Ambrose inclined his head. "I am at your service, my lord."
"Thank you, Kent. I am glad for your support." Clasping his hands behind his back, Harteford looked out the window again and into the darkening sky. "I fear a storm brews ahead."
* * *
The following morning, Ambrose reflected that his mission might not be as simple as it had first sounded. How difficult could it be to accompany a young heiress on her daily activities? Yet ensconced in a well-sprung carriage with Harteford's quasi-sister, Miss Persephone Fines, Ambrose quickly realized his error. Behind the pretty countenance and innocent eyes lay a miss with a strong will and mind of her own.
He should know: he had four young sisters himself.
In fact, something of Miss Fines' fresh beauty reminded him of Emma. His throat tightened as he thought of the eldest of his sisters. At sixteen, Emma had too much on her shoulders. With their father ill and Ambrose away earning the family's keep, poor Em was left with the day-to-day running of the Kent household. Though she'd never once complained and seemed to tackle all tasks with boundless energy, Ambrose wished a different life for her. One filled with balls and shopping, whatever a girl would enjoy.
His chest constricted. Another brick dropped into the sack upon his shoulders. It was up tohimto provide for Emma and all his family, and he was failing in that task.
"Mr. Kent, might I solicit your advice on a matter?" Miss Fines' cheerful voice distracted him from the downward spiral of his thoughts.
He gave a curt nod.
"I'm wondering how one might locate the whereabouts of a criminal," she said.
For a moment, he stared at her heart-shaped face, her guileless blue eyes. His lips twitched. Firming them, he said, "Are you indeed?"
Her gaze darted briefly to the side before returning to his. A telltale sign of deception to any investigator worth his salt.
"It's for my novel," she continued. "One of the characters is, um…"—her brief hesitation was another giveaway—"a detective. And he needs to search out a villain from the past."
As she continued to spin her tale, Ambrose bit back a smile. It took a spirited girl to try to pump information from an experienced policeman. Entertained by her imagination, he listened as she rambled on. In this trait, she more resembled his middle sister, Violet, who, too, possessed a flair for drama.
Ultimately, however, he could not allow Miss Fines to believe that she could interfere in the business between Lord Harteford and Gavin Hunt. By the sound of things, she still thought herself head over heels for Hunt, even though the man clearly meant to use her for his own ends. The bastard deserved to be strung up for involving an innocent in his plot for revenge.
So in a gentle yet firm manner, Ambrose informed Miss Fines that she must, in a nutshell, stay clear of the matter. She sighed and turned to face the window, her hand reaching to fiddle with the unusual quill-shaped brooch upon her frock. In silence, they reached their destination. Hatchard's was a popular bookstore on Piccadilly frequented by many members of the upper and middling classes. Ambrose alighted from the carriage first.
"Wait here, if you please, Miss Fines," he said. "I shall return in a moment."
His gaze swept the territory. He saw no trouble, but he posted two of his men at the entrance to be certain. Inside, he did a quick check of the rows of bookshelves and detected nothing suspicious. He found a door hidden at a back corner of the shop; jiggling the lock, he found it secure. Satisfied, he returned to the carriage and escorted his charge inside.
"I am going to browse around," Miss Fines announced, "and there's no use following me through the stacks. Perhaps you'd care to wait for me at an assigned place?"
Seeing the pucker of impatience on her brow, Ambrose debated the best plan. He decided not to push his luck. From his experience with his sisters, he knew that pushing too hard led to the inevitable resistance. Besides, he could survey most of the store from the central point by the fireplace. Posted outside, his men had been given a likeness of Gavin Hunt and would nab the bastard if he tried to step foot into the shop.
"I'll be here if you need me," Ambrose said.
He stifled a snort of amusement as Miss Fines bounded off like a hare released from a trap. He kept a watchful eye on her straw bonnet, seeing the tip of its white plume float over the top of the shelves. Around him, gentlemen sat in overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, their newspapers rustling as they perused the pages. The notion of such leisure was foreign to Ambrose. He enjoyed reading—his father had taught all the children their letters at an early age—but his life left scant time for such luxury.
At the age of sixteen, Ambrose had left school to support his family. Father had protested, of course; whilst a brilliant scholar and philosopher, Samuel had never been a very practical man. There'd been babes to feed, and Ambrose's duty to protect his new siblings far outweighed his personal desires. Between him and his sensible stepmother, Marjorie, they'd managed to keep the Kent brood thriving.
Ambrose continued to track his charge's bobbing white feather through the shop. Miss Fines passed by another lady, and the platinum curls bouncing at the sides of the latter's bonnet snagged his attention. As if she sensed his regard, the lady in question turned; her square countenance creased, and her small eyes formed slits of suspicion.
Ambrose looked away, cursing himself.
Devil and damn, why couldn't he get Lady Marianne Draven out of his head?
She was like some dangerous drug in his blood. Every time he thought himself rid of her poison, something would remind him of her, and a feverish, wicked desire would escalate within him. His rational mind knew this yearning was pointless. And potentially destructive, for she roused a part of him—a lustful, bestial presence—that was at jarring odds with his principles.
Though not a gentleman by class, he was a man of honor, and he believed in treating the fairer sex with respect. At two-and-thirty, he'd had a handful of lovers: experienced women who'd taught him about female pleasure. Jane, a widow, had enticed him into her bed during their engagement—not that it had taken much enticing. He'd always enjoyed a woman's desire, the soft, lush response that let him know he was doing things right. Unlike some men, he'd looked forward to the marital bed. To making love with his wife and exploring intimacies that could only be found with one's gentle lady.
Never, ever had he lost control with Jane or any other woman. He'd never experienced the urge to tear the clothes from Jane's body. To grasp her hair in his palms and back her against a wall. To shove himself so hard and deep inside her that nothing but desire remained in her eyes. He'd never craved to see his own self reflected in her glassy, wanton gaze as he pounded into her, rooted himself in her sweet sex so thoroughly she could only pant his name—
"Beg pardon, sir."
