Her Protector's Pleasure (14 page)

"Yes, Marianne, you are a heroine," Helena said, smiling.

"And the very best of mentors," Percy chimed in.

Surrounded by beaming faces, Marianne squirmed at being put on the spot. After Draven's death, she'd entered the
ton
with the sole goal of finding Rosie. Her looks, wealth, and cutting wit had quickly made her a favorite of the fast set—jaded sophisticates who made a sport of insults and verbal sparring. Then Marianne had met up with Helena again, and her childhood friend had introduced her to a different circle. One filled with people who were impossibly ...
sincere
, brimming with goodwill. The very opposite of her own nature.

Though they welcomed her, she oft felt like an imposter within this group. Like a shiny apple rotted at the core, hiding amongst a pile of perfect fruit. To her mortification, her cheeks grew warm in response to the other guests' admiration.

Setting down her utensil, she said lightly, "As I said, everyone has their strengths. I was happy to make use of mine."

"By the by, how did you convince Black to listen to our case, my lady?" Kent inquired.

The question seemed innocuous enough, yet the penetrating quality to the policeman's gaze put her on guard. His pupils darkened, his amber irises bright as lanterns in comparison. The hairs rose on her neck as she—one who prided herself on self-possession—felt suddenly as transparent as glass.

She could ill afford disclosing her bargain with Black. If Kent began digging around in her affairs, he could bring all that she'd worked for tumbling down around her. He'd compromise Rosie's safety—and that Marianne would never allow.

"I have my methods," she said with drawling insouciance. "I believe you may be acquainted with some of them."

As Kent turned red, Marianne could almost hear the simultaneous swish of eyebrows going up around the table. She could imagine the questions popping into the other guests' heads. Well, better that they wonder about a peccadillo between her and the policeman than about her true secrets.

"This is no laughing matter, my lady. Though you were lucky enough to escape unscathed, your actions could have led to unthinkable consequences," Kent said stiffly. He paused, his countenance keen despite its high color. "I doubt a woman as clever as you would take such a risk ... unless you had confidence in your ability to negotiate the situation. I wonder, Lady Draven, what gives you such self-assurance in dealing with cutthroats?"

Because my husband was one. Because I've dealt with cutthroats all my life, though they might be disguised as gentlemen. And because one of them has my daughter.

Beneath her diamond necklace, Marianne's skin slickened with perspiration. Kent saw too much—was getting too close. Fear and anticipation pulsed in her blood as she tried to summon a pithy response. She was saved from doing so by their hostess.

"I commend you, Mr. Kent, for your concern over Lady Draven's well-being," Helena said gently. "As a policeman, you must see tragedies happen every day. We can only be grateful that Lady Draven's brave actions did not result in injury to her person."

Kent looked as though he might say something else—likely argue with the use of the word
brave
—but he gave a brusque nod instead. His gaze remained fixed on Marianne. Feeling the thrum of panic, she reacted with venom. The surest way to shake him off.

"As you say, Lady Helena, Mr. Kent is a policeman," she said, infusing the last word with amused disdain. "One can clean up a man and put him in a new set of clothes, but beneath he'll always be who he is, won't he?"

Silence fell upon the table. In other circles, her
hauteur
would have won her points; here, her barb was greeted with shock ... and disapproval. Harteford was frowning, and even Percy was giving her a puzzled look.

"I'm sure Lady Draven does not mean—" Helena began.

"It's quite alright," Kent said quietly. "She said nothing that is untrue."

His calm acceptance of her attack made Marianne feel smaller than an insect.

She lifted her chin. "If you'll excuse me, I have another engagement this evening." She rose, and chairs scraped as the men followed suit politely. "Thank you for supper. I shall see myself out."

Though shamed by the heat of curious stares, she departed the dining room with her head held high.

*****

Fog rolled off the nearby Thames, saturating the summer night with a wet chill. Looking up at the building that housed the offices of Mr. Reginald Leach, Esquire, Marianne shivered in spite of her black velvet cloak. The place was part of a brick terrace off Fleet Street, and from the back lane, she could see that Leach's building stood taller than the rest; the addition of a third floor created a crooked peak in the otherwise flat roofline.

Lugo inserted a tool into the gate's lock, and the iron fence swung open.

"Let us make haste, my lady," he said in a low voice. "I've got a bad feeling in my bones."

"Is anyone inside?" she whispered as she followed him to the back door.

"Leach's clerks left hours ago. Didn't see anyone go in or out before I went to fetch you at the Hartefords'." Forehead creased, Lugo made quick work of this lock as well. The click sounded as loud as a gunshot to Marianne's ears; casting a sharp glance around and seeing nothing, she followed her servant into the house.

Leach was apparently a skinflint for the interior of the building was as cool as the outside. A narrow corridor led them toward the front of the building. The first chamber they entered looked to be the domain of the clerks. Windowless and lined with cracked paint, the room's centerpiece was a long table covered with ledgers and books. Stools lined the table, and Marianne could picture Leach's apprentices hunched over, scribbling in the smoking light of the tallow candles.

"Where are Leach's suites?" she asked.

Lugo jerked his head toward a pair of doors.

Passing through, they found themselves in an atrium outfitted as a waiting area. Here, the furniture gleamed with polish and fresh flowers sprouted from vases. Seeing yet another set of doors, Marianne headed through them.

This third chamber, obviously Leach's inner sanctum, was warm and scented with beeswax and tobacco. Dark drapery covered windows that faced the street. Handsome leather furniture and tall bookshelves contributed to the ambience of authority and affluence. Marianne lit one of the lamps and methodically searched through the cabinets; her search yielded nothing of import. Going over to the large desk, she jiggled the drawers. Locked.

"Let's have a look inside," she said to Lugo.

While he went to work on the lock, she thought of Kent, and shame again crept over her. Which was rich, really. Because here she was presently engaged in an illegal break and entry, and she did not experience an ounce of guilt. Yet she felt remorse over a snub she'd given to a policeman?

Besides, Kent had left her little choice. He'd crowded her with those intrusive questions, that penetrating gaze. 'Twas as if he suspected her secrets and meant to find out everything about her, to bare the darkness of her soul—

"Here you go, my lady."

Marianne exhaled and drew her focus back to the task. Crouching down, she examined the first of the four drawers, all filled with leather portfolios. Flipping open the top file, she leafed through the documents: bills of service from the last year. Ever the discreet solicitor, Leach had only included the name of the client and the amount of his fees. There was no notation concerning the nature of the legal transaction.

 She snapped the file shut; she'd have to dig back three years to find the transaction Leach had conducted with Kitty Barnes.

"While I go through these," she said to Lugo, "check the rest of the place. See if there are other files stored elsewhere."

As Lugo strode off, Marianne sorted through the portfolios, looking for the right date. The answer
had
to be here. If she couldn't ascertain the identity of Rosie's captor tonight, then she'd have to question the solicitor personally. She'd have to threaten Leach, a man of the law—and potentially alert his iniquitous client to her quest.

Will that put Rosie in greater jeopardy? What choice do I have?

She was on the last drawer now. She opened the first portfolio and found documents from the wrong year. She reached for the next one. 1817. The year Draven had died and Primrose had been sold. With trembling hands, Marianne riffled through the thick stack of parchment. Her breath stuck in her throat when she found what she'd been looking for.

A bill for services rendered in the month that Mrs. Barnes had sold Rosie. The fees noted on the receipt were astronomical—but Leach's client could afford them. The Earl of Pendleton had untold wealth at his disposal, after all.

Pendleton.
Excitement coursed in her veins.
A lead at last.

She withdrew the parchment, and she spied the paper beneath it. Bloody hell, another receipt for the same month. Same ungodly fees. Only in this instance, Leach had provided legal services to Viscount Ashcroft.

Ashcroft or Pendleton? Which of the bounders had purchased her girl?

Confounded, Marianne continued sifting through the papers. She found one other bill dated for the same month. This one was addressed to Marquess Boyer.

She let out a quivering breath. Damn Leach's eyes. The rotter had been busy. A marquess, an earl, and a viscount: which of the blackguards had her babe?

"
My lady.
" The panicked whisper dragged her attention to the door, where Lugo stood. Even from the distance, she could see his tense features. "We must go. Now."

She shoved the three receipts into her reticule. "Why?"

"Leach is dead," Lugo said tersely. "Murdered. Next door in the sitting room."

Instantaneously, she heard the voices in the distance, footsteps approaching outside. Loud banging sounded on the front door.
Mr. Leach, we're here from Bow Street. We'd like to have a word with you.

Marianne shot to her feet, her pulse a fierce staccato. Without another word, she raced out of the office behind Lugo. They sprinted through the waiting area and back the way they'd come. Marianne's mind spun with frantic thoughts as she followed Lugo's broad back through the doorway of the clerks' chamber.

Have they surrounded the back entrance? Good God, they'll think we killed Leach—

Her mind went blank as an arm appeared from nowhere, grabbed her by the waist. A large hand muffled her scream. Heart thundering in her ears, she fought, biting and kicking to get away from her captor.

FIFTEEN

"'Tis me, Kent," Ambrose growled. "Stop bloody struggling or we'll both end up in Newgate."

Even in the dimness, he could see the glassy panic in Marianne's eyes.

"There are constables outside. If you want to get out of here, you'll follow my instructions. Understand?" When she nodded, Ambrose jerked his chin at the looming Lugo. "That goes for your man, too."

The African's eyes narrowed, but he indicated his assent. Ambrose released Marianne, who stumbled away from him.

"Why are you here?" she said in a choked voice.

"No time for that now. They've got the place surrounded."

The voices outside grew in volume. Gut twisting, Ambrose raced through the options. If they caught Marianne breaking into a man's office—whatever the reason—the magistrates would toss her in a cell. Combined with the other circumstantial evidence Coyner had, she might be tried for crimes against the establishment.

Ambrose had convinced himself that he was capable of objectivity—of carrying out his duty, no matter the outcome. He'd believed that his logic ruled his emotions.

At this instant, his error in judgment
stunned
him: how could he have been in such denial?

Then his instincts kicked in, overriding his thoughts. Every muscle tensed, readying to get Marianne out of this mess. He'd save her now and get his answers later.

"We'll have to go up top. Follow me," he growled.

He led the way to the stairwell he'd seen just past the clerks' room. With the other two close behind, he took the steps to the uppermost floor. They entered an attic room, the gloom relieved by a silvery luminescence. He followed the light to the window, which he wrenched open, swiftly looking left and right. No constables were within visual range, although he could hear their voices coming from the front of the building: the men were planning to break down the door.

He looked down at the neighboring rooftop. The fog and darkness obscured his vision, but he estimated a drop of maybe ten feet. A risk they'd have to take.

"I'll go first," he said. "Lady Draven follows. And Lugo, shut the window behind you—we don't want anyone tailing us."

Ambrose climbed onto the outside ledge of the window. He jumped, landing lightly on the shingles. He dropped low, tensing, waiting for any sign that he'd been seen. But no alarm sounded; in fact, the voices had quieted. The constables must have already gotten into the house. Looking up, he saw Marianne's pale face at the open window.

"Go on, I'll catch you," he said as loudly as he dared.

She gave a quick nod and, after an instant's hesitation, came hurtling toward him. He caught her easily. He gestured to Lugo, who took the leap, landing solidly beside them. With no time to waste, Ambrose grabbed Marianne's hand. She grasped onto him tightly as they ran. He kept close to the stacks, stopping now and again to make sure they hadn't been detected.

When they reached the end of the terrace, Ambrose pulled her behind the shelter of the chimney. Breathing hard, he peered around at Leach's building, now six or seven houses away. Fog swirled in the distance they'd crossed, covering their tracks; there was no sign that their rooftop escape had been discovered.

"Our best chance is to wait here," he said, panting, his back flat against the brick. "Once the constables leave, we'll find a way to get down."

Marianne bit her lip, her eyes inscrutable in the moonlight.