"Every day raised voices came from Leach's office." Milford's forehead furrowed. "Come to think of it, there was that row just last week. Slipped my mind until you asked. Aye, bloody ripper that one was."
Ambrose's instincts perked. "What and whom did the row involve?"
"Can't say what it was over exactly. But they were shouting something fierce. 'Twas none other than the Earl of Pendleton who came storming out of Leach's office."
Ambrose gripped his tankard. Pendleton was a member of the House of Lords, a wealthy peer. Could he be the mystery client who'd retained Bow Street's services via Leach?
"Did you catch any of the conversation between the earl and your employer?"
Milford shook his head. "Leach's office has thick walls. But before he left, Lord Pendleton said something along the lines of...If I go down, I'll find a way to take you with me." The clerk's eyes widened. "Good God, you don't think he meant it literally?"
Ambrose had no idea. But he'd definitely be looking into Pendleton. "Any other disgruntled clients stick out in your mind?"
"Certainly none as disgruntled as the earl," Milford said, "though you didn't hear it—or any of this—from me."
Ambrose rose and offered his hand. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Milford. Thank you."
The clerk raised his tankard in a mock salute. "Consider it my departing contribution to the legal profession."
"You never know what's around the corner, Mr. Milford. Another apprenticeship or another career... or another young lady." With a faint smile, Ambrose said, "Take it from me, lad: life is full of surprises."
21
Lady Auberville'sball was one of the annual crushes of the Season, and this year's fete was proving no exception. Descending the steps to the massive ballroom, Marianne surveyed the glittering scene. Lady Auberville had cleverly taken inspiration from her own backyard: the hostess had done up the place so that it flowed seamlessly into the very English garden just beyond the terrace doors. Instead of the usual towering palms, pots of lavender and trained ivy formed hedges around the dance floor, and blooming lily-of-the valley perfumed the air.
Charming as the setting was, Marianne's attention turned immediately to locating her targets. She found Ashcroft first. The viscount stood next to buffet tables overflowing with picnic foods. As usual, he was surrounded by a circle of females—married ladies and widows mostly—who no doubt wished to end the night in his bed. Sandy-haired, handsome, and possessed of dissolute charm, Ashcroft had a reputation as a gifted lover.
A gifted lover... beautiful golden eyes flashed in her head. A face stark with desire and intent. The memory of Kent's clever hands, his restrained male strength as he brought her to the peak of pleasure again and again—
Her breathing quickened. The tips of her breasts hardened, warmth blossoming at her core.
Keep your mind on the task, she admonished herself.
As Marianne watched, Ashcroft dipped a glass into a miniature champagne lake complete with tiny floating marzipan swans; he held the dripping glass to a lady's lips. She obediently took a sip. He repeated the motion with the next female in line, who giggled as she followed suit. No doubt he planned to have them all drinking out of his hand before the night was out. Truth be told, he appeared a trifle bored. Suddenly, Ashcroft's gaze lifted.
Marianne forced her lips into a sultry curve as his eyes raked over her with cool interest. She allowed the exchange to continue for a few seconds more before she looked away. Her heart thumped. She'd baited the first trap of the evening. Onto the next.
Circling the dance floor, she identified the Earl of Pendleton. He stood with a group of his lofty peers, attempting to converse with the young daughter of one of his cronies. From the way the debutante's gaze flitted toward the dance floor, it was clear she wished to be elsewhere.
Marianne decided she'd tackle Pendleton later. She looked for the third and final suspect on her list; Marquess Boyer, however, was nowhere to be found.
"Marianne, there you are. We have been waiting ages for you to arrive."
Marianne turned to see Helena's approach. Her friend looked resplendent in a gown of amethyst silk ornamented with gold trefoils. The marchioness' most flattering accessory, however, took the form of the very large and obviously possessive husband at her side.
"Lady Draven," the marquess said, bowing.
Helena was looking at her with a slightly anxious expression. Recalling her abrupt exit from the Hartefords' dinner party, Marianne felt a prickle of embarrassment.
In a light tone, she said, "It appears Madame Rousseau has been saving her best work for you. That dress is divine, Helena."
"As is yours," her friend replied. "I've never seen such brilliant shades of blue and green. You look like a beautiful mermaid."
Or another enchanted creature of the sea.
Smiling faintly, Marianne said, "Your bodice is superb. Baring the shoulders is all the rage in Paris, and you shall be setting the trend on English shores."
"Considering what she charges, I do not see why Madame Rousseau needs to economize on fabric," the marquess muttered. He slanted a dark glance at his wife's décolletage. "I shall have to have a word with her."
