Marianne's finger trembled on the trigger of the pistol. She told herself not to do anything foolish. She needed Barnes alive; the bawd was the last known link to Rosie.
"Did you inform your buyer of my daughter's true identity?" she demanded.
Barnes shook her head. "I—I said Primrose was an orphan. An opera singer's bastard."
"You had better pray that I find my girl alive and well. Because if I don't, I will come to you again," Marianne vowed. She lowered her weapon. "And whatever Black had planned for you is nothing compared to what I will do."
Mrs. Barnes paled, her chest rising and falling in shallow waves.
Turning on her heels, Marianne left the shop. Lugo jumped from his perch.
"Success, my lady?" he said as he opened the carriage door.
Marianne's fingernails bit into her palms. "We will be making a visit to the offices of Reginald Leach this evening."
She had no illusions regarding the likelihood of Leach's cooperation. Solicitors made their fortunes from discretion; Leach would no more offer up his client's name than he would shower his gold upon the streets. Besides, what man would admit to being an accomplice in the illegal purchase of a child? No, her best option was to search his office herself.
"You are engaged with the Hartefords tonight," Lugo reminded her.
Dash it. She'd forgotten the supper party to celebrate Percy's safe return and unexpected engagement to Gavin Hunt. Marianne did want to ascertain that the chit was doing well, and her absence at this late hour would be remarked upon.
It mattered naught. She could accomplish both tasks this eve.
She stepped into the carriage. "We'll stop by the Hartefords first and depart before midnight. So you know, our mission afterward will require discretion." Tucking her skirts around her, she gave her manservant a meaningful look. "I trust you will make the necessary preparations."
"I make it a habit to always be prepared," Lugo said.
* * *
That night, Ambrose climbed the steps to the grand Palladian residence, his sense of foreboding deepening.What the devil am I doing?The refrain had played in his head ever since he'd accepted the assignment from Coyner.
The conflict in him burgeoned, and when he reached the door, his hand hesitated at the bell. He told himself that the reasons for accepting the case were clear. He had to think of his family; by taking on this case, he could uphold his responsibilities and the deathbed promise he'd made to his stepmother.
Take care of your brother and sisters, Ambrose, Marjorie had whispered.They'll need you now more than ever.
He had a duty to his country as well. Whatever small part he could play in protecting the welfare of its citizens must be done. In sum, he could not allow whatever personal feelings he might have toward Lady Marianne to get in the way of doing what was right. His ethics had, however, prodded him to inform Sir Coyner that he was acquainted with the subject.
The Bow Street magistrate had frowned. "What is the nature of your association?"
"We have met on two occasions." Being a gentleman, Ambrose couldn't say more—and what more was there to say, really? He and Lady Draven had no relationship, no ties; last night, he'd vowed to himself to steer clear of any future involvement. "She is a friend of the Marchioness of Harteford, with whom I am acquainted."
"Will this compromise your ability to carry out your duties?" Sir Coyner had asked.
Ambrose would not allow it to. He was a man without much in the way of money, looks, or power; the one thing he could pride himself on was his sound judgment. His logic had always held sway over his desires.
"No, sir," he'd said firmly. "Upon my honor, I will do my utmost to uncover the truth."
"I see no problem, then," the other man had replied. "In fact, your acquaintance with the suspect and the Hartefords may prove a boon. It may offer you opportunities to get closer to her."
Which was why Ambrose had accepted the Hartefords' unorthodox invitation to supper. Under normal circumstances, he'd rather undertake a visit to the tooth-drawer than mingle with a class so different from his own. Yet after a futile few days of trailing Lady Marianne—which had yielded nothing more telling than visits to several elite shops on Bond Street—he knew he needed to step up his strategy.
If he'd felt relieved at the lack of suspicious behavior on her part, he tucked that feeling away. His job was to remain neutral, to collect evidence with an objective eye. Coyner's facts ran through his head: Lady Draven kept company with bawds and cutthroats, people who thrived on anarchy and violence. Her constant companion was an African manservant; William Davidson, one of the Cato Street conspirators, had hailed from Jamaica. She eschewed society's rules and lived by her own.
To Ambrose, all of this was circumstantial evidence and no proof of any wrongdoing. Yet he could not deny that in his own dealings with Lady Marianne she'd shown herself to be clever, unscrupulous—and capable of shooting a man. His arm still bore the mark. And, in his gut, he knew she harbored a secret; he prayed that it did not involve anti-establishment activities.
Having dallied long enough, Ambrose pressed the bell. The door swung open to reveal the butler, whose brows inched up a fraction at the sight of him. Ambrose wondered if he was going to be directed to the entrance at the back of the building.
Before he could open his mouth to explain that he'd been invited, the butler ushered him inside. "Good evening, Mr. Kent. Lord and Lady Harteford are expecting you," the head servant intoned. "May I take your coat, sir?"
