"Trust me, Mr. Danbury. Lord Danesfield could tie me to the rack and threaten to gouge my eyes and still it would not be my secret to tell."
Marcus admired her integrity. Most women of his acquaintance could no sooner hold their water as hold their tongue. What a shame Miss Sinclair had not chosen a different profession. With her beauty and unshakable resolve, she should be spying for the Crown.
"Dane is not the sort of man to give up. Don't be surprised to see him riding across the bridge on his stallion, smoke billowing from its hooves, its master's eyes as dark as night."
Miss Sinclair shivered visibly.
"I did not mean to frighten you," Marcus continued, dismissing the urge to wrap his arms around her and offer comfort. "I know how determined Dane can be."
"I do not fear Lord Danesfield," she said glancing down to her lap. When she looked up at him, the pain in her eyes was unmistakable. "But I've felt the Devil's cold black stare. I know the difference between empty threats and the cruel, wicked intentions of a man with no conscience."
A man aroused and in his cups could certainly be a formidable opponent for any woman on her own. But he sensed her experience amounted to more than the hazards one encountered when running a brothel.
"Pay no heed to my strange ramblings," she continued before he could find the right words to ease her pain. "The streets of Marylebone can be treacherous at night."
"Most places are unsafe at night, Miss Sinclair." Indeed, even the coastal villages of northern France had their share of criminal activity. He should know. His nightly patrols had uncovered a violation of the law; now he had a duty to intervene.
She gave a weak smile. "You're right. It is best not to dwell on such things." She took the letter from her lap and stood. "I should return to my chores," she said, and he knew that at two o'clock she spent an hour in the chapel. At three, she spent an hour helping Selene prepare dinner.
"Of course," he stood, too, and offered a curt nod.
"Would you mind doing something for me, Mr. Danbury?" Her soft melodic tone held a trace of gratitude, and he doubted he could refuse her request.
"That depends on what it is you're asking," he said in an attempt to sound indifferent.
"Would you write to Lord Danesfield on my behalf? Would you ask if he knows what has happened to my girls?"
Had she used her womanly wiles to tempt him: stroked her hair, let the tip of her tongue trace the line of her lips, moved closer, so the scent of almonds made him want to taste her skin, he would have refused. But her request conveyed a level of trust in his ability to do the honourable thing and it touched him.
"Your girls?" he said. "Do you mean the women who work for you?"
"They no longer work for me, Mr. Danbury. To some extent they never did. I was simply there to care for them. A mother. A bank clerk. A modiste."
He raised his chin in acknowledgement. "What of his request for information regarding Miss Beaufort's whereabouts?"
Miss Sinclair appeared to contemplate his question.
"Tell Lord Danesfield that Miss Beaufort is safe and well."
Marcus shrugged. "That is all?"
"That is all," she nodded.
He inclined his head, and they walked until under cover of the cloisters.
"Thank you for your company, Mr. Danbury," she said as she turned away from him and headed towards the chapel.
Marcus watched her until she disappeared from view. He had never met a woman like Miss Sinclair. She was certainly not like the scantily-clad bawds one found lounging about in brothels. More's the pity. The idea of her soft curves draped in diaphanous silk made his mouth water.
Now he came to think of it, she was not like any other woman he had ever met. In his experience, women fell into specific categories: self-absorbed, simpering, or slow-witted. So far, he'd found his guest to be thoughtful, intelligent, kind yet steely. She had the face of an angel, the body of a goddess.
How in God's name had she ended up running a house of ill repute?
More importantly, why had Dane sent her to France?
What was she running away from?
The following day another letter arrived.