The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(60)
“Claims being the operative word.” As much as he loved his daughter, he couldn’t help but question her judgement. “How can we trust that she will act in her own best interests?”
“What choice do we have? She has her independence now.” Marianne’s tone turned contemplative. “And I begin to think that not trusting her may have been the root of this fiasco.”
“How do you mean?”
“By being overprotective, I may have made Rosie doubt herself,” she said slowly. “In retrospect, I think I’ve added to her insecurities by trying to shield her from the truth. By communicating to her—unintentionally—that I didn’t believe in her ability to handle reality. Now she doubts her own instincts, and it is my fault.”
“You cannot take responsibility for that,” he said. “And I do not think Rosie suffers from an excess of self-doubt.”
“Don’t you?” Marianne’s smile was edged with sadness. “She exudes confidence and charm, no doubt, but do you think a truly confident woman would care so much what the ton thinks? Would seek acceptance above all—even love?”
He hadn’t considered the matter from this angle before. The idea that his bright, brave, and beautiful daughter might believe herself lacking in any way raised a welt on his heart.
“How can we help her?” he said tautly.
“We nudge her—gently—in the right direction. I think it would be in the best interests of everyone if you got to know Corbett better. Make sure that he is, indeed, a man of character and a suitable husband for Rosie. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you, darling?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles there fine-tuned to paternal stress. “I suppose not.”
“Thank you.” His wife’s lips brushed his jaw. “I knew you would understand.”
“I understand one thing for certain.”
“What is that, my love?”
“I’m keeping Sophie under lock and key,” he said darkly. “I’ve learned my lesson. No gentlemen are getting near our other daughter.”
Marianne laughed. Apparently, she thought he was joking.
“I adore it when you get protective.” Her hands wandered, and he felt himself responding, as ever, to her teasing touch. “You’re my hero, Mr. Kent.”
He rolled over her. “Don’t you forget it, Mrs. Kent.”
He kissed her smiling mouth with a need that had only grown deeper and fiercer with time. She responded with an ardor that always heated his blood. Together, they reaffirmed with their bodies and hearts the love that would see them through anything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day, with Grier by his side, Andrew entered Will Nightingale’s coffee house in the heart of the Seven Dials. Nightingale’s was an ancient institution, a relic from another time when the public gathered in such venues to learn the news of the day and engage in the free exchange of ideas. Although the rising popularity of tea and private clubs had led to the demise of coffee houses, Nightingale’s showed no acknowledgement of the times.
The interior hadn’t changed much in the twenty-odd years since Andrew had first stepped foot into the place. It still had the same shaved wood floors and smoke-tinged air, the heads of bleary-eyed game serving as décor on the walls. He did notice a few new paintings: the amateurish watercolors sprang up like bizarre blooms in the field of furry trophies.
The place was bustling as always, serving boys dashing back and forth with silver pots, refilling the famous pitch-dark brew for the customers clustered around long tables. As potent as the coffee was, however, it wasn’t the secret to Nightingale’s longevity. That lay at the table set in a private alcove at the back of the room.
Andrew strode toward the alcove, Grier at his heels.
“Try not to kick the hornet’s nest, will you?” the Scot said under his breath.
“Someone kicks first, I’m not backing away,” Andrew said evenly.
He needed his full focus on protecting Primrose. This meant he had to clean his own house. To end the feud with his nemesis Malcolm Todd, one way or another.
When he and Grier neared their destination, a pair of hulking guards blocked their access to the table, waiting for their master’s decree.
Bartholomew Black, sitting on a throne-like chair, jerked his chin at Andrew. “Him only.”
Grier cast Andrew a look of warning before being led off.
“Good morning, sir.” Andrew bowed deeply—fitting when one was greeting the most powerful man in London.
Those who didn’t know Black might mistake him for a doddering eccentric. He certainly dressed the part: from his lace-trimmed shirt to his embroidered puce waistcoat to his satin breeches, he looked as if he’d stumbled in from the previous century. Yet the dark eyes that looked out from beneath that ridiculous periwig were as sharp as a blade, and the beringed hands that were dumping sugar and cream into coffee could just as casually end a man’s life.
Anyone who didn’t respect the King of the Underworld was a fool.
Andrew was no fool.
Which was more than he could say about Black’s son-in-law, Malcolm Todd. Todd occupied the seat one down from Black’s right, a position rife with meaning. Black keeping the chair to his right empty was a subtle yet symbolic reflection of the state of affairs. Everyone knew Todd was chomping at the bit to inherit his father-in-law’s power; Black, however, showed no signs of relinquishing the reins to his kingdom.