Her Protector's Pleasure (39 page)

The girl turned, looking up with quizzical brown eyes. "Beg pardon, missus?" she said.

"Hush, Hattie." The gentleman next to the girl twisted his neck around, his weather-beaten face creased with suspicion as he looked Marianne up and down. "Haven't I told you never to speak with strangers?"

"My apologies. I made a mistake," Marianne said.

She tried to move back, but the wave of eager passengers carried her forward. She fought against the tide, trying to get a glimpse of the other children in the crowd. Through a gap, she saw a mop of blond hair … dash it, belonging to a boy. A plain silk bonnet trimmed with daisies flashed in the distance, but auburn ringlets peeped out.

Desperation climbed; she was never going to get a clear view this way, and there was no escaping the throng. She'd have to hold on and trust Johnno and his partner to perform their duties. When she reached the head of the line, Johnno pulled her aside.

"Haven't seen 'er yet, my lady," he whispered. "The families o' three on the list are all boarded. Got a few father-daughter pairs left—'ere's one comin' up behind you."

Panic clawed at Marianne's insides.
Please be Primrose.

She faced the pair. Her heart plummeted. The brown-haired girl chattered happily on as her Papa—not Coyner—held out the tickets.

"Don't worry. Plenty more to go," Johnno said.

But when the last identified duo—a Mr. Yardsmith and his daughter Sally—was crossed off the manifest, worried lines fanned from Johnno's eyes.

"They're o'er at the
Implacable
. That must be it," he said stoutly.

Marianne tried to resist the despair. The fear that spilled over her insides, swamping her.

Where are you, Rosie? Please … give me a sign. Help me find you.

"Stay here and keep an eye on the rest o' the passengers," she heard Johnno instruct his partner. "I'll take milady o'er to the other ship so we can sort this out."

Numbly, she took the waterman's arm. They navigated around the remaining crowd vying to get on board. Sunny tones caught Marianne's attention.

"
Mademoiselle,
have you ever seen a boat this large?"

Marianne's skin prickled. She halted, looking wildly into the throng. Not seeing the source of that dulcet voice, she craned her neck, her senses straining. Another voice, with a heavy French accent, drifted toward her.

"Hush,
ma petite.
We are almost there."

Heart palpitating, Marianne pushed her way into the horde. She heard Johnno call out, but she ignored him, intent on finding the origin of those voices.

Where are you, darling? Talk to me, Primrose. Talk to me ...

"I'm hungry,
mademoiselle.
Will they serve us tea on the boat?"

Marianne shoved her way toward the melodic tones. Paces away, she saw the pair. A straight-backed woman held the hand of a small girl whose head was obscured by a large straw bonnet. Marianne pushed forward, reaching out to grab the girl's arm.

The girl started and spun around, clutching a doll to her small chest. Dark brown curls kissed her forehead ... but Marianne would know those eyes anywhere. Green as spring and flecked with gold. Eyes as bright as hope itself.

"Primrose," she whispered.

The girl's gaze widened further, her rosebud lips parting in surprise. "How do you know my name?"

"Let her go!"

The heavily accented words tore into Marianne's reverie, and Primrose was suddenly torn from her grasp. The Frenchwoman inserted herself as a barrier between Primrose and Marianne. Drawn to the unfolding drama, the remaining passengers formed a circle around them.

"You leave her be." Beneath the dark brim of her bonnet, the woman's eyes snapped at Marianne. "Haven't you done enough?"

"She's my daughter. My little girl. Give her back to me," Marianne said, her voice breaking.

"Enough of this nonsense! I know what you did, you strumpet.
Monsieur
, he told me all about you." The woman's eyes were slits in her bony face. "
Putain
. You ought to be ashamed, showing your face in public."

Marianne swallowed, but she refused to be cowed by shame any longer.

Her gaze locked on her daughter's small face, she said softly, "I am your mama, and I have been searching for you for a long time. Please, come to me."

The woman turned to Primrose, saying sharply, "Do not listen to her! You and I, we are getting on that boat as your guardian instructed."

Primrose blinked, looking back and forth between her governess and Marianne. "But ... he said my mama was dead." The uncertain quaver in her voice stabbed at Marianne's heart. "That I became his ward after he rescued me from Mrs. Barnes."

"He is right. This is a madwoman, and you must ignore her falsehoods," the Frenchwoman insisted.

Marianne's mind raced. How much should she tell Primrose? She wanted to protect her daughter's innocence, for—miracle of miracles—Primrose did indeed appear innocent. Naïve, unsullied. Her eyes travelled over her daughter's healthy, glowing disposition, and she knew that whatever nefarious deeds Coyner had planned, he'd not yet put them into action.

Relief filled her like sunshine, dissolving some of the shadows.

"I'm not dead, my darling," she said huskily. "A bad man took you away from me, but I am your mama. Your hair, underneath that dye, it's golden like mine, isn't it?"

Clinging to her doll, Primrose gave a tentative nod.

"And your eyes,"—Marianne crouched so that she and Primrose were at eye level—"they're green like mine, aren't they?"

Primrose let out a shuddery breath. "Yes."

"You have a small birthmark. It's shaped like a flower. On your left knee."

"H-how do you know that?" Primrose stammered.

"Because," Marianne said in a suffocated voice, "for the first year of your life, I spent every minute with you. Before you were taken, you were my world. And even after …"—her voice trembled as she fought to maintain her composure—"oh, my darling, there hasn't been a moment in the last seven years when I haven't yearned to have you back in my arms."

"She's telling you the truth, little miss." Marianne turned her neck to see Ambrose standing behind her. In calm, reassuring tones, he said, "I am a member of the Thames River Police. And we have been helping your mama look for you."

Primrose's lashes lifted, her chin wobbling. A single tear spilled down her cheek, and Marianne's heart wrenched. It was asking too much for her baby to understand, too much—

"Mama?" Primrose whispered.

A sob lodged in Marianne's throat. "Yes, my precious girl.
Yes
." She opened her arms.

The Frenchwoman stepped between them. "
N'attendez pas
," she said to Primrose. "These are all lies—"

Ambrose gripped the governess' arm, pulled her out of the way. "Lady Draven tells the truth. It is you who has been told the lies. Unless you want to be charged as an accomplice to kidnapping, you will tell me where your employer is."

"I will say nothing," the Frenchwoman spat.

Marianne's gaze stayed on her daughter. Her entire being shook with the need to seize Primrose up, gather her close. Yet she feared that she would frighten Rosie further.

So Marianne remained where she was, her heart and her arms wide open.

Heartbeats passed.

Then, like a miracle, her daughter ran to her.

FORTY-TWO

The return to London took two days. Throughout the journey, Ambrose kept close watch over Marianne and Primrose. Coyner, damn his eyes, had somehow managed to escape. Ambrose had questioned the governess, and she'd admitted that Coyner had planned to meet her and Primrose at a hotel in Calais. Sir Birnie had sent Runners to the French port to hunt Coyner down. In the interim, Ambrose remained on high alert; his instincts told him Coyner was an obsessed lunatic, one who would not easily give up on the object of his fixation.

Looking at Primrose and Marianne now, Ambrose felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. Mother and daughter sat next to one another on the carriage cushions, and with the dye removed from the latter's hair, their heads resembled two bright blooms bent together. Marianne spoke in gentle tones, answering Primrose's questions. Over and again, her hand smoothed the girl's hair as if to reassure herself that her daughter was safe in her arms at last.

Ambrose's throat thickened. By God, he'd do whatever it took to give Marianne the sense of security she deserved. To ensure that nothing and no one threatened her and Primrose again.

"Are we almost there, Mama?" Primrose asked for the umpteenth time.

"Nearly, my darling." Over her daughter's head, Marianne sent him a smile.

A sweet, sharp longing struck Ambrose. Though he had no right to hope, he nonetheless did. He told himself to focus on the future one day at a time. First things first, he had to see Coyner captured and behind bars. Then and only then could he broach the topic of the future with Marianne. To convince her that he could be a worthy husband for her … and father to her little girl.

In the short time he'd spent in Primrose's company, he'd come to adore the little imp, who shared her mother's beauty and charm … and strength of will as well. He listened with a faint smile as Marianne asked what Rosie would like to do in London, and the child rattled off a list that included everything from visiting Astley's Amphitheatre to acquiring a pretty bonnet to match her Mama's. Praise God, it appeared that Coyner's main sin—beyond kidnapping the girl—had been in overindulging her. Without a firm and steadying influence, Primrose would no doubt turn into a hoyden.

"And will Mr. Kent be staying with us too?" Primrose said.

Ambrose waited for Marianne's answer. In tacit agreement, he and she had been entirely circumspect in their behavior since finding Primrose. At the inn where they'd stayed last night, Marianne and Primrose had shared a room whilst he'd taken an adjacent one. Things were confusing enough for the little girl without her having to wonder about the state of affairs between her mother and the policeman who was guarding them.

"Would you like him to stay with us?" Marianne asked.

Primrose's nod warmed Ambrose's chest.

"Then he will, won't you, Mr. Kent?" Marianne said to him.

"If it pleases Miss Primrose," he said, inclining his head.

"And her mother," Marianne murmured.

Desire curled in Ambrose's gut.

"Mr. Kent's family is staying with us as well," she continued. "He has a sister named Polly the same age as you, and I think you two will get along famously."

"I've never had a friend. Or been around other children." Primrose's voice lost some of its cheery confidence, and her small hands clutched her ever present doll.

"You'll like Polly and my other siblings," Ambrose assured her even as he saw Marianne's lips form a tight line.

In order to spare her daughter from further trauma, she hadn't revealed the full extent of Coyner's nefarious plan. She'd said that Coyner had stolen Primrose because he wanted a child of his own. At Ambrose's urging, Marianne had warned her daughter that Coyner was a dangerous man—that whilst he might seem kind on the outside, he was not to be trusted and under no circumstances should Primrose have any contact with him. Though Primrose's brow had furrowed, she'd agreed.

Arriving at the townhouse, Ambrose disembarked first, and when he found no sign of threat, he escorted Marianne and Primrose into the house where his family was waiting. They were greeted with shrieks of welcome and the usual pandemonium. By the time the dust settled, Primrose stood sandwiched between Polly and Violet, her arms linked with the other girls'.

"May we show Primrose her room?" Polly said.

"We decorated it," Violet added. "Emma cut yellow roses from the garden, and Harry and I helped put up the new bed-hangings."

Marianne smiled. "How lovely of you all. Would you like to go with them, Rosie?"

"Yes, please," her daughter said with shining eyes.

"I'll be along in a minute," Marianne promised.

After everyone left, she turned to Ambrose.

"What is it, love?" he said.

"I don't know. Having Primrose here, at last, it's like a dream …" She trailed off, shadows darkening her gaze. "Oh, Ambrose, she's safe now, isn't she?"

He cupped Marianne's face in his palms.

"We'll keep her safe," he said. "You have my word on that."

*****

The next few days passed in a blur of activity. Ambrose insisted that until Coyner was caught, Marianne and Primrose remain in the house. Marianne agreed ... and, to his exasperation, proceeded to bring the world into her townhouse instead. Day after day, he and Lugo scrutinized a parade of dressmakers, shoemakers, and haberdashers as they tromped their way to the drawing room. Not only did Marianne outfit Primrose to the nines, but she insisted the Kents have the same royal treatment as well.

Indeed, his family's future was looking as bright as their new buttons. Yesterday, Magistrate Simpson from Wapping Station had come to offer Ambrose reinstatement as Principle Surveyor. Apparently, his old superior Dalrymple had been investigated and sacked for malfeasance, and Ambrose and his team would now be working under Simpson. Simpson had given Ambrose a raise and assigned him as liaison to Bow Street during the ongoing hunt for Coyner. Shaking hands with his new magistrate, Ambrose had been reassured by the other's forthright grip.

Then, at week's end, more good news arrived, delivered this time by a Runner named George Smythe. Ambrose had met Smythe before at the Bow Street offices; something about the fellow's pomaded curls and flashy waistcoat set his teeth on edge. It didn't help matters that Smythe was making eyes at Marianne as she opened the missive bearing Sir Birnie's official seal.

"Have you been with Bow Street long, Mr. Smythe?" Ambrose said curtly.

"A few months, give or take. Made my reputation as a thief-taker before that." Smythe winked. "But the ladies—they prefer a Runner, eh?"

Ambrose scowled at the same time that Marianne said, "My God."