There was only one road left to redemption. She had to get Rosie back on her own.
"But what about the urchin? Who sent him? You aren't thinking clearly—"
"Who's not thinking? About what?" Tilda sat up, rubbed her eyes. "Are we there yet?"
At the sound of crunching gravel, Marianne hissed, "Hush, both of you. Here he comes."
"Ah, Lady Draven. What an … unexpected pleasure."
She took the smooth, manicured hand and stepped down from the carriage. "Lord Pendleton," she murmured, bending in an elegant curtsy, "the pleasure is all mine."
In his early fifties, the earl wore his age well. His iron-grey hair was coiffed above a noble forehead and his tall, thickening figure shown to advantage in a tweed hunting jacket. He studied her with a dark, reptilian gaze—trying to recall, no doubt, when he'd issued her an invitation. Pendleton's exclusive guest list would typically not include the widow of a mere baron. Being a gentleman, however, he could not openly accuse her of crashing his house party.
"I was not certain you would make it," he said in ironic tones.
"To be honest, neither was I," she said with a light laugh. "But then my plans got cancelled, and I recalled your lovely invitation,"—she removed the gilt card from her reticule, waving it strategically above her bosom—"and I simply could not resist the opportunity to further our acquaintance."
His eyes caught for a moment on her décolletage. He said only, "Indeed."
Dash it, Pendleton was living up to his reputation as a strait-laced snob. She brightened her smile and tried a different tactic. "I believe you are acquainted with my dear friend, the Marchioness of Harteford. The Earl of Northgate's daughter? When I told her I was coming here, she said to send you her best regards."
Pendleton's posture relaxed somewhat at the mention of Helena's distinguished bloodline. "Fine family, the Northgates. Haven't seen the earl for ages—meant to give him my condolences." Pendleton's mouth edged into a smirk. "But a title's a title, I suppose."
Marianne knew he was referring to Helena's marriage to Harteford, who'd once been a pariah amongst the ton due to his open engagement in trade and his humble beginnings. Owing to Harteford's enormous power and wealth, most of the scandal had faded in the past years. Yet snobbery apparently died hard amongst a select few.
Biting her tongue, Marianne gave a false yawn. "Do excuse me," she said prettily, "but I'm afraid the journey was quite wearying. Travel does so affect my sensibilities."
"As it would any lady's." After a slight hesitation, Pendleton said, "You must come in and refresh yourself. I'll have your luggage sent to your rooms."
"You are too kind, my lord," Marianne murmured.
As she took his arm, a shiver stirred her nape. The game begins.
THIRTY-TWO
Later that afternoon, Ambrose stomped up the stairs of Wapping Street Station to his office. He was in a foul mood. Owing to Marianne's abrupt departure, he'd gotten no sleep the night before. He'd combed through her chambers and found no clue to her whereabouts, and the servants had not proved any more helpful. Perhaps a house party, sir? one of the maids had suggested. My lady receives invitations all the time. She is ever so popular.
His jaw clenched. Had Marianne gone off to cavort at some party? If so, she'd made it clear that he had no right to interfere with her plans ... no right even to know of them. Hadn't she told him time and again that she could only offer him the moment?
You're a bloody, bloody fool, man.
He tossed his hat on his desk, his mood darkening further at the sight of the report he'd yet to complete. He'd spent the day trying to find the captain who'd slipped by the excise officers without paying the duties, but the bastard had proved as slippery as an eel. Ambrose had followed one lead after another today, and all had come to naught.
&nbs
p; Devil take it, he needed some good news for a change.
Johnno's curly head emerged through the doorway. One look at his subordinate's somber face, and Ambrose knew that none was forthcoming.
"What is it, Johnno?" he said wearily.
In a low, urgent voice, the waterman said, "Dalrymple's been looking for you. He had a visitor while you were out. A magistrate from Bow Street—"
The hairs on Ambrose's neck rose at the same time that Johnno's head whipped around.
"G-good afternoon, Sir Dalrymple," he heard Johnno stammer.
The magistrate nudged the lad aside, his girth filling the doorway. "There you are, Kent." The smug look on his superior's face fostered Ambrose's sense of foreboding. "I've been looking all over for you."
Ambrose came to his feet. "I've been out on an investigation, sir. The excise case—"
"Never mind that now. I need to have a few words with you. Follow me to my office," Dalrymple said in peremptory tones.
Ambrose saw no choice but to obey. As he passed by Johnno, the waterman gave him a sympathetic nod. Ambrose followed his supervisor, preparing for things to go from bad to worse.
*****
"I hope you are not finding us dull, Lady Draven. Perhaps it is just that our company is ... different from what you are accustomed to?"
Marianne's attention snapped back to the drawing room. To the circle of ladies sitting on the little gilt-backed chairs, their expressions tinged with scorn. For the past hour, she'd been subjected to relentless condescension; fortunately, she'd been too busy plotting her next move with Pendleton to pay them much mind. Faced with a direct question, however, she needed to reply.
"Different? In what way do you mean, Lady Castlebaugh?" she said with feigned innocence.
The middle-aged duchess gave a brittle laugh. "I merely meant to say that you must be unused to being surrounded by the gentler sex. 'Tis well known that you are popular amongst the gentlemen, my dear."
Coy looks spread around the circle, and one of the ladies, a petite, newlywed countess, turned bright pink.
Marianne returned the duchess' smile. "'Tis a problem, I'm afraid." She gave a flick to her skirts, noting the envious way several ladies eyed Amelie Rousseau's latest creation: the color of tender leaves, the airy muslin fitted sleekly to Marianne's upper torso before cascading into an unexpected celebration of tiered flounces. "Then again," she drawled, "I'd say 'tis a better problem than the opposite ... but for that I must solicit your opinion, dear Lady Castlebaugh."
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 23
