Her Protector's Pleasure

by Callaway, Grace

  Chasing Marianne down in the woods. Coyner. The shooting.

  Fear jolted him upright. "Are you hurt?" he said tersely.

  "I'm fine. After you saved me, Lugo arrived and scared Coyner off." Gently, Marianne pushed him back to the pillows. Her soft palm settled against his forehead. "The fever's only just gone down, darling, so have a care. Here, take a sip of this, and mind you drink it slowly."

  Perching on the bed next to him, she held a glass to his lips. The cool water slid down his parched throat, and he couldn't help but drink greedily. When he was done, Marianne blotted his lips with a napkin.

  "We've got to find Coyner—" he began.

  "Easy, my love. You must rest."

  "Coyner has your daughter." Urgency cleared his head. "He hired Leach to purchase Primrose from Mrs. Barnes."

  "How do you know this?" she asked.

  "I found Skinner, and he told me everything," Ambrose said. "When you hired him to investigate, he picked up the trail to Leach early on. He followed the solicitor around for weeks. Eventually, he stumbled upon a meeting between Leach and Coyner. He overheard the solicitor trying to extort Coyner for more money to keep the transaction for Rosie a secret."

  Marianne turned pale. "Why didn't Skinner tell me?"

  "Having done contract work for Coyner, Skinner knew that he was dealing with a powerful and ruthless man. That's why Skinner disappeared: he was afraid of Coyner. Of what Coyner might do to preserve his secret. Coyner killed the solicitor, and that was him in the woods." Ambrose's jaw tautened. "He's tying up loose ends."

  "You hunted Skinner down … for me?" Marianne said.

  Ambrose jerked his chin. "You don't have to worry about him any longer. Now to catch Coyner, we must act—"

  "Ambrose, can you ever forgive me?" He was startled to hear the hitch in her words, to see the sheen of moisture upon her cheeks. Her gaze lowered to his chest, she said, "I—I've treated you monstrously. I've been horrid to you when I should have trusted you. When all you've ever done is help me."

  "No, sweetheart," he said thickly, cupping her cheek with his good hand, "I should have told you the truth from the start. That I'd been hired by Bow Street to follow you."

  "Why didn't you?" she whispered.

  "When I took on the assignment, I didn't know the suspect would be you. After our first time together, I went to resign, but Coyner put an end to the assignment on his own. He swore me to confidentiality, said he'd see to it that I'd never work again if I spoke of the case to anyone."

  "I understand. You needed your livelihood to take care of your family. They come first and well they should," she said tremulously.

  He let out a breath. "That was only part of the reason—and a smaller part than I'd like to admit. In truth, I didn't tell you because ... I was a coward."

  Her brow pleated.

  "I wanted to tell you about Bow Street. But I feared you'd shut me out." Shaking his head at his own folly, he said, "I wanted to protect you, to help you find Primrose, and I knew that you wouldn't trust me to do so if you learned the truth."

  "Because I blew up at you?" she said, biting her lip. "For questioning Leach's clerk without telling me?"

  "And because you told me how you'd been betrayed in the past. How could I expect you to trust me after all that you'd been through?" He drew another breath. "I told myself that one deception did not matter because I'd cut my ties to Bow Street and would keep you safe from that moment on. But a lie is a lie. And I beg your forgiveness, Marianne."

  "I forgive you," she said quietly, "if only because my sins are far greater than yours. I should not have reacted so foolishly—going to Coyner when I should have gone to ask you directly."

  "You're not to blame. If I'd told you the truth, you'd have had no cause to seek out that blackguard. He's played us all."

  "What excuse did he give for having me followed?"

  "Coyner claimed that an anonymous client had retained Bow Street to monitor a suspected anarchist. In truth, there was no client—Coyner had fabricated the whole story."

  "Why?" Marianne whispered.

  "I think he wanted to keep tabs on you. To have information that could be used to ruin your character, discredit any accusations you might level against him if you discovered his identity. I also think he meant to have you framed for Leach's murder and thus to rid himself of two problems at once."

  "Did you believe him ... that I was an anarchist? I suppose given my actions, after I shot you and you found me at Leach's ..." Her gaze fell to his chest.

  "After I got to know you, I knew you were no anarchist," he said.

  "How can you say that? I've done such wicked things." Her throat rippled. "I've had a daughter out of wedlock, degraded myself, and committed deeds no decent woman would do."

  "Always out of love." With his thumb, he edged away the tears tracking silently down her face. "Marianne, you are the bravest woman I know. You've survived, through your cleverness and wit and pure strength of will. How can I but admire you and your devotion to your daughter?"

  "I don't deserve that you should be so good to me," she said, cradling his hand against her damp cheek. The expression in her eyes was so penitent and tender that his breath left him. "You are too fine a man for me, Ambrose."

  "'Tis the opposite that's true. Marianne, I—"

  He was cut off by voices and what sounded like a stampede from the hallway. A moment later, the door flung open, and his family flooded the chamber.

  "Ambrose!" Polly dashed toward him first, and Marianne stepped aside to let her through.

  "Mind you don't jolt his wound, Polly," Emma chided, following close behind.

  "I am fine," Ambrose assured her.

  Rising on her toes, Polly brushed a careful kiss against his cheek. "I was so scared for you," she confessed. "Lugo said you'd been shot and—"

  "How are you feeling?" Violet said, trying to peer from behind the other two. "Do you need anything? We packed some food—"

  "He's not going to be hungry, you silly chit. When one loses blood, the most important thing is adequate hydration. I read it in a medical book." Giving him a man-to-man look from the foot of the bed, his younger brother added, "The girls have been quite worried. But I told them you'd be alright."

  Seeing the anxious line between the lad's brows, Ambrose said gently, "You were correct, Harry. I am quite well, and there is nothing to concern yourselves over."

  "Now that we are here, we will take care of you," Emma said.

  "Perhaps what our brother truly needs is time to rest." This came from Thea, who entered the room with their father. She smiled her gentle smile. "You must be tired, Ambrose."

  Ambrose began to shake his head—and the room suddenly wavered.

  "We best leave him be." Leaning on his cane, Samuel came forward and peered down at the bed. Gruffly, he said, "Do you have everything you need, son?"

  "Yes. Marianne's been tending to me," Ambrose said.

  Six pairs of eyes turned to Marianne, who'd retreated silently to a corner.

  "Well, then. Nice to know the boy's in good hands," Samuel said.

  Marianne blushed, a rare sight indeed.

  "Thank you, my lady," Emma said. "You look like you could use some rest yourself. If you'll tell me what needs to be done, I'll—"

  "I'm staying." Marianne's gaze met his, and he basked in her verdant warmth, his pain subsiding. "I'm not leaving him."

  "Perhaps, Marianne, you might take Miss Kent up on her offer for a few minutes?"

  The cultured feminine tones came from the doorway. Surprised, Ambrose looked over to see the Marquess and Marchioness of Harteford standing there. What were they doing here?

  Typically the epitome of politeness, Lady Harteford ignored him and said, "I believe you and I have a matter to discuss, Marianne. In private."

  Behind his petite wife, the marquess took in the scene with an impassive gaze. "I trust that you are well, Kent?" he said gravely.

  "Thank you for your concern
, my lord," Ambrose said, still confused. "I hope you have not come all this way on my behalf?"

  "We came at Lady Draven's behest, and we've brought along Dr. Farraday as well," Harteford said.

  At the mention of the famed Scottish physician, Ambrose winced. Though undoubtedly skilled—Farraday had attended to the great Wellington himself—the doctor did not possess a soft touch.

  "Now that Mr. Kent is attended to," Lady Harteford said with that strange steel in her voice, "shall we find some place to talk, Marianne?"

  Marianne's cheeks had lost their color. Squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle, she said to her friend, "We'll find privacy in the garden."

  *****

  Pendleton's rose garden was a formal affair. Marianne led the way to the gazebo in the far corner, away from prying eyes. From beneath the sloped, gabled roof, she had an unimpeded view of the house as well as the precise, colorful rows of rose bushes. Currently, the only movements in the garden came from butterflies and buzzing insects—the non-human kind. The houseguests were still abed at this hour.

  Helena remained standing, her gloved hands curling around the gazebo's railing. Beneath the graceful brim of her straw bonnet, her hazel eyes shone with accusation.

  "Is it true what you wrote in the letter?" Helena said in a tight voice.

  Shame and fear mingled sickly. For so long, Marianne had kept her secrets—even from this woman, her closest friend. Now there was no longer any place to hide.

  "Yes," she said in a low voice. "I have a daughter, Helena."

  "And she … she is Thomas' child?"

  Marianne swallowed. "Yes. Your brother and I … we were together. In the months before the carriage accident."

  The marchioness looked away. Marianne knew how much the loss of Thomas had affected Helena, who'd been a girl back then. An innocent who'd idolized her older brother—who'd had no idea what he and her bosom friend had been up to behind her back.

  "How could you have kept this from me?" The brim of the bonnet shielded Helena's profile, yet Marianne could see the rigidity of the other's spine, could hear the anger trembling in her voice. "All these years, how could you have not said a word?"

  "Because I …"—Marianne was mortified to hear her voice crack, to feel the heat rise behind her eyes—"I just couldn't," she said helplessly.

  "Do you trust me so very little then?" Helena faced her. Spots of color blazed on the marchioness' cheeks. "All my life, I have come to you. I have confided everything—even when it came to my marriage. Yet you … you have kept everything to yourself! Do you think yourself so above me that I am not worthy of your trust? Not worthy of knowing that I have a niece, for heaven's sake?"

  Remorse pounded at Marianne's temples. She shook her head. "No, Helena, 'tis not you. 'Twas never you. Don't you see?" Her throat clogged. "I was … ashamed."

  "You might have come to me! I would have helped."

  "How?" Marianne said thickly. "You were but a girl when Thomas died."

  "But my father, surely he would have—"

  "Your father knew about Thomas and me. We had approached him to ask permission to wed." Humiliation washed over Marianne anew at the memory of the tense interview. "The earl said it would be over his dead body before he allowed his heir to marry a country trollop."

  Helena stared at her. "Papa said that?"

  The Earl of Northgate had said a good deal more. None of which Marianne could bear to repeat to her friend. "You can ask your father, if you don't believe me." Dashing at her eyes, she forced herself to go on. "On the day Thomas died, he'd gone to see about a special license. I never knew if he'd been successful. But the way he'd tried to come home in the rain … how fast they said he'd been driving when he lost control of the carriage—"

  Marianne was startled to hear a sob. To feel her body shake with the force of it. But she made herself continue, no longer caring about the tears trickling down her face. "Thomas never knew about the babe. I didn't know myself until weeks after his funeral—the funeral that your father forbade me to attend."

  "So that is why you were not there. I—I always wondered," Helena whispered.

  "How could I go to your father then? He thought me a whore; he'd never believe that the child was Thomas'," Marianne said bitterly. "And he didn't even know that I was in part responsible for Thomas' death—"

  Suddenly, soft arms came around her. Words offering comfort instead of blame, hatred. And Marianne felt herself dissolving, losing herself in the terrifying tumult she'd held back all these years. The emotions swept through her, and she clung to her friend like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood.

  "Oh, Marianne," Helena said in hushed tones, "how could you blame yourself for Thomas' death? 'Twas an accident. Thomas was always a dear, reckless boy, and you know it."

  Fresh tears welled in Marianne's eyes. Speaking the words aloud and hearing Helena's response let her see the truth. Yet she'd held the pain so closely and for so long that it now felt like a part of her.

  Her friend sighed. "At least now I understand why you married Draven and disappeared without a word. But why did you not tell me this after Draven's death, when we reconnected in London?"

  "I couldn't bear it. To speak of my shame. With Thomas … and what I had allowed Draven to d-do … to my Primrose …" Marianne's voice broke again.

  When her tears subsided, the marchioness drew back to look at her, and Marianne saw the moisture spiking her friend's lashes. The hazel eyes—so like Thomas'—flickered with hurt yet also warmth. Something eased in Marianne's chest, the releasing of a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding all these years. Despite what she had done, the fire of friendship had not been extinguished. Somehow it persisted, strong and true.

  "I don't deserve to have you as a friend," she said, sniffling.

  "Fustian. I have relied upon you more than I can say; I only wish you might have felt free to do the same." Helena sighed. "That is water under the bridge, however. What we must focus on now is getting your daughter and my niece back."

  Marianne clasped the other's hand with gratitude beyond words.

  "Tell me the rest, my dear. And this time," Helena said sternly, "don't leave anything out."

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ambrose hissed out a breath as the physician secured the fresh bandage.

  "That should do it," Farraday said in his thick brogue. "Right as rain now, aren't you, lad?"

  Upon examining his patient's bicep, the physician had let out a string of curses. His Scottish accent had made most of it unintelligible, but Ambrose got the general gist of it. Farraday had insisted on cutting free the stitches—Even a wee bairn knows to let such a wound heal from inside out, he'd muttered—and irrigating the gash with a solution of salt water.

  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 approac
hed 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."