Her Protector's Pleasure (35 page)

The repeated cleansings had not been pretty. Though he'd seen gruesome business in his line of work, the memory of all that blood gave Ambrose a queasy feeling; glancing at Harteford, Ambrose saw he was not the only one thus affected. The marquess stood at the window, his face pale beneath his swarthy complexion.

"Anything else you require, Kent?" the physician said, his grey brows raised.

"Thank you, Dr. Farraday," Ambrose said, "you've done quite enough."

At that moment, Marianne reentered the chamber with Lady Harteford at her side. Ambrose noticed that both women had blotchy cheeks and red smudges beneath their eyes. The marchioness, however, came toward him with her usual warm smile.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Kent? I must apologize; in my haste earlier, I did not even inquire into your health," she said.

"Kent here has a stronger constitution than most," Farraday intervened. "I daresay all that running along the Thames does a man good. A few days abed and he'll be as good as before."

"Thank you, doctor." Marianne bestowed a dazzling smile upon the Scotsman.

The hapless man turned red beneath his sideburns. He made a precise leg, and muttering something about cleaning up, he departed.

Marianne approached the bed and, to Ambrose's astonishment, took his hand and held it, right there, in front of her friends. Yearning spun out inside him, and though he knew he had no right to want what she was giving, he grasped on tightly.

The marquess came to put his arm around his wife's waist. Oddly enough, the two did not look shocked or put off by the fact that their well-born friend was currently holding hands with a policeman. Instead, Lady Harteford beamed at him.

"Marianne has told me everything," she said, "and you are to be commended, Mr. Kent, for your efforts in locating Primrose."

"We haven't found her yet," Ambrose said grimly. "We must start the hunt for Gerald Coyner straightaway."

"Sir Gerald Coyner, the Bow Street magistrate? He has Lady Draven's daughter?" Harteford said, frowning.

"We'll fill you in," the marchioness told her husband, "but first we need to interview our host. Pendleton was previously a suspect in Primrose's kidnapping, and Marianne believes he is hiding something."

"I came to Pendleton's party because of an invitation I found in Coyner's desk. Pendleton has some connection to the magistrate," Marianne said.

"Pendleton may be able to tell us something important about Coyner," Ambrose agreed. "In the meanwhile, Lord Harteford, could you send word to London to have Coyner arrested? Your influence will hasten the process."

"I'll contact the magistrates immediately," the marquess said.

Removing her bonnet, the marchioness patted her brown curls and smoothed her pink gown. Despite her delicate appearance, her hazel eyes shone with a fierce light.

"Now we have an earl to interrogate," she said. "Wait for me here—I shall return with Pendleton directly."

*****

When Pendleton entered the chamber a quarter hour later with Helena on his arm—or, more accurately, with his limb within the lady's firm grip—he ignored Marianne completely.

"Harteford, I just ran into your wife. Well met," Pendleton said with a stiff nod, "though, of course, one regrets the circumstances."

Expression aloof, the marquess inclined his head.

"Now Mr. Kendrick, is it?" the earl said.

"It's Kent," Ambrose said flatly.

"Whatever. I do hope you are feeling more the thing." The earl's thin lips curled into what was possibly supposed to be a smile. "Would have come by earlier—but duties as a host and all that. This is, after all, my largest hunting party of the year."

"I'm sorry my getting shot inconvenienced you." Marianne could see the muscle ticking along Ambrose's jaw.

Pendleton frowned. "No need to get testy, sir. Need I remind you that you were trespassing on my property? Not my fault you got in the line of fire—the meadow is prime hunting ground. You should have watched where you were going."

"'Twas no hunter who took a shot at me," Marianne intervened coolly. "Mr. Kent saved my life and in doing so risked his own. We intend to bring the shooter to justice—so you may as well cooperate and tell us all you know."

"
Me?
Involved in some sort of crime?" Pendleton shot her an affronted look. "What the devil are you talking about, you ill-bred jade?"

"I believe Lady Draven is referring to the fact that you know a man by the name of Sir Gerald Coyner," Helena said.

"So what if I do? The upstart's made a name for himself these days," Pendleton said in a nasty tone. "Self-important magistrate of something or another."

"We are investigating Sir Coyner for kidnapping and a possible murder attempt. In the course of our investigation, your name has cropped up time and again," Ambrose said.

In contrast to Pendleton's blustering anger, Ambrose exuded calm and control. Even abed, wearing a loose shirt and a bandage, he possessed far more dignity than the earl. Marianne felt a rush of pride and gratitude that he was on her side. Despite all her mistakes, her efforts to push him away, he'd remained steadfast.

Her heart squeezed. How could she be deserving of such a man?

"Apparently, you have a secret to hide, my lord," Ambrose continued. "You can either talk to us or the magistrates—'tis up to you."

"Are you threatening me, you insolent
nobody
? By God, I'll have you tossed out on your arse—"

"You had dealings with Reginald Leach. The solicitor kept files on his clients," Ambrose said.

The color drained from Pendleton's face.

"'Tis a matter of time before we discover what Leach did for you." Harteford spoke up, his voice cold. "If you cooperate with us now, your secret can remain in this room. If not ..." The marquess did not finish.

He didn't need to.

"You're
blackmailing
me?"

"We're giving you a choice," Ambrose corrected. "Whether you wish to keep your activities free from public consumption is up to you."

The earl's checkered waistcoat rose and fell with furious breaths.

"Come, my lord, your secret will be safe with us," Helena said in an impatient tone. "Much safer than, say … with Duchess Castlebaugh? I believe she is a current guest of yours, and no one brews scandal broth like Her Grace does. Why, if she were to catch wind of your possible involvement with Mr. Kent's shooting—"

"Alright! Devil take it, I'll tell you." Pendleton glared at them all. "Though I don't know what my involvement with Leach has to do with catching Coyner."

"Leave that to us to piece together," Ambrose said. "Now your business with the solicitor, my lord?"

Silence tautened in the room. Then Pendleton snarled, "He helped me with transactions related to several properties of mine."

Marianne narrowed her eyes. "What sort of properties?"

"I have holdings in Covent Garden. And north of that," the earl said curtly.

Understanding dawned.

"You bloody hypocrite," Marianne breathed. "You sneer at trade, hold your nose at such high altitudes that it's a wonder it doesn't bleed. And all this time your wealth has come from the lowest of the low. What do you own, my lord? Brothels? Gin shops?" By the earl's florid color, she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. "Why, you're nothing more than a pimp and barkeep."

Pendleton's lips pressed in a mean line.

"And Sir Coyner? What is your relationship to him?" Ambrose said.

With clear reluctance, the earl replied, "He found out about my holdings and threatened to expose me if I didn't help him gain entrée into the
ton
. Even back at Eton, he was a pathetic little climber. We called him
Jericho
—Gerry Co., get it?—which was where we wished him." Pendleton smirked at his own cruel wit.

"You knew him at Eton?" Harteford said.

"I wouldn't say I
knew
him. My society has always been several spheres above his. He's got but a questionable speck of blue in his blood."

"I believe his paternal grandmama was the youngest daughter of the Comte Valois," Helena put in.

Marianne had to marvel at her friend's facility with titles, foreign and domestic.

"A penniless French aristocrat. And Jericho's mother was a merchant's daughter." The earl directed a hostile glance at Harteford, who returned his stare impassively. Sneering, Pendleton continued, "Little Jericho used to try to rub shoulders with my cronies and me. He was willing to do anything to fit in, which provided us with hours of entertainment."

Marianne recoiled at the earl's sadistic glee. Coyner had undoubtedly suffered at the hands of Pendleton and his ilk. Was that why he'd planted evidence on the earl?

"One time, we brought him with us to the village. There was an old tavern slattern who'd tumble anyone for a shilling. We locked Jericho in a room with her," Pendleton said with a nasty laugh, "and wouldn't let him out until he'd done the deed."

"That's despicable." Marianne's fists curled.

"It was amusing. Especially since he failed to perform. According to the old hag, his little soldier wouldn't stand to attention."

Was this humiliating episode the seed of Coyner's sickness? Or had his peers' abuses merely shaped an existing perversion? Marianne's insides wrenched with fear for Primrose.

"Were Boyer and Ashcroft part of your pack?" she asked.

"How did you know?"

"Call it a good guess." Marianne exchanged grim glances with Ambrose. Pieces were falling into place. "Is there anything else you can tell us?" she pressed. "If Coyner kidnapped a child, where would he take her?"

"How the devil am I supposed to know? As I've said, he's no friend of mine." Bristling, Pendleton drew himself up. "I've told you what you wanted to know—I trust I can rely on your discretion."

It took everything Marianne had not to spit at the blighter. At this point, it'd do no good.

"If you'll excuse me then, I have guests to see to." His composure regained, the earl exited the room with his nose held high—though, perhaps, not as high as before.

Harteford spoke first. "Pendleton's a sick bugger. But he gave us useful information."

"We have a motive for why Coyner framed the others," Ambrose said, his eyes narrowed, "and why he led Marianne here. He planned to kill her and make it look like a hunting accident on Pendleton's property."

"We must find Coyner straightaway," Helena said with a shudder.

"Let us leave for London immediately," Ambrose said.

"You cannot travel in your condition." Looking at her lover, Marianne bit her lip. "You have done too much for me already. I cannot allow you to compromise your health further."

"I'm fine," he said stubbornly. "There's no time to waste—"

"Marianne is right," Helena chimed in. "You cannot be moved, Mr. Kent, at least for a few days. Harteford, you'll take Marianne back to London and begin the search, won't you?"

"What about you, love?" the marquess said, frowning.

"I shall keep Mr. Kent and his family company until he is ready to make the journey back. And I will ensure that Pendleton continues to extend his hospitality to us all."

"I am ready to leave—"

Marianne quieted Ambrose's protest with a finger to his lips. Looking into his mutinous eyes, she murmured, "Please, do this for me. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you, my darling."

He stilled at her words, his breaths turning shallow. In that silent exchange, she willed him to know what was in her heart—even if she couldn't yet say it aloud. She flashed to her bargain with Black, and her insides constricted. The future lay so uncertain before her … she must focus first on Rosie and deal with all else later. In the interim, she would not make promises to Ambrose that she could not keep. 'Twas the least she could do ... for the man she loved.

To Helena, she said softly, "You'll take good care of him?"

"Of course," her friend said with a smile.

As Harteford put his arms around his wife, murmuring his goodbyes, Marianne bent toward Ambrose.

"I'll miss you," she said tremulously.

"And I you,
selkie
. Don't do anything reckless, you hear?" Though his tone was stern, his eyes were warm. "I'll come as soon as I'm able."

His good hand closed on her nape, pulling her down for a kiss. The contact of their lips was searing and filled with a sustaining sweetness. For those few moments, she basked in his strength, knowing she would need it to see her through the days ahead.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Marianne paced the length of her drawing room, waiting for Harteford's arrival. He'd dropped her off at her townhouse the night before, promising to return in the morning with news. Seeing the carriage pull up, she raced into the foyer. Lugo opened the door, and the marquess entered, looking more severe than usual.

"Have you any news from the magistrates?" Marianne said. "Where is Coyner?"

"No one's seen hide or hair of Coyner," Harteford said. "He hasn't gone into the Bow Street office. The magistrates interviewed the servants at his home. They say they last saw him two days ago, when he showed up briefly and left again without a word."

"But where is he now? Where is my daughter?" Marianne's voice rose in desperation.

"Kent gave me the name of a contact—we'll have a list of Coyner's properties by the end of the day. Do not fret, we'll find him."

"I cannot just sit on my thumbs and
wait
."

"As a matter of fact, we're not going to wait. We're going to Coyner's townhouse," the marquess said. "I've arranged for Sir Richard Birnie to meet us there."

Sir Birnie, the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street and an influential figure in law and politics, had a reputation for being impartial to the point of ruthlessness when it came to upholding the law. Last year, he'd been instrumental in foiling the so-called Cato Street Conspiracy. Birnie's investigation had resulted in death sentences for some of the anarchists and transfer to penal colonies for the others.

Birnie detested those he viewed as anti-establishment. Recalling Coyner's ploy to label her as an anarchist, Marianne experienced a stab of worry. Her reputation was not the most sterling to begin with; garnering Birnie's support would be no easy task.