Coyner had planned this meeting with crazed, desperate genius. The bastard had named this abandoned pier east of London, which had nothing but derelict factories to bear witness to the exchange. His note had been succinct: Bring no authorities, no more than a single boatman, or the bitch dies.
His throat raw, Ambrose looked at Primrose. "You're certain you wish to go through with this, little one?"
"Yes, Mr. Kent." In the light of the boat's lamp, the girl's lips trembled, but she lifted her chin. "I want my mama back."
Her mother's daughter.
"Brave girl." Ambrose cupped her cheek gently. "You remember the plan, then?"
"Yes," she said and hugged her doll to her chest.
Ambrose turned to his waiting waterman. "Johnno?"
"Aye, sir. At your signal," Johnno replied.
Ambrose rapped his knuckles against the boat. "Wait here. I'll go up first."
He stepped onto the planks. His heart pounded at the sight of Marianne standing at the end of the pier. Her hair glowed against the violet sky and the dark waters just beyond. He counted Coyner and six brutes surrounding her. A well-built cutter was anchored behind them. No doubt Coyner meant to make a swift escape through the Thames Estuary once he had his prize. It gave Ambrose a measure of comfort to know that the River Police would be waiting for the villain there—though he had no intention of allowing the blighter to make it that far. Or to lay hands on Primrose. Ambrose clenched his pistol.
"Let Lady Draven go, Coyner." His voice rose above the sound of the waves. "I've come as you asked."
"Show me Primrose," Coyner shouted back.
Ambrose jerked his chin, and Johnno helped the little girl onto the pier. She clutched her doll in one hand, the lamp in the other. The glow illuminated her face.
"Primrose, my angel. Have you missed me? Come to me, sweet flower."
Though the shadowy dusk obscured Coyner's expression, Ambrose heard the fevered passion in the bastard's voice, and his hold tightened instinctively on Primrose's shoulder.
Have to let her go. Just for a few moments.
"We'll release them together, Coyner," he forced himself to call out. "They walk at the same time."
Swearing, Coyner hissed an order to one of his lackeys. The man untied the rope that bound Marianne's ankles, but did not free her arms or remove her gag. She was shaking her head, her voice desperate and muffled. Coyner kept a pistol trained on her back.
"Move forward," he barked.
With a quick prayer, Ambrose let go of Primrose—the hardest thing he'd ever done.
"I'm right behind you," he whispered. "Don't forget that, poppet."
She nodded and started forward. Ambrose's gut wrenched as step by step the girl moved beyond his reach. As he'd instructed her, she matched her pace to Marianne's. His muscles coiled in readiness as the two came closer and closer, nearing the middle of the pier. Then Primrose stopped, directly next to Marianne.
Now, little one. Do it now.
As if hearing his thoughts, Primrose brought her doll closer to her chest. Though her movement was subtle, Ambrose saw that she had positioned the doll over the lamp she held in her other hand.
And set the hidden fuse beneath the doll's skirt into the flame.
The next second, Primrose flung the doll toward Coyner. Ambrose heard her cry out, "Jump, Mama!" and the sound of splashes before Harry's firecrackers exploded into the night. Coyner gave a cry of alarm, but Ambrose was already racing forward, firing his pistol through the screen of smoke and chaotic explosions. He heard footsteps pounding behind him, more shots fired. Hunt and Harteford—who'd been hiding in the smuggling boat's false bottom—had joined his offensive.
Going low, he could only spare a glance to ensure that Primrose and Marianne were safe in the shallow water next to the pier. He reached for the fresh pistols at his belt, continuing to fire into the haze of smoke. He heard cries of pain, and then the other two caught up to him.
"Bloody hell, Kent, leave some for me," Hunt said.
The smoke cleared, revealing the bodies upon the planks. Ambrose spotted Coyner and two others scrambling toward the cutter. His gaze returned to the water; Johnno had arrived and was helping Marianne and Primrose into the rowboat.
"We're fine, Ambrose," Marianne shouted up at him. "Get Coyner!"
"Stay with them," Ambrose said to Harteford, who jerked his chin in assent. "Hunt, let's get that bastard."
A feral smile crossed Hunt's face.
They raced forward, dodging bullets and returning the fire. With his last shot, Ambrose took aim, and the brute at the helm of the cutter gave a cry as he crumpled, bleeding from the chest. Two enemies left to go. Hunt jumped on board first, tackling Smythe with a roar. Coyner stood by the mainsail, struggling to reload his pistol. Ambrose dove for him, wrestling the bastard onto the deck. They grappled, then Coyner kneed him in the solar plexus. In that instant, Ambrose lost the upper hand, and a blade materialized in Coyner's grip, swinging down in a vicious arc.
Ambrose rolled to evade it, but the blade caught him, fire lancing through his arm. With a maddened howl, Coyner pinned him, and the knife swiped downward again. Ambrose caught Coyner's weapon arm with his good hand, his muscles straining to keep the glinting steel tip from sinking into his throat.
"Primrose is mine!" Coyner screamed. "I'm going to kill you then get her bitch of a mother!"
Like hell you will.
With a surge of power, Ambrose brought his injured arm into play. Just as Coyner bore down with murderous intent, Ambrose gripped his opponent's wrist with both hands. He snapped it upward, reversing the momentum of the knife. Coyner cried out in pain, and Ambrose took that instant to roll free. On his feet in the next breath, he stood ready to finish the fight.
Coyner remained lying face down on the deck.
After a few heartbeats, Ambrose nudged the man with his foot. His boot came away stained with a dark liquid. Skin prickling, he rolled his foe over. The hilt of the blade protruded from Coyner's chest, crimson blossoming from the fatal wound.
Blood gurgled from Coyner's lips. "My sweet flower ..." he gasped. Then the crazed light faded from his eyes, and his head fell to the side.
Seconds later, Hunt arrived and peered down at the still body. "Done?"
Ambrose's gaze honed in on Marianne and Primrose upon the pier. They sat huddled beneath blankets, sodden and no doubt exhausted. But they were safe.
"Yes," he said with quiet relief. "It's finished at last."
FORTY-FOUR
"Have something for you, son," Samuel said a week later.
"What is it?" Ambrose paused in the act of packing his father's books into a trunk.
On the morrow, he would take his family back to Chudleigh Crest. With the reward Ambrose had earned from Bow Street for taking down Coyner, he'd had enough to pay off his father's debts and purchase his family a comfortable new cottage. He planned to settle them in, then return to London and carry on his job with the Thames River Police.
Everything had fallen neatly into place. Everything ... but his relationship with Marianne.
Since Coyner's death, Marianne had been thoroughly occupied in her role as a mother. She spent every moment with her daughter. During the day, she entertained Primrose and Ambrose's siblings; at night, she slept in the governess' bed in Primrose's room. Her anxiety was slow to fade, and Ambrose could not blame her. When he thought of her and Primrose on that pier ... his jaw tautened. He hadn't forgiven himself for his failure. Henceforth, he swore to do a better job of protecting them both.
Yet was he deluding himself, thinking about a future with them? Did Marianne want him to have a role in her life? In her daughter's? The truth was she'd never promised more than the moment. And given the trauma of recent events, he hadn't felt right pressuring her to think of other matters.
He blew out a breath. Be patient. Give her the space with her daughter that she needs and deserves. Take care of matters with your own family first—then bring up the futur
e with Marianne.
Samuel finished rummaging through one of the bags. "Ah, here it is. Come have a look."
Ambrose went over and took the small wooden box from his father. Opening the lid, he found himself looking at a ring. A small emerald winked at the center of the delicate gold band, which was otherwise smooth and burnished by time. He experienced a fleeting memory: this ring upon a gentle hand, a loving touch that took away fear and pain.
"This ... this was my mother's."
"Yes. I gave it to her on our wedding day," Samuel said with a misty smile. "It brought us much joy—it brought us you."
Ambrose didn't know what to say.
"When you were engaged to that flit-wit Jane, I knew you weren't ready for this ring. But now you are. Give it to the woman you love and who will love you wholeheartedly in return."
Ambrose's hand closed around the box. God, he wanted to.
"Marianne's been through too much of late," he heard himself say. "I can't ask her to consider other life-altering changes as well."
"You can't … or you're afraid to?"
Damn. Schoolmaster Kent was indeed back in full possession of his faculties. Marianne had been right about his father's grief masquerading as illness.
"Both," Ambrose admitted. "If the circumstances were different, if she were not so high above me—"
"I thought we already covered this nonsense. Because that's what this excuse is—nonsense. What has class to do with love?"
He couldn't expect his father to understand. After all, Samuel had wisely given his heart to women who occupied the same world as he did. He'd never put his lovers in the situation where they'd have to choose between being a titled lady and plain Mrs. Kent. A policeman's wife.
"She'd be giving up much for me," Ambrose said, his jaw taut.
"And gaining much more in return. Do you love her so little, son?"
"I love her with all that I am," Ambrose said fiercely.
"Then why are you afraid to let her make her choice?"
Because … what if she doesn't choose me?
His deepest fear crystallized in his mind. Though he believed that she cared for him, she'd never told him she loved him. Their relationship had developed amidst chaos and turbulence; now that the storm had passed, would she regret her involvement with a man like him? Now that she no longer needed his assistance in finding her daughter, did she want him still? Even after he'd nearly bungled his role as her protector?
"It's not just the money." His shoulders hunched. "I failed to keep her and her girl out of harm's way. If Coyner had—"
"No one's perfect, boy, and the sooner you accept that the better. In the end, you rescued Marianne and Primrose: that's what matters." His father sighed. "If you insist on taking responsibility for everything, you'll wind up no better than a stick-in-the-mud."
A moralistic snob, God help him.
"All you can do is your best. The rest?" Samuel shrugged. "You live with it."
Ambrose knew he had little to recommend his suit. Could he present himself to Marianne, knowing his own faults? Could he hope that she'd accept him as he was, flaws and all?
"Didn't raise you to be namby-pamby," his father commented.
Ambrose rubbed his neck. Devil take it, he was being an idiot. He wanted Marianne—in his bed, by his side forever. So why was he making excuses, prolonging the torment? Either she wanted him … or she didn't. If she didn't know by now, waiting wasn't going to make a lick of difference.
He tucked the ring into his pocket. "I'll go talk to her. Wish me luck."
"Good luck, boy." Smiling, his father patted him on the shoulder. "Though somehow I don't think you'll need it."
*****
Heading down the stairs, Ambrose encountered Violet and Polly on the landing. His sisters had Primrose in tow.
"Good morning, Mr. Kent," Primrose said, dimpling.
He couldn't help but smile at the pretty picture the three girls made with their hair in ringlets and tied with satin bows. "And to you, little one. Where are you all dashing off to?"
"We're going upstairs to play Spillikins." Violet rolled her eyes. "Can you believe Primrose has never played before?"
"Picking up sticks is not the only way to pass one's time. I'm sure Primrose has enjoyed other leisure," Ambrose chided his sister.
"Actually, I haven't," Primrose blurted, her face falling. "My life before ... it was ever so boring."
Ambrose's chest constricted. For a young girl, Primrose had been through so many changes; the harrowing episode at the pier hadn't helped matters. Marianne had fretfully told him that Primrose sometimes suffered terror dreams at night.
As Ambrose searched for the right words to comfort the girl, to assure her that from now on everything would be alright, Polly slipped her hand into Primrose's.
With a child's simple ease, his youngest sister said, "You've got us now, Rosie."
"And we're never boring," Vi added.
"I wish you didn't have to leave tomorrow." Primrose's bottom lip trembled. "I shall miss you all dreadfully."
Three hopeful pairs of eyes turned to Ambrose.
"Run along now," he said gruffly. "We'll talk later."
The girls went off to enjoy their game, and he continued down the stairs. He headed to the drawing room, the place Marianne was most likely to be this time of day. As he approached, he heard the sound of female voices. Marianne's … and Lady Harteford's. The door was ajar; though he couldn't see into the room, snippets of their conversation drifted through.
" … I'm glad to have a moment alone with you, Marianne." The marchioness's voice was low, serious. "How is Primrose faring?"
"Considering all that she has been through, I should say quite marvelously. She's a resilient little thing." Despite the obvious pride in Marianne's tone, there was a quiver, too. "I still have nightmares of what might have happened if Coyner had succeeded in ..."
"He didn't, and he's dead. That is justice," Lady Harteford said firmly. "Now we must focus on doing everything we can for Primrose. Have you given thought to when you will introduce her to Society?"
Though Ambrose knew he should leave the ladies to their private talk, the anxiety in Marianne's tone held him captive outside the door.
"It is too soon. She is a bastard, Helena, and I do not wish her to be harmed by my mistakes."
"Fustian. There are plenty of by-blows running amok in the ton. Primrose is the granddaughter of an earl and niece to a marchioness, and she has as much right to be in society as any of them. And anyone else, for that matter."
"I don't want her exposed to ugliness," Marianne insisted. "You know how cruel so-called polite society can be."
"Indeed. That is why we must have a plan."
"You sound like you already have one." Ambrose could imagine Marianne's leveraged brow.
"I do. In these situations, one must rally the troops. You, my dear, must make a point of courting those with social influence."
Ambrose tensed, his gaze dropping to his worn boots.
"You know I detest the snobs," Marianne protested.
"You don't detest me or Harteford, surely. We will throw a party for Primrose and make sure my father is present. If you are comfortable, we will make our connection to her and support of her indisputable."
"Thank you," Marianne said.
"But we will not be enough. You will have to reform your reputation, my dear. No more scandal and running with the fast crowd. From here on in, you must gain acceptance from the sticklers. Only then will you be able to help Primrose gain entrée into the best drawing rooms."
As Marianne again murmured her assent, Ambrose's jaw clenched. He could not argue with Lady Harteford's reasoning. Because of the circumstances of her birth, Primrose faced disadvantages—and possible rejection by society if she did not have the protection of a good name. One associated with wealth, privilege. A title.
Primrose Kent would have none of those things.
"Which brings me to the matter of t
he Kents," the marchioness said in a hesitant manner.
Ambrose knew he should go. He leaned closer.
"You know I adore them. And Mr. Kent has done so much for you and Primrose. But what do you intend for the future?"
Ambrose waited, his heart thumping. He knew he should relinquish his selfish desires. Knew it would be best for Primrose. Yet if Marianne gave him even the slightest reason to hope—
"I can't speak of it now," Marianne said.
"Why not?"
"I just can't." Marianne sighed—in disgust? Frustration? "It's complicated, Helena. But I've never lied to Ambrose. I haven't made promises to him because the truth is …"
She paused, and every fiber of his being tensed, his breath held, his soul waiting.
"The truth is, I can't keep them," she said flatly.
The words struck him like a direct blow to the gut. Before he could recover, Ambrose heard Lugo's rumbling voice coming down the corridor. He came to his senses and walked away from the drawing room. The box bumped heavily in his pocket. As he mounted the steps, he cursed himself for being an idiot. For letting his heart rule his head so completely. For believing, even for an instant, that dreams had anything to do with reality.
FORTY-FIVE
The morning light imbued the soft green drawing room with tranquility, an emotion far removed from Marianne's own state as she sat with her bosom friend.
"Why can't you keep a promise to Mr. Kent?" Helena said. "You care for him, I know you do. And it's obvious he returns your affection. Harteford and I both agree that you two make the perfect pair."
Marianne bit her lip. "I will tell you, Helena. But you must promise me not to tell Ambrose. Not yet, anyway."
Though Helena's brows lifted, she gave a quick nod.
Blowing out a breath, Marianne confided her debt to Bartholomew Black. When she was finished, Helena stared at her with rounded eyes.
"Heavens, you agreed to anything Black wanted?"
"What choice had I? He was my only hope of finding Primrose. I don't regret it," Marianne said, though her palms grew clammy, "and given the same choice, I'd make it again."
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