Her Protector's Pleasure (12 page)

"Thought I'd find you here, Kent."

The hearty voice drew Ambrose from his thoughts. Flushing, he looked up to see Sir Coyner striding down the dock, the links of a pocket fob swaying and glinting in the sunlight. He observed the Bow Street magistrate's jolly expression and felt a sudden lift of hope.

He has good news. By God, let it be a job.

"You were looking for me, Sir Coyner?" he said.

"The magistrate at Wapping Station said you'd be here. Said you'd apprehended a gang of thieving lumpers and returned the goods to the rightful owners."

"With the help of my crew, sir."

"Modest as ever. Well, Kent, I have come to you with an offer."

Pausing, Coyner cast a glance around. The nearest boat was at least a dozen yards away, and with the hustle and bustle of dockside activity, Ambrose was certain no one could overhear their conversation. Nonetheless, sensing the other's hesitation, he said, "Shall I make an appointment at Bow Street, sir?"

"No, this place is better. Sometimes there is more privacy to be had in public than in the most guarded of offices. This is a sensitive case, and I trust I can depend upon your discretion." The magistrate gave him a stern look. "Your career and mine relies upon it."

"Yes, sir."

Coyner scrutinized him. "This isn't an easy assignment, Kent, but the remuneration is significant. Your share, should you accept, would be five hundred pounds."

Ambrose's breath stuttered.
Five hundred pounds 
… a veritable
fortune
. Enough to save his family from ruin and to see them settled comfortably for the years ahead.

"The case comes with specific conditions set by the client. These conditions are non-negotiable. Any violation will see you off the assignment,"—Coyner's pale blue eyes bored into him—"and I'll personally see to it that you never work for Bow Street or any other force again."

The threat made Ambrose's gut clench. He knew Coyner had the power to back those words. The risk was enormous … yet the reward even greater. Here, finally, was a way to give his family what they so desperately deserved. Security. A future.

"What are the conditions?" Ambrose said. "Can you tell me who the client is?"

Coyner shook his head. "Even I do not know the identity of our employer. All communications have been directed through his solicitor. In fact, the client specifically asked for a contract investigator—one with no ties to other Runners or the Bow Street office. Only you and I know about this case, Kent."

"Why the need for secrecy?"

"Fear of scandal, most likely. From what I know, the client is a member of the House of Lords. The threat is one involving national security."

The hairs rose upon Ambrose's neck. "Sir?"

"Anarchists, Kent," Coyner said grimly. "I always knew we hadn't heard the last of them. Like poisonous weeds, they're not easily eradicated; they remain dormant, waiting for the moment to take seed and pollute our good English soil. I can say no more without compromising the case; you now have sufficient information to make your decision. Will you accept this mission?"

A chance to save his family and defend his country. He couldn't ask for a more honorable, worthwhile endeavor—and surely he would regain his focus then. Surely this would put all the nonsense with Lady Draven out of his mind and behind him. In truth, his prayers had been answered.

"Count me in," Ambrose said without hesitation.

The men shook hands, sealing the bargain.

"I'll need you on full-time, and I'll work that out with your magistrate at Wapping Station. He owes me a favor," Coyner said. "When this is over, you'll return to your position with none the wiser."

Ambrose hoped Coyner had the leverage to ensure Dalrymple's cooperation.

"What are my specific tasks, sir?" he asked.

"The client provided the name of a suspected anarchist. Your job is to monitor said suspect and provide reports on all her movements."

"
Her
?" Ambrose said in surprise. "The suspect is a female?"

Sir Coyner gave a grim nod. "Not only that, but a baroness no less."

Ambrose's gut turned to ice.
No, it can't be—

"Your assignment, Mr. Kent, is to track Lady Marianne Draven."

THIRTEEN

It didn't take more than a sennight for Kitty Barnes to crop up in London. With Black's assistance, Marianne secured a meeting with the former bawd. The appointed location was the backroom of a scents shop, and as Marianne waited for Kitty to arrive, her eyes swept over the shelves of glass bottles that lined the windowless room. Mingled notes of musk and florals clung to her nostrils as she tapped her foot impatiently against the leg of the wooden chair.

Kitty Barnes came through the door minutes later, and Marianne found herself surprised by the other's appearance. In her mid-thirties, Mrs. Barnes was a handsome woman with smooth russet hair and light grey eyes. Her tastefully trimmed gown of dove grey showcased a well-kept figure. If one didn't know better, Mrs. Barnes might be mistaken for a gentlewoman and not the cold-hearted whoremonger she truly was.

"Lady Draven," Mrs. Barnes said in a cultured voice as she curtsied.

"Mrs. Barnes." Marianne inclined her head. She did not rise from the chair. In this exchange, she must retain the position of power. She'd dressed accordingly in a bold navy and ecru walking dress styled
à
la militaire. "Thank you for coming."

Mrs. Barnes' lips bent in a wry curve. "It seems I did not have much choice in the matter. You have powerful friends, my lady."

"You know why I summoned you," Marianne said. "Where is my daughter?"

In response, a muscle twitched alongside the other woman's mouth. Ice percolated through Marianne's veins, numbing her already cold hands.

Mrs. Barnes cleared her throat. "Lord Draven and I had a deal. He promised me fifty pounds a month to care for the girl. And I held up my end of the bargain. I looked after her like she was my own—"

"Where is she, Mrs. Barnes?"

"Out of the blue, the payments stopped coming. I tried to contact Lord Draven, but never heard back."

"He died," Marianne said flatly. "The only evidence that the blighter had a heart was when it failed him. Now where is my child?"

Mrs. Barnes' throat bobbed. "I had my own troubles. For reasons you already know, I couldn't afford to dally in Town." She licked her lips. "And I couldn't afford to keep the girl with me."

"You sold Primrose." Marianne said the words without inflection, though inside, oh inside … After Corbett's warning, she'd thought herself prepared for this eventuality. For one of the worst nightmares a mother could know. Yet fear eviscerated—and the grief made her wild.

The bawd took an instinctive step backward at what she must have seen in Marianne's gaze.

"To whom?" Marianne said in a frigid voice.

"I don't know his name—"

"
To whom, you bloody bitch.
"

Marianne was on her feet in the next instant, her pistol aimed between the other's shocked eyes. Bottles of scent rattled as Mrs. Barnes cowered against a shelf. "I n-never met the gentleman," she whimpered. "The transaction was completed through his solicitor—Leach was his name. Reginald Leach."

Marianne's breath burned in her lungs. "Where can I find Leach?"

"H-he has offices near the Inns of Court." The bawd's voice wobbled. "He said his client meant to take good care of Primrose. That she would have a good home."

"What kind of depraved lecher would
purchase
a child? Did you have any doubt as to what the pervert intended?" Bile rose in Marianne's throat. "Not that you gave a damn, did you? Because you got what you wanted. A handful of coins for selling my daughter to the highest bidder."

"I-I had no choice. I couldn't keep her. My debts—"

Rage splintered Marianne's vision. For one blazing moment, she considered putting a hole through the madam. To make Kitty Barnes suffer for what she'd done.

But that would not help Rosie. Last night, Marianne had dreamed of her daughter in the garden again. Only this time, Rosie had been playing a game of hide-and-seek, her laughter merry, her corn-silk ringlets bobbing just out of Marianne's reach. Then Marianne had seen the stormy skies ahead, and helpless fear had climbed in her as she'd watched her daughter skip heedlessly toward the descending darkness.

Come back, Rosie!
she'd shouted.
Don't go! Wait for Mama ...

Marianne's finger trembled on the trigger of the pistol. She told herself not to do anything foolish. She needed Barnes alive; the bawd was the last known link to Rosie.

"Did you inform your buyer of my daughter's true identity?" she demanded.

Barnes shook her head. "I—I said Primrose was an orphan. An opera singer's bastard."

"You had better pray that I find my girl alive and well. Because if I don't, I will come to you again," Marianne vowed. She lowered her weapon. "And whatever Black had planned for you is nothing compared to what I will do."

Mrs. Barnes paled, her chest rising and falling in shallow waves.

Turning on her heels, Marianne left the shop. Lugo jumped from his perch.

"Success, my lady?" he said as he opened the carriage door.

Marianne's fingernails bit into her palms. "We will be making a visit to the offices of Reginald Leach this evening."

She had no illusions regarding the likelihood of Leach's cooperation. Solicitors made their fortunes from discretion; Leach would no more offer up his client's name than he would shower his gold upon the streets. Besides, what man would admit to being an accomplice in the illegal purchase of a child? No, her best option was to search his office herself.

"You are engaged with the Hartefords tonight," Lugo reminded her.

Dash it. She'd forgotten the supper party to celebrate Percy's safe return and unexpected engagement to Gavin Hunt. Marianne did want to ascertain that the chit was doing well, and her absence at this late hour would be remarked upon.

It mattered naught. She could accomplish both tasks this eve.

She stepped into the carriage. "We'll stop by the Hartefords first and depart before midnight. So you know, our mission afterward will require discretion." Tucking her skirts around her, she gave her manservant a meaningful look. "I trust you will make the necessary preparations."

"I make it a habit to always be prepared," Lugo said.

*****

That night, Ambrose climbed the steps to the grand Palladian residence, his sense of foreboding deepening.
What the devil am I doing?
The refrain had played in his head ever since he'd accepted the assignment from Coyner.

The conflict in him burgeoned, and when he reached the door, his hand hesitated at the bell. He told himself that the reasons for accepting the case were clear. He had to think of his family; by taking on this case, he could uphold his responsibilities and the deathbed promise he'd made to his stepmother.

Take care of your brother and sisters, Ambrose
, Marjorie had whispered.
They'll need you now more than ever.

He had a duty to his country as well. Whatever small part he could play in protecting the welfare of its citizens must be done. In sum, he could not allow whatever personal feelings he might have toward Lady Marianne to get in the way of doing what was right. His ethics had, however, prodded him to inform Sir Coyner that he was acquainted with the subject.

The Bow Street magistrate had frowned. "What is the nature of your association?"

"We have met on two occasions." Being a gentleman, Ambrose couldn't say more—and what more was there to say, really? He and Lady Draven had no relationship, no ties; last night, he'd vowed to himself to steer clear of any future involvement. "She is a friend of the Marchioness of Harteford, with whom I am acquainted."

"Will this compromise your ability to carry out your duties?" Sir Coyner had asked.

Ambrose would not allow it to. He was a man without much in the way of money, looks, or power; the one thing he could pride himself on was his sound judgment. His logic had always held sway over his desires.

"No, sir," he'd said firmly. "Upon my honor, I will do my utmost to uncover the truth."

"I see no problem, then," the other man had replied. "In fact, your acquaintance with the suspect and the Hartefords may prove a boon. It may offer you opportunities to get closer to her."

Which was why Ambrose had accepted the Hartefords' unorthodox invitation to supper. Under normal circumstances, he'd rather undertake a visit to the tooth-drawer than mingle with a class so different from his own. Yet after a futile few days of trailing Lady Marianne—which had yielded nothing more telling than visits to several elite shops on Bond Street—he knew he needed to step up his strategy.

If he'd felt relieved at the lack of suspicious behavior on her part, he tucked that feeling away. His job was to remain neutral, to collect evidence with an objective eye. Coyner's facts ran through his head: Lady Draven kept company with bawds and cutthroats, people who thrived on anarchy and violence. Her constant companion was an African manservant; William Davidson, one of the Cato Street conspirators, had hailed from Jamaica. She eschewed society's rules and lived by her own.

To Ambrose, all of this was circumstantial evidence and no proof of any wrongdoing. Yet he could not deny that in his own dealings with Lady Marianne she'd shown herself to be clever, unscrupulous—and capable of shooting a man. His arm still bore the mark. And, in his gut, he knew she harbored a secret; he prayed that it did not involve anti-establishment activities.

Having dallied long enough, Ambrose pressed the bell. The door swung open to reveal the butler, whose brows inched up a fraction at the sight of him. Ambrose wondered if he was going to be directed to the entrance at the back of the building.

Before he could open his mouth to explain that he'd been invited, the butler ushered him inside. "Good evening, Mr. Kent. Lord and Lady Harteford are expecting you," the head servant intoned. "May I take your coat, sir?"