"I shall be attending Lady Auberville's annual ball at week's end. All thecrème de la crèmewill be present,"—Marianne winced as Tilda worked through a snarl—"including the blackguards in question. I plan to interrogate them when they least expect it."
"Will that be safe, milady? Lugo will have to wait with the carriage. You'll be alone."
What choice did she have? 'Twas not as if she could depend on anyone else... Kent's intent features flashed in her head.One day, you're going to trust me, to know I'll never leave you wanting.Longing sparked, but she snuffed it. Those words had been spoken in the heat of passion—and by a man.
Thus, nothing to place her trust in.
"What could possibly happen to me at a Mayfair soiree?" she said.
Snorting, Tilda pinned the final curls in place. Marianne looked this way and that, approving the sleek part down the middle and twists of loose curls that brushed her jaw on either side. The promenade dress brought out the shade of her eyes. Despite the tiresome comparisons to Aphrodite that came her way, she saw herself as Athena preparing for battle. Beauty was a weapon; being a cautious sort, she always thought it wise to bring sufficient reinforcements.
"We'll visit Madame Rousseau's," she said, "so send word ahead, if you please. Tell Madame I wish to book the entire afternoon, and I shall make it worth her while."
Tilda left to do her bidding, and Marianne completed her toilette with lotions and potions from the various jewel-colored bottles on the vanity. Looking at her polished appearance, she remembered what Kent had called her.Selkie. A woman who could don and shed her magical skin at will—and who called no man master.
Her lips curved with grim humor. Kent didn't know the half of it. Thisselkiewould stop at nothing to claim what was rightfully hers and woe to any blighter who stood in her way.
* * *
Ambrose entered Sir Coyner's Bow Street office with the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad. Yet he saw no way around the visit: he'd come to resign from the case. Through one serious error in judgment, he'd placed himself in an impossible situation. Bloody hell, Marianne had been right in calling him a snob: hehadexpected moral perfection from himself. And look where that arrogance had landed him.
Everything in him needed to defend Marianne, yet his honor demanded that he uphold his responsibilities to the client. His gut snarled. Devil take it, how was he going to extricate himself from this minefield without something blowing up in his face?
"Good day, Kent." Coyner rose from behind the desk. "'Tis a coincidence indeed that you came by. I had planned to summon you myself."
Ambrose mentally reviewed his speech.I have come today to resign, Sir Coyner. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I am no longer the man for the job. It wasn't entirely a lie. But it wasn't the full truth either, damn his own eyes. He could not bring himself to throw Marianne to the wolves, and he couldn't afford to draw the magistrate's ire, either: to do so would risk his livelihood and thus his family's future.
Shoulders bunched, Ambrose drew breath to speak.
The magistrate beat him to it. "I've bad news, I'm afraid, and no use beating around the bush about it. As of now, the investigation is suspended."
Ambrose blinked as the words trickled into his comprehension. "Beg pardon, Sir Coyner?"
"The case is over for now. Hate to break it to you in this fashion, especially since I just hired you on." Clasping his hands behind his back, the magistrate gave Ambrose a dark look. "I'm going to tell you something, Kent; normally, I wouldn't divulge this information, but I feel I owe it to you. This must be kept confidential."
"Yes, sir."
"The truth is... the client's solicitor was found dead last night."
Ambrose's insides gave a sudden, premonitory lurch.
"His name was Reginald Leach. He counted more than a few members of the peerage amongst his clients, so we cannot know whom he was representing when he sought our services. Unless that lord chooses to come forward, we have, at this point, no client." Scowling, Coyner rubbed his lined forehead. "No client, no fee, and no proof of any wrongdoing."
Ambrose forced the words through his cinched throat. "How did Leach die?"
"Poison," Coyner said grimly.
A woman's weapon.Dread percolated through disbelief. No, Marianne was no murderess. After last night, Ambrose could not believe it of her. She might put up a frosty exterior, but he'd discovered the warm, vulnerable woman within. The way she'd trembled when he'd showed her pleasures she'd never known before... But had she seen Leach's dead body? If so, why hadn't she mentioned anything?
"Unfortunately, the constables arrived too late. No suspects were found. Unless…" Coyner's sharp gaze pierced Ambrose's daze. "Where was Lady Draven last evening?"
The tug-of-war raged within him. His duty, his conscience pitted against some primal instinct that insisted Marianne was innocent. It told him to protect her, keep her safe… The knot in his chest tightened to the point where he could hardly get the words out.
"She was at a dinner at the Hartefords," he said.
"And afterward?"
His insides pitched. "She went home."
