As he struggled to find his voice, footsteps sounded from the alley behind him. Bloody hell, hadn't he taken care of the bastards? In the instant before he turned to face his foe, he saw the lady's magnificent eyes harden into icy gems. Her gloved fingers tightened on her weapon. All the hairs shot up on his skin.
"Don't—" The word left him in a shout.
She pulled the trigger anyway.
3
"I can't believeyou shot me," the stranger said and not for the first time since they'd boarded her carriage.
"I wasn't aiming for you. You got in the way of my bullet," Marianne said.
Really, the man could show a bit more gratitude seeing as how she'd saved his life. She'd let off the shot to deter the advancing cutthroat; seconds later, her trusted manservant Lugo had arrived. The sight of Lugo's imposing form and stern ebony profile—not to mention his double-barreled Flintlock—had sent the ruffians scurrying off into the night. She'd waved off Lugo's apologies (a mob in the street had detained his arrival) and asked him to load her would-be rescuer into the conveyance.
Now the vehicle rolled smoothly along, and the big man with the intriguing amber eyes scowled at her from his corner. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his hat; his mahogany hair—neither curly nor straight, but somewhere in between—gleamed beneath the carriage lamp. Long of limb and dressed in a greatcoat that had seen better days, he looked at odds sitting against the plush lavender squabs. He clasped his injured arm with one large hand; with a twinge, she noted the crimson seeping through his fingers.
"Let's have a look at that." She went over to his side of the carriage. When he backed away from her, she said with a hint of asperity, "Hold still, will you? I've just had the upholstery changed, and you're bleeding all over it."
He gave her a dark glance, but when she gestured for him to remove his greatcoat he obliged. Her heartbeat kicked up at the red splotch on his left sleeve. Yet he said nothing, staring straight ahead as she withdrew a handkerchief from her reticule and wrapped it around the wound. Beneath the rough linen of his shirt, his bicep—an unexpectedly solid ridge of muscle given his lean form—gave a twitch, but other than that he betrayed no sign of pain. Another surprise. In her experience, males became indistinguishable from babes when it came to the loss of blood.
But this fellow... he was different from other males. She didn't like the fact that she found him difficult to read. His face possessed little in the way of beauty, but she supposed there was a certain character to the ascetic lines. The set of his strong jaw suggested he was a man of perseverance. One who'd weathered hard times—if the gaunt hollows beneath his cheekbones were any indication. Only a full mouth and faint laughter lines at the eyes saved him from complete austerity.
At present moment, his curiously bright gaze was hooded, and she realized that she was not the only one making an assessment. His lips formed a tight seam, as if he found her...lacking? A rare appraisal indeed from a man. She acknowledged this without vanity: she knew the fact of her physical beauty and its effect on males. Her looks had proved both a blessing and a curse. And rarely did anyone bother to look beneath the surface.
If they did, they would encounter something quite the opposite of loveliness.
She secured the handkerchief with a knot and enough pressure to make a muscle leap in the stranger's jaw. "I think we're overdue for introductions," she said. "Who are you?"
"Ambrose Kent, at your service." He inclined his head. A wary motion.
His name rang a bell. "You are acquainted with the Hartefords." Her eyes narrowed. "A constable of some sort, aren't you?"
Something flickered in his gaze. Perhaps he caught the edge of derision in her voice. In her experience, so-called upholders of the law used their power against those whom they were supposed to protect. A case in point: Skinner, the blasted Runner she'd once hired. She wouldn't trust a thief-taker, Charley, policeman—or, for that matter,anyman—farther than she could toss him.
"I'm a Principle Surveyor with the Thames River Police," he said stiffly. "And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
"Marianne Sedgwick, Baroness Draven," she said.
At the mention of her title, the tension lines deepened around his mouth.Interesting. Doesn't like the peerage, does he?Yet from what she could recollect, her friend Helena, Marchioness of Harteford, had positively raved about this Mr. Kent. Apparently, Kent had helped to solve several thefts for Helena's husband and had once saved the Marquess of Harteford's life. Harteford—another stoic type—apparently got on with Kent, though heaven only knew what a marquess and a policeman had to talk about.
Intrigued, Marianne continued to peruse her companion. If it wasn't titles he held in contempt, then perhaps it was something particular to her? Perhaps he knew of her reputation; perhaps he shared the pulpit with the priggish, hypocritical types who'd dubbed her "The Merry Widow." Who scorned her for making full use of the freedoms that were hers by right—by virtue of the five years of hell that had been her marriage and the pain she continued to endure to this day.
Anger straightened her spine. "Does my reputation precede me?" she said coolly.
"Your reputation?" His brow furrowed.
So he hasn't heard the rumors about me—well that's not surprising, is it? We hardly move in the same circles. Either way, 'tis not as if I give a damn what he thinks.
"If you don't mind my asking," he said abruptly, "what were you doing alone in that area of Covent Garden and at this time of night?"
Marianne's jaw slackened. It had been a good long while since anyone had taken her to task to her face. That this rawboned policeman in his shoddy clothes would presume to do so rankled her. After all that she'd survived, she was her own woman; she answered to no one. She responded with icy calm, a weapon she'd honed amongst theton.
"As a matter of fact, I do mind," she said. "My business is my own."
"Not when it endangers your life and those of others who must rescue you from your folly."
The nerve of the man. "I didn't ask for your help," she snapped.
"No, you didn't," he agreed. "As I recall, it was more of a scream for assistance."
