"What did he do?" Ambrose said tersely.
She hugged her knees to her chest. "Because he blamed me for unmanning him, he said it was up to me to fix the problem. He made me… do things. Humiliating things. Night after night, he made me wear tawdry garments and pose myself, as if I were the lowliest of trollops. With a crop in hand, he made me kneel before him and try to stimulate him by…" Her voice broke.
Ambrose gathered her close. "It was no fault of yours, whatever he made you do. You know that, don't you?" he said roughly against her hair. "You were never to blame for his impotence. The bastard took pleasure in degrading you because he could not face his own failings as a man."
"It never worked, what he made me do," she said tremulously, "and that only enraged him further. He blamed me for dulling his desires, for being distracted and not applying myself to my wifely duties. So finally one day, as punishment, he… he took Rosie away from me."
Tears tracked silently down Marianne's face. Ambrose could do nothing but hold her more tightly, his own eyes stinging with helpless rage.
"He threatened to have Rosie harmed unless I did exactly as he said. For four years, he kept me a prisoner to his whims. I did everything he asked, and in return all I received was the occasional lock of Rosie's hair. A report that she was healthy and, oh God,"—her throat worked—"I never knew if he was lying. But I told myself I'dknowif... if…" She scrubbed her eyes with her fists. "I'd know if anything happened to my little girl. A mother's heart would know," she said fiercely, "and I vowed that I would never give up on finding her. No matter where my search leads or compels me to do, Iwillget her back."
"That is what brought you to London," Ambrose said.
In his mind, the pieces fell into place. By Jove, Marianne's visits to the stews, her much gossiped about lascivious behavior—had all of that been smoke and mirrors? A cover she'd created to hide her search for her little girl? It made sense now. The juxtaposition between her jaded exterior and the desperate fragility he'd discovered beneath…
"After Draven's death, I discovered that he'd placed Rosie with a bawd named Kitty Barnes. It has taken me three years to hunt the madam down, only to discover that she'd sold my daughter"—Marianne's voice cracked—"to a gentleman."
Ambrose's hands balled. As a policeman, he'd developed calluses against human evil; one had to in order to survive the job. Yet crimes against children always cut to the core. What good was justice if it failed to protect the innocent and the weak?
"Barnes claimed she'd never met the client herself," Marianne said, "because he'd conducted the transaction via the services of a solicitor."
The hairs rose on Ambrose's neck. "Leach."
She nodded, her lips tightening. "In his office that night, I found three bills of service. Though the receipts did not specify the nature of the transactions, Leach provided those services during the month Rosie was sold. One of those three clients must have my daughter."
"Ashcroft is one of your suspects?"
She shuddered. "He was. But I can take him off the list. Tonight I discovered the nature of his sins; repugnant though they are, they have naught to do with Rosie." She paused. "Which leaves me with two possible culprits: Marquess Boyer and—"
"The Earl of Pendleton," Ambrose said grimly.
She stared at him. "How… how did you know?"
How had things gotten so complicated? Ambrose wished to hell he'd never taken Coyner up on the case; knowing Marianne's secret now, he felt sick with guilt for those handful of days he'd spent tracking her. Monitoring her, for devil's sake, whenshe'dbeen the victim—when she'd so desperately needed his help.
How would Marianne react to his betrayal?
Self-loathing scorched his insides as he realized the full extent of his dilemma. Upon his honor, he'd sworn confidentiality to Coyner. If he told Marianne about the assignment, he'd be breaking his oath to the magistrate, and Coyner would destroy Ambrose's career if he found out. If it were just him, Ambrose might somehow find a way to deal with those consequences, but what about his family? Where would they live? How would they eat... survive?
"How did you know?" Marianne repeated sharply.
Ambrose exhaled, hating the position he'd put himself in. "I found one of Leach's clerks and questioned him. He mentioned that Leach had had a recent altercation with Pendleton."
Silence met his words—and he hadn't even got to the confession yet. The next minute, she left the bed, reaching for a robe. When she turned to look at him, her face was a mask of anger.
"What gave you the right to nose into my business?"
Despite his guilt, the accusation stung.
"You wouldn't tell me what was going on between you and the solicitor, so I had to find out for myself. For God's sake, a man was murdered," he bit out. "You were in a precarious situation. I was only trying to help."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"Just like you didn't ask for my help with the cutthroats in the alley or Ashcroft tonight. Christ, Marianne, do you expect me to stand by and watch you risk your neck time and again?"
"I expect you not to do things behind my back. I expect to be able to trust you," she said, her voice frigid. "I expect you not to act like that bloody treacherous Runner!"
Ambrose's brow furrowed. "What Runner?"
