Her Protector's Pleasure (17 page)

"Enough of your tongue, Tilda," she said. "Have you seen Lugo yet this morning?"

"He left on an errand at the crack of dawn." Tilda brought over the morning's ensemble and began to help Marianne dress in front of the mirror. "Said to tell you he doesn't believe in coincidences and wants to get to the bottom of what happened last night."

"He and I are of the same mind then," Marianne said grimly.

As the maid fastened her corset strings, Marianne reviewed the many concurrences. She'd gone to search Leach's office, only to find him dead. Then the constables had arrived minutes later—too bloody convenient. Not to mention the matter of the attack by cutthroats in Covent Garden less than a fortnight ago.

Coincidences? She thought not.

The facts pointed to a logical and chilling conclusion: someone knew of her search for Rosie. Someone was monitoring her movements and meant to stop her. If Kent hadn't aided her twice, she might have been killed or framed for Leach's murder.

Mrs. Barnes had claimed that the man who'd purchased Primrose did not know that the girl was Marianne's daughter. Could he have discovered the truth nonetheless? Was one of the three suspects—Boyer, Ashcroft, or Pendleton—Marianne's hidden nemesis? Having met all of them on some occasion or another, she summoned the facts on each.

Marcus Tilson, Marquess Boyer, was widowed and in his forties. Though plain of face, he was considered a handsome catch—although now she remembered something odd about his eyes. Not their precise color, but the fact that something was missing in them. A sense of genuine feeling. Nonetheless, Boyer was a respected peer and an active member of the House of Lords.

In contrast, Devlin St. James, Viscount Ashcroft, was as handsome as the devil and a rake through and through. Heir to a dukedom, Ashcroft had been embroiled in several scandals that had been quickly hushed due to his papa's influence. Marianne's throat tightened as she recalled that one of the indiscretions had involved a rather young vicar's daughter.

Eugene Patten-Jones, the Earl of Pendleton, was the oldest of the three and arguably the most powerful. In his fifties, he cut a robust figure; when Parliament was not in session, he stayed at his country estate, which was renowned for its hunting grounds. He had a sterling reputation and was a notorious snob. On the one occasion she'd been introduced to him, he'd flicked a glance over her, his mouth curling with contempt.

"What do you plan to do next?" Tilda said, smoothing out the emerald gauze skirts.

"I have narrowed the search to three leads. One of them has my daughter, of that I am certain," Marianne said.

Why else would the bastard be trying to stop her at any cost? On an instinctual level, she knew she was getting closer to Rosie. Despite the long years of separation, the maternal bond persisted, vital as ever. 'Twas as if part of her—the
best
part—had gone to her babe at birth. Her breast tingled with a bittersweet memory. For a few weeks, she'd had the joy of nourishing her daughter with her own milk ... until Draven had put an end to it.

You're a baroness, not a cow
, he'd said coldly.
Your bastard will use a wet nurse or she'll starve. The choice is yours.

Marianne's throat clenched. Even that had been taken from her.

"We'll get Miss Primrose back, milady." Tilda squeezed her shoulder, bringing her back. "I know what it's like to worry for your babe. If it weren't for you, my Arthur would be fightin' for his life in the stews with a whore for a ma. I owe you his life and mine; whatever you need, you've only to ask."

Marianne released a breath. "There's to be no talk of debt between us. You and Arthur have brightened my household with your presence. Speaking of which,"—she crossed over to the vanity and removed a brightly-wrapped box from the bottom drawer—"Arthur's birthday is tomorrow, is it not?"

Tilda made a clucking noise. "You'll spoil him, milady."

"'Tis nothing much. I'm told toy soldiers are the rage amongst boys his age." Marianne smiled wistfully. "He's a good lad, Tilda, and you should be proud."

"Aye, that I am." The maid set the package aside. Picking up a hairbrush, she directed Marianne to the vanity. "You'll be a proud mama too, milady, when you have Miss Primrose back. Now what plan do you have for her rescue?"

"I shall be attending Lady Auberville's annual ball at week's end. All the
crème de la crème
will be present,"—Marianne winced as Tilda worked through a snarl—"including the blackguards in question. I plan to interrogate them when they least expect it."

"Will that be safe, milady? Lugo will have to wait with the carriage. You'll be alone."

What choice did she have? 'Twas not as if she could depend on anyone else ... Kent's intent features flashed in her head.
One day, you're going to trust me, to know I'll never leave you wanting.
Longing sparked, but she snuffed it. Those words had been spoken in the heat of passion—and by a man.

Thus, nothing to place her trust in.

"What could possibly happen to me at a Mayfair soiree?" she said.

Snorting, Tilda pinned the final curls in place. Marianne looked this way and that, approving the sleek part down the middle and twists of loose curls that brushed her jaw on either side. The promenade dress brought out the shade of her eyes. Despite the tiresome comparisons to Aphrodite that came her way, she saw herself as Athena preparing for battle. Beauty was a weapon; being a cautious sort, she always thought it wise to bring sufficient reinforcements.

"We'll visit Madame Rousseau's," she said, "so send word ahead, if you please. Tell Madame I wish to book the entire afternoon, and I shall make it worth her while."

Tilda left to do her bidding, and Marianne completed her toilette with lotions and potions from the various jewel-colored bottles on the vanity. Looking at her polished appearance, she remembered what Kent had called her.
Selkie
. A woman who could don and shed her magical skin at will—and who called no man master.

Her lips curved with grim humor. Kent didn't know the half of it. This
selkie
would stop at nothing to claim what was rightfully hers and woe to any blighter who stood in her way.

*****

Ambrose entered Sir Coyner's Bow Street office with the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad. Yet he saw no way around the visit: he'd come to resign from the case. Through one serious error in judgment, he'd placed himself in an impossible situation. Bloody hell, Marianne had been right in calling him a snob: he
had
expected moral perfection from himself. And look where that arrogance had landed him.

Everything in him needed to defend Marianne, yet his honor demanded that he uphold his responsibilities to the client. His gut snarled. Devil take it, how was he going to extricate himself from this minefield without something blowing up in his face?

"Good day, Kent." Coyner rose from behind the desk. "'Tis a coincidence indeed that you came by. I had planned to summon you myself."

Ambrose mentally reviewed his speech.
I have come today to resign, Sir Coyner. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I am no longer the man for the job
. It wasn't entirely a lie. But it wasn't the full truth either, damn his own eyes. He could not bring himself to throw Marianne to the wolves, and he couldn't afford to draw the magistrate's ire, either: to do so would risk his livelihood and thus his family's future.

Shoulders bunched, Ambrose drew breath to speak.

The magistrate beat him to it. "I've bad news, I'm afraid, and no use beating around the bush about it. As of now, the investigation is suspended."

Ambrose blinked as the words trickled into his comprehension. "Beg pardon, Sir Coyner?"

"The case is over for now. Hate to break it to you in this fashion, especially since I just hired you on." Clasping his hands behind his back, the magistrate gave Ambrose a dark look. "I'm going to tell you something, Kent; normally, I wouldn't divulge this information, but I feel I owe it to you. This must be kept confidential."

"Yes, sir."

"The truth is ... the client's solicitor was found dead last night."

Ambrose's insides gave a sudden, premonitory lurch.

"His name was Reginald Leach. He counted more than a few members of the peerage amongst his clients, so we cannot know whom he was representing when he sought our services. Unless that lord chooses to come forward, we have, at this point, no client." Scowling, Coyner rubbed his lined forehead. "No client, no fee, and no proof of any wrongdoing."

Ambrose forced the words through his cinched throat. "How did Leach die?"

"Poison," Coyner said grimly.

A woman's weapon.
Dread percolated through disbelief. No, Marianne was no murderess. After last night, Ambrose could not believe it of her. She might put up a frosty exterior, but he'd discovered the warm, vulnerable woman within. The way she'd trembled when he'd showed her pleasures she'd never known before ... But had she seen Leach's dead body? If so, why hadn't she mentioned anything?

"Unfortunately, the constables arrived too late. No suspects were found. Unless …" Coyner's sharp gaze pierced Ambrose's daze. "Where was Lady Draven last evening?"

The tug-of-war raged within him. His duty, his conscience pitted against some primal instinct that insisted Marianne was innocent. It told him to protect her, keep her safe … The knot in his chest tightened to the point where he could hardly get the words out.

"She was at a dinner at the Hartefords," he said.

"And afterward?"

His insides pitched. "She went home."

A furrow appeared between Coyner's brows. "You're certain of this?"

Ambrose gave a terse nod, his heart pounding.

"And you've no other suspicious activity to report on?"

"No, sir."

Coyner's gaze flickered, his expression unreadable. "As I said, less than nothing to go on. Unless the client decides to come forward, I'm afraid the case is closed. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Kent. If anything else comes up, you'll be the first to know."

As much as Ambrose wanted to leave it at that, he knew he could not. He could not be involved with both Marianne and this investigation. And he'd come today because he couldn't fool himself any longer about where his loyalties had inexplicably fallen.

"Sir, about that." He cleared his throat. "Should circumstances merit the continuation of this case, I'm afraid I would no longer be available for the job."

"And why not?"

The truth burned on his tongue. Yet to tell of his involvement with Marianne would compromise her safety; it did not escape him that, as of now, he was her sole alibi. His word stood between her and condemnation for a crime he did not believe her capable of committing. But why
had
she been at Leach's? The timing of her visit and the solicitor's murder was too damned coincidental.

"I shall be committing my time to other work," he said.

"That so?" The other man's jaw tightened, his features lining with disapproval. "Can't say I'm happy to hear it. I must hasten to remind you of our agreement, Kent."

"Sir?"

"When I hire a man on, I expect that he will value Bow Street's commitment to confidentiality no matter the length of his employ. The fact that you're withdrawing your services doesn't negate your promise to me."

Ambrose's throat tightened. Given his dishonorable actions, his discretion was the least he could offer. "Yes. Of course."

The magistrate's moustache bristled, his eyes suspicious slits. "I mean it, Kent. You breathe word of this case to anyone, and you'll never work for Bow Street—or any other agency—again." He paused, no doubt to let his threat sink in. "As you know, Magistrate Dalrymple and I are cronies."

Ambrose gave a bleak nod.

"Well. I'll let your superiors know you'll be returning to duty on the morrow." Returning to his desk, Coyner began shuffling papers, a clear sign of dismissal.

Ambrose left the office and started the trek back to his room in Cheapside. As he walked along the street, he took scarce notice of the hawkers' raucous calls. His chest throbbed with shame. For the first time in his life, he'd knowingly dishonored his duty. He'd kept Marianne's visit to Leach a secret when his oath as a policeman demanded that he tell the truth.

Your emotions are getting in the way. You cannot let yourself be swayed by your attraction to her. Go back, tell Coyner—

But he … could not. Because the devil in him protested her innocence, would do anything to safeguard her from accusations that could result in her swinging from the gallows. His gut knotted. He had only one option: he had to discover her secrets for himself. What information had she been after at Leach's? If she hadn't killed Leach, who had?

He climbed the steep steps of his tenement. He'd wash his face, change his clothes, then search out Marianne and get the truth. As he approached his room, he saw a footman leaning negligently against the peeling door. Ambrose recognized the blue and silver livery immediately.

"Mr. Kent?" the footman said.

"Yes?"

"My lady sends you this." Bowing, the servant handed over a note.

Pulse thudding, Ambrose brushed his thumb against the silky lavender wax seal that bore the initial "M". He broke it open. At the sight of its contents, disbelief surged … with fury swift on its heels.

Goddamn her.
The note crumpled in his fist.

EIGHTEEN

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Amelie," Marianne said as she entered the orchid dressing room. With interest, she eyed the colorful bolts piled upon the large work table. "New shipment?"

"
Mais oui.
One must stay abreast of the trends. Now I gather there is an element of urgency?"

"Of the utmost. I am to attend Lady Auberville's soiree in two days, and I must be dressed to the nines. Indeed, I find myself in need of a new wardrobe—the latest fashions for the remainder of the Season."

Marianne saw the emotions flutter across Amelie Rousseau's thin features: an
artiste
's rapture, a businesswoman's delight. As expected, clever Amelie did not mention the fact that Marianne had purchased a good many gowns at the beginning of the Season.