"As you say, Lady Helena, Mr. Kent is a policeman," she said, infusing the last word with amused disdain. "One can clean up a man and put him in a new set of clothes, but beneath he'll always be who he is, won't he?"
Silence fell upon the table. In other circles, herhauteurwould have won her points; here, her barb was greeted with shock... and disapproval. Harteford was frowning, and even Percy was giving her a puzzled look.
"I'm sure Lady Draven does not mean—" Helena began.
"It's quite alright," Kent said quietly. "She said nothing that is untrue."
His calm acceptance of her attack made Marianne feel smaller than an insect.
She lifted her chin. "If you'll excuse me, I have another engagement this evening." She rose, and chairs scraped as the men followed suit politely. "Thank you for supper. I shall see myself out."
Though shamed by the heat of curious stares, she departed the dining room with her head held high.
* * *
Fog rolled off the nearby Thames, saturating the summer night with a wet chill. Looking up at the building that housed the offices of Mr. Reginald Leach, Esquire, Marianne shivered in spite of her black velvet cloak. The place was part of a brick terrace off Fleet Street, and from the back lane, she could see that Leach's building stood taller than the rest; the addition of a third floor created a crooked peak in the otherwise flat roofline.
Lugo inserted a tool into the gate's lock, and the iron fence swung open.
"Let us make haste, my lady," he said in a low voice. "I've got a bad feeling in my bones."
"Is anyone inside?" she whispered as she followed him to the back door.
"Leach's clerks left hours ago. Didn't see anyone go in or out before I went to fetch you at the Hartefords'." Forehead creased, Lugo made quick work of this lock as well. The click sounded as loud as a gunshot to Marianne's ears; casting a sharp glance around and seeing nothing, she followed her servant into the house.
Leach was apparently a skinflint for the interior of the building was as cool as the outside. A narrow corridor led them toward the front of the building. The first chamber they entered looked to be the domain of the clerks. Windowless and lined with cracked paint, the room's centerpiece was a long table covered with ledgers and books. Stools lined the table, and Marianne could picture Leach's apprentices hunched over, scribbling in the smoking light of the tallow candles.
"Where are Leach's suites?" she asked.
Lugo jerked his head toward a pair of doors.
Passing through, they found themselves in an atrium outfitted as a waiting area. Here, the furniture gleamed with polish and fresh flowers sprouted from vases. Seeing yet another set of doors, Marianne headed through them.
This third chamber, obviously Leach's inner sanctum, was warm and scented with beeswax and tobacco. Dark drapery covered windows that faced the street. Handsome leather furniture and tall bookshelves contributed to the ambience of authority and affluence. Marianne lit one of the lamps and methodically searched through the cabinets; her search yielded nothing of import. Going over to the large desk, she jiggled the drawers. Locked.
"Let's have a look inside," she said to Lugo.
While he went to work on the lock, she thought of Kent, and shame again crept over her. Which was rich, really. Because here she was presently engaged in an illegal break and entry, and she did not experience an ounce of guilt. Yet she felt remorse over a snub she'd given to a policeman?
Besides, Kent had left her little choice. He'd crowded her with those intrusive questions, that penetrating gaze. 'Twas as if he suspected her secrets and meant to find out everything about her, to bare the darkness of her soul—
"Here you go, my lady."
Marianne exhaled and drew her focus back to the task. Crouching down, she examined the first of the four drawers, all filled with leather portfolios. Flipping open the top file, she leafed through the documents: bills of service from the last year. Ever the discreet solicitor, Leach had only included the name of the client and the amount of his fees. There was no notation concerning the nature of the legal transaction.
She snapped the file shut; she'd have to dig back three years to find the transaction Leach had conducted with Kitty Barnes.
"While I go through these," she said to Lugo, "check the rest of the place. See if there are other files stored elsewhere."
As Lugo strode off, Marianne sorted through the portfolios, looking for the right date. The answerhadto be here. If she couldn't ascertain the identity of Rosie's captor tonight, then she'd have to question the solicitor personally. She'd have to threaten Leach, a man of the law—and potentially alert his iniquitous client to her quest.
Will that put Rosie in greater jeopardy? What choice do I have?
She was on the last drawer now. She opened the first portfolio and found documents from the wrong year. She reached for the next one. 1817. The year Draven had died and Primrose had been sold. With trembling hands, Marianne riffled through the thick stack of parchment. Her breath stuck in her throat when she found what she'd been looking for.
A bill for services rendered in the month that Mrs. Barnes had sold Rosie. The fees noted on the receipt were astronomical—but Leach's client could afford them. The Earl of Pendleton had untold wealth at his disposal, after all.
Pendleton.Excitement coursed in her veins.A lead at last.
