Her Protector's Pleasure (2 page)

"My lady," he said in accents clearly polished through elocution lessons, "has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"

Only about every man I've ever met.
The inanity was hardly surprising. From what Marianne had gleaned, Corbett's fame had little to do with his wit.

"How kind of you," she said. "Consider the compliment returned."

"Thank you," he said, preening. "We are a pair, are we not?"

A silence ensued, during which Marianne wondered if she was expected to continue this idiotic game of dousing the butter boat. Surely not. Suddenly, Corbett reached out and ran a finger along her upper arm; beneath her sleeve, her skin crawled. She jerked away.  

"Skittish, are we?" he murmured. "Never fear, fair lady. Corby's got a gentle touch."

Corby's going to lose a hand if he touches me again.

"I'd like a drink, if you please," she said, keeping her voice even.

"Whatever the lady wishes." Winking at her, he sauntered on long legs over to the bucket of champagne. He filled two flutes and carried them to the tent. "Shall we make ourselves more comfortable?" he said, nodding toward the cushions.

"I am perfectly comfortable where I am." Seeing the uncertainty ripple across his features, she warned herself to rein it in. In a softer tone, she said, "Could we talk for a few minutes?"

Doubt clouded his gaze. "About what?"

"I'd like to know more about you. 'Tis difficult for a lady to be at ease with a stranger ... even if he is as handsome as sin." Marianne made a moue, a coquettish gesture designed to lay waste to male defenses.

Corbett brightened immediately. He came over and handed her a glass of the champagne. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, my love."

She sipped, pretending to ponder. "Have you been here long?"

"Three years, give or take."

"And you enjoy ... your work?" she said delicately.

Color spread over his perfect cheekbones.
Interesting—so he's not quite as debonair as he appears.
She tucked the information away for later.

"What's not to enjoy when I get to spend time in the company of a lady as lovely as yourself, eh?" he said lightly.

Well turned. Her opinion of Corbett rose—which made her proceed with greater caution. "And before Mrs. Wilson? What were you doing then?" she said innocently.

He blinked. "This and that. Nothing of import." Downing his champagne, he set the glass aside. "Now why don't you let me show you—"

She stepped out of his reach and made the calculation. No more pretenses; time to hit the nail directly on the head. "But, you see, your time with Kitty Barnes
is
of import to me," she said in a low yet clear voice. "And it is the reason I am here tonight."

The color drained from his face. His eyes darted to the peep holes, his brows shooting up at the sight of the velvet buffers.

"I've ensured our privacy," she said.

"Who are you?" he said. "What do you want?"

"I want to know where Kitty Barnes is," she said.

"I—I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were with her for several years, albeit under a different name. By all the accounts, the two of you shared a connection beyond that of employer and employee. Then Kitty disappeared three years ago—the most infamous and successful bawd of her time
gone
"—Marianne snapped her fingers—"as if she never existed. I want to know where she is."

"Why? Because she owes you blunt?" Some hidden reserve lifted Corbett's chin. "Well, get in queue. But you and the rest of the cutthroats and moneylenders are bound for disappointment. Kitty's not coming back. I don't know where she is, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

"You think this is about a thing as paltry as money?" Fury thrumming in her veins, Marianne removed a folded piece of parchment from her reticule. She held it up to Corbett's face.

"What the devil is that?" he said, trying to push her away.

She did not budge. "A receipt. For my
daughter
."

Corbett stilled. In that instant, a spasm gripped Marianne's heart: hope fiercer than pain. He
knew
something.

"I found this amongst my husband's belongings after he died. The date lines up with when he kidnapped my daughter Primrose—stole her from her nursery where she lay sleeping." Grief and rage made Marianne's hand tremble as she held the receipt higher, reciting the words branded into memory.

"
To Baron Draven: Your package and the five hundred pounds have been received. As discussed, monthly payments of fifty pounds will be required for its ongoing care. Your servant, Kitty Barnes.
" Marianne's breath burned in her lungs. "That
package
was my daughter. And I will have her back."

Corbett stared at her. "But I don't ... understand. Why would your husband kidnap his own daughter and put her in Kitty's care?"

Because Primrose was not Draven's child. Because though Draven had vowed before marriage to take care of the bastard growing inside Marianne's womb, he had resented every moment Marianne had spent with her newborn girl. He'd resented that and the fact that motherhood had made Marianne strong, resilient in the face of his cruelties. And because of that, he had taken Primrose away and used an innocent's life to keep Marianne a slave to his whims.

Guilt, shame—no time for that now. Later, Marianne would punish herself anew for her recklessness, her stupidity. For now she had to concentrate on getting Primrose back.

"My daughter has paid for my mistakes." The words abraded her throat. "I will do anything to find her. What is it that you want in exchange for information of her whereabouts, Mr. Corbett? Money? I have plenty of it. Name your price."

Corbett continued to stare at her. Lines flickered at the sides of his mouth.

"I can't do this here," he said in a low voice.

Her heart quickened. "Where, then?"

"I'll come to you." With a quick glance around, he raked his hands through his hair, mussing the coiffed curls.

When he began to untie his robe, Marianne narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Mrs. Wilson will be inspecting us when we emerge from our love nest." He parted the brocade, exposing his naked, sculpted form. Cheeks burning, Marianne looked away as he continued in matter-of-fact tones, "She'll expect to find the usual signs of fornication—she likes to examine me
post coitus.
If you don't want your motive exposed, you had best do something about yourself, too." He paused, cocking a brow. "Unless you'd care to exchange a helping hand?"

At that, Marianne cast him a withering look.

"Right-o," he muttered. "I'll keep my hands and my eyes to myself." So saying, he turned his broad shoulders. The jerking of his arm left no doubt as to how he meant to pass his employer's scrutiny.

Her stomach knotting, Marianne retreated a few steps back. She'd do anything to regain Rosie, and for the first time in a very long while, she saw a faint glimmer on the dark horizon. She let out a resigned breath. With a slight tremor to her hand, she reached for her bodice.

TWO

The tavern was noisy, smoky, and to Ambrose Kent's mind, a dismal place to interview for a job. Yet Sir Gerald Coyner had suggested meeting at The White Hart rather than the Bow Street offices, and wanting to get things off on the right foot with the magistrate—and, potentially, his future employer—Ambrose had agreed.

In the decade he'd spent working for the Thames River Police, Ambrose had learned to judge a man's character quickly. When training new recruits, Ambrose emphasized two things: observation and patience. Being a successful waterman, in his view, was less about brute force and more about collecting facts, missing no details, and waiting for the pieces to come together.

For instance, he could tell a lot about Coyner from the quarter hour they'd spent together. Well-nourished and dressed in fashionable clothes, Coyner was obviously a man of means. Without so much as a glance at the menu, he'd ordered the most expensive items the tavern had to offer. His accent was educated, yet not of the highest class, and though his thinning brown hair and lined features put him in his fifth decade, he wore no wedding band. He had the fastidious habits of a man who lived on his own, wiping his mustache after each sip from his foaming tankard.

Ambrose looked down at his own barely touched ale. Though the amber liquid had tasted smooth and delicious and his stomach was growling, he had to stretch the drink to make it last the duration of the meeting. As it was, he'd had to choose between that single beverage and a hackney ride home afterward—he hadn't coin enough for both.

Which focused him on his goal: he needed money. His full-time position with the River Police could not provide what was required, so he had to secure additional employment. He cleared his throat, readying to make his pitch for contract work with Bow Street.

Before he could speak, the serving wench returned to the table.

"'Ere you go, sir." Red-haired and plump-cheeked, the woman's generous bosom jiggled as she set a platter heaped with beef and creamed potatoes in front of the magistrate.

Ambrose swallowed; typically, his stringent self-discipline overrode his impulses, but now 'twas as if all his hungers were spread before him. For food … and for female companionship. Thinking of Jane—of her dark, laughing eyes and bountiful curves—he experienced a pang.

Did you think I'd wait around forever, Ambrose? I may be a widow, but I'm still young, and I've got a future ahead of me. You had a choice: me or your family—and as you've made your decision, I've made mine. I won't go down with a sinking ship.

Though a year had passed, the loss of Jane still stung. Yet he understood: it had been too much to ask of Jane or any woman to tie herself to a man with his troubles. He
had
put his family first, and given the same scenario, he'd do so again.

The family is counting on you. Buck up, man, and get the job done.

"Rare an' juicy—the way gents like it," the wench said, winking at Coyner.

With a disinterested nod, the magistrate cut into his beef.

She swiveled to Ambrose, her tone losing its friendly sauce. "An' you, sir? Nothin' more than the ale?"

Ambrose felt his cheekbones heat. "No, thank you," he said.

"Up to you." Her plump lips curled with disdain. "Though you could use some meat on those bones, if you ask me."

Ambrose was not unused to such comments. Hovering at six feet and a goodly number of inches besides, he'd been lanky to begin with; now, having made do on a steady diet of bread and cheese for months, he was approaching rawboned. He saw no reason to defend himself against what was fact, however. He took no stock in personal vanity.

Coyner spoke up. "That's enough lip from you, miss. Don't you have customers to see to?"

Flipping her hair over her shoulders, the wench sauntered off.

Coyner's brow furrowed, knife and fork suspended above his plate. "Sure you don't want anything, Kent? Hate to eat alone. My treat, eh?"

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." Though he might not have two shillings to rub together, Ambrose still had his pride. "Please enjoy your supper. If you don't mind, however, I'd like to discuss an opportunity to work with Bow Street."

The other man swallowed a mouthful. "Your reputation precedes you, Kent. From what I hear, you're a dedicated member of the Thames River Police. Made Principle Surveyor over at Wapping Station—though by my reckoning it took too long for a man of your talent." The magistrate gave him a keen look. "Not much for politics, eh?"

If by politics, Coyner meant toadying up to Ambrose's own magistrate and superior, John Dalrymple, then the answer was no. Several years ago, Dalrymple had approached Ambrose with a suggestion to overlook a certain piece of evidence in exchange for recompense. Dalrymple had called it a favor; Ambrose had seen it as a bribe. He'd refused that and subsequent "favors" as well. In retribution, Dalrymple had stalled Ambrose's promotions and tried to blacken his reputation. Without solid proof of his superior's wrongdoing, Ambrose had borne the attacks in silence, believing that justice would prevail.

Now he drew his shoulders back. "My only concern is justice, sir," he said flatly. "If you've heard anything different—"

"Ease up, Kent. Dalrymple's not my only source," Coyner said. "Your peers speak highly of your ethics and ability."

Some of Ambrose's tension eased. "They are too kind. I merely do my job."

"They said you were overly modest, too." Coyner reached for his tankard. "Take it from me, Kent: if you want to get somewhere in life, you best get used to sounding your own trumpet. Hard work will only get you so far."

"Yes, sir," Ambrose said.

His father Samuel had always claimed that success came from honest, honorable toil. Yet despite a lifetime devoted to educating young minds as the village schoolmaster, Samuel now found himself mired in debt. His future and that of Ambrose's five younger siblings teetered in the balance. Beneath the table, Ambrose's hands balled.

"I don't doubt your abilities or your work ethic," Coyner continued, "but I find myself circling a delicate question. If I may?"

"I have no secrets."

The magistrate's thin eyebrows winged above his faded blue eyes. "Not many a man could claim that. My question, then, is this: why are you in need of additional employ? As a Principle Surveyor, you earn a decent living. And you're not married, are you?"

"I am not." Ambrose faltered; unaccustomed to speaking of his troubles, he didn't know how to go about it. "My father has had health troubles of late. And I have siblings in need of care."

"What about your mother?"

"She passed when I was a young boy. 'Twas my stepmother who raised me and my siblings—or half-siblings, I should say. She was taken from us two summers ago."

Ambrose oft forgot that he did not share a biological mother with his siblings. His stepmother Marjorie had treated him like her own blood. Loving and practical, she had been the family's Rock of Gibraltar; the loss of her had left them all floundering—and his father especially.