"Our best chance is to wait here," he said, panting, his back flat against the brick. "Once the constables leave, we'll find a way to get down."
Marianne bit her lip, her eyes inscrutable in the moonlight.
"Mayhap this will help, Mr. Kent?" This came from Lugo, who reached into the satchel on his shoulder and pulled out a thick coil of rope.
Incredulity swamped Ambrose, followed by a blast of relief.
"Bloody hell, I should say so," he said, grinning.
It may have been a trick of light, but for an instant the manservant seemed to grin back.
* * *
The ride back to Marianne's was too short to address the questions roiling in Ambrose's head. So he bided his time, focused on getting a rein on his temper. Now that the immediate danger had passed, he grew edgy, his blood simmering close to a boil.What the devil was she up to in that office? What kind of mischief is she mixed up in?He'd followed her there from supper, arriving in time to hear her shuffling around in the solicitor's study. Then the magistrates had started banging on the door, and he'd acted on instinct.
Now, Marianne sat with uncharacteristic quietness in her corner of the carriage. He felt a pang at her pallor, the tight grip of her hands upon one another. Hands, he reminded himself, capable of breaking into a man's office.
His anger surged at her—at himself. How could he have allowed himself to get entangled in this mess? He'd betrayed his ethics, his obligation to the assignment. And why? The truth astounded him. Because he couldn't stand to see Marianne come to harm. Because a primal, irrational part of him insisted on protecting a woman who refused to be protected. And because, despite all evidence to the contrary, his gut told him that she was no anarchist.
That she harbored a secret, he did not doubt. He'd have his reckoning with the reckless widow before the night was out.
The carriage stopped. The door opened, and Lugo let down the steps.
Marianne cleared her throat. "It's rather late," she began.
"You're not getting off that easily," Ambrose said, daring her to disagree. "After the events of the evening, I daresay you owe me the courtesy of an explanation."
Her lips clamped shut. She alighted, saying gracelessly over her shoulder, "Very well. Come along if you must."
Once inside, she did not lead him to the drawing room as he'd expected, but upstairs to her chambers. His belly tautened at the sight of her luxurious bed. He heard a snort, and his gaze shot to the sitting area by the fire. He recalled the brown-haired abigail from his last visit, and she appeared no friendlier this time around. Finishing with her task of laying out a collation—the scent of coffee and spiced fruit curled warmly in his nostrils—she scowled at him and said to her mistress, "Are you certain you don't need me to stay, milady?"
"Go to bed, Tilda. I'll be fine," Lady Marianne replied.
"But you'll need 'elp changin' your clothes—"
"I can manage. Besides," her mistress drawled, "I'm sure I can locate an extra pair of hands if I need them."
The innuendo sent heat creeping up Ambrose's neck. And to other portions of his person. All of a sudden, he became aware of the tension in his body—how rigidly he was holding himself in check. God help him if she pushed him tonight…
The door closed behind the maid, and they were left alone.
"It's been a long evening, hasn't it?" With a languid motion, Lady Marianne stripped off her gloves.
"Enough games," he said curtly. "What the devil were you doing in that place?"
"I could ask you the same."
Proceed with care. Do not give the mission away.His insides knotted. After all he'd already compromised this eve, he must not betray Coyner and the client further. If nothing else, he'd keep his word to safeguard the confidentiality of the case.
"I followed you from the Hartefords. You seemed upset, and I wanted to make sure you were alright." He did not wish to lie to her; what he said was at least part of the truth. "I did not expect you to go from supper to burglarizing a man's office. I repeat, what were you after, my lady?"
Her brows lifted. "Is this an official police interrogation? If so, I shall make myself more comfortable."
Before he could reply, she sauntered off to the dressing screen by the bed. She shed her cloak along the way, the velvet skin fluttering to the carpet. Ambrose swallowed as her silhouette appeared behind the silk panels. The flickering candlelight revealed every perfect line of her figure. As he watched, mesmerized, she undressed, her hands roaming over her curves, undoing, unfastening…
Focus, man. She's accused of being an anarchist. You have to find out the truth—have to find a way to protect her if the allegations are false.
Frowning at himself, he forced himself to turn around. He stared into the roaring flames of the fire, his thoughts in chaos. Sweat broke upon his forehead, and he yanked off his greatcoat, tossing it onto one of the chairs.
