Her Protector's Pleasure (8 page)

"You are a fine and loving mother," Marianne said. "Your boys and this new babe are fortunate indeed, dearest."  

As Helena's blush grew deeper, her hand settling upon the lilac muslin folds over her belly, Marianne took a sip of the fine Darjeeling. The bitterness of the tea was no match for the emotion that leaked inside her breast. Helena was the finest of parents—which was more than Marianne could say for herself. It reminded her too keenly of her own failures, of how much Rosie had had to endure because of her recklessness. Her stupidity.

And, at times, another form of torment came from looking into Helena's sweet hazel eyes. They were so much like Thomas' ... which was hardly surprising, given that Marianne's first lover—and Primrose's father—was Helena's dead brother. The trite tale might have been ripped from the pages of a gothic novel: poor country miss falls for her rich friend's older brother.

She could still hear Helena's innocent, chatty girl's voice:

Now that Thomas is home, Papa's invited over a legion of eligible misses. I like Lady Louisa myself—she's ever so accomplished and beautiful and a duke's daughter to boot. Mama says she'd make a lovely addition to our family, and I think Thomas is quite smitten with her. Why, he wore a dreamy smile all through tea ...

Helena had never suspected that Marianne had put that expression on Thomas' face. Marianne had been with him in the meadow just a half-hour before the arrival of the Northgates' esteemed visitors. Thomas, heir to the earldom, had whispered promises as he took her amongst the shivering grasses.

We'll talk to Papa soon. Trust me, Marianne, you'll be my bride—

"Heavens, what
is
plaguing you?" Helena's voice snapped Marianne back. "Clearly, something is amiss, and I do wish you would confide in me. As I have so oft done in you. I am no longer a silly innocent, you know—you
can
trust me."

To gather herself, Marianne drank more tea. She did not doubt her friend's assertion. Since meeting up with Helena in London, she'd discovered the other had grown up a great deal. Indeed, Helena's fortitude had won her the devotion of her husband, the brooding Marquess of Harteford.

And therein lay the problem. Not every romance had a happy ending; in comparison, Marianne's own tale was a sordid one indeed. The familiar, uneasy mix of love and envy stirred within her. The truth was that she'd always felt lacking compared to her friend. Though Marianne had undoubtedly been the leader of the two, she'd secretly coveted all that Helena took for granted: wealth, doting parents, a childhood of privileged innocence.

Marianne's own mother had died during childbirth, and her father, a bitter, penniless country squire, had cared more for his hounds than his only child.

A gel
, he'd rage when in his cups.
What am I supposed to do with a good-for-nothing chit?

Marianne did not like to remember the past. What was done was done. And she knew jealousy was small of her. While she did not like herself for it, she at least recognized her own flaws. Sweet, virtuous Helena deserved every happiness; Marianne did not begrudge her for it. It did not, however, make Marianne eager to expose her own failures.

And what would she say?

By the by, Helena, your brother and I were tupping behind your back. We went to ask for your father's blessing; the earl said he'd disown Thomas before he let his heir marry a slut like me. Thomas died while trying to get back to me. Oh, and that old lecher I married? He kidnapped my sweet babe and consigned her to purgatory.

Marianne set her Sèvres cup down upon the coffee table. "Thank you, dearest, but nothing is the matter."

Helena chewed on her lip, and Marianne steeled herself for what was to come next. She was relieved by the change in topic.

"In that case, I wondered if you'd care to join us for a supper party next week. Harteford has made a new acquaintance,"—the briefest of pauses betrayed the marchioness' intention—"a very nice gentleman by the name of Mayberry. He's an earl and quite handsome …"

As Helena waxed on about the earl's attributes, Marianne wondered when she and her friend had switched roles in their relationship. Not so long ago, it had been Helena who asked
her
for advice in the matters of love and romance; now the happily married marchioness saw fit to do the dispensing. And it nettled Marianne's pride.

"Thank you, but I am capable of finding my own gentlemen," she drawled, cutting the other off. "Trust me, there is no shortage."

"I know that, of course. You are ever so popular, Marianne. 'Tis only …" Helena flushed, yet her shoulders drew up. "I wonder if you are truly
happy
. And if your reluctance to settle down has something to do with your past. Whenever I ask you about your marriage to Lord Draven, you clam up."

Though Marianne resisted, Draven's nasal, angry tones sliced through her, sharper than any crop:
This is your fault, you worthless bitch! I've never had this problem before. Beneath your beauty, you're nothing more than a dirty cunt. Well, you had best employ your whore's tricks or you shall never see your Primrose again …

Her hand trembled slightly as she smoothed her skirts. "Suffice it to say, I have no desire to call any man my lord and master again. Please, Helena," she said icily, "let us move onto a less tedious subject."

The marchioness's shoulders fell, hurt sliding across her soft features.

Stifling a sigh, Marianne said in gentler tones, "In point of fact, we have more pressing matters to discuss. How is our young Miss Percy faring?"

A few days ago, Helena had apprised her of their mutual friend Miss Persephone Fines' entanglement with a scoundrel named Gavin Hunt. Marianne regretted any inadvertent part that she'd played in the fiasco. She'd considered herself a mentor of sorts to the feisty Percy, and when Percy had come to her for advice on love, she'd given it freely. She hadn't known, however, that the object of the spirited miss' affections was Hunt, a notorious gaming hell owner who turned out to be a nemesis of Harteford's.

Lud, could the plot thicken any further?

"The dear girl seems to be doing better now," Helena said, though she sounded far from certain. "Her mama should be arriving at any minute, and I must ask you not to mention the matter. Poor Mrs. Fines has been beside herself with worry. Imagine—Percy getting mixed up with some riffraff from the stews!"

Marianne's brows lifted. "Yes, imagine that. Falling in love with a man from the rookery."

"That's not what I meant," Helena said with a huff. "Besides, Harteford may have been born in that unfortunate place, but he is in every way a gentleman. Unlike this detestable fellow Hunt. Why, I'd like to ... wring his neck for planning to hurt Percy, not to mention Harteford!"

Amused, Marianne took in the spots of color on her friend's rounded cheeks. "I misspoke earlier. You're no Mother Hen, my dear, but a tigress when it comes to your own."

The arrival of the new guests forestalled further discussion. Mrs. Anna Fines, a kindly bespectacled lady of comfortable years, was escorted by her son Paul, a handsome blond rake near Marianne's own age. Helena's butler arrived with refreshments, and soon polite conversation mingled with the tinkling of silver tongs used to serve the bite-sized pastries and sandwiches. Marianne hid a yawn as Paul Fines did his utmost to flirt with her.

Wearying of the scene, she readied to take her leave. At that moment, however, Helena's husband, the Marquess of Harteford, came barging into the drawing room. Following at his heels was another man, equally large and rather brutal looking due to the scar that ran from cheek to jaw. Marianne's brows climbed.

Clearly, things are about to get interesting.

After introducing the stranger as none other than the infamous Gavin Hunt, Harteford said abruptly, "Percy may be in danger. I'll explain all later. First we must locate her—where is she?"

"Hatchard's," Anna Fines said. "Mr. Kent went with her and planned to bring her here afterward."

At the mention of the policeman, the conversation faded to the rushing of blood in Marianne's ears.
Kent might come here ... today?
Tingles tiptoed up her spine; she chided her own foolishness. She'd already taught Kent a lesson, and matters were settled between them. If she saw him, she would treat him with cold
politesse
. And, if he was as smart as she suspected he was, he'd stay out of her path.

The door swung open—it had been doing that a lot this afternoon—and Kent entered with a rapid stride. His keen gaze took in the room, latched upon her face. The spark of surprise across his features was quickly snuffed by the grimness of his expression. Then he spotted Hunt, and his lean frame went rigid.

"What are you doing here?" Kent demanded.

"Where is Percy?" Hunt shot back.

Marianne gripped the strings of her reticule as a premonitory chill touched her nape.

Raw emotion flashed in Kent's remarkable eyes ... shame?

In a hoarse voice, he said, "She has been taken."

*****

In the hallway outside the drawing room, Helena said, "Heavens, poor Percy at the mercy of kidnappers! Who knows what these enemies of Mr. Hunt are capable of? If anything happens to her—oh, I do wish I could help!"

"Don't overtax yourself, dearest," Marianne said. "In your condition, you'd be more hindrance than help. Harteford would be mad with worry over you—and you know he needs his concentration in this instance."

Helena bit her lip and nodded. Her hazel eyes glimmered with anxiety.

Thinking of Percy's predicament, Marianne couldn't help but share her concern. Gavin Hunt had explained the situation: his rivals had taken Percy with the aim of hurting him. To Marianne's surprise—and everyone else's—it seemed Hunt's enemies had hit the nail on the head. Hunt
had
looked desperate, savage in his need to get Percy back. Though the blackguard might have seduced Percy with revenge in mind, he'd clearly lost his heart to her in the process.

But who wouldn't love a girl as open and warm-hearted as Percy?

Marianne made up her mind.

"I'll go along, shall I?" she said lightly. "That way, we won't have to worry about the males bungling it all up."

Helena's eyes welled, and Marianne felt a twinge of alarm. She'd never enjoyed excessive displays of emotion. In her experience, ladies who were increasing had the tendency to becoming watering pots.

"Oh, would you?" Reaching out, Helena gripped Marianne's arm. "You are ever so clever! When I think of the danger Percy may be in …"

"I shall be glad to be of help." Marianne gingerly pried free of the other's fingers. "Now you'd best go sit with Mrs. Fines and keep her calm."

With a watery nod, Helena returned to the drawing room.

Marianne went in the opposite direction. The trio of large males stood in the atrium, organizing the passage to Hunt's club where they would await the kidnappers' ransom note. Despite her anxiety for Percy, Marianne couldn't help but notice Kent. He was the tallest of the three, his shoulders just as wide as the other men's despite his lankier frame. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his threadbare wool coat—did he own but one?—and his wavy brown-black hair was ruffled, as if he'd dragged a hand through it repeatedly.

For some asinine reason, she found his dishevelment ... attractive. Above the slipshod knot of his cravat, his jaw appeared harder than steel, the muscle there ticking like a clock. 'Twas as if there were two Mr. Kents: the preachy policeman who walked the straight and narrow—and this one: a dangerous male on the edge. She knew which version she preferred.

As if sensing her arrival, he jerked his head up. His mouth pulled tight at the edges.

She ignored him and addressed Harteford. "I shall be joining in the night's mission, my lord," she said. "Kindly provide my driver with the directions to Mr. Hunt's club."

"You?" Kent spoke up, his tone incredulous. "This is a dangerous undertaking. It has no place for a lady."

Attractive … and with the uncanny ability to set her teeth on edge.

"I make my own place in the world, sir." Flicking him a cool glance, she turned to the gaming hell owner. "Now, Mr. Hunt, the name of your establishment?"

"The Underworld. Covent Garden," Hunt said, his gaze fixed on the exit.

Harteford frowned. "Are you certain this is a good idea, my lady?"

"Your wife suggested it. 'Tis either she or I who comes along this eve."

That shut Harteford up. When it came to Helena, the man had the protective instincts of a bulldog. And apparently there was another guard dog in the midst. Kent's eyes roved over her, and Marianne's belly quivered. Strange, because she didn't like overbearing men. Amongst the
ton
, she was famed for three qualities: beauty, wealth, and indisputable independence. Gentlemen who pursued her knew better than to gainsay her anything, and her razor-sharp wit gave her a reputation for invulnerability. Coldness.

Yet this river constable seemed to think that she was in need of his protection. 'Twas downright laughable. And oddly ... intriguing.

"The notion is ridiculous. You cannot allow her to be involved," Kent snapped to the other men. Never mind that one was a marquess and the other owned the stews—the policeman in his drab clothes stood his own ground. And dash it if his dignity didn't shine through greater than any title or coin. "We are dealing with
cutthroats
here."

 "Men like any other," she interjected in a bored voice designed to drive him mad. It seemed to succeed. If he turned any ruddier, steam might spout from his ears. "Now we cannot afford to dally, can we? I shall meet you all at Hunt's club."

"For God's sake, woman, use your brains for more than mischief this once! 'Tis a gaming hell—you cannot go there unaccompanied," Kent exploded. "Think of your safety."

As Harteford stared at Kent and Hunt's brows climbed, a delicious and utterly diabolical notion took hold of Marianne. She had a moment's pause: why should it please her to push the upright Mr. Kent? Yet the imp of perversion was too much to resist.