Her breathing grew more even. In the best scenario, he would keep her secret—yet that would only place her deeper in his debt. Under his power. Shehatedbeing beholden to any man. Swallowing, she recalled her bargain with Bartholomew Black, goose pimples dotting her skin at the memory of his foul collection of riding crops.
What's done is done. You had no choice. For Rosie's sake, you must endure anything.
She straightened her spine. The matter with Black might be out of her hands, but she could damn well manage Ambrose Kent. The notion of sitting by, wringing her hands and waiting for Kent to name his terms was unthinkable… An idea struck her then: perverse and deliciously so.
A way to see to her obligations. To solidify her position as one of power and not passivity. And to pay Kent back in kind for leaving her like a thief in the night.
At her secretaire, she dashed off a note, sealed its contents, and rang for Tilda.
"Have this sent to Mr. Kent," Marianne said.
Tilda took the letter with obvious reluctance. "Yes, milady."
Seeing the disapproval etched on the other's face, Marianne suppressed a sigh. "Do you have something you wish to say to me? I warn you now, Tilda, I'm in no mood for a lecture."
"If you know what I'm thinking, I don't have to say it, do I?"
As Tilda went to draw open the curtains, Marianne reflected wryly that even the maid was getting the best of her. For once, she regretted not going a more conventional route with the hiring of her servants. Surrounding oneself with sharp-witted honesty had its drawbacks.
"Enough of your tongue, Tilda," she said. "Have you seen Lugo yet this morning?"
"He left on an errand at the crack of dawn." Tilda brought over the morning's ensemble and began to help Marianne dress in front of the mirror. "Said to tell you he doesn't believe in coincidences and wants to get to the bottom of what happened last night."
"He and I are of the same mind then," Marianne said grimly.
As the maid fastened her corset strings, Marianne reviewed the many concurrences. She'd gone to search Leach's office, only to find him dead. Then the constables had arrived minutes later—too bloody convenient. Not to mention the matter of the attack by cutthroats in Covent Garden less than a fortnight ago.
Coincidences? She thought not.
The facts pointed to a logical and chilling conclusion: someone knew of her search for Rosie. Someone was monitoring her movements and meant to stop her. If Kent hadn't aided her twice, she might have been killed or framed for Leach's murder.
Mrs. Barnes had claimed that the man who'd purchased Primrose did not know that the girl was Marianne's daughter. Could he have discovered the truth nonetheless? Was one of the three suspects—Boyer, Ashcroft, or Pendleton—Marianne's hidden nemesis? Having met all of them on some occasion or another, she summoned the facts on each.
Marcus Tilson, Marquess Boyer, was widowed and in his forties. Though plain of face, he was considered a handsome catch—although now she remembered something odd about his eyes. Not their precise color, but the fact that something was missing in them. A sense of genuine feeling. Nonetheless, Boyer was a respected peer and an active member of the House of Lords.
In contrast, Devlin St. James, Viscount Ashcroft, was as handsome as the devil and a rake through and through. Heir to a dukedom, Ashcroft had been embroiled in several scandals that had been quickly hushed due to his papa's influence. Marianne's throat tightened as she recalled that one of the indiscretions had involved a rather young vicar's daughter.
Eugene Patten-Jones, the Earl of Pendleton, was the oldest of the three and arguably the most powerful. In his fifties, he cut a robust figure; when Parliament was not in session, he stayed at his country estate, which was renowned for its hunting grounds. He had a sterling reputation and was a notorious snob. On the one occasion she'd been introduced to him, he'd flicked a glance over her, his mouth curling with contempt.
"What do you plan to do next?" Tilda said, smoothing out the emerald gauze skirts.
"I have narrowed the search to three leads. One of them has my daughter, of that I am certain," Marianne said.
Why else would the bastard be trying to stop her at any cost? On an instinctual level, she knew she was getting closer to Rosie. Despite the long years of separation, the maternal bond persisted, vital as ever. 'Twas as if part of her—thebestpart—had gone to her babe at birth. Her breast tingled with a bittersweet memory. For a few weeks, she'd had the joy of nourishing her daughter with her own milk... until Draven had put an end to it.
You're a baroness, not a cow, he'd said coldly.Your bastard will use a wet nurse or she'll starve. The choice is yours.
Marianne's throat clenched. Even that had been taken from her.
"We'll get Miss Primrose back, milady." Tilda squeezed her shoulder, bringing her back. "I know what it's like to worry for your babe. If it weren't for you, my Arthur would be fightin' for his life in the stews with a whore for a ma. I owe you his life and mine; whatever you need, you've only to ask."
Marianne released a breath. "There's to be no talk of debt between us. You and Arthur have brightened my household with your presence. Speaking of which,"—she crossed over to the vanity and removed a brightly-wrapped box from the bottom drawer—"Arthur's birthday is tomorrow, is it not?"
Tilda made a clucking noise. "You'll spoil him, milady."
"'Tis nothing much. I'm told toy soldiers are the rage amongst boys his age." Marianne smiled wistfully. "He's a good lad, Tilda, and you should be proud."
"Aye, that I am." The maid set the package aside. Picking up a hairbrush, she directed Marianne to the vanity. "You'll be a proud mama too, milady, when you have Miss Primrose back. Now what plan do you have for her rescue?"
