But Trout had melted into the darkness. Bemused, Ambrose re-pocketed the money and returned his attention fully to Skinner, who was still going strong. Devil take it, how much had the sot had to drink? After a few more shakes and grunts, Skinner tucked himself in and teetered north. Ambrose took pursuit.
Skinner wove down a lane crowded with barrows and people. The throng gave Ambrose easy cover; whenever Skinner paused, casting a bleary and furtive gaze behind him, Ambrose simply turned to inspect a display of goods or bent his head as if speaking to another in the melee. People were too half-seas over to even question a stranger talking to them, and Ambrose received several friendly slaps on the back. Finally, Skinner turned right, disappearing between two narrow tenements.
Counting to ten, Ambrose followed.
The air was choked by smoke from open grates attended by figures pickled in misery. Ambrose blinked, trying to see through the haze. He caught a movement—the tail end of Skinner's greatcoat disappearing down steps. Ambrose navigated past the homeless wretches to the place where he'd seen his suspect go. A basement tenement—a place for the lowest of the low.
Muscles coiling, Ambrose descended into deeper darkness. His grip tightened on his wooden truncheon as he found the rotting door ajar, pushed it open. Pitch coated his vision. His other senses flashed alive, the pressure in his veins building—he felt the movement before he saw it. He dodged on instinct, going low and kicking out.
He heard Skinner curse, the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. The next instant Ambrose was atop his assailant. The other man struggled, grappling with considerable strength. A violent blow connected with Ambrose's shoulder, sending his truncheon flying. Ambrose held on, pinning the other by the neck. Panting, he raised a fist and plowed it into his opponent's jaw.
Skinner groaned, and Ambrose did it again. And again.
When the fight finally left the bastard, Ambrose reached for the pistol in his boot. He cocked it, the deadly click letting the other know he meant business. Rising, he kept his weapon aimed at the moaning figure whilst he found a lamp on the nearby table and lit it.
Shadows licked the walls of the squalid den, and Ambrose got a clear look at Skinner for the first time. With heavy jowls and a balding head, the rotter resembled a monstrous babe as he lay curled on his side, whimpering. A dark trail trickled from his nose. Rage boiled in Ambrose's veins at the thought of Skinner threatening Marianne, propositioning her. His grip on the pistol tightened.
Skinner's beady gaze widened at the sight of the weapon.
"Don't hurt me, please," the bastard gasped. "Whatever he's paying you, I'll give you double. Just don't hurt me."
Ambrose narrowed his eyes. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"
"I knowhesent you."
Skinner licked his lips, smearing the blood that had dripped there. He rose on his knees, and Ambrose took aim at the other's heart.
"Move another inch, and I'll shoot," Ambrose warned.
A pleading look crossed Skinner's features, his posture one of supplication rather than threat. "I won't tell a soul, I swear it on my mother's grave. Tell him I won't. His secret is safe with me."
A sudden premonition snaked down Ambrose's spine. "Tell me his name."
Skinner trembled, his gaze flitting left and right. "Are you testing me? If anyone asks, I won't breathe a word, I swear. About him and Leach. Tell him his name will never leave my lips. Just please don't kill me," he sobbed.
Ambrose brought the pistol between Skinner's eyes.
"For the last time, give me his bleeding name," he said.
34
Two days later,Marianne took the note from the footman and closed the door to the guest bedchamber. She scanned the brief lines.
"What does it say, my lady?" Tilda asked.
Marianne crumpled the paper. "Pendleton wants to meet me. At a clearing just beyond the woods."
Standing next to Tilda, Lugo shook his dark head. "'Tis a trap, my lady. Far too dangerous. Look what almost happened in his study—"
"I must go," Marianne said, though her heart thumped. "Hiding from Pendleton is not going to get me Rosie back. I came here to find her—and find her I will."
"Perhaps you ought to think twice, my lady." In an unusual move, Tilda cast her vote with Lugo. "There must be another way. Maybe we can get into the earl's study again…"
Marianne shook her head. "Pendleton now has a footman stationed there around the clock. And I am certain that whatever he had hidden in that globe is long gone. No, time is running out. I must confront him before he grows too suspicious and tosses me out."
From the cold glances he'd given her over supper last night, she was certain that if she continued to avoid him, he was not going to allow her to remain much longer. The summons to the meadow was his move. She knew she would either have to play … or go home.
Resolve bolstered her spine. Like hell she would back down. But she wasn't a fool either. Since the near disaster in the study, she'd revised her strategy. In retrospect, she'd realized that she hadn't been in her most rational mindset coming to Pendleton's—and she put the fault for that squarely on Ambrose Kent's shoulders. His betrayal had unmoored her, driven her to act recklessly. Though she could now see the danger inherent in her situation, there was no turning back.
