“Poppet—thank God.We’ve been looking all over for you!” Ambrose Kent enfolded his daughter in a fierce embrace. “Are you all right?”
The second man looked over at Andrew.
“By Jove,” the Earl of Revelstoke said. “What the devil are you doing here, Corbett?”
Chapter Twelve
As the carriage bounced over the roads the next day, the storm eased, sunlight slanting through the fogged windows. Maybe the heavens had temporarily run out of rain—the way Papa had of words. Rosie’s ears were still burning from his latest lecture. His relief at finding her unharmed had swiftly transformed into parental wrath.
She knew she deserved it. Papa’s reprimands didn’t make her feel as ashamed as how weary he looked. Sitting across the carriage, his handsome face was haggard, shadows betraying his lack of sleep. As he brooded out the window, light glinted off the spreading silver at his temples. He looked tired and worn, and she was the cause of it.
She swallowed, wanting to apologize again, knowing that it would make no difference. What was done was done. When she’d left her family a mere four days ago, she’d been a girl. Now she was the widowed Countess of Daltry. Some fathers might rejoice at the prospect of their daughter making a fine connection… but not hers.
She suppressed a sigh. Papa didn’t give a jot about things like money and titles. The fact that Mama had been a wealthy baroness when he’d first met her had nearlypreventedhim from proposing. How, then, could he understand why his own daughter would choose status over love?
At the thought of love, her unruly heart skipped a beat. Her life was presently in chaos, yet all she could seem to think about was Andrew… AndrewCorbett. At least now she knew his true identity. Revelstoke’s revelation had been startling, to say the least.
Last year, Polly and Revelstoke had been brought together by mayhem: accused of beating a whore named Nicoletta, the earl had sought Papa’s help to clear his name. Nicoletta’s employer (and owner of the club where the crime had supposedly occurred) had wanted to press charges—and that owner had been a Mr. Corbett.
It can’t be a coincidence. Thus, it followed that if Andrew wasthatMr. Corbett, then he was the proprietor of London’s premier bawdy house. He was a procurer... a pimp.
She had difficulty reconciling his profession with what she knew of him. Not that she numbered many brothel owners amongst her acquaintances, but she would assume that such men would be evil and heartless. Despite the tumultuous state of affairs between her and Andrew, she knew he was neither of those things. He’d tried to protect her from Daltry—had pursued her all the way toGretnato do so. There’d also been times when he’d understood her like no one else ever had, when he’d made her feel so safe…
In fact, she was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t lied after all. If his refusal to marry herwasindeed because he was trying to protect her—from himself.
You’re an angel, but I’m not worthy,he’d once said.
Had he truly rejected her for her own good?
Whatever the reason, his rebuff had hurt like nothing else ever had. Her reaction confused her, but no more so than his inadvertent disclosure that he knew about her being kidnapped as a child. Outside of her family and those involved,no oneknew about that fact.
Was Andrew a part of my past?The question festered. After Papa and Revelstoke’s arrival, Andrew had met with them privately—she’d been barred from the proceedings (big surprise there)—and soon thereafter he’d departed. Without even saying goodbye.
Her frustration mounted. Sheneededto understand the truth. Her attraction to him went deeper than the physical. Somehow it was related to her history: the darkness that her family never discussed—that she, herself, had walled off.
Now the shadows were calling to her.
“Chin up, there.”
At the deep murmur, her head swung toward Revelstoke, who shared the bench with her. The earl didn’t usually pay her much attention. She suspected he didn’t like her very much, and she didn’t blame him: she’d acted like a spoilt brat when Revelstoke had declared his feelings for Polly rather than her. To this day, she was ashamed of her behavior.
At present, however, the earl’s handsome visage appeared sympathetic. Rosie supposed this was Polly’s doing. It was amazing how love had transformed the jaded rake into a man of sentiment.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “I’m afraid I deserve to hang my head.”
“Been there myself. But, as Polly likes to remind me, to err is human.”
“I suppose I’mveryhuman then.”
“That makes two of us.” The earl’s smile was rueful. “By the by, you should know that Polly is at home under protest. She would be here if I hadn’t put my foot down.”
“In her condition?” Rosie said, aghast. “Thank heavens you stopped her! I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.”
“That’s what I told her,” Revelstoke said.
The unexpected camaraderie boosted Rosie’s spirits—and her courage. She slid a glance at her father, who was still ruminating out the window.
Taking a breath, she said, “I was wondering something, my lord.”
