Devil take it, how had Ambrose made such a shambles of things? His good intentions—his desire to safeguard both Marianne and his family—had proved the old adage. He'd landed himself in hell. Because of his pride, his arrogance in believing that he could take responsibility for everything, he'd ended up hurting everyone he cared about.
He tried to reason it out: he had to find Marianne, to somehow explain that he hadn't told her the truth because he'd known how she would react. He didn't want her to push him away because he wanted to protect her, to find her daughter. In other words... he'd lied to her for her own good.
He cringed.Bleeding hell.
How on earth had he convinced himself that this was a good idea?
Given all that Marianne suffered at the hands of men, he couldn't blame her for hating him, for wanting nothing to do with him. Hell, he knew he didn't deserve her trust.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. Perhaps he'd do better to visit Coyner first and try to make amends there. Because if he didn't, his livelihood was lost. The tide he'd kept at bay battered at his defenses. He could practically feel the cold, black water closing over his head.
If you don't, the family will suffer. Em, Father, all the little ones—they'll be on the streets. All because of your failings.
"Mr. Kent! Hold up!"
The low, chuffing voice cut into his bleak thoughts. He turned to see a short, scruffy man in a weather-beaten hat hurrying toward him.
"Trout?" Ambrose said, frowning. "What can I do for you?"
"'Tis whatIcan do foryou." Looking this way and that, Willy Trout said, "Found that cove you're lookin' for."
Ambrose stiffened. Trout had located Skinner, the Runner who had accosted Marianne?
"Where is he?" he said tersely.
"Like you said, a man never strays far from 'is 'abits. 'E's got a friend wot owns a flash house near Bottom's End. Close to all 'is vices—whores an' gin 'ouses." Shaking his head, Trout wiped his tattered sleeve under his nose. "'E's 'iding from something, that's for certain."
"Why do you say that?"
"Changed 'is name. Goes by Tanner now." Trout rolled his eyes. "An' what from I 'ear, e's more skittish than a virgin on 'er weddin' night. Best 'ave a care if you mean to pay 'im a visit."
Skinner was the one who needed to watch out.
Even if Ambrose's relationship with Marianne was beyond repair, this was one thing he could do for her. The only thing within his power to do that would protect her. He'd failed her once—he'd not do so again.
His hands flexed, bunching at his sides.
"Take me to the bastard," he said.
* * *
Aptly named, Bottom's End occupied one of the most wretched corners of the stews. Though the cloak of night had not completely fallen, vice already flourished in the fetid streets. Pimps occupied every corner, their expressions calculating as their whores cooed out invitations to all passersby. Drunkards stumbled in and out of the taverns, and the stench of spirits and detritus mingled sickly in the dank, stifling mist. Nothing clean or fresh penetrated the maze of narrow streets.
From an alleyway, Ambrose and Trout monitored the back of the flash house.
"Skinner should be comin' out any minute. Keeps a regular schedule, that one," Trout said.
Like clockwork, a figure staggered from the flash house. He glanced around, and apparently detecting no threats, steadied himself against the wall with one hand and unfastened his trousers with the other. Grunting, he began to relieve himself.
"That him?" Ambrose said in disgust.
Trout squinted into the darkness. Gave an affirmative.
Silently, Ambrose handed Trout a bag of coins.
Instead of taking the money, Trout tipped his hat. "This one's on the 'ouse, sir. Consider it a return for lookin' out for my brother," he said in a low voice.
"'Twas my duty—"
