Her Protector's Pleasure (31 page)

Marianne knew he was referring to Helena's marriage to Harteford, who'd once been a pariah amongst the
ton
due to his open engagement in trade and his humble beginnings. Owing to Harteford's enormous power and wealth, most of the scandal had faded in the past years. Yet snobbery apparently died hard amongst a select few.

Biting her tongue, Marianne gave a false yawn. "Do excuse me," she said prettily, "but I'm afraid the journey was quite wearying. Travel does so affect my sensibilities."

"As it would any lady's." After a slight hesitation, Pendleton said, "You must come in and refresh yourself. I'll have your luggage sent to your rooms."

"You are too kind, my lord," Marianne murmured.

As she took his arm, a shiver stirred her nape.
The game begins.

THIRTY-TWO

Later that afternoon, Ambrose stomped up the stairs of Wapping Street Station to his office. He was in a foul mood. Owing to Marianne's abrupt departure, he'd gotten no sleep the night before. He'd combed through her chambers and found no clue to her whereabouts, and the servants had not proved any more helpful.
Perhaps a house party, sir?
one of the maids had suggested.
My lady receives invitations all the time. She is ever so popular.

His jaw clenched. Had Marianne gone off to cavort at some party? If so, she'd made it clear that he had no right to interfere with her plans ... no right even to know of them. Hadn't she told him time and again that she could only offer him the moment?

You're a bloody, bloody fool, man.

He tossed his hat on his desk, his mood darkening further at the sight of the report he'd yet to complete. He'd spent the day trying to find the captain who'd slipped by the excise officers without paying the duties, but the bastard had proved as slippery as an eel. Ambrose had followed one lead after another today, and all had come to naught.

Devil take it, he needed some good news for a change.

Johnno's curly head emerged through the doorway. One look at his subordinate's somber face, and Ambrose knew that none was forthcoming.

"What is it, Johnno?" he said wearily.

In a low, urgent voice, the waterman said, "Dalrymple's been looking for you. He had a visitor while you were out. A magistrate from Bow Street—"

The hairs on Ambrose's neck rose at the same time that Johnno's head whipped around.

"G-good afternoon, Sir Dalrymple," he heard Johnno stammer.

The magistrate nudged the lad aside, his girth filling the doorway. "There you are, Kent." The smug look on his superior's face fostered Ambrose's sense of foreboding. "I've been looking all over for you."

Ambrose came to his feet. "I've been out on an investigation, sir. The excise case—"

"Never mind that now. I need to have a few words with you. Follow me to my office," Dalrymple said in peremptory tones.

Ambrose saw no choice but to obey. As he passed by Johnno, the waterman gave him a sympathetic nod. Ambrose followed his supervisor, preparing for things to go from bad to worse.

*****

"I hope you are not finding us dull, Lady Draven. Perhaps it is just that our company is ... different from what you are accustomed to?"

Marianne's attention snapped back to the drawing room. To the circle of ladies sitting on the little gilt-backed chairs, their expressions tinged with scorn. For the past hour, she'd been subjected to relentless condescension; fortunately, she'd been too busy plotting her next move with Pendleton to pay them much mind. Faced with a direct question, however, she needed to reply.

"Different? In what way do you mean, Lady Castlebaugh?" she said with feigned innocence.

The middle-aged duchess gave a brittle laugh. "I merely meant to say that you must be unused to being surrounded by the gentler sex. 'Tis well known that you are popular amongst the gentlemen, my dear."

Coy looks spread around the circle, and one of the ladies, a petite, newlywed countess, turned bright pink.

Marianne returned the duchess' smile. "'Tis a problem, I'm afraid." She gave a flick to her skirts, noting the envious way several ladies eyed Amelie Rousseau's latest creation: the color of tender leaves, the airy muslin fitted sleekly to Marianne's upper torso before cascading into an unexpected celebration of tiered flounces. "Then again," she drawled, "I'd say 'tis a better problem than the opposite ... but for that I must solicit your opinion,
dear
Lady Castlebaugh."

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.