Several of the ladies tittered. The little countess fanned the air with rapid strokes.
"I certainly cannot speak to that," Lady Castlebaugh snapped. Despite her distinctly horse-like features, Her Grace's vanity was well known. "Any time I spend in the company of gentlemen, however, falls within the bounds of propriety and good taste."
"Of course, my lady. Would I suggest any different?" Marianne waited a heartbeat. "And speaking of good taste, I've heard it said that your newest groom is rather ... delicious."
Lady Castlebaugh's narrow cheeks turned scarlet as gazes flew to her. Marianne smiled placidly. It always paid to know the on-dit; in this case, the duchess' penchant for bedding servants followed a tiresomely predictable pattern.
Truly, Marianne had no use for this meaningless drama; she had important matters to attend to. She got languidly to her feet. "I declare, all this talk of gentlemen makes me want to search them out. I wonder where they have gone?"
Strained silence filled the room. Then the young countess spoke up. "I think they are in the billiards room," she volunteered shyly. Marianne was surprised to note the sparkle of admiration in the other's gaze.
"Put a bunch of gentlemen in a room, and they must knock their balls together," Marianne said with a sigh. "I suppose I will go interrupt their manly endeavors."
She gave a mock curtsy before departing the group. Behind her, she heard the countess' gurgled laughter, which was quickly stifled by a reprimand by Castlebaugh, the old bat.
Alone in the corridor, Marianne made her way towards the billiards room. She paused outside the doors, listening to the rumble of masculine conversation. Satisfied that they sounded sufficiently occupied, she moved on. She turned right and headed unerringly to Pendleton's study. Her heart galloped as she looked this way and that. No guests or servants were nearby: a rare opportunity.
She tried the beaded knob, but it did not turn. Plucking a jeweled hair pin from her coiffure, she set to work on the lock. The hair pin had dual purposes: it would serve as a tool for entry and an alibi. Pendleton had given her a tour of the house earlier. If he happened upon her in the study, she'd simply say that she'd lost her hair ornament and had returned to look for it.
The lock clicked, and, with another quick glance around, she slipped inside. Her eyes travelled over the baroque grandeur of Pendleton's private sanctuary. Wealth and influence saturated the gilt and velvet, the antique furnishings that had been used to entertain visiting monarchs over the centuries. Goose pimples dotted her skin. The man who owned this room had power at his disposal ... and was not one to cross lightly.
But if Pendleton had Rosie, then woe be it to him.
With determined steps, Marianne made her way to the imposing desk. The globe atlas on the blotter rattled as she yanked on the top drawer. To her surprise, it slid open. A quick rummage through each of the drawers revealed why: there was nothing out of the ordinary within.
Blowing out a breath, she surveyed the room. If I were Pendleton, where would I hide my secrets? She went to the pair of large portraits hanging on the wall opposite the desk. The elegant, fashionable poses suggested the work of the popular society painter, Sir Thomas Lawrence. One frame portrayed her host posed with his arm upon a Greek column; the other showed his mama, a stern-faced dowager, sitting beneath a weeping willow. Running her hands along the edges of the heavy frames, Marianne found no obvious mechanisms, no hidden cache behind the paintings.
Dash it all, there has to be a clue in the study. Something hiding in plain sight ...
Her gaze returned to the globe on the desk; she suddenly recalled one that a shopkeeper had tried to sell her. Inside is a hidden compartment, my lady, a safe for your fine jewels. Going over, she crouched so that she was eye level with the sphere. She examined the markings on the papered surface, her fingers tracing over the lines. Her pulse sped up as she encountered a faint, nearly imperceptible groove along the Tropic of Cancer. She continued rotating the globe until her index finger landed against a notch. A locking mechanism of some sort.
She inserted her hair pin ... and the door opened behind her.
"What are you doing in here?"
She jerked away from the globe, spinning around to see Pendleton in the doorway, staring at her with cold eyes. Her heart gave a panicked lurch as he shut the door behind him and came toward her, his features carved with menace.
"M-my lord," she stammered.
"What in blazes are you doing in my study?"
She scrambled to gather her wits. She held up the hair pin, managed to keep her hand and her voice steady. "I came looking for this. It must have fallen when you showed me your study earlier." With a light laugh, she shook out her skirts. "Silly to go to all the trouble, I know, but it happens to be my favorite."
Pendleton's black gaze did not waver. "How did you get in here?"
"The door was unlocked," she lied glibly, "and I didn't want to disturb anyone over so trifling a matter, so I thought I'd take a quick peek myself. Oh dear, I hope I haven't caused any alarm, my lord?"
"That depends on whether you are telling the truth."
A tremor passed over her at her host's blunt words. Stay calm. You've brazened your way through worse situations. She licked her lips, gave him a look from beneath her lashes. "The truth, my lord? How very droll of you. " She managed a teasing tone. "Why ever would I lie?"
"I don't know. Then again, I don't know you well at all, do I?"
His cool consideration sent a warning chill over her skin. He took another step toward her, and she backed away, the desk's edge jamming into her spine. He raised a hand, and when she flinched, pleasure lines flickered around his mouth.
Sadistic blighter. I know your sort. I won't give you the satisfaction.
Trapped, she forced herself to remain still as his finger traced the edge of her bodice with insolent familiarity. Her skin crawled, yet she said lightly, "'Tis an oversight I am sure we can correct during this visit."
"Why not now?" Pendleton's smile was contemptuous, hard as the part of his anatomy jutting rudely against her. "That's why you're here, isn't it? For a little amusement."
"Diverting as that sounds, my lord, we could be seen. The risk to my reputation—"
"Your reputation? No need to close that barn door—the horses have long bolted." He gave a scathing laugh, and for an instant his finger dipped beneath her décolletage, causing her hands to ball. She would not blow her chances unless she had to, but if Pendleton pushed her any further … "Little schemer, we both know why you're here." As her throat cinched, he said with a smirk, "Your charming cunt is the only reason I've allowed you to stay. My hospitality doesn't come for free: one must sing for one's supper, after all."
The reptile had crept from beneath his well-bred shell, showing his slimy self. Typical man. She suddenly flashed to Kent, and pain knifed between her ribs. I thought you were different ...
Resolutely, she focused on her dilemma. Her fist trembled; she wanted so badly to knock the smirk off the earl's face. But Pendleton was hiding something, she was sure of it. It behooved her to play along, to get close to him.
She flipped through her options. She'd sworn to do whatever was required to find Rosie, yet now the notion of touching a man, of letting a man other than Kent touch her …
Damn Ambrose Kent. He's made me weak, stupid—when I vowed never to be taken in again. I must stand on my own two feet, depend on no one.
"Well? I haven't got all day," Pendleton said.
Her fist unfurled. She raised a hand to his lapel—and a knock sounded on the door.
Pendleton swore. "Keep quiet," he said. "They'll go away."
The door swung open.
"Lugo." Marianne's voice almost broke with relief as she snatched her hand away. Thank you, old friend. "Is something amiss?"
"A message arrived for you, my lady." Lugo met Pendleton's furious gaze with an unblinking one of his own. "It is most urgent and requires your immediate attention."
"Of
course. If you'll excuse me, my lord?"
Pendleton's eyes slid from her to the imposing figure of her manservant. His lips thinned as he stepped back. "It seems we must continue this conversation at another time. Though make no mistake, my lady,"—he grabbed her arm just as she tried to slip by, squeezing it hard enough so that she had to bite back a wince—"we will settle it."
She pulled free. Though her pulse was racing, she executed a cool curtsy. "Good afternoon, my lord."
With Lugo at her back, she exited the room.
THIRTY-THREE
Ambrose left Wapping Station, his heart as leaden as his steps. He told himself he shouldn't be surprised; it had only been a matter of time before Dalrymple found a way to get rid of him. His superior's smug face flashed in his head:
Had a visit from my old friend, Sir Coyner of Bow Street, and he had quite a few things to say about you, Kent. Nothing that surprised me, of course—always knew you were too big for your own boots. But bedding a suspect? Dalrymple's beady eyes had gleamed with malicious glee. Well, that tops it all, doesn't it? Can't have such despicable behavior tainting the honor of the Thames River Police, sirrah. Pack your things, Kent—'tis the end of your time here ... and your career. By the time I spread the word, you won't be able to find a job blacking boots.
With dusk bleeding overhead, Ambrose trudged along, his mind and heart a fracas. At least now he knew why Marianne had bolted. Somehow she'd discovered his one-time assignment with Bow Street. She'd gone to confront Sir Coyner, and the magistrate must have confirmed Ambrose's involvement.
Devil take it, how had Ambrose made such a shambles of things? His good intentions—his desire to safeguard both Marianne and his family—had proved the old adage. He'd landed himself in hell. Because of his pride, his arrogance in believing that he could take responsibility for everything, he'd ended up hurting everyone he cared about.
He tried to reason it out: he had to find Marianne, to somehow explain that he hadn't told her the truth because he'd known how she would react. He didn't want her to push him away because he wanted to protect her, to find her daughter. In other words ... he'd lied to her for her own good.
He cringed. Bleeding hell.
How on earth had he convinced himself that this was a good idea?
Given all that Marianne suffered at the hands of men, he couldn't blame her for hating him, for wanting nothing to do with him. Hell, he knew he didn't deserve her trust.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. Perhaps he'd do better to visit Coyner first and try to make amends there. Because if he didn't, his livelihood was lost. The tide he'd kept at bay battered at his defenses. He could practically feel the cold, black water closing over his head.
If you don't, the family will suffer. Em, Father, all the little ones—they'll be on the streets. All because of your failings.
"Mr. Kent! Hold up!"
The low, chuffing voice cut into his bleak thoughts. He turned to see a short, scruffy man in a weather-beaten hat hurrying toward him.
"Trout?" Ambrose said, frowning. "What can I do for you?"
"'Tis what I can do for you." Looking this way and that, Willy Trout said, "Found that cove you're lookin' for."
Ambrose stiffened. Trout had located Skinner, the Runner who had accosted Marianne?
"Where is he?" he said tersely.
"Like you said, a man never strays far from 'is 'abits. 'E's got a friend wot owns a flash house near Bottom's End. Close to all 'is vices—whores an' gin 'ouses." Shaking his head, Trout wiped his tattered sleeve under his nose. "'E's 'iding from something, that's for certain."
"Why do you say that?"
"Changed 'is name. Goes by Tanner now." Trout rolled his eyes. "An' what from I 'ear, e's more skittish than a virgin on 'er weddin' night. Best 'ave a care if you mean to pay 'im a visit."
Skinner was the one who needed to watch out.
Even if Ambrose's relationship with Marianne was beyond repair, this was one thing he could do for her. The only thing within his power to do that would protect her. He'd failed her once—he'd not do so again.
His hands flexed, bunching at his sides.
"Take me to the bastard," he said.
*****
Aptly named, Bottom's End occupied one of the most wretched corners of the stews. Though the cloak of night had not completely fallen, vice already flourished in the fetid streets. Pimps occupied every corner, their expressions calculating as their whores cooed out invitations to all passersby. Drunkards stumbled in and out of the taverns, and the stench of spirits and detritus mingled sickly in the dank, stifling mist. Nothing clean or fresh penetrated the maze of narrow streets.
From an alleyway, Ambrose and Trout monitored the back of the flash house.
"Skinner should be comin' out any minute. Keeps a regular schedule, that one," Trout said.
Like clockwork, a figure staggered from the flash house. He glanced around, and apparently detecting no threats, steadied himself against the wall with one hand and unfastened his trousers with the other. Grunting, he began to relieve himself.
"That him?" Ambrose said in disgust.
Trout squinted into the darkness. Gave an affirmative.
Silently, Ambrose handed Trout a bag of coins.
Instead of taking the money, Trout tipped his hat. "This one's on the 'ouse, sir. Consider it a return for lookin' out for my brother," he said in a low voice.
"'Twas my duty—"
But Trout had melted into the darkness. Bemused, Ambrose re-pocketed the money and returned his attention fully to Skinner, who was still going strong. Devil take it, how much had the sot had to drink? After a few more shakes and grunts, Skinner tucked himself in and teetered north. Ambrose took pursuit.
Skinner wove down a lane crowded with barrows and people. The throng gave Ambrose easy cover; whenever Skinner paused, casting a bleary and furtive gaze behind him, Ambrose simply turned to inspect a display of goods or bent his head as if speaking to another in the melee. People were too half-seas over to even question a stranger talking to them, and Ambrose received several friendly slaps on the back. Finally, Skinner turned right, disappearing between two narrow tenements.
Counting to ten, Ambrose followed.
The air was choked by smoke from open grates attended by figures pickled in misery. Ambrose blinked, trying to see through the haze. He caught a movement—the tail end of Skinner's greatcoat disappearing down steps. Ambrose navigated past the homeless wretches to the place where he'd seen his suspect go. A basement tenement—a place for the lowest of the low.
Muscles coiling, Ambrose descended into deeper darkness. His grip tightened on his wooden truncheon as he found the rotting door ajar, pushed it open. Pitch coated his vision. His other senses flashed alive, the pressure in his veins building—he felt the movement before he saw it. He dodged on instinct, going low and kicking out.
He heard Skinner curse, the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. The next instant Ambrose was atop his assailant. The other man struggled, grappling with considerable strength. A violent blow connected with Ambrose's shoulder, sending his truncheon flying. Ambrose held on, pinning the other by the neck. Panting, he raised a fist and plowed it into his opponent's jaw.
Skinner groaned, and Ambrose did it again. And again.
When the fight finally left the bastard, Ambrose reached for the pistol in his boot. He cocked it, the deadly click letting the other know he meant business. Rising, he kept his weapon aimed at the moaning figure whilst he found a lamp on the nearby table and lit it.
Shadows licked the walls of the squalid den, and Ambrose got a clear look at Skinner for the first time. With heavy jowls and a balding head, the rotter resembled a monstrous babe as he lay curled on his side, whimpering. A dark trail trickled from his nose. Rage boiled in Ambrose's veins at the thought of Skinner threatening Marianne, propositioning her. His grip on the pistol tightened.
Skinner's beady gaze widened at the sight of the weapon.
"Don't hurt me, please," the bastard gasped. "Whatever he's paying you, I'll give you double. Just don't hurt me."
Ambrose narrowed his eyes. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"
"I know he sent you."
Skinner licked his lips, smearing the blood that had dripped there. He rose on his knees, and Ambrose took aim at the other's heart.
"Move another inch, and I'll shoot," Ambrose warned.
A pleading look crossed Skinner's features, his posture one of supplication rather than threat. "I won't tell a soul, I swear it on my mother's grave. Tell him I won't. His secret is safe with me."
A sudden premonition snaked down Ambrose's spine. "Tell me his name."
Skinner trembled, his gaze flitting left and right. "Are you testing me? If anyone asks, I won't breathe a word, I swear. About him and Leach. Tell him his name will never leave my lips. Just please don't kill me," he sobbed.
Ambrose brought the pistol between Skinner's eyes.
"For the last time, give me his bleeding name," he said.
THIRTY-FOUR
Two days later, Marianne took the note from the footman and closed the door to the guest bedchamber. She scanned the brief lines.
"What does it say, my lady?" Tilda asked.
Marianne crumpled the paper. "Pendleton wants to meet me. At a clearing just beyond the woods."
Standing next to Tilda, Lugo shook his dark head. "'Tis a trap, my lady. Far too dangerous. Look what almost happened in his study—"
"I must go," Marianne said, though her heart thumped. "Hiding from Pendleton is not going to get me Rosie back. I came here to find her—and find her I will."
"Perhaps you ought to think twice, my lady." In an unusual move, Tilda cast her vote with Lugo. "There must be another way. Maybe we can get into the earl's study again …"
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 24