"You were with her for several years, albeit under a different name. By all the accounts, the two of you shared a connection beyond that of employer and employee. Then Kitty disappeared three years ago—the most infamous and successful bawd of her timegone"—Marianne snapped her fingers—"as if she never existed. I want to know where she is."
"Why? Because she owes you blunt?" Some hidden reserve lifted Corbett's chin. "Well, get in queue. But you and the rest of the cutthroats and moneylenders are bound for disappointment. Kitty's not coming back. I don't know where she is, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."
"You think this is about a thing as paltry as money?" Fury thrumming in her veins, Marianne removed a folded piece of parchment from her reticule. She held it up to Corbett's face.
"What the devil is that?" he said, trying to push her away.
She did not budge. "A receipt. For mydaughter."
Corbett stilled. In that instant, a spasm gripped Marianne's heart: hope fiercer than pain. Heknewsomething.
"I found this amongst my husband's belongings after he died. The date lines up with when he kidnapped my daughter Primrose—stole her from her nursery where she lay sleeping." Grief and rage made Marianne's hand tremble as she held the receipt higher, reciting the words branded into memory.
"To Baron Draven: Your package and the five hundred pounds have been received. As discussed, monthly payments of fifty pounds will be required for its ongoing care. Your servant, Kitty Barnes." Marianne's breath burned in her lungs. "Thatpackagewas my daughter. And I will have her back."
Corbett stared at her. "But I don't... understand. Why would your husband kidnap his own daughter and put her in Kitty's care?"
Because Primrose was not Draven's child. Because though Draven had vowed before marriage to take care of the bastard growing inside Marianne's womb, he had resented every moment Marianne had spent with her newborn girl. He'd resented that and the fact that motherhood had made Marianne strong, resilient in the face of his cruelties. And because of that, he had taken Primrose away and used an innocent's life to keep Marianne a slave to his whims.
Guilt, shame—no time for that now. Later, Marianne would punish herself anew for her recklessness, her stupidity. For now she had to concentrate on getting Primrose back.
"My daughter has paid for my mistakes." The words abraded her throat. "I will do anything to find her. What is it that you want in exchange for information of her whereabouts, Mr. Corbett? Money? I have plenty of it. Name your price."
Corbett continued to stare at her. Lines flickered at the sides of his mouth.
"I can't do this here," he said in a low voice.
Her heart quickened. "Where, then?"
"I'll come to you." With a quick glance around, he raked his hands through his hair, mussing the coiffed curls.
When he began to untie his robe, Marianne narrowed her eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Mrs. Wilson will be inspecting us when we emerge from our love nest." He parted the brocade, exposing his naked, sculpted form. Cheeks burning, Marianne looked away as he continued in matter-of-fact tones, "She'll expect to find the usual signs of fornication—she likes to examine mepost coitus.If you don't want your motive exposed, you had best do something about yourself, too." He paused, cocking a brow. "Unless you'd care to exchange a helping hand?"
At that, Marianne cast him a withering look.
"Right-o," he muttered. "I'll keep my hands and my eyes to myself." So saying, he turned his broad shoulders. The jerking of his arm left no doubt as to how he meant to pass his employer's scrutiny.
Her stomach knotting, Marianne retreated a few steps back. She'd do anything to regain Rosie, and for the first time in a very long while, she saw a faint glimmer on the dark horizon. She let out a resigned breath. With a slight tremor to her hand, she reached for her bodice.
2
The tavern was noisy,smoky, and to Ambrose Kent's mind, a dismal place to interview for a job. Yet Sir Gerald Coyner had suggested meeting at The White Hart rather than the Bow Street offices, and wanting to get things off on the right foot with the magistrate—and, potentially, his future employer—Ambrose had agreed.
In the decade he'd spent working for the Thames River Police, Ambrose had learned to judge a man's character quickly. When training new recruits, Ambrose emphasized two things: observation and patience. Being a successful waterman, in his view, was less about brute force and more about collecting facts, missing no details, and waiting for the pieces to come together.
For instance, he could tell a lot about Coyner from the quarter hour they'd spent together. Well-nourished and dressed in fashionable clothes, Coyner was obviously a man of means. Without so much as a glance at the menu, he'd ordered the most expensive items the tavern had to offer. His accent was educated, yet not of the highest class, and though his thinning brown hair and lined features put him in his fifth decade, he wore no wedding band. He had the fastidious habits of a man who lived on his own, wiping his mustache after each sip from his foaming tankard.
Ambrose looked down at his own barely touched ale. Though the amber liquid had tasted smooth and delicious and his stomach was growling, he had to stretch the drink to make it last the duration of the meeting. As it was, he'd had to choose between that single beverage and a hackney ride home afterward—he hadn't coin enough for both.
Which focused him on his goal: he needed money. His full-time position with the River Police could not provide what was required, so he had to secure additional employment. He cleared his throat, readying to make his pitch for contract work with Bow Street.
Before he could speak, the serving wench returned to the table.
"'Ere you go, sir." Red-haired and plump-cheeked, the woman's generous bosom jiggled as she set a platter heaped with beef and creamed potatoes in front of the magistrate.
Ambrose swallowed; typically, his stringent self-discipline overrode his impulses, but now 'twas as if all his hungers were spread before him. For food… and for female companionship. Thinking of Jane—of her dark, laughing eyes and bountiful curves—he experienced a pang.
