Oh, for heaven's sake. Why do men persist in believing that we're the weaker sex?
Resisting the upward impulse of her eyes, she said, "Black may be dangerous, but he is just a man. We all have our expertise, and mine happens to be the opposite sex. Do you doubt that I am well equipped to deal with Black—or any male for that matter?"
She didn't have to say more. It wasn't an issue of vanity, but of fact. She knew her own attractions, and for once they might prove of use.
"Lady Draven has a point." This came from Hunt—apparently the only one of the fellows with an iota of common sense. "She has a better chance of getting an audience with Black than any of us. If nothing else, he'll see her out of curiosity."
"Out of the question." Kent spoke through his teeth.
He looked ready to throttle someone—perhaps her, though for some reason her instincts told her he wouldn't harm her. Unlike Draven, Kent hadn't the guile to disguise his true desires, and she could read his wish to protect her in the rigid lines of muscle, the grooves flickering around his mouth. Wryly, she acknowledged her own perverse nature: though she needed and wanted no man's protection, the idea that she could rattle this proud policeman's self-control almost... charmed her.
Though, of course, she would not allow him to sway her decision or actions in any way.
"I ask you to reconsider, my lady. Helena would have my head if anything happened to you," Harteford said.
Marianne squelched a bubble of amusement. The large, imperious marquess looked genuinely concerned about the reaction that might greet him at home. Perhaps he had more brains than she credited him for.
"You do your part, I'll do mine," she told him. "See you at midnight."
Kent planted himself in her path, blocking her from the door. Flames lit his eyes, and his large hand clamped around her arm. "This has gone far enough," he snapped.
Her eyes thinned, her amusement fleeing. 'Twas one thing for Kent to try to dissuade her—quite another for him to manhandle her. Heat rose in her cheeks.
"No man touches me without my permission. Release me this instant," she said coldly.
"Not until you give up this asinine plan."
Asinine?She was many things: stupid was not one of them. Though it was no business of this interfering policeman, she had a plan to deal with Bartholomew Black.
"I said release me," she repeated in a voice of unmistakable warning.
Kent did not budge. As if he had every right to dictate her actions, he glowered at her, his hold unyielding. Her temper escalated when she found herself unable to escape from his strong grasp. He left her no choice, really.
Slipping her free hand into her skirt's hidden pocket—her modiste was a genius in so many ways—Marianne pulled out her pistol. She trained it upon Kent. Just left of his heart.
Still, the stubborn man refused to let her go. She cocked the pistol to show him she meant business. Their gazes locked; her fingers trembled against the smooth metal.
"Stand down, Kent. You cannot stop her, and obviously she can take care of herself."
Harteford's warning seemed to finally pierce Kent's thick skull. The latter's dark lashes veiled his bright gaze, his grip tightening for an instant. Then whatever internal battle he was fighting ended. With obvious reluctance, he let go of her arm—good thing, really, because she didn't wish to shoot him again.
Not unless he made her do it.
"Perhaps Lady Draven would agree to take a few men as escorts?" Harteford said with a worried frown.
"Men are the last thing I need." She said the words whilst looking at Kent. His expression grew even starker. "I can take care of myself."
With that excellent parting line, she exited.
* * *
Though situated in the heart of the rookery, Bartholomew Black's fortress was every bit as imposing as any grand Mayfair residence. The foggy night and the tall, spiked iron gate hid the building from the street; Marianne's carriage was let through only after her identity was verified by the guards. A shiver passed through Marianne when she descended the carriage and saw the looming brick edifice. Like Draven, Black had a propensity for the gothic style.
Moonlight dappled the stone gargoyles perched on the rooftop; they peered down with gimlet eyes and mischievous smiles. An eerie orange light flickered behind the mullioned windows. Recessed beneath a pointed arch, the front entrance lay in shadow.
"I don't have a good feeling about this," Lugo said.
Rarely did her stalwart manservant express doubt about her plans; the fact that he was now doing so increased her own sense of unease. Her gaze flitted to the dark-coated guard who stood waiting to escort her inside.
