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.
"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 i
n 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—"
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