Her Protector's Pleasure (20 page)

At the townhouse, she hadn't invited him in.

Though he'd been frustrated, he'd understood her well enough to know that she needed time and space to come to a decision about him. Given the tenuous truce between them, he'd decided not to push her further. In the meanwhile, however, he was not a man to sit idly upon his thumbs. He'd already learned the names of Leach's clerks and the places most likely to find them. Tonight, he'd begin his own inquiry.

"Stop bragging, Johnno, else I'll find a reason to keep you here," Kent said mildly.

"Good night to you, then, sir." Tipping his cap, the waterman strode off, whistling.

Ambrose finished up his accounting of his crew's activities and placed the ledger atop the neat pile on his desk. He glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight in the evening: time to seek the answers to his questions. Pulling on his greatcoat, he departed the office and hailed a ride from one of the boat men. The craft glided westward toward the City, the stars glittering pinpricks in the velvet sky. With the cool night air against his face and the dark water running beneath him, Ambrose let his thoughts unfurl.

Something was taken from me,
Marianne had said.
I'm owed, Kent. And I want what's mine.

In the past two days, Ambrose had dug up information on Reginald Leach; what he'd discovered reinforced his belief that the solicitor had been blackmailing Marianne. Leach had made his name on discretion and flexible ethics: if you had enough money and needed a messy situation taken care of, Leach was your man. Bastard children, duels gone wrong, murders done in a fit of drink or rage … for the right price, Leach could sweep anything under a carpet of legal protection.

Ambrose wouldn't put it past the unscrupulous bastard to hold a woman ransom with some ill-begotten piece of knowledge. Nor did he think it surprising that Leach had wound up dead. Marianne wasn't the only one Leach might have been extorting. The solicitor had collected a great deal of dirt on London's most powerful men—any of whom might be willing to kill to keep a secret silent. What information had Leach held over Marianne?

As the boat slipped beneath London Bridge, Ambrose puzzled over the coincidence which bothered him most. Why had the client who'd hired Bow Street to watch Marianne—who'd suspected her of being an anarchist—used
Leach
as the intermediary? Who was this supposed lord of the realm, and why had he wanted Marianne monitored?

Even Coyner had admitted that there was no solid proof of Marianne's involvement in an anarchist group. The evidence against her was purely circumstantial. Though her behavior could admittedly be outrageous, Ambrose was beginning to see it was by design: it wasn't anarchy she was after, but something specific. Something precious had been taken from her; why else her desperate actions, the pain in her eyes?

More importantly, why had this anonymous client targeted her? Ambrose considered multiple hypotheses. In the best case scenario, the client had simply been mistaken, erroneously vilifying Marianne based on circumstantial evidence. Another possibility: there had been no client at all, and all of it had been Leach's doing. Perhaps Leach had known that Marianne was after him. Perhaps he'd taken the precautionary measure of having her monitored, of blackening her name. If Leach had been responsible, then his death would have nullified any threat to Marianne.

Ambrose wasn't taking any chances. Logic circled him back to the dead solicitor. He'd start his investigation by finding out everything he could about Reginald Leach and Leach's clientele. If he followed all the threads, he was certain one would lead him to Marianne's secret.

The boat bumped against the dock. Tipping the driver, Ambrose took the stairs up to the road. He headed north until he hit Fleet Street. Halfway down a smoke-clogged alley, he found an entrance with the emblem of three crowns painted over the doorway. Inside, the tavern was a warren of narrow corridors and cozy nooks, and Ambrose had to duck his head more than once to avoid the low-hanging beams. The smell of hops and savory pub cooking filled the air.

Scanning the half-filled room, Ambrose approached the bar.

"What's your fancy, sir?" the barkeep asked.

"I'm looking for someone," Ambrose said, placing a coin on the counter. "Tom Milford. Used to work for a solicitor named Leach."

The barkeep jerked his head toward a table in a secluded corner. "Carrot-pated cove sittin' alone. The one wot looks like 'e lost 'is mother, though I reckon it can't be o'er that skinflint Leach. No loss to the world, that one." The barkeep snorted. "Reckon it's the loss o' pay wot 'as Tom down—'e's been nursin' the same ale all night."

"I'll take two of the same," Ambrose said.

As he fished for another coin, he recalled with a pang the books he'd sold yesterday. His legacy from his father now sat in the dusty corner of a pawnbroker's shop near Drury Lane. He'd sent the bulk of the money to Emma. The funds would keep his family in the cottage until month's end, when Ambrose could make the trip to Chudleigh Crest. He'd look into other housing options in the village and give Emma some much-deserved respite as well.

The barkeep returned with the drinks. Taking the two foaming tankards, Ambrose crossed over to Leach's clerk. "Mr. Milford?"

A bloodshot gaze veered upward. Though Tom Milford looked no more than five-and-twenty, he had dark circles under his eyes and lines of worry etched around his mouth.

"Who's asking?" Milford said.

"Ambrose Kent. I work for the Thames River Police. Would you mind if I join you?" Ambrose held up the two tankards.

Either Milford was desperate for the drink or for relief from his own company because he shrugged. "Suit yourself, Mr. Kent."

Ambrose sat and pushed one of the drinks across the table.

"Hard day?" he said. In questioning witnesses, he'd found it effective to first establish rapport. People spoke more freely and truthfully with those they liked and trusted.

"I'll say." Milford took a long gulp of his new drink; foam formed a moustache above his upper lip. "God Almighty, I needed that. I assume you're here about Mr. Leach? I've already told the constables everything I know."

From what Ambrose had heard, Milford's testimony had amounted to little. Which was why he wanted to speak to the clerk on his own.

"Sometimes new information comes up after a few nights' rest. I imagine it was a shock to learn of your employer's passing," Ambrose said.

"Shock ain't the half of it. Try bloody despair." Milford took another swig of his drink, his tone morose. "For three years of my life, I slaved for that penny-pinching codger. Now I've nothing to show for it—neither money nor the qualifications to strike out on my own. I'm sunk."

"Surely it can't be as bad as all that."

"It's worse. Got a girl waiting on me." The apprentice slanted Ambrose a glum look. "With my current prospects, she ain't likely to wait much longer."

Ambrose felt a spark of empathy; he knew that situation all too well. His own ex-fiancée hadn't been the sort to wait either.

"Things have a way of working out as they should," he said.

He was surprised by how much he meant it. Despite the frustration of his dealings with Marianne, the alternative of never meeting her struck a hollow chord in his chest. Though it made him feel somehow disloyal to admit it, he hadn't experienced feelings half as intense when Jane had broken things off—and he'd been with her for three years.

"Sometimes," he added, "a disappointment can turn out to be an opportunity."

"When one door closes, eh? You sound like my ma." Milford sent him a wry smile. "Now what was it you wanted to know, Mr. Kent?"

"Did Leach have any enemies? Anyone who wished him harm?"

Milford rolled his eyes. "Does a dog have fleas? Don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but Reginald Leach was a bastard through and through, and the people who hired him on weren't much better. But Leach kept the meat of his cases to himself and assigned us clerks the banal tasks. Instead of teaching us the practice of the law, he had us making his tea and tidying up after him like sodding servants. Only, like idiots, we worked for free."

"Did you ever witness any altercations in the office? Incensed clients, that sort of thing?"

"Every day raised voices came from Leach's office." Milford's forehead furrowed. "Come to think of it, there was that row just last week. Slipped my mind until you asked. Aye, bloody ripper that one was."

Ambrose's instincts perked. "What and whom did the row involve?"

"Can't say what it was over exactly. But they were shouting something fierce. 'Twas none other than the Earl of Pendleton who came storming out of Leach's office."

Ambrose gripped his tankard. Pendleton was a member of the House of Lords, a wealthy peer. Could he be the mystery client who'd retained Bow Street's services via Leach?

"Did you catch any of the conversation between the earl and your employer?"

Milford shook his head. "Leach's office has thick walls. But before he left, Lord Pendleton said something along the lines of ...
If I go down, I'll find a way to take you with me.
" The clerk's eyes widened. "Good God, you don't think he meant it literally?"

Ambrose had no idea. But he'd definitely be looking into Pendleton. "Any other disgruntled clients stick out in your mind?"

"Certainly none as disgruntled as the earl," Milford said, "though you didn't hear it—or any of this—from me."

Ambrose rose and offered his hand. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Milford. Thank you."

The clerk raised his tankard in a mock salute. "Consider it my departing contribution to the legal profession."

"You never know what's around the corner, Mr. Milford. Another apprenticeship or another career ... or another young lady." With a faint smile, Ambrose said, "Take it from me, lad: life is full of surprises."

TWENTY-ONE

Lady Auberville's ball was one of the annual crushes of the Season, and this year's fete was proving no exception. Descending the steps to the massive ballroom, Marianne surveyed the glittering scene. Lady Auberville had cleverly taken inspiration from her own backyard: the hostess had done up the place so that it flowed seamlessly into the very English garden just beyond the terrace doors. Instead of the usual towering palms, pots of lavender and trained ivy formed hedges around the dance floor, and blooming lily-of-the valley perfumed the air.

Charming as the setting was, Marianne's attention turned immediately to locating her targets. She found Ashcroft first. The viscount stood next to buffet tables overflowing with picnic foods. As usual, he was surrounded by a circle of females—married ladies and widows mostly—who no doubt wished to end the night in his bed. Sandy-haired, handsome, and possessed of dissolute charm, Ashcroft had a reputation as a gifted lover.

A gifted lover ... beautiful golden eyes flashed in her head. A face stark with desire and intent. The memory of Kent's clever hands, his restrained male strength as he brought her to the peak of pleasure again and again—

Her breathing quickened. The tips of her breasts hardened, warmth blossoming at her core.

Keep your mind on the task
, she admonished herself.

As Marianne watched, Ashcroft dipped a glass into a miniature champagne lake complete with tiny floating marzipan swans; he held the dripping glass to a lady's lips. She obediently took a sip. He repeated the motion with the next female in line, who giggled as she followed suit. No doubt he planned to have them all drinking out of his hand before the night was out. Truth be told, he appeared a trifle bored. Suddenly, Ashcroft's gaze lifted.

Marianne forced her lips into a sultry curve as his eyes raked over her with cool interest. She allowed the exchange to continue for a few seconds more before she looked away. Her heart thumped. She'd baited the first trap of the evening. Onto the next.

Circling the dance floor, she identified the Earl of Pendleton. He stood with a group of his lofty peers, attempting to converse with the young daughter of one of his cronies. From the way the debutante's gaze flitted toward the dance floor, it was clear she wished to be elsewhere.

Marianne decided she'd tackle Pendleton later. She looked for the third and final suspect on her list; Marquess Boyer, however, was nowhere to be found.

"Marianne, there you are. We have been waiting ages for you to arrive."

Marianne turned to see Helena's approach. Her friend looked resplendent in a gown of amethyst silk ornamented with gold trefoils. The marchioness' most flattering accessory, however, took the form of the very large and obviously possessive husband at her side.

"Lady Draven," the marquess said, bowing.

Helena was looking at her with a slightly anxious expression. Recalling her abrupt exit from the Hartefords' dinner party, Marianne felt a prickle of embarrassment.

In a light tone, she said, "It appears Madame Rousseau has been saving her best work for you. That dress is divine, Helena."

"As is yours," her friend replied. "I've never seen such brilliant shades of blue and green. You look like a beautiful mermaid."

Or another enchanted creature of the sea.

Smiling faintly, Marianne said, "Your bodice is superb. Baring the shoulders is all the rage in Paris, and you shall be setting the trend on English shores."

"Considering what she charges, I do not see why Madame Rousseau needs to economize on fabric," the marquess muttered. He slanted a dark glance at his wife's décolletage. "I shall have to have a word with her."

Helena gave her lord an exasperated look. "You'll do no such thing. Soon I shall be as big as one of those Vauxhall hot air balloons, and all the fabric in the world won't hide it. Until then, I mean to dress as fashionably as I please, and there's nothing you can do to—"

Bending his dark head, Harteford deposited words in his wife's ear; whatever he said stopped Helena mid-sentence. Her mouth fell open, a rosy flush staining her cheeks. With a satisfied gleam in his eye, Harteford straightened.