Her Protector's Pleasure (6 page)

Tilda handed her a steaming porcelain cup. "I know," she said with such simplicity that Marianne felt even smaller. "After what you've done for me an' my boy, I wouldn't take the words to 'eart."

Three years ago, returning home from a night's futile search for Rosie, Marianne had seen a commotion in the street: a prostitute being brutalized by her pimp. Though such sights were not uncommon in the stews, something in the whore's eyes had made Marianne stop her carriage. She knew that look: had seen it on her own face as she'd stared blindly into the looking glass after Draven's nightly degradations. She'd paid off the pimp and brought Tilda and Tilda's young son home with her.

'Twas a situation that had ended up benefitting them all. Bereft of her own family, Marianne had come to depend upon Tilda's loyalty and good sense; she trusted this woman who had known as much pain as she had. For Tilda, too, had been abandoned by a young lover only to find herself increasing and alone in the world. With no other option, Tilda had turned to prostitution; Marianne had chosen marriage. In the end, they'd both sold their bodies, and Marianne could not say which of them had suffered more.

"You've a lot on your mind, milady, what with findin' Corbett and … other events."

Marianne recognized the lines of disapproval etched around Tilda's mouth. "By other events, you are referring to Mr. Kent?"

"I don't trust 'is sort," Tilda said grimly. "'E's a constable, ain't 'e? 'Ad my fair share o' them on my old walk. If they didn't expect a tumble free o' charge, they wanted a cut o' your earnings. Cursed wretches, the lot o' them."

"I don't think Mr. Kent is that sort of man." The words slipped out, and Marianne frowned at herself. Why was she defending him? "That is to say, he did come to my assistance. He fought off those cutthroats."

"What do you know o' 'is intentions? I saw the way 'e was lookin' at you." Tilda shook her head. "Mark my words: a man don't do somethin' for nothin'. Look what 'appened with that bastard Skinner. Warned you not to trust a Runner, didn't I?"

Unease prickled Marianne's nape. She could not argue with the other's wisdom. "Since I don't plan on seeing Mr. Kent again, it shan't be a problem."

"See that it isn't," Tilda said dourly.

As Tilda laid out the morning ensemble, Marianne sipped her chocolate. The creamy concoction dissolved some of the chill within, and she idly browsed the society pages of
The Times
. She knew the power of information and collected gossip the way a numismatist did rare coins. Her lips curved as she saw the entry concerning the Hartefords' anticipated return from their vacation on the Continent.

Marianne had known Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford, since childhood. They'd lived on neighboring estates and had been inseparable as girls. Though fate had parted them, they had rekindled their friendship three years ago in London, when Helena had arrived as a timid newlywed and Marianne a newly minted widow.

Now Helena had twin boys and a devoted husband. Whilst Marianne was genuinely happy for her friend, she could not help the bittersweet pang in her chest. Envy, yes … but mostly guilt. For she had a secret she'd yet to share with her friend. And she didn't know if she ever would.

You will—once you get Rosie back. Then you'll tell Helena. About everything.

Pride and shame proved powerful sentinels against the truth. Moreover, Marianne had always kept her own counsel, and the years with Draven had only reinforced that trust should be doled out sparingly, if at all.

Tilda brought over a silk dressing robe. "Ready for your ablutions, then?"

Marianne was about to answer when a familiar scratching sounded on the door.

Tilda went to open it, revealing Lugo's imposing figure. "Why a giant of a fellow scratches like a mouse, I'll never know," the maid said. "Why don't you knock like everyone else?"

Something flashed in Lugo's black eyes, an emotion that Marianne recognized all too well. For years, Lugo had been Draven's manservant; one did not shed Draven's training easily. Though a freed slave, Lugo had been bound by debt to Draven, who'd delighted in abusing the large African. One time, Marianne had witnessed Lugo accidently breaking a glass. Draven had entered the room, and the look of malevolent glee on his face had curdled her stomach.

He'd been ready to horsewhip Lugo; she'd intervened, claiming the accident as her own. For while she, too, had endured Draven's sadistic side, his abuses toward her had been less violent. He'd enjoyed her beauty too much to leave visible scars. Whenever he'd beaten her, he'd taken care not to break her skin; he'd scarred her in invisible places, ones that did not interfere with his pride of ownership. Or with the image of the benevolent husband that he'd projected to the world.

After Draven's death, Lugo had become Marianne's trusted servant, filling the roles of butler, footman, and guard. Unspoken camaraderie existed between them: they were survivors of the same war. In his stoic way, Lugo had pledged himself to helping her find her little girl.

"Good day, my lady," he said. His baritone carried the flavor of his native Africa, and his deeply carved features had a mask-like formality. "You instructed that I inform you of any arriving correspondence." He bowed his closely shorn head and held out a folded note. "This just arrived for you."

Marianne's heart sped up a notch. In an instant, she was on her feet, yanking on her robe. With trembling hands, she took the letter from Lugo and broke open the wax seal. She scanned the brief lines. The words blurred as excitement gripped her.

"What is it, milady?" Tilda asked.

"An invitation," Marianne said breathlessly. "Ready the carriage, Lugo. We are going shopping."

SIX

An hour later, Marianne stepped into the Bond Street salon, one of the most exclusive in London. The tinkling silver bell announced her arrival, and within moments the famed modiste emerged from the back to greet her. As usual, Amelie Rousseau looked chic and severe in unrelieved black. A tight chignon confined her ebony hair, and her dark eyes snapped with energy.

"
Bonjour
, Lady Draven." Amelie kissed the air near Marianne's cheeks. "The day brings such surprises,
non
?"

"For me as well as you. I hope you have not been inconvenienced by this," Marianne said, "and you must allow me to compensate you for the use of your shop."

"Normally, I would not condone such
brouhaha
on my premises, but for you,
chérie
, I shall make an exception. And there must be no talk of compensation between friends."

"
Merci
, Amelie. Once again, I am in your debt." Marianne inclined her head. She had few friends and considered the clever dressmaker one of them.

"
Pas du tout.
'Twas your patronage, after all, that helped to launch my star. To this day, no one shines as bright as Baroness Draven." Amelie ran an appraising eye over Marianne's ensemble. "As usual, I was right about the marigold silk.
C'est parfait.
"

Marianne smiled at the satisfaction in the other's voice. "Now, Amelie, if I may conduct my business ...?"

"
Mais oui.
The, ahem, ... gentleman is in the orchid dressing room."

Hearing the subtle contempt in the other's voice, Marianne said, "Though I am not at liberty to say more, this isn't an amorous assignation, Amelie. That I can assure you."

The modiste's narrow forehead smoothed. "I suspected as much. Your taste, my lady, has always been indisputable." She gave a quick nod. "You must attend to whatever intrigue awaits you. I shall remain in front to deter prying eyes."

Thankful that the other did not ask further questions—Amelie was nothing if not discreet—Marianne passed through the curtain to the back of the shop. Like everything in the modiste's domain, the space was spotless and elegant. She passed by two dressing rooms before entering the final room to the right.

She shut the door behind her. Standing in a far corner, Andrew Corbett turned in her direction. His tailored blue cutaway and buff trousers molded to his fit form. He held the spotted petal of an orchid between his manicured fingertips.

"Pretty thing, ain't it?" His eyes assessed her; in the daylight, the brown orbs had depths to them that the darkness of the bawdy house had obscured. A self-deprecating smile edged his chiseled lips. "Had to see for myself if it was real."

"Let us cut to the chase, Mr. Corbett," she replied. "How much?"

"Beg pardon?"

"For the information you bring today," she said impatiently. "Name your sum."

He released the flower. "What makes you think I can be bought for any sum?"

She lifted her brows. "You have gone to no small lengths to arrange this meeting, so surely you expect a reward for your efforts."

"Perhaps, my lady, doing what is right is reward enough."

Faint color slid along his high cheekbones. His youth suddenly shone through the mask of sophistication; with a jolt, Marianne realized Andrew Corbett could not be more than three-and-twenty at most. For all the rumors of his manly prowess, he had not left boyhood far behind.

"If that is true," she said quietly, "then tell me what you know of Kitty Barnes and my daughter's whereabouts."

For a minute, Corbett said nothing. Then his shoulders drew back. "I don't know the location of Kitty or your daughter. The truth is, I haven't had contact with Kitty for over three years."

Another dead end. The familiar dark undertow dragged at Marianne. She fought the waves of despair closing over her head.
I've failed you, Rosie ...

"But I have an idea of how you might find them," he said.

His words hooked her, yanked her gasping to the surface. "How?" she managed.

His gaze went to the closed door, as if expecting someone to barge in at any moment. He drew in a breath. "Kitty engineered her disappearance because of debt. She'd overestimated her own success and invested badly besides. In the end, she owed a pile of blunt—and to a man not known for his patience. As a warning, he set one of her bawdy houses aflame. We barely escaped that night with the clothes on our backs."

"But Kitty is alive. She is alive, and she has my daughter."
Please, God, let that be true.

"Last I knew, Kitty was headed to the country. She wouldn't tell me where—said she had some friends to turn to." Corbett paused. "At the time, she still had your little Primrose."

Hearing her daughter's name battered at Marianne's composure. She shut her eyes against the hot welling of hope. In three years of searching, this was the first real news she'd had of her daughter. Longing seeped through the cracks, the hinges of her self-possession creaking as everything she'd locked away threatened to burst free.

Rosie laughing as Marianne tickled her. Rosie splashing in her bath and soaking Marianne in the process. Rosie snug in her little pink ruffled bed one night—and gone the next morning.

Oh, my darling ... wait for me. Mama's coming.

Drawing a breath, Marianne numbed her heart. She shifted the acuity to her head. Now that she finally had Rosie's trail, she must
focus
.

"Why didn't you go with them?" she said.

"Kitty and I had been at odds for some time. We did not see eye to eye on the matter of your daughter." A muscle quirked along Corbett's smooth jaw. "Unlike her, I do not believe that children should be used in such a manner."

Marianne swallowed over the razors in her throat. "Used?"

"You said your husband was the one who sent Primrose to Kitty?"

Marianne nodded numbly.

Corbett's lips formed a grim line. "He must have been the one paying for her upkeep, then. Kitty said the cove paid fifty pounds a month, with the instruction to care for Primrose like her own child. And Kitty kept her end of the bargain—until the payments suddenly stopped coming three years ago."

"When Draven died," Marianne said through dry lips.

"Without the income and her own dire straits, Kitty's first priority was saving her own hide. Before we parted ways, she had talked of ... selling Primrose." The stark look in Corbett's eyes thrust the blade deeper into her heart. "I don't know if she did or not. But knowing this possibility—knowing what your daughter may have suffered, what she might have become if indeed she still lives—will you still want her then?"

"I will always want her," Marianne said fiercely, her hands balling up. "Nothing can change that. And I'll stop at nothing to bring her home."

Raw emotion flashed in Corbett's eyes and vanished before she could know if she'd imagined it or not.

"Then you will want to start with Bartholomew Black," he said.

The hairs rose on Marianne's neck. She'd heard that name before. In her search for Primrose, she'd scoured the stews, and in that hotbed of vice and depravity, only one name consistently roused fear and trembling. A man notorious for his power, temper, and love of killing.

Bartholomew Black: the rookery's most infamous cutthroat.

"What has Black to do with this?" she asked.

"Kitty owed him money. He was the reason she left Town. If he lifts the death warrant off her head, I have no doubt she'll pop up again." Corbett's lips formed a wry curve. "Kitty ain't cut out for rustication."

"So if I pay off her debt to Black, then she can return?"

Corbett shook his head. "'Tis not that easy. Black saw Kitty's flit as an act of cowardice and took personal affront. 'Tis her lack of honor as much as the money that has him up in the boughs."

Marianne thought it over. "You'll help me contact Black?"

"Like hell I will," Corbett said. "I'm a young man with a long life ahead of me—and I plan to keep it that way. Speaking of which, I must head back. Mrs. Wilson hates to be kept waiting; luckily, I have a set of Madame Rousseau's fine handkerchiefs to explain my absence. Paid for by you, of course." He made a leg and headed for the door.

"Wait," Marianne called out.

He stopped and pivoted with brows raised.