Her Protector's Pleasure (3 page)

"My condolences." The other man cleared his throat. "Don't mean to pry, but between you and me, I've had some problems with past employees I've taken on independent contract. Men with vices, who'd do anything for extra coin." His mouth firmed. "A Bow Street Runner must represent justice. Like Caesar's wife, he must be above suspicion."

Ambrose saw no argument with that. "You have my word that I would uphold my duties."

For a minute, Coyner studied him. "I believe you would, Kent."

"I have the job, then?"

"When I have a fitting assignment, I'll let you know."

Some of Ambrose's hope faded. "How long will that take, sir?" The payment on his family's cottage was due by the end of the month. If he didn't come up with the extra money, the Kents would lose the roof over their heads—and his shrew of a landlady would never allow his family to join him in his Spartan one-room apartment. Nor did he want his young, country-bred brother and sisters introduced to the harsh realities of city life.

"Can't predict. But since the Cato Street Conspiracy last year, there's been plenty of mayhem afoot. Mark my words," the magistrate said darkly, "the anarchists are merely biding their time."

Last year, Bow Street had played an instrumental role in the capture of a group of radicals dedicated to overthrowing the government and instituting social reform. Whilst Ambrose had sympathy with some of their beliefs—the government-sponsored massacre at Peterloo had been an atrocity through and through—he did not agree with their methods. Change must be made through law and order, not chaos. The Cato Street ruffians had planned on assassinating Members of Parliament, including the Prime Minister; thanks to the hard work of the magistrates, the plot had been foiled and the perpetrators punished for their crimes.

"If there's any ongoing investigation in need of an extra pair of hands, I should be glad to—" Ambrose began.

"Everything's under wraps at the moment." Finishing the last of his supper, the magistrate signaled to have his tankard refilled. "Not to worry. You'll be the first to know when a new case comes up."

Ambrose had to content himself with that. After bidding the magistrate farewell, he exited the tavern into the cool summer night. At this hour, Covent Garden's collection of bawdy houses, theatres, and gaming hells threw together people of all classes, and the resulting mishmash overflowed the streets. Beneath a lamppost, a well-dressed cove bartered for the evening's pleasure with a pretty, bored-looking whore. A gang of young swells roared with laughter as one of their own cast up his accounts, splattering his Hessians in the process. Dirt-streaked urchins scampered about with sharp eyes and ready hands.

Weary of vice—he'd spent the first ten hours of his day chasing down river thieves—Ambrose began his journey home. He had a two-mile trek back to his room in Cheapside. On the street corner, he passed a hawker selling paper cones filled with chestnuts. The rich, sugary smell of the browning nuts caused his belly to growl, but he walked on. He'd treat himself to a supper of toast and eggs when he arrived home.

The promise of hot food lengthened his stride. Up ahead, he spotted a disturbance: two carts had collided, spilling produce and goods everywhere. Angry shouts rang through the night, and a mob began to gather, blocking off the street.
Any opportunity to pillage and plunder
. Disgruntled, Ambrose switched his path, cutting right down the next lane.

He found himself on a quiet block lined with well-maintained Palladian buildings. Brothels, he guessed, from the muted red glow emanating from the shuttered windows. The night breeze carried a cloying scent which irritated Ambrose's nose. He had never understood the attractions of paid pleasure. All his life, he'd respected his stepmother and protected his four younger sisters; the idea of using someone else's womenfolk for selfish ends was despicable. For him, there'd be no enjoyment in knowing that his bed partner was selling her favors—and, more likely than not, out of pure desperation.

His mouth twisted with wry humor.
It hardly matters what you think, does it? Because you haven't even the entry fee to such an establishment. So enough of your high-brow views and onto more important concerns.

Such as how to keep his family afloat.

Devil and damn, if only Father hadn't tried to hide the money troubles. Last year, Samuel Kent had suffered an apoplectic fit; it had cost him his health and his thirty year tenure at the village school. Ever a proud man, he'd reassured Ambrose that he was receiving a pension and that all was well. In reality, the pension had turned out to be a paltry, one-time payment—one that, in a fit of desperation, Samuel had invested recklessly in a mining scheme. In the end, Father had lost everything. And he'd been too proud to say a word until it was nearly too late.

Ambrose had poured all his savings into staving off the family's debts. The money he'd put aside for marriage, for that tidy brick cottage Jane had wanted … that had been the first to go. And his bride-to-be along with it. Yet that had been only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. As he strode through the shadows, his ever-present worries surfaced: in addition to keeping everyone housed and fed, he had to find a way to keep Harry in school, to pay for his father's and Dorothea's medical bills, to keep Violet and Polly in petticoats, and to provide relief for Emma who was somehow managing it all—

A flash of movement caught Ambrose's eye. His policeman's instincts kicked in. His mind blanked, his senses sharpening. His hand gripping the solid oak truncheon at his hip, he peered steadily into the alleyway to his left. A mouth of darkness ... yet he sensed the presence lurking in the shadows. His muscles bunched, his eyes probing the corridor of pitch—

A scuffling noise. Then, "Bloody bitch bit me!"

A feminine scream rent the night.

The fear in that cry galvanized Ambrose into action. He ran into the alley. His eyes adjusting to the dimness, he could discern hulking figures, two of them, holding a slim captive against the wall. A hood obscured the victim's face, yet her voice was shrill with terror. Ambrose went in low and fast, his truncheon connecting with a satisfying crack against a kneecap. One of the villains groaned in pain, falling to the ground.

"Release her," Ambrose commanded to the other brute.

In response, the cutthroat charged him like a bull.

His shoulder blades jammed against brick, his club slipping from his grasp. His attacker raised a ham-sized fist, and Ambrose dodged it at the last moment, jerking his knee up as he did so. The bastard groaned, doubling over at the strike to the gut. Taking swift aim, Ambrose followed up with a jab-and-hook combination, snapping the other's jaw back. The man crumpled to the ground. Lungs burning, Ambrose stood over his opponent and nudged the fallen figure with his boot. No response; the cull would be out for a while.

A cloak streaked past him—the victim. The instinct to protect and serve made Ambrose go after her. He had to make sure she was unharmed, to get her medical attention if need be and justice as well. In his line of work, he'd seen all too often how the law turned a blind eye to crimes against the disadvantaged, and whores, in particular, received the shoddiest treatment. Well, if he had any say about it, the night's ruffians would be thrown in Newgate for attacking the hapless moll.

With his long stride, he caught up to the fleeing prostitute and reached to tap her on the shoulder. "Beg pardon, miss, are you alright—"

She whirled around. Her hood slid off ... and the rest of his words faded. Along with his capacity for thought. For there, before his eyes, was the most stunning female he'd ever seen.

A creature of moonlight and water, too beautiful to be real. From the depths of his memory surfaced a tale told by his stepmother: about a
selkie
, an enchantress born of the ocean and imbued with the power to lure hapless males to their demise. He could almost believe that myth had manifested into reality. Beneath the dim street lamp, waves of silver-blonde hair tumbled around a perfect oval face; sea-green eyes appraised him, the vivid depths swirling with panic. In that same moment, he registered the rich velvet of her cloak and the string of emeralds circling her graceful throat.

No whore … but a lady?

Ambrose blinked. What the devil was the matter with him? He tried to summon his heretofore stalwart common sense. He opened his mouth to tell her that she had nothing to fear, that he wasn't going to hurt her. That he'd protect her and see her home safely.

And that she could lower the delicate pistol she held aimed at his chest.

As he struggled to find his voice, footsteps sounded from the alley behind him. Bloody hell, hadn't he taken care of the bastards? In the instant before he turned to face his foe, he saw the lady's magnificent eyes harden into icy gems. Her gloved fingers tightened on her weapon. All the hairs shot up on his skin.

"Don't—" The word left him in shout.

She pulled the trigger anyway.

THREE

"I can't believe you shot me," the stranger said and not for the first time since they'd boarded her carriage.

"I wasn't aiming for you. You got in the way of my bullet," Marianne said.

Really, the man could show a bit more gratitude seeing as how she'd saved his life. She'd let off the shot to deter the advancing cutthroat; seconds later, her trusted manservant Lugo had arrived. The sight of Lugo's imposing form and stern ebony profile—not to mention his double-barreled Flintlock—had sent the ruffians scurrying off into the night. She'd waved off Lugo's apologies (a mob in the street had detained his arrival) and asked him to load her would-be rescuer into the conveyance.

Now the vehicle rolled smoothly along, and the big man with the intriguing amber eyes scowled at her from his corner. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his hat; his mahogany hair—neither curly nor straight, but somewhere in between—gleamed beneath the carriage lamp. Long of limb and dressed in a greatcoat that had seen better days, he looked at odds sitting against the plush lavender squabs. He clasped his injured arm with one large hand; with a twinge, she noted the crimson seeping through his fingers.

"Let's have a look at that." She went over to his side of the carriage. When he backed away from her, she said with a hint of asperity, "Hold still, will you? I've just had the upholstery changed, and you're bleeding all over it."

He gave her a dark glance, but when she gestured for him to remove his greatcoat he obliged. Her heartbeat kicked up at the red splotch on his left sleeve. Yet he said nothing, staring straight ahead as she withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and wrapped it around the wound. Beneath the rough linen of his shirt, his bicep—an unexpectedly solid ridge of muscle given his lean form—gave a twitch, but other than that he betrayed no sign of pain. Another surprise. In her experience, males became indistinguishable from babes when it came to the loss of blood.

But this fellow ... he was different from other males. She didn't like the fact that she found him difficult to read. His face possessed little in the way of beauty, but she supposed there was a certain character to the ascetic lines. The set of his strong jaw suggested he was a man of perseverance. One who'd weathered hard times—if the gaunt hollows beneath his cheekbones were any indication. Only a full mouth and faint laughter lines at the eyes saved him from complete austerity.

At present moment, his curiously bright gaze was hooded, and she realized that she was not the only one making an assessment. His lips formed a tight seam, as if he found her ...
lacking
? A rare appraisal indeed from a man. She acknowledged this without vanity: she knew the fact of her physical beauty and its effect on males. Her looks had proved both a blessing and a curse. And rarely did anyone bother to look beneath the surface.

If they did, they would encounter something quite the opposite of loveliness.

She secured the handkerchief with a knot and enough pressure to make a muscle leap in the stranger's jaw. "I think we're overdue for introductions," she said. "Who are you?"

"Ambrose Kent, at your service." He inclined his head. A wary motion.

His name rang a bell. "You are acquainted with the Hartefords." Her eyes narrowed. "A constable of some sort, aren't you?"

Something flickered in his gaze. Perhaps he caught the edge of derision in her voice. In her experience, so-called upholders of the law used their power against those whom they were supposed to protect. A case in point: Skinner, the blasted Runner she'd once hired. She wouldn't trust a thief-taker, Charley, policeman—or, for that matter,
any
man—farther than she could toss him.

"I'm a Principle Surveyor with the Thames River Police," he said stiffly. "And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Marianne Sedgwick, Baroness Draven," she said.

At the mention of her title, the tension lines deepened around his mouth.
Interesting. Doesn't like the peerage, does he?
Yet from what she could recollect, her friend Helena, Marchioness of Harteford, had positively raved about this Mr. Kent. Apparently, Kent had helped to solve several thefts for Helena's husband and had once saved the Marquess of Harteford's life. Harteford—another stoic type—apparently got on with Kent, though heaven only knew what a marquess and a policeman had to talk about.

Intrigued, Marianne continued to peruse her companion. If it wasn't titles he held in contempt, then perhaps it was something particular to her? Perhaps he knew of her reputation; perhaps he shared the pulpit with the priggish, hypocritical types who'd dubbed her "The Merry Widow." Who scorned her for making full use of the freedoms that were hers by right—by virtue of the five years of hell that had been her marriage and the pain she continued to endure to this day.

Anger straightened her spine. "Does my reputation precede me?" she said coolly.

"Your reputation?" His brow furrowed.

So he hasn't heard the rumors about me
—
well that's not surprising, is it? We hardly move in the same circles. Either way, 'tis not as if I give a damn what he thinks.