Her Protector's Pleasure (7 page)

"You are a true gentleman, Mr. Corbett," she said steadily, "and I cannot thank you enough."

His face reddened. "Good afternoon, Lady Draven."

A few moments later, Marianne heard the front door opening and closing. Amelie Rousseau came into the dressing room, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.

"
Comment ça va, ma chère?
"

"
Bien. Tout est bien
," Marianne said softly.

And all
would
be well—as soon as she paid a visit to Bartholomew Black. Determination lifted her chin. Black might be the stew's most formidable villain, but he hadn't met
her
yet.

SEVEN

Ambrose entered the spacious office above the warehouse. Large windows framed the view of the West India docks, the water itself hidden beneath the crowded field of ships. Despite the early hour, lumpers marched along the wharves, conducting the flow of cargo to and from the vessels with the single-mindedness of ants. Light filtered through the morning fog and sparkling glass, gleaming off the dark head of the man who rose from behind the large desk.

Ambrose bowed. "Good morning, my lord."

Nicholas Morgan, the Marquess of Harteford, gave him a wry look. "Good might be an exaggeration," he said. "But it is morning, and I must thank you for coming this early, Kent. Especially after your assistance with Miss Fines last evening."

"'Twas my duty, my lord," Ambrose said.

Which wasn't precisely true. The Thames River Police did not typically concern itself with the affairs of young misses gone astray. But when the Marquess of Harteford—noted patron of said policing force—had requested help in retrieving a close family friend from a potentially ruinous situation last night, the Chief Magistrate had been more than willing to send Ambrose and as many Thames River constables as Harteford needed.

Not that Ambrose had minded. He was grateful for Harteford's support of the River Police, and, more than that, he respected the man. Despite his wealth and position, the marquess was no snob—unlike certain other titled personages. Ambrose's jaw clenched as the mocking, beautiful visage flared in his head as it had done so many times in the past three days. With gritty resolve, he pushed aside the lowering memory and focused on the present. The marquess was watching him with sharp grey eyes honed by an unorthodox upbringing in the stews.

"Duty or not, you have done me a favor," Harteford said, "and I plan to show my appreciation to you and the force."

Though Ambrose's shoulders tensed at the mention of money, his ethics would not allow him to take beyond what he'd earned. "I have been amply rewarded through your patronage of the River Police, my lord." Before the other man could argue, he added, "And how is Miss Fines faring?"

Harteford's expression grew stark, grooves deepening around his mouth. "The truth is, Kent, I remain concerned for her safety. Though we intervened before any … irrevocable damage had been done"—the marquess dragged a hand through his silver-shot hair—"that blackguard Gavin Hunt has her under his spell." In the ensuing silence, ghosts flitted through Harteford's eyes. He went to the window, staring out into the fog. "And I think you and I both know who Hunt is to me."

Three years ago, Harteford had confided a part of his past to Ambrose. The marquess had survived a dark childhood, and not even his current power and position had dispelled its horrors completely. In particular, he remained haunted by the memory of a boy whom he'd wronged; in hopes of making amends, he'd entrusted Ambrose with the task of investigating the fate of that nameless urchin. But Ambrose's best efforts had yielded only dead ends.

Now it seemed Harteford's childhood ghost had suddenly returned—no longer a helpless boy, but a powerful man hell-bent on revenge. It seemed Gavin Hunt meant to hurt the marquess by seducing Miss Persephone Fines, Harteford's sister in heart if not in blood. Last night, Ambrose and Harteford had arrived at Hunt's gaming hell to find Miss Fines; they'd been greeted by a scene of chaos. Hunt had suffered an attack by rival club owners, and Miss Fines had been caught in the thick of things. Luckily, she'd been unhurt—in a physical sense, at least. Her broken heart might prove a different matter. Though Ambrose had not been privy to the exchange that followed between her, Harteford, and Hunt, he could guess that it had been painful.

Betrayal invariably was.

"I see now that any notion of restitution was foolish," Harteford said, his voice bleak. "Hunt has every right to avenge himself against me. But I cannot allow him to do so by hurting Miss Fines." He turned, his hands curled at his sides. "That is why I summoned you today, Kent. I have yet another favor to ask of you."

"Yes, my lord?"

"I need you to keep an eye on Miss Fines. I fear Hunt will try to contact her, and I must have her protected from him until this matter is resolved. If you are willing, I will clear my request with your superiors at Wapping Station."

Ambrose inclined his head. "I am at your service, my lord."

"Thank you, Kent. I am glad for your support." Clasping his hands behind his back, Harteford looked out the window again and into the darkening sky. "I fear a storm brews ahead."

*****

The following morning, Ambrose reflected that his mission might not be as simple as it had first sounded. How difficult could it be to accompany a young heiress on her daily activities? Yet ensconced in a well-sprung carriage with Harteford's quasi-sister, Miss Persephone Fines, Ambrose quickly realized his error. Behind the pretty countenance and innocent eyes lay a miss with a strong will and mind of her own.

He should know: he had four young sisters himself.

In fact, something of Miss Fines' fresh beauty reminded him of Emma. His throat tightened as he thought of the eldest of his sisters. At sixteen, Emma had too much on her shoulders. With their father ill and Ambrose away earning the family's keep, poor Em was left with the day-to-day running of the Kent household. Though she'd never once complained and seemed to tackle all tasks with boundless energy, Ambrose wished a different life for her. One filled with balls and shopping, whatever a girl would enjoy.

His chest constricted. Another brick dropped into the sack upon his shoulders. It was up to
him
to provide for Emma and all his family, and he was failing in that task.

"Mr. Kent, might I solicit your advice on a matter?" Miss Fines' cheerful voice distracted him from the downward spiral of his thoughts.

He gave a curt nod.

"I'm wondering how one might locate the whereabouts of a criminal," she said.

For a moment, he stared at her heart-shaped face, her guileless blue eyes. His lips twitched. Firming them, he said, "Are you indeed?"

Her gaze darted briefly to the side before returning to his. A telltale sign of deception to any investigator worth his salt.

"It's for my novel," she continued. "One of the characters is, um …"—her brief hesitation was another giveaway—"a detective. And he needs to search out a villain from the past."

As she continued to spin her tale, Ambrose bit back a smile. It took a spirited girl to try to pump information from an experienced policeman. Entertained by her imagination, he listened as she rambled on. In this trait, she more resembled his middle sister, Violet, who, too, possessed a flair for drama.

Ultimately, however, he could not allow Miss Fines to believe that she could interfere in the business between Lord Harteford and Gavin Hunt. By the sound of things, she still thought herself head over heels for Hunt, even though the man clearly meant to use her for his own ends. The bastard deserved to be strung up for involving an innocent in his plot for revenge.

So in a gentle yet firm manner, Ambrose informed Miss Fines that she must, in a nutshell, stay clear of the matter. She sighed and turned to face the window, her hand reaching to fiddle with the unusual quill-shaped brooch upon her frock. In silence, they reached their destination. Hatchard's was a popular bookstore on Piccadilly frequented by many members of the upper and middling classes. Ambrose alighted from the carriage first.

"Wait here, if you please, Miss Fines," he said. "I shall return in a moment."

His gaze swept the territory. He saw no trouble, but he posted two of his men at the entrance to be certain. Inside, he did a quick check of the rows of bookshelves and detected nothing suspicious. He found a door hidden at a back corner of the shop; jiggling the lock, he found it secure. Satisfied, he returned to the carriage and escorted his charge inside.

"I am going to browse around," Miss Fines announced, "and there's no use following me through the stacks. Perhaps you'd care to wait for me at an assigned place?"

Seeing the pucker of impatience on her brow, Ambrose debated the best plan. He decided not to push his luck. From his experience with his sisters, he knew that pushing too hard led to the inevitable resistance. Besides, he could survey most of the store from the central point by the fireplace. Posted outside, his men had been given a likeness of Gavin Hunt and would nab the bastard if he tried to step foot into the shop.

"I'll be here if you need me," Ambrose said.

He stifled a snort of amusement as Miss Fines bounded off like a hare released from a trap. He kept a watchful eye on her straw bonnet, seeing the tip of its white plume float over the top of the shelves. Around him, gentlemen sat in overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, their newspapers rustling as they perused the pages. The notion of such leisure was foreign to Ambrose. He enjoyed reading—his father had taught all the children their letters at an early age—but his life left scant time for such luxury.

At the age of sixteen, Ambrose had left school to support his family. Father had protested, of course; whilst a brilliant scholar and philosopher, Samuel had never been a very practical man. There'd been babes to feed, and Ambrose's duty to protect his new siblings far outweighed his personal desires. Between him and his sensible stepmother, Marjorie, they'd managed to keep the Kent brood thriving.

Ambrose continued to track his charge's bobbing white feather through the shop. Miss Fines passed by another lady, and the platinum curls bouncing at the sides of the latter's bonnet snagged his attention. As if she sensed his regard, the lady in question turned; her square countenance creased, and her small eyes formed slits of suspicion.

Ambrose looked away, cursing himself.

Devil and damn, why couldn't he get Lady Marianne Draven out of his head?

She was like some dangerous drug in his blood. Every time he thought himself rid of her poison, something would remind him of her, and a feverish, wicked desire would escalate within him. His rational mind knew this yearning was pointless. And potentially destructive, for she roused a part of him—a lustful, bestial presence—that was at jarring odds with his principles.

Though not a gentleman by class, he was a man of honor, and he believed in treating the fairer sex with respect. At two-and-thirty, he'd had a handful of lovers: experienced women who'd taught him about female pleasure. Jane, a widow, had enticed him into her bed during their engagement—not that it had taken much enticing. He'd always enjoyed a woman's desire, the soft, lush response that let him know he was doing things right. Unlike some men, he'd looked forward to the marital bed. To making love with his wife and exploring intimacies that could only be found with one's gentle lady.

Never, ever had he lost control with Jane or any other woman. He'd never experienced the urge to tear the clothes from Jane's body. To grasp her hair in his palms and back her against a wall. To shove himself so hard and deep inside her that nothing but desire remained in her eyes. He'd never craved to see his own self reflected in her glassy, wanton gaze as he pounded into her, rooted himself in her sweet sex so thoroughly she could only pant his name—

"Beg pardon, sir."

With a start, Ambrose realized a gentleman was attempting to get by him. That, and the fact that his shaft had begun to stiffen in his smalls. With a silent curse, he stepped aside and vowed to banish Marianne Draven from his thoughts once and for all. No good could come of such wickedness. Though he had little to call his own, he could count self-discipline and good sense amongst his holdings.

Resolved, he checked in on his charge. The hairs on his nape prickled when no jaunty white feather came into view. He pushed past the startled man whom he'd just let by and began going through the aisles. He told himself Miss Fines had likely bent to examine a book on some lower shelf.

He raced past shelf after shelf. No sign of her anywhere.

It couldn't have been more than three minutes since you saw her last. Think, man. She has to be here somewhere.

A sudden chill raced up his spine, and he raced to the back corner of the shop. The door—the one he'd believed was locked—swung open on its hinges. He pushed through; the alleyway was shadowed and empty, nothing untoward …

Except for the single white plume lying in the dirt.

EIGHT

"Is everything quite alright, Marianne?"

The gentle voice returned Marianne to the elegant cameo blue drawing room. Helena, Marchioness of Harteford, sat on an adjacent curricle chair, a notch between her chestnut brows. Though she was fond of Helena, Marianne did not like the hint of worry in the other's wide hazel eyes. The last thing she needed was for her friend to pry into her affairs.

She'd written Bartholomew Black and received a scrawled reply this morning:
Her Ladyship will be received by Mr. Black at ten o'clock sharp Friday night.
Thinking of the plan she'd set into action, Marianne felt her pulse quicken. Tomorrow evening, she would be bartering with a cutthroat for Primrose's life.

At the moment, however, she had to get through tea.

"Everything is fine," she said lightly. "You needn't count me amongst your chicks, Mother Hen."

Helena's porcelain cheeks turned pink. "'Tis a habit, I suppose. Not that it seems to do me any good." She cast an exasperated look at her twin boys, who were currently busy taking apart the pianoforte. "I do so hate to disturb their explorations of the world, but at times their energy seems quite limitless. Perhaps I should take a firmer hand."