Her Protector's Pleasure (32 page)

With dusk bleeding overhead, Ambrose trudged along, his mind and heart a fracas. At least now he knew why Marianne had bolted. Somehow she'd discovered his one-time assignment with Bow Street. She'd gone to confront Sir Coyner, and the magistrate must have confirmed Ambrose's involvement.

Devil take it, how had Ambrose made such a shambles of things? His good intentions—his desire to safeguard both Marianne and his family—had proved the old adage. He'd landed himself in hell. Because of his pride, his arrogance in believing that he could take responsibility for everything, he'd ended up hurting everyone he cared about.

He tried to reason it out: he had to find Marianne, to somehow explain that he hadn't told her the truth because he'd known how she would react. He didn't want her to push him away because he wanted to protect her, to find her daughter. In other words ... he'd lied to her for her own good.

He cringed.
Bleeding hell.

How on earth had he convinced himself that this was a good idea?

Given all that Marianne suffered at the hands of men, he couldn't blame her for hating him, for wanting nothing to do with him. Hell, he knew he didn't deserve her trust.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Perhaps he'd do better to visit Coyner first and try to make amends there. Because if he didn't, his livelihood was lost. The tide he'd kept at bay battered at his defenses. He could practically feel the cold, black water closing over his head.

If you don't, the family will suffer. Em, Father, all the little ones—they'll be on the streets. All because of your failings.

"Mr. Kent! Hold up!"

The low, chuffing voice cut into his bleak thoughts. He turned to see a short, scruffy man in a weather-beaten hat hurrying toward him.

"Trout?" Ambrose said, frowning. "What can I do for you?"

"'Tis what
I
can do for
you
." Looking this way and that, Willy Trout said, "Found that cove you're lookin' for."

Ambrose stiffened. Trout had located Skinner, the Runner who had accosted Marianne?

"Where is he?" he said tersely.

"Like you said, a man never strays far from 'is 'abits. 'E's got a friend wot owns a flash house near Bottom's End. Close to all 'is vices—whores an' gin 'ouses." Shaking his head, Trout wiped his tattered sleeve under his nose. "'E's 'iding from something, that's for certain."

"Why do you say that?"

"Changed 'is name. Goes by Tanner now." Trout rolled his eyes. "An' what from I 'ear, e's more skittish than a virgin on 'er weddin' night. Best 'ave a care if you mean to pay 'im a visit."

Skinner was the one who needed to watch out.

Even if Ambrose's relationship with Marianne was beyond repair, this was one thing he could do for her. The only thing within his power to do that would protect her. He'd failed her once—he'd not do so again.

His hands flexed, bunching at his sides.

"Take me to the bastard," he said.

*****

Aptly named, Bottom's End occupied one of the most wretched corners of the stews. Though the cloak of night had not completely fallen, vice already flourished in the fetid streets. Pimps occupied every corner, their expressions calculating as their whores cooed out invitations to all passersby. Drunkards stumbled in and out of the taverns, and the stench of spirits and detritus mingled sickly in the dank, stifling mist. Nothing clean or fresh penetrated the maze of narrow streets.

From an alleyway, Ambrose and Trout monitored the back of the flash house.

"Skinner should be comin' out any minute. Keeps a regular schedule, that one," Trout said.

Like clockwork, a figure staggered from the flash house. He glanced around, and apparently detecting no threats, steadied himself against the wall with one hand and unfastened his trousers with the other. Grunting, he began to relieve himself.

"That him?" Ambrose said in disgust.

Trout squinted into the darkness. Gave an affirmative.

Silently, Ambrose handed Trout a bag of coins.

Instead of taking the money, Trout tipped his hat. "This one's on the 'ouse, sir. Consider it a return for lookin' out for my brother," he said in a low voice.

"'Twas my duty—"

But Trout had melted into the darkness. Bemused, Ambrose re-pocketed the money and returned his attention fully to Skinner, who was still going strong. Devil take it, how much had the sot had to drink? After a few more shakes and grunts, Skinner tucked himself in and teetered north. Ambrose took pursuit.

Skinner wove down a lane crowded with barrows and people. The throng gave Ambrose easy cover; whenever Skinner paused, casting a bleary and furtive gaze behind him, Ambrose simply turned to inspect a display of goods or bent his head as if speaking to another in the melee. People were too half-seas over to even question a stranger talking to them, and Ambrose received several friendly slaps on the back. Finally, Skinner turned right, disappearing between two narrow tenements.

Counting to ten, Ambrose followed.

The air was choked by smoke from open grates attended by figures pickled in misery. Ambrose blinked, trying to see through the haze. He caught a movement—the tail end of Skinner's greatcoat disappearing down steps. Ambrose navigated past the homeless wretches to the place where he'd seen his suspect go. A basement tenement—a place for the lowest of the low.

Muscles coiling, Ambrose descended into deeper darkness. His grip tightened on his wooden truncheon as he found the rotting door ajar, pushed it open. Pitch coated his vision. His other senses flashed alive, the pressure in his veins building—he felt the movement before he saw it. He dodged on instinct, going low and kicking out.

He heard Skinner curse, the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. The next instant Ambrose was atop his assailant. The other man struggled, grappling with considerable strength. A violent blow connected with Ambrose's shoulder, sending his truncheon flying. Ambrose held on, pinning the other by the neck. Panting, he raised a fist and plowed it into his opponent's jaw.

Skinner groaned, and Ambrose did it again. And again.

When the fight finally left the bastard, Ambrose reached for the pistol in his boot. He cocked it, the deadly click letting the other know he meant business. Rising, he kept his weapon aimed at the moaning figure whilst he found a lamp on the nearby table and lit it.

Shadows licked the walls of the squalid den, and Ambrose got a clear look at Skinner for the first time. With heavy jowls and a balding head, the rotter resembled a monstrous babe as he lay curled on his side, whimpering. A dark trail trickled from his nose. Rage boiled in Ambrose's veins at the thought of Skinner threatening Marianne, propositioning her. His grip on the pistol tightened.

Skinner's beady gaze widened at the sight of the weapon.

"Don't hurt me, please," the bastard gasped. "Whatever he's paying you, I'll give you double. Just don't hurt me."

Ambrose narrowed his eyes. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"I know
he
sent you."

Skinner licked his lips, smearing the blood that had dripped there. He rose on his knees, and Ambrose took aim at the other's heart.

"Move another inch, and I'll shoot," Ambrose warned.

A pleading look crossed Skinner's features, his posture one of supplication rather than threat. "I won't tell a soul, I swear it on my mother's grave. Tell him I won't. His secret is safe with me."

A sudden premonition snaked down Ambrose's spine. "Tell me his name."

Skinner trembled, his gaze flitting left and right. "Are you testing me? If anyone asks, I won't breathe a word, I swear. About him and Leach. Tell him his name will never leave my lips. Just please don't kill me," he sobbed.

Ambrose brought the pistol between Skinner's eyes.

"For the last time, give me his bleeding name," he said.

THIRTY-FOUR

Two days later, Marianne took the note from the footman and closed the door to the guest bedchamber. She scanned the brief lines.

"What does it say, my lady?" Tilda asked.

Marianne crumpled the paper. "Pendleton wants to meet me. At a clearing just beyond the woods."

Standing next to Tilda, Lugo shook his dark head. "'Tis a trap, my lady. Far too dangerous. Look what almost happened in his study—"

"I must go," Marianne said, though her heart thumped. "Hiding from Pendleton is not going to get me Rosie back. I came here to find her—and find her I will."

"Perhaps you ought to think twice, my lady." In an unusual move, Tilda cast her vote with Lugo. "There must be another way. Maybe we can get into the earl's study again …"

Marianne shook her head. "Pendleton now has a footman stationed there around the clock. And I am certain that whatever he had hidden in that globe is long gone. No, time is running out. I must confront him before he grows too suspicious and tosses me out."

From the cold glances he'd given her over supper last night, she was certain that if she continued to avoid him, he was not going to allow her to remain much longer. The summons to the meadow was his move. She knew she would either have to play … or go home.

Resolve bolstered her spine. Like hell she would back down. But she wasn't a fool either. Since the near disaster in the study, she'd revised her strategy. In retrospect, she'd realized that she hadn't been in her most rational mindset coming to Pendleton's—and she put the fault for that squarely on Ambrose Kent's shoulders. His betrayal had unmoored her, driven her to act recklessly. Though she could now see the danger inherent in her situation, there was no turning back.

The time for seductive wiles was over. She had to confront Pendleton and back it up with a show of force. She'd give him no choice but to admit the truth.

"You cannot meet Pendleton alone," Lugo insisted.

"I won't go unaccompanied." Going to the armoire, she removed the wooden carrying case tucked beneath her undergarments. She flipped the lid and removed the pearl-handled pistol. "I'll be bringing a companion."

Lugo shook his dark head. "And if the earl doesn't tell you what you want to know? Will you use it, then? Shoot a peer of the realm?"

"I'll do what needs to be done," she said evenly.

"Oh, my lady," Tilda said, wringing her hands, "you could hang for that!"

"I have no choice." Marianne slid the pistol into the hidden pocket of her cerise skirts. Seven years she'd spent grieving, and she couldn't stand a minute more. Her life wasn't worth ashes without Primrose …

And Ambrose.

The unbidden addition perforated her defenses, released a hot, raw feeling beneath her breastbone.
Do not go there. Do. Not.

"Actually, you do, my lady. Have a choice, I mean." Shifting on his feet, Lugo coughed into his fist. "There is something I should tell you."

She had a feeling she wasn't going to like it, whatever it was. She raised a brow, waited.

The manservant blew out a breath. "You could wait for Mr. Kent. He will help you."

"We've been through this before. I cannot trust—" Something in Lugo's shifting stance cut her off. A pounding started in her ears. "What do you mean
wait
for Kent?"

"I sent him word," Lugo muttered.

"You did
what
?"

"After the incident in Pendleton's study, I saw no choice. You are not yourself—not of a clear mind." He crossed his burly arms. "You need assistance, my lady, whether you like it or not. I sent the message two days ago. Mr. Kent should be arriving at any moment."

Bloody hell. Et tu, Lugo?

"And how exactly does your disloyalty serve me?" she said with furious disbelief.

"Lugo was only trying to help—" Tilda began.

"I serve you to the best of my ability," Lugo said, his gaze narrowed, "and that is why I contacted Mr. Kent. In my eyes, the man has proved himself. Whatever your current misunderstanding, he has protected you time and again. Yet you swear him off so easily."

That stung. "He was the one who betrayed
me
, the one who was lying—"

"Mr. Kent does not seem to me a man to lie without reason. Why do you not stop to think why he might have done so?"

Despite the faithless flutter in her chest, she steeled herself. She had an excellent reason not to mull over Kent's myriad possible defenses: she did not trust herself. The humiliating, reprehensible truth was that her judgment concerning men had proven her downfall. She'd been lied to, betrayed by the opposite sex too many times to count, and she had no one to blame but herself. 'Twas her weakness, her Achilles' heel—the very failing that had cost her Primrose.

And it would be so easy to succumb to Kent once again. To listen to his explanations, to open her weak and traitorous heart to him ...

"There is no excuse for deception," she said, her jaw clenching.

Lugo's gaze remained steady. "Because you have been burned before, you run at any sign of smoke. Your fear threatens your judgment in this instance. You do not ask who sent you the note about Kent's connection to Bow Street, nor do you stop to wonder why. What motive—"

"Whoever sent that note did me a favor! The fact is Kent
was
spying on me for Bow Street. Sir Coyner confirmed it."

How could she have let herself trust again? Shame clawed at her, her head throbbing with the effort to keep her failures caged. To keep the beasts of the past at bay. Yet their talons sliced into her anyway, the truth trickling darkly through.

You stupid doxy!
Her father's florid face, his heavy fist.
You've made your bed, and you will damn well sleep in it …
Draven's sneering features, his fingernails digging into her scalp.
You're nothing but a worthless whore. Your daughter is paying for your sins.
And the deal with the devil himself, Bartholomew Black:
One day soon I'll come lookin' for my due
 … Her head whirled as Skinner's, other male faces bled into one …
Stupid cunt, you'll do as I say—submit to me …