'ere," the guard said, opening a door.
She walked in, and her estimation of Black's taste rose even further. The man might be a villainous cutthroat, but he lived like a king. Richly outfitted in mahogany and leather, the high-ceilinged library put many a lord's to shame. Tall windows fitted with forest green drapery lined one wall, and costly antiques littered the room. At the sight of the collection hanging next to the fireplace, her blood went cold.
Like a sleepwalker, she found herself moving toward the gleaming objects mounted on the wall. There were perhaps a dozen riding crops in all: antiques made of Malacca cane and exotic woods, some fitted with leather thongs, others without. The handles ranged from carved ivory to molded brass. Panic rose in her throat, the memory of degradation crawling over her skin.
Draven had had a similar collection.
"Like my toys, do you, my lady? The set belonged to a French King—one o' 'em Louies."
Marianne spun to face the owner of the deep, booming voice. Her palms clammy beneath her gloves, she forced herself to calm, to tamp down the past. The future was at stake. Draven had tried to break her, but he hadn't. He'd only hardened her, taught her the skills of survival. And she would survive this—if only to get Rosie back.
Her eyes narrowed at Black. He stood a few feet away, posed as regally as a Gainsborough portrait. Though short of stature, he held his barrel chest high, and one hand grasped a jewel-knobbed walking stick as if it were a scepter. His grey periwig and knee britches displayed his preference for the fashion of the past century; a man as powerful as Black could dress as he pleased.
Regaining her composure, she said, "Good evening, sir."
As she dipped into a graceful curtsy, she reviewed her three-tier strategy. The first line of attack: appeal to Black's self-interest. The second—and riskier—line: find his weakness and use it. If necessary, the third: do whatever it takes to get Rosie back and ensure Percy's safety.
He returned her courtesy with a flourished bow. "Please, be seated," he said.
She chose one of the studded wingchairs by the fire, and he took the adjacent seat. His piercing black gaze roved over her. Fair enough, since she was assessing him in return.
"'Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. Though I wasn't expectin' you this evenin'." A note of censure edged his tone.
"My apologies, Mr. Black. You see, a rather urgent situation has come up." She paused. "One that I believe you would care to know about it."
"Urgent, eh? Let's 'ear it then."
She drew a breath. "The matter concerns your daughter."
"Mavis? What's this got to do with 'er?"
Black's bushy brows lowered in menace. Apparently paternal feelings had naught to do with class; cutthroats could have them whereas country squires might not. Marianne tucked the information away for later. For now, she withdrew the packet of letters and held them out. Snatching them from her, Black broke the string and unfolded the first note. His face turned florid. The paper crumpled in his fist. He repeated the process for the remaining letters until balls of parchment piled over the buckles of his shoes.
"I'm goin' to gut the bastard. My dogs will 'ave 'is innards for supper."
The calmness of Black's declaration sent a shiver down Marianne's spine. But she said only, "The villain will be at Watson's Blacking factory at midnight."
"'E'll rue the day 'e crossed me. I never forget a wrong," Black growled as he rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I 'ave to go attend to the business."
Marianne exhaled. She'd secured Percy's safety. Now onto Rosie.
"I am not yet finished, Mr. Black," she said in dulcet tones.
His eyes thinned at her. "What do you want, then?"
"You said you never forget a wrong. Can I assume that you also never forget a favor?"
Black looked at her a minute. Then he let out a guffaw. "Nice try, my lady. No doubt you're a clever one. But I don't owe you nothin'."
She forced a
She walked in, and her estimation of Black's taste rose even further. The man might be a villainous cutthroat, but he lived like a king. Richly outfitted in mahogany and leather, the high-ceilinged library put many a lord's to shame. Tall windows fitted with forest green drapery lined one wall, and costly antiques littered the room. At the sight of the collection hanging next to the fireplace, her blood went cold.
Like a sleepwalker, she found herself moving toward the gleaming objects mounted on the wall. There were perhaps a dozen riding crops in all: antiques made of Malacca cane and exotic woods, some fitted with leather thongs, others without. The handles ranged from carved ivory to molded brass. Panic rose in her throat, the memory of degradation crawling over her skin.
Draven had had a similar collection.
"Like my toys, do you, my lady? The set belonged to a French King—one o' 'em Louies."
Marianne spun to face the owner of the deep, booming voice. Her palms clammy beneath her gloves, she forced herself to calm, to tamp down the past. The future was at stake. Draven had tried to break her, but he hadn't. He'd only hardened her, taught her the skills of survival. And she would survive this—if only to get Rosie back.
Her eyes narrowed at Black. He stood a few feet away, posed as regally as a Gainsborough portrait. Though short of stature, he held his barrel chest high, and one hand grasped a jewel-knobbed walking stick as if it were a scepter. His grey periwig and knee britches displayed his preference for the fashion of the past century; a man as powerful as Black could dress as he pleased.
Regaining her composure, she said, "Good evening, sir."
As she dipped into a graceful curtsy, she reviewed her three-tier strategy. The first line of attack: appeal to Black's self-interest. The second—and riskier—line: find his weakness and use it. If necessary, the third: do whatever it takes to get Rosie back and ensure Percy's safety.
He returned her courtesy with a flourished bow. "Please, be seated," he said.
She chose one of the studded wingchairs by the fire, and he took the adjacent seat. His piercing black gaze roved over her. Fair enough, since she was assessing him in return.
"'Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. Though I wasn't expectin' you this evenin'." A note of censure edged his tone.
"My apologies, Mr. Black. You see, a rather urgent situation has come up." She paused. "One that I believe you would care to know about it."
"Urgent, eh? Let's 'ear it then."
She drew a breath. "The matter concerns your daughter."
"Mavis? What's this got to do with 'er?"
Black's bushy brows lowered in menace. Apparently paternal feelings had naught to do with class; cutthroats could have them whereas country squires might not. Marianne tucked the information away for later. For now, she withdrew the packet of letters and held them out. Snatching them from her, Black broke the string and unfolded the first note. His face turned florid. The paper crumpled in his fist. He repeated the process for the remaining letters until balls of parchment piled over the buckles of his shoes.
"I'm goin' to gut the bastard. My dogs will 'ave 'is innards for supper."
The calmness of Black's declaration sent a shiver down Marianne's spine. But she said only, "The villain will be at Watson's Blacking factory at midnight."
"'E'll rue the day 'e crossed me. I never forget a wrong," Black growled as he rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I 'ave to go attend to the business."
Marianne exhaled. She'd secured Percy's safety. Now onto Rosie.
"I am not yet finished, Mr. Black," she said in dulcet tones.
His eyes thinned at her. "What do you want, then?"
"You said you never forget a wrong. Can I assume that you also never forget a favor?"
Black looked at her a minute. Then he let out a guffaw. "Nice try, my lady. No doubt you're a clever one. But I don't owe you nothin'."
She forced a
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