"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.
"You are a true gentleman, Mr. Corbett," she said steadily, "and I cannot thank you enough."
His face reddened. "Good afternoon, Lady Draven."
A few moments later, Marianne heard the front door opening and closing. Amelie Rousseau came into the dressing room, her dark eyes filled with curiosity.
"Comment ça va, ma chère?"
"Bien. Tout est bien," Marianne said softly.
And allwouldbe well—as soon as she paid a visit to Bartholomew Black. Determination lifted her chin. Black might be the stew's most formidable villain, but he hadn't metheryet.
7
Ambrose enteredthe spacious office above the warehouse. Large windows framed the view of the West India docks, the water itself hidden beneath the crowded field of ships. Despite the early hour, lumpers marched along the wharves, conducting the flow of cargo to and from the vessels with the single-mindedness of ants. Light filtered through the morning fog and sparkling glass, gleaming off the dark head of the man who rose from behind the large desk.
Ambrose bowed. "Good morning, my lord."
Nicholas Morgan, the Marquess of Harteford, gave him a wry look. "Good might be an exaggeration," he said. "But it is morning, and I must thank you for coming this early, Kent. Especially after your assistance with Miss Fines last evening."
"'Twas my duty, my lord," Ambrose said.
Which wasn't precisely true. The Thames River Police did not typically concern itself with the affairs of young misses gone astray. But when the Marquess of Harteford—noted patron of said policing force—had requested help in retrieving a close family friend from a potentially ruinous situation last night, the Chief Magistrate had been more than willing to send Ambrose and as many Thames River constables as Harteford needed.
Not that Ambrose had minded. He was grateful for Harteford's support of the River Police, and, more than that, he respected the man. Despite his wealth and position, the marquess was no snob—unlike certain other titled personages. Ambrose's jaw clenched as the mocking, beautiful visage flared in his head as it had done so many times in the past three days. With gritty resolve, he pushed aside the lowering memory and focused on the present. The marquess was watching him with sharp grey eyes honed by an unorthodox upbringing in the stews.
"Duty or not, you have done me a favor," Harteford said, "and I plan to show my appreciation to you and the force."
Though Ambrose's shoulders tensed at the mention of money, his ethics would not allow him to take beyond what he'd earned. "I have been amply rewarded through your patronage of the River Police, my lord." Before the other man could argue, he added, "And how is Miss Fines faring?"
Harteford's expression grew stark, grooves deepening around his mouth. "The truth is, Kent, I remain concerned for her safety. Though we intervened before any… irrevocable damage had been done"—the marquess dragged a hand through his silver-shot hair—"that blackguard Gavin Hunt has her under his spell." In the ensuing silence, ghosts flitted through Harteford's eyes. He went to the window, staring out into the fog. "And I think you and I both know who Hunt is to me."
Three years ago, Harteford had confided a part of his past to Ambrose. The marquess had survived a dark childhood, and not even his current power and position had dispelled its horrors completely. In particular, he remained haunted by the memory of a boy whom he'd wronged; in hopes of making amends, he'd entrusted Ambrose with the task of investigating the fate of that nameless urchin. But Ambrose's best efforts had yielded only dead ends.
Now it seemed Harteford's childhood ghost had suddenly returned—no longer a helpless boy, but a powerful man hell-bent on revenge. It seemed Gavin Hunt meant to hurt the marquess by seducing Miss Persephone Fines, Harteford's sister in heart if not in blood. Last night, Ambrose and Harteford had arrived at Hunt's gaming hell to find Miss Fines; they'd been greeted by a scene of chaos. Hunt had suffered an attack by rival club owners, and Miss Fines had been caught in the thick of things. Luckily, she'd been unhurt—in a physical sense, at least. Her broken heart might prove a different matter. Though Ambrose had not been privy to the exchange that followed between her, Harteford, and Hunt, he could guess that it had been painful.
Betrayal invariably was.
"I see now that any notion of restitution was foolish," Harteford said, his voice bleak. "Hunt has every right to avenge himself against me. But I cannot allow him to do so by hurting Miss Fines." He turned, his hands curled at his sides. "That is why I summoned you today, Kent. I have yet another favor to ask of you."
"Yes, my lord?"
"I need you to keep an eye on Miss Fines. I fear Hunt will try to contact her, and I must have her protected from him until this matter is resolved. If you are willing, I will clear my request with your superiors at Wapping Station."
