Her throat swelled. There was only one road left to redemption. She had to get Rosie back on her own.
"But what about the urchin? Who sent him? You aren't thinking clearly—"
"Who's not thinking? About what?" Tilda sat up, rubbed her eyes. "Are we there yet?"
At the sound of crunching gravel, Marianne hissed, "Hush, both of you. Here he comes."
"Ah, Lady Draven. What an… unexpected pleasure."
She took the smooth, manicured hand and stepped down from the carriage. "Lord Pendleton," she murmured, bending in an elegant curtsy, "the pleasure is all mine."
In his early fifties, the earl wore his age well. His iron-grey hair was coiffed above a noble forehead and his tall, thickening figure shown to advantage in a tweed hunting jacket. He studied her with a dark, reptilian gaze—trying to recall, no doubt, when he'd issued her an invitation. Pendleton's exclusive guest list would typically not include the widow of a mere baron. Being a gentleman, however, he could not openly accuse her of crashing his house party.
"I was not certain you would make it," he said in ironic tones.
"To be honest, neither was I," she said with a light laugh. "But then my plans got cancelled, and I recalled your lovely invitation,"—she removed the gilt card from her reticule, waving it strategically above her bosom—"and I simply could not resist the opportunity to further our acquaintance."
His eyes caught for a moment on her décolletage. He said only, "Indeed."
Dash it, Pendleton was living up to his reputation as a strait-laced snob. She brightened her smile and tried a different tactic. "I believe you are acquainted with my dear friend, the Marchioness of Harteford. The Earl of Northgate's daughter? When I told her I was coming here, she said to send you her best regards."
Pendleton's posture relaxed somewhat at the mention of Helena's distinguished bloodline. "Fine family, the Northgates. Haven't seen the earl for ages—meant to give him my condolences." Pendleton's mouth edged into a smirk. "But a title's a title, I suppose."
Marianne knew he was referring to Helena's marriage to Harteford, who'd once been a pariah amongst thetondue to his open engagement in trade and his humble beginnings. Owing to Harteford's enormous power and wealth, most of the scandal had faded in the past years. Yet snobbery apparently died hard amongst a select few.
Biting her tongue, Marianne gave a false yawn. "Do excuse me," she said prettily, "but I'm afraid the journey was quite wearying. Travel does so affect my sensibilities."
"As it would any lady's." After a slight hesitation, Pendleton said, "You must come in and refresh yourself. I'll have your luggage sent to your rooms."
"You are too kind, my lord," Marianne murmured.
As she took his arm, a shiver stirred her nape.The game begins.
32
Later that afternoon,Ambrose stomped up the stairs of Wapping Street Station to his office. He was in a foul mood. Owing to Marianne's abrupt departure, he'd gotten no sleep the night before. He'd combed through her chambers and found no clue to her whereabouts, and the servants had not proved any more helpful.Perhaps a house party, sir?one of the maids had suggested.My lady receives invitations all the time. She is ever so popular.
His jaw clenched. Had Marianne gone off to cavort at some party? If so, she'd made it clear that he had no right to interfere with her plans... no right even to know of them. Hadn't she told him time and again that she could only offer him the moment?
You're a bloody, bloody fool, man.
He tossed his hat on his desk, his mood darkening further at the sight of the report he'd yet to complete. He'd spent the day trying to find the captain who'd slipped by the excise officers without paying the duties, but the bastard had proved as slippery as an eel. Ambrose had followed one lead after another today, and all had come to naught.
Devil take it, he needed some good news for a change.
Johnno's curly head emerged through the doorway. One look at his subordinate's somber face, and Ambrose knew that none was forthcoming.
"What is it, Johnno?" he said wearily.
In a low, urgent voice, the waterman said, "Dalrymple's been looking for you. He had a visitor while you were out. A magistrate from Bow Street—"
The hairs on Ambrose's neck rose at the same time that Johnno's head whipped around.
"G-good afternoon, Sir Dalrymple," he heard Johnno stammer.
The magistrate nudged the lad aside, his girth filling the doorway. "There you are, Kent." The smug look on his superior's face fostered Ambrose's sense of foreboding. "I've been looking all over for you."
Ambrose came to his feet. "I've been out on an investigation, sir. The excise case—"
