Her Protector's Pleasure (11 page)

"I'm goin' to gut the bastard. My dogs will 'ave 'is innards for supper."

The calmness of Black's declaration sent a shiver down Marianne's spine. But she said only, "The villain will be at Watson's Blacking factory at midnight."

"'E'll rue the day 'e crossed me. I never forget a wrong," Black growled as he rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I 'ave to go attend to the business."

Marianne exhaled. She'd secured Percy's safety. Now onto Rosie.

"I am not yet finished, Mr. Black," she said in dulcet tones.

His eyes thinned at her. "What do you want, then?"

"You said you never forget a wrong. Can I assume that you also never forget a favor?"

Black looked at her a minute. Then he let out a guffaw. "Nice try, my lady. No doubt you're a clever one. But I don't owe you nothin'."

She forced a smile. "But I came all the way to deliver those letters."

"For your own benefit as much as mine. A man doesn't get to the top by bein' a fool. Gavin Hunt set you up to this—'e wants me to 'elp defeat our common enemy so 'e can get 'is little chit back."

Marianne swallowed. "You know about Percy?"

"I know about everything that 'appens in the rookery," Black said flatly. "So don't go tryin' to pull the wool over my eyes, my lady."

So much for appealing to his self-interest. Onto the second line of attack. Now what is his Achilles' heel?

She rose and curtsied again. "You are not only powerful, but intelligent, Mr. Black. I should never presume to deceive you in any way."

He snorted, but she could tell her flattery pleased him. "Best that you don't."

"And it is precisely because you are so wise and influential that I wish to ask a boon of you," she said, keeping her eyes wide and guileless.

"Spit it out, then."

She drew another breath. "It concerns Kitty Barnes." Seeing the bushy brows lower again, she plunged on. "I understand that Mrs. Barnes owes you a vast debt and that she fled Town because of it. I would like to request that you allow her to return so that I may speak with her."

"What do you want with that blowsy bunter, eh?"

"'Tis a private matter."

"Private my arse. You're askin' me a favor, my lady—an' a big one at that." Black pointed the sparkling knob of his walking stick first at her, then at the door. "You'll tell me the nature o' your business, or you can take your leave."

He had her cornered; there was no place to run. Her only escape would be through the truth.

Through a constricted throat, she said, "Seven years ago, my husband stole my bastard daughter from me and sold her to Mrs. Barnes. Ever since his death, I've been searching for my little girl. Kitty Barnes was the last person seen with her."

Black's eyes widened. "Blimey. Your lord was a sick bastard, weren't 'e?"

"Indeed." Marianne released a breath. "Will you help me?"

"Why should I? Ain't none o' my business, is it."

Her heart plummeted. "You're a father, Mr. Black. You understand what it is to love a daughter. To do anything within your power to see her safe from harm."

Something flickered in his obsidian gaze. "Anything, you say?"

Marianne's mouth went dry. The third defense. No more lines left to cross. Her gaze flitted to the riding crops, and her insides quivered. She told herself that she could endure any depravity, no matter how despicable. She had survived years of Draven's abuse; what difference would it make to barter what remained of her tattered soul?

She was a woman with nothing left to lose ... and a child to regain.

"Anything," she said.

Black nodded. "Alright, then."

"Alright? Then you'll … help me?"

"I'll let that bitch Barnes drag 'er arse back. And I'll 'ave 'er brought to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Black." Inhaling back the tears of relief, Marianne forced herself to ask, "And what shall I offer in return?"

His black gaze did not waver. "Don't know as yet. But one day soon I'll come lookin' for my due, an' I'll 'ave your word that you'll fulfill your end o' the bargain."

A deal with the devil. Though her stomach churned, she didn't hesitate.

"You have it," she said.

ELEVEN

The gentleman waited in the shadows as the door swung open on creaky hinges. The cutthroat, who went by the name of Murdoch, staggered into the filthy hovel, bringing with him a malodorous mix of gin, urine, and God only knew what else. The gentleman fought the urge to bring a handkerchief to his nostrils. Instead, he struck a match and lit the tallow stub upon the table.

"What the bloody 'ell?" Murdoch squinted at the sudden light. "What're you doin' 'ere?"

The gentlemen rose, stretching his lips into a smile. "I came to check in on your progress. Haven't heard from you for days now, Murdoch. You took my gold but you've yet to produce results."

The cutthroat blinked bloodshot eyes. "It ain't like I 'aven't tried," he said, "but that Draven bitch is bloody 'ard to kill. She shot me—right in the arm!"

The big brute held up his left arm, which did indeed have a dirty-looking bandage wrapped around the jacket sleeve. A nasty crust had formed along the edges of the crude dressing. A shudder ran through the gentleman. Not so much at the other's festering wound, but at the failure.

You'll never amount to anything. You're just like your Papa—a disappointment through and through!

Though his pulse skittered, the gentleman shut out his mother's voice. The harridan was dead, Praise God. Now he answered to no one but himself.

"How unfortunate," he said. "When will you try again?"

With a sudden show of bravado, Murdoch slammed his bottle of blue ruin on the table. "When I get paid eno' for the job, that's when. I ain't riskin' my neck for naught, your lordship."

"I paid you fifty pounds."

"Ain't nothin' compared to what I suffered."

Seeing the greed in Murdoch's beady gaze, the gentleman stifled a sigh. He'd suspected it would come to this. He'd had to deal with a similar situation with Murdoch's predecessor; cutthroats were an unreliable bunch.

From his leather satchel, he removed a bottle of whiskey. He placed it upon the table along with two glasses he'd had the foresight to bring along. Murdoch's eyes widened, and the disgusting fellow actually licked his lips.

"What would be adequate recompense then?" the gentleman inquired as he poured out the fine spirits.

Murdoch's gaze remained glued to the stream of liquor. "One 'undred quid."

"Done. Shall we drink to it?" the gentlemen held out a glass.

A feral expression sharpened the cutthroat's face. "Answered that a might quickly, didn't you, guv? Know what that tells me?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"That you'd be willin' to pay a whole lot more. That maybe you've been sellin' me short all this time," Murdoch sneered. "Well, I'll 'ave my due."

"Fine. How much do you want?"

The cutthroat's forehead lined in concentration. Likely the brute had difficulty counting as high as his greed demanded. "A thousand quid," Murdoch said triumphantly.

"That's ridiculous," the gentleman snapped. "I'd never pay you such a sum."

"You will if you don't want it bandied 'bout that you 'ired me to kill Lady Draven," Murdoch said, chortling.

The gentleman's teeth ground together. He told himself to relax, that such strain was not good for his delicate stomach. Exhaling, he said, "So you mean to blackmail me?"

"Not if you pay as you should. A thousand quid an' not a penny less."

The gentleman considered his options. Sighing, he said, "Alright, you win. I'll have the money to you on the morrow."

A leering grin spread across Murdoch's face, and he reached for the glass. "I'll drink to that."

The gentleman raised his own cup. He had to wait less than a minute before Murdoch gasped, the latter's empty glass falling to the ground and shattering. The cutthroat's body followed, accompanied by gasps and gurgles. When all was silent, the gentleman crossed over to peer down at Murdoch's unseeing eyes. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot.

No movement—not ever again.

As the gentleman collected the whiskey and the remaining glass, he sighed again. Why was good help so difficult to find? In the end, one could trust no one but oneself, and he could only be grateful that the Lord had blessed him with an abundance of problem-solving abilities. He'd already worked out a new solution. To protect what was his, he would have to rid himself of Lady Marianne Draven once and for all ... and the blade was not the only answer.

To the contrary, there were weapons far more deadly.

Smiling with relief, he closed the door behind him and strolled out into the night.

TWELVE

"God's blood, those thievin' buggers 'ad more brains than I gave 'em credit for." Standing on the dock, the captain shook his head in disbelief at the pile of stolen goods that Ambrose's team of watermen had unloaded from the rowboat. "They fit all that on the bleedin' dinghy?"

Crouching, Ambrose showed him the boat's false bottom.

"Damnation, two or three grown men could fit in there!" the captain said.

"The thieves have a fleet of these lighters," Ambrose said. "They rob ships like yours, fill the hidden compartments with loot, then sail down the Thames in broad daylight."

The other man whistled. "The river's a safer place with you and your men surveying it." Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a coin purse. "My thanks, Mr. Kent."

"'Tis my duty to keep law and order on the Thames," Ambrose said. "No reward is necessary."

Though God knew he could use the coin. The rent on his family's cottage was coming due next week, and he was still short. Left with no choice, he'd have to sell his last possession: the volumes of philosophy that his father had given him when he'd joined the River Police. Samuel Kent had never quite approved of Ambrose's career choice.

Never forget that the pen is mightier than the sword
,
my boy
, he'd said with mild reproof.

But the sword paid the rent. At least it had, until Samuel's debt had come along.  

"Go on, take it." The purse dangled from the captain's fingers. "I insist."

Ambrose shook his head firmly—as much to himself as to the other man.

Grunting, the captain re-pocketed the money.

After ensuring that the recovered goods were in order, Ambrose took his leave of the grateful seaman. Mid-morning was his favorite time along the water, and on impulse he stopped at an empty spot along the pier and allowed himself to look out over the sparkling waves. For a few moments, the salt-tinged breeze and warmth of the sun chased away his worries and responsibilities. Overhead, gulls soared, their cries mournful and beautiful.

The memory of fire and violence blazed in his mind's eye. Two nights ago, they'd defeated the villains in a fierce battle and rescued Miss Fines from harm. The evening's most unexpected triumph, however, had been that of love over revenge: Gavin Hunt, the most ruthless hell owner in the stews, had declared his feelings for Miss Fines, proposing to her before all.

Now the two were engaged to be married.

Love was a mysterious thing. Ambrose shook his head in bemusement. All's well that ended well, except … His mood darkened as his thoughts returned yet again to Lady Marianne Draven.

That night, he'd been appalled that she meant to approach Bartholomew Black on her own. Worse yet, he'd been powerless to stop or protect her. If he'd tried to follow, his presence would have endangered her further—Black's dislike of those who enforced the law was well known. After her departure, Ambrose had convinced Hunt to send a pair of the latter's rookery-bred guards to discreetly follow her and defend her if need be.

With concern still gnawing at him, Ambrose had gone to assist in the rescue of Miss Fines. Black had showed up to save the day, and the cutthroat's assertion that Lady Draven had been safely deposited back at home did little to dispel Ambrose's disquiet. So he'd gone to her townhouse. With the aftermath of the fight still thrumming in his veins, the scent of blood and smoke saturating his senses, he hadn't trusted himself to be in her presence. At the best of times, she provoked him; God only knew what he would have been capable of at that moment.

Nonetheless, he'd had to see for himself that she was safe. From the shadows of an elm tree, he'd watched her first floor window. His vigil had been rewarded when her curtains parted. With her hair falling in pale, gleaming waves to her waist, she'd looked so young. She'd turned her flawless face up to the moon, and the silvery glow had revealed the sparkle of tears upon her smiling cheeks.

An expression of happiness enhanced anyone's beauty. On a woman already beautiful beyond measure, the effect had caused Ambrose's heart to stumble in his chest. For the first time, he'd seen Lady Marianne Draven stripped of her armor. Who knew that beneath that sophisticated skin lived such a poignant mix of joy and sorrow, such fragility? No wonder she'd roused his deepest male instincts, made him yearn to protect her from all ills.

What had triggered her bittersweet tears? What secrets was she hiding … and why?

What the bloody hell business is it of yours?

She'd pulled a pistol on him twice. Propositioned him as many times. All of it, he suspected, had been her way of putting him in his place. And she'd called
him
the snob! She'd enticed and infuriated him in equal turn. Standing beneath that blasted tree, he'd come to a decision: he must wash his hands of her before she distracted him further. Before she clouded his reason, his judgment. He had his family's troubles to contend with, and he could not waste his energy on selfish desires.

In the end, he'd waited until the light from her bedchamber extinguished. Then he'd made his way back to his room in Cheapside to toss and turn on his lumpy pallet. He hadn't been able to escape the memory of her panting beneath him, her sweet, spicy taste, the way her rosy nipple had puckered for his touch … and not even his conscience could prevent the inevitable conclusion then. Like an unschooled lad, he'd had to frig himself, his seed soaking the sheets whilst green eyes taunted him ...