Her Protector's Pleasure (36 page)

"Are you certain he's willing to hunt down one of his own?" she said.

"Birnie will not allow Bow Street's reputation to be tarnished. If he believes Coyner to be guilty, he will help us," Harteford said.

When they arrived at Coyner's snug Kensington residence, the butler informed them that Sir Birnie had already arrived. They were led to the parlor, where the Chief Magistrate sat at an oval dining table, questioning a young maid who stood before him. At their entry, Sir Birnie rose. Though short and stocky, he wore a mantle of importance. His dark hair was pomaded into precise waves, his ensemble as somber as, well, a judge's. Marianne put him in his mid-thirties, yet his grave manner made him appear older.

"Good morning, Lord Harteford. Lady Draven." Birnie bowed, a gesture more impatient than refined.

"'Tis a pleasure to meet you, Sir Birnie. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to assist in this matter," Marianne replied.

"When a matter involves Bow Street's reputation, I make time."

Birnie's assessing glance spoke volumes. He was willing to do what it took to clear his agency's name of wrong-doing, yet he remained suspicious of her. Or perhaps he held her responsible for causing her own misfortune. Marianne steeled herself; it didn't matter what Birnie thought of her, as long as he helped in the search for Primrose.

"As I arrived early, I have begun the interrogations. This is Lucinda, Sir Coyner's housemaid." Birnie sent the girl a disgruntled look from beneath his straight brows. "She can't seem to recall anything of use whatsoever."

Given that the girl was trembling like a willow, Marianne wasn't surprised. "Lord Harteford, wasn't there something you wished to discuss with Sir Birnie? Perhaps while you gentlemen talk, Lucinda and I might have a word to ourselves."

The Chief Magistrate frowned, but Harteford caught on and gestured toward the doorway. "I'd hoped to review a few details. After you, Sir Birnie?"

Left with the maid, Marianne pulled a chair out from the table. "Perhaps you'd care to have a seat, Lucinda?"

"Yes, m'lady," the girl mumbled.

Marianne took the seat next to her and reached for the tea pot. "Tea?"

The maid gave a hesitant nod.

Pouring out two cups, Marianne passed one to Lucinda, who looked scarcely older than sixteen. She waited until the girl had taken several gulps of tea, then she pushed over the plate of biscuits as well. After a moment's pause, the maid took one and polished it off.

"Have you been working for Sir Coyner long, Lucinda?" Marianne asked.

The girl's ginger curls wobbled beneath her cap as she shook her head. "No, m'lady. I wouldn't say so. Less than a year, it's been."

"Do you like your job, Lucinda?"

"I'm glad to 'ave a position, m'lady."

Glad but not particularly thrilled, Marianne guessed. It would help that the maid didn't harbor undying devotion to Coyner. "When did you last see your employer?"

"Two days ago. But I didn't see 'im,"—the maid's forehead scrunched—"only 'eard from the butler that the master was back. Before I could bring up the tea, 'e was off again and without a word as to when 'e'd be back."

Marianne's hands clenched in her lap. By the sound of things, Coyner had been in a rush—picking up a few things for the flit, no doubt. She had to learn more about him: his patterns, where he might go.

"During your time here, what have you noticed about your master's comings and goings?"

Eyeing the biscuits, Lucinda shrugged. "He's like any other gent, I s'ppose. Comes and goes as he pleases."

The maid's fingers crept toward another biscuit, and Marianne gave her an encouraging smile. "Was there any particular pattern to his activities?"

"Mostly 'e stayed in London. But ev'ry month 'e took off for a few days," Lucinda said as she chewed. Marianne's heart thudded faster. "Ne'er said where 'e was goin', o' course."

"You haven't any idea where he went?" Marianne persisted.

Lucinda dusted the crumbs from her fingers. "None o' my business. None o' the servants knew much 'bout the master—except maybe the groom. 'Is lips are sewn tighter than a seam, seein' as 'e's been with the master for years."

The groom was currently chauffeuring Coyner's getaway, so no help there. Thinking quickly, Marianne switched to a different tactic.

"What about when Sir Coyner was here at home? What was he wont to do?"

"Not much. The gent's not the carousin' type. Mostly 'e spent time in 'is study—sometimes I think 'e slept in there."

"What makes you say that?"

Lucinda gave her a wry look. "The sheets on 'is bed weren't touched when I went to change 'em in the mornin'."

Interesting. Marianne would have to investigate Coyner's study next. "What about visitors? Who came to call upon your master?"

"'E was a private sort. Didn't 'ave much in the way o' friends. Once in a while, one o' the Runners might drop by, but 'twas always for work." Lucinda's tone drifted into a wistful range. "Those Runners are a dashing lot, ain't they?"

Marianne stifled a sigh. She wouldn't get much more from the maid. "Thank you, Lucinda," she said. "Could you show me the way to the study?"

Out in the hallway, Marianne met up with Harteford and Sir Birnie, and the trio followed Lucinda to Coyner's study. Cramped and furnished in a Spartan fashion, the square chamber was no more than fifteen feet across. It housed only a desk and a single wingchair by a small grate. Bookshelves covered one wall of the room, making it seem even smaller.

Marianne surveyed the close quarters. "According to Lucinda, Coyner spent most of his time in here. Doing what, I wonder?"

"Working? Reading?" Birnie grunted as he looked over the desk. "Can't fault a man for that, can we?"

Joining him, Marianne saw nothing out of the ordinary on the blotter: a small brass statue of a horse stood on its surface next to a folded newspaper and an inkwell. She opened the single drawer and found a few pieces of parchment and an assortment of writing instruments. Seeing a crumpled ball in the back corner, she fished it out and smoothed it flat.

She read the two sentences aloud. "
Endeavor to show indefatigable courage. The implacable receive their just rewards.
" She paused. "What in blazes does that mean?"

"The words of an ambitious man," Birnie said, shrugging.

Leaving the paper on the desk, Marianne circled her gaze around the chamber once again. Something felt wrong about the stifling space. It was too small, too neat—too perfect for a man who had as much to hide as Gerald Coyner.

"The maid said he oft
slept
in here," Marianne said slowly. "Where would he do that? There's not even a sofa."

Harteford paced the length of the room, and she could tell he had hit upon the same notion as she had. He stopped in front of the bookshelves. Clearing a few volumes, he reached in and knocked against the wood. A hollow sound emerged, and Marianne's pulse sped up.

"Could be an antechamber behind the shelves," he said.

Marianne rushed over, running her hands along the book spines. "How do we get inside?"

Together, they began to remove the volumes. When the books lay in heaps upon the floor, they examined the seams where the shelves met the wall. Neither found a hidden latch or anything that would provide a way to get inside.

"There's something behind here, I know it," she said with mounting frustration. "We need to get the proper tools, a saw or a—"

A creaking noise cut off her words. To her astonishment, an entire section of the shelves parted, swinging inward like a door. Her gaze shot to the Chief Magistrate, whose hand rested on the brass horse statue on the desk. He twisted it another quarter turn and the gap in the wall widened further.

"An ingenious design. Seen a few in my time," Birnie said by way of explanation.

Taking a breath, Marianne entered the hidden chamber. The space was dark, the air heavy. A light floral perfume tickled her nose, and she squinted in the gloom, making out vague shapes on the walls. A match rasped behind her. She blinked in the flaring brightness … and the air rushed from her lungs.

Pain, shock, longing. Feelings exploded from the locked box within her as she regarded the portraits of her daughter. For 'twas undeniably her girl—her own blond tresses and green eyes glowed in the swirling oils. Within the four gilded frames, her little girl, captured at various ages, beamed down at her.

"Primrose," she said in a broken whisper.

"My God." Sir Birnie's choked exclamation came from behind her.

Marianne walked over to the closest portrait—which showed Rosie at the age of five or so—and ran trembling fingers over the smooth ripples of paint. Her lashes grew damp. Her intuition—her maternal knowledge—had always been right.

Her babe was alive; her babe needed her.

She faced the Chief Magistrate. "You believe me now?" she said in suffocated tones. "Coyner has my daughter—has had her all these years. We must find him."

Shock edged Birnie's features. Clearing his throat, he said, "Dear lady, if I had known, had suspected that Coyner was capable of …" He broke off, shaking his head. "Rest assured I will do everything in my power to see your girl returned to you. You have Bow Street at your disposal. And I will personally offer a substantial reward for the capture of this nefarious criminal."

"We'll get the Thames River Police on this as well," Harteford said. "I'm acquainted with the Chief Magistrate at Wapping, and I'm sure he will want to join the effort, especially since one of his finest was shot by Coyner."

How she wished Ambrose was here at the moment. Marianne gave a tearful nod.

"In the meantime, we'll go through Coyner's personal effects and search for clues as to his whereabouts," Birnie said.

"Thank you both," Marianne whispered.

She went to the last painting in the line. Judging by Rosie's age in the portrait, it could not have been done long ago. Seeing the small gold placard affixed to the bottom edge of the frame, she leaned closer.

Her blood turned to ice as the words beneath her daughter's image became clear.

Lady Gerald Coyner.

THIRTY-NINE

Three days later, Ambrose arrived in London. It was past nine in the evening when he and his family entered the townhouse. They were met at the door by Lugo, who informed them that Marianne was currently out but would be returning soon. Seeing his family's yawns and drowsy faces, Ambrose sent them all off to bed. He lingered in the foyer with the manservant.

"I'm surprised you made it back so soon," Lugo remarked. "Is your injury healed?"

"Healed enough." In truth, Ambrose's arm throbbed like the devil after the jostling carriage ride, but he didn't give a damn about the pain. "How is she, Lugo?"

Lugo filled him in on the progress that had been made. Some of Ambrose's worry eased when he learned that Bow Street and the River Police were now involved in the search for Coyner. A question remained in his mind, however.

"There's something I wanted to ask you, Lugo."

"Sir?"

Ambrose eyed Marianne's loyal servant, who stood tall and staunch—a soldier no different from himself. He cleared his throat. "Why did you send me the note telling me that she had gone to Pendleton's?"

"I've known my lady for a while now," Lugo said. "I know when she is in over her head."

"And you trusted me to help her?"

"Took a bullet for her, didn't you?"

Ambrose grimaced. "Wasn't the first time, either." And not the last, if it came to that. He'd protect Marianne to his dying breath.

"Not my place to say, but she could do worse than you." A quicksilver smile flashed across the other man's ebony features. "Had a guest chamber set up for you. The one next to my lady's."

Heat crept over Ambrose's jaw. "Yes. Well."

He was saved from saying more by the sound of footsteps. He reached the door in several strides and yanked it open. Marianne's startled gaze met his.

"You're back," she said tremulously. Her eyes fell to the bandage bulging beneath his sleeve. "Oh, Ambrose—"

He pulled her inside. Pulled her close. Her hair smelled like jasmine and sunshine, and he hadn't realized until that instant how much he'd missed her.
Everything
about her—her unique scent, how soft she was, how perfectly she fit against him.

Letting out a quivery breath, she rested her head against his good shoulder, her arms circling his waist. For several long moments, they simply held onto one other. Out of the corner of his eye, Ambrose saw Lugo begin a quiet retreat.

Marianne lifted her head. "Lugo?"

The African paused. Turned. "Yes, my lady?"

"I wanted to say … thank you." She smiled at him. "For your wisdom, dear friend. For making the right choice when I was too blind and stubborn to do so."

"You have my gratitude as well, sir, for keeping your mistress safe." Ambrose gave the other man a wry grin. "'Tis a monumental task not many would have been up to."

Lugo scratched his head. Shifted his boots. Then, with a quick nod, he continued on his way.

"It felt like weeks being apart from you, Ambrose," Marianne said, tipping her head back to look at him. "There's so much I have to tell you. Where is your family?"

"They wanted to wait up for you, but they could scarcely keep their eyelids open so I sent them to bed." Ambrose pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Lugo provided a summary of the last three days, but I'd like to hear it from you."

"Let's talk upstairs." The husky timbre of her voice heated his insides.

He cleared his throat. "My room or yours?"

"I'll have my bath and come to you," she murmured. "Wait for me?"

Wait? Only forever.

Silently, he held out his hand, and fingers linked, they mounted the steps.

*****

A little while later, Marianne entered the adjoining suite where Lugo had conveniently placed Ambrose. Wryly, she reflected that for the African, this gesture was tantamount to giving Ambrose a hearty male slap on the back. Lugo approved of Ambrose—and the manservant did not approve of many. Men of a taciturn feather, she supposed.