Eventually, she neared Fairfield’s. Gabriel pulled back from the viewing hole, counting out twenty heartbeats. Trained by the same spymaster, he and Pompeia played the game by the same rules. If he were about to commit wrongdoing, he’d be conducting a thorough sweep of the terrain before moving forward. He had no doubt that she would take similar precautions. He forced himself to count to twenty again before returning his gaze to the hole.
She was directly across from him now, at Fairfield’s, her back to him. The eager flower seller asked if she was looking for anything in particular. She demurred and was invited to browse, which she did with studied deliberateness. She perused the selection of hydrangeas, tulips, and daffodils, her gloved fingers brushing over the petals.
Do whatever you came here to do, he silently urged. Expose your evil schemes.
Gabriel’s attention suddenly snagged on a man approaching Fairfield’s. The stranger came from the opposite direction that Pompeia had, his gait jaunty… and uneven. The hairs lifted on Gabriel’s skin. He couldn’t see the man’s face—it was obscured by the brim of a brown cap—but there was no mistaking the slight limp in the stride, the favoring of the left leg. This was the bastard who’d passed his carriage right before the explosion.
The man jostled into Pompeia, muttering an apology, and Gabriel saw it happen.
Pompeia’s hand dipped into her reticule. In a movement so quick and sly it would have been lost in a blink, she removed something, slipped it into the pocket of the man’s jacket. The transaction completed, the man continued on his way and she on hers, moving in the opposite direction.
Gabriel jumped from his hiding place, fruit flying onto the cobblestones as he hurdled over the cart’s edge. He landed on his feet in the aisle, surprised gasps erupting around him. Both Pompeia and her conspirator whirled around; their faces registered shock.
McLeod was instantly at Gabriel’s back.
“Who’s mine?” the Scot demanded.
“She is.”
“Bloody hell, why do I get stuck with the female?” McLeod grumbled. “They don’t fight fair, and you can’t hurt ’em.”
Gabriel didn’t bother to reply, taking off after the man in brown. The suspect was plowing through the crowd, taking no heed of women and children, shoving everyone and everything out of his way. His limp didn’t slow him down a whit.
Feral aggression lengthened Gabriel’s stride. He’d chosen to go after the man because he knew Pompeia, knew she was too clever to engage in a tussle. Contrary to McLeod’s dire prediction, she wouldn’t give him any physical trouble; she’d simply feign innocence, use her status and influential husband as a shield of protection. They couldn’t touch her without proof. And the proof lay in the pocket of the bastard Gabriel was chasing down.
He was only several paces behind now, but the man suddenly rounded a corner, pulling down a stack of crates as he went. A hawker’s angry shouts in his ears, Gabriel leapt over the boxes, nearly losing his footing on the scattered potatoes but keeping his momentum. He almost caught up to his target, but then the man turned another corner.
Devil take it.
The bastard had chosen a vegetable aisle, one populated by old women in aprons shucking peas into baskets. Cries went up as the scoundrel grabbed the baskets, throwing them behind him as he ran. The morts scrambled forward on hands and knees, blocking the path as they tried desperately to collect the rolling green bits of their livelihood.
Cursing, Gabriel judged the blighter to be halfway down the aisle. Instead of following, he sprinted toward the next row. His lungs burned as he propelled himself forward, determined to head his foe off at the next intersection.
He made it, just seconds after his target, a half-dozen yards to his left. They’d emerged on the less populated northern edge of the market, and the man took off again, heading east. Gabriel gave chase, his blood pumping as he narrowed the gap between them. Bystanders spared them less than a glance, the chasing of pickpockets and thieves as common as the pigeons that scattered from their path.
Gabriel trailed his target onto a deserted lane. Almost there…
The bastard ducked again, this time into an alleyway between buildings. Gabriel went in right after him, grabbed him by the shoulder, slamming him into the wall. The villain recovered quickly, feigning to the left, a blade suddenly glinting in his grip. Gabriel caught the arcing hand, the tip of the blade inches from his own throat. He gripped hard and twisted.
The man cried out. Steel clattered to the ground.
Just when Gabriel thought he had the upper hand, the bastard landed a blow to his injured side. Pain shot through him, cutting short his breath and loosening his grip. He doubled over, and his foe delivered another swift blow. Through the red-hot haze, he saw the other reach into a hidden holster, pull out another knife. The steel flashed, and even as Gabriel tried to dodge out of the way, he knew it was too late.
A shot rang through the alleyway.
It took Gabriel’s befuddled senses a second to comprehend that he wasn’t dead. That he was still standing. His opponent, on the other hand, lay gasping on the alleyway floor, blood spurting from a lethal wound.
Gabriel’s gaze swung to the end of the alley. He glimpsed what might have been the hem of a greatcoat, the flap of black material vanishing. Should he give chase? His wound throbbed, trickling beneath his shirt, and he knew he was in no shape to catch the other. His mystery savior had too much of a lead.
Who would rescue him—and run afterward?
What in the devil’s name was going on?
He staggered over to the unmoving body of his attacker. He’d seen death enough times to know that the other was already gone. Having no wish to explain the situation to a constable, he cast a look around and did a swift search through the dead man’s pockets. Nothing to identify the other. His fingers closed around something hard and smooth.
He removed the object. A figurine. The cherubic shepherdess was made of biscuit pottery, no more than six inches tall. Her features were coarsely sculpted and no work of art. Why had Pompeia slipped this to the man?
Footsteps neared. Shoving the figurine into his pocket, Gabriel spun around, his hands reaching for his blades. Mr. Lugo, Kent’s partner, filled the end of the alleyway. His pistol was drawn, his chest heaving from exertion.
“Lost you in the crowd there, my lord.” The broad-shouldered African eyed the corpse on the ground. “Looks like you handled some trouble on your own.”
“I had some help,” Gabriel said tersely. “Did you see a man in black just now? Wearing a greatcoat, perhaps?”
“No, my lord. But we oughtn’t linger.” Lugo gave him a meaningful look. “We have your other suspect in custody.”
The investigator was right. Pompeia was the key to this.
One way or another, Gabriel would get his answers from her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pompeia gave them nothing.
Sitting in Strathaven’s study, she sipped tea as if this were a social visit, and she wasn’t here under duress. She was flanked by Kent and McLeod, both of whom remained standing, and Lugo was posted outside the door for good measure. The duke faced her from behind his large mahogany desk while Gabriel leaned against the front edge, his boots crossed at the ankle, his posture as deliberately nonchalant as hers.
“I’ve told you all I know, gentlemen, which is nothing. I haven’t the faintest idea why you’ve retained me.” She put her cup down with a click. “But Blackwood will be expecting me home soon, and I don’t like to keep him waiting.”
A perfect blend of innocence and threat. She hadn’t changed a whit. Her skill at deflection and deceit remained razor sharp.
“You can drop the pretense,” he said. “Everyone in this room knows who you are.”
She hid behind a puzzled expression. “Of course they do. I am well acquainted with His Grace and the duchess, and I have had the pleasure of chatting with Miss Kent on several occasions.” She widened her indigo eyes. “Speaking
of which, I wonder why the ladies are not present? I should love to visit with them.”
Over Gabriel’s dead body. He’d had the duke’s full backing when he insisted that Thea and the other ladies stay out of the interrogation. The women hadn’t been pleased with the decision, and that was too damned bad. He wasn’t letting the viper near them.
“The game is up, Pompeia,” he said.
At the mention of her old name, her composure slipped a little. Nothing much—a slight tremble of her lips, her fingers curling in her lap—and she recovered in the next instant.
She laughed. “What an odd thing to say, Lord Tremont.”
“I’ve told everyone in this room about your past and mine,” he said with calculated ruthlessness. “There is no hiding. Now what is your connection to the Spectre?”
“How dare you, Trajan.” Rage leapt into her violet eyes, her ladylike mask slipping. “You took an oath, the only sacred vow amongst agents—”
“Did you kill Octavian?” He said it point blank to gauge her reaction.
“Did you?” she shot back.
He narrowed his eyes. “He came to me for help. He was on the trail of the Spectre, and somebody killed him for it.”
“I hadn’t spoken to Octavian in years. That part of my life is done with,” she said flatly.
“Then why do you have a note written by the Spectre in your desk?”
Her fingers gripped in her lap. “You had no right to search my things.”
“I have every right if you’re a turncoat. If you betrayed Octavian and Marius and caused the deaths of countless men during the war.”
Her expression was scornful. “You have no proof of that.”
“Don’t I?” Gabriel said.
He removed the figurine from his pocket and placed it on the desk. Against the rich mahogany, the biscuit pottery looked crude and cheap. Yet it held some vital secret.
“What is the significance of this?” he said. “What message are you passing onto the Spectre?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen that before in my life.” Her lips curled in derision. “Unless you count those barrows where the hawkers are always trying to sell off their family’s last heirlooms.”
“This is no heirloom.”
Picking up the figurine, he hefted its weight—and smashed it against the desk. Clay crumbled into shards and dust, revealing straw and a small satin purse. He picked up the drawstring bag. It was heavy.
“Give that to me.” Pompeia surged to her feet. “If you don’t, I vow you will regret it.”
He ignored her, emptying the contents into his palm. A fortune of rubies and diamonds glittered in the afternoon light. He dangled the necklace in front of Strathaven.
“How much, would you guess?” he said.
The duke’s brows rose. “Ten thousand, at the very least.”
McLeod whistled under his breath.
Gabriel faced Pompeia. “Why are you giving the Spectre this? What nefarious schemes are the two of you plotting together?”
“It’s none of your sodding business what I do.” Her polished accent slipped a little, revealing an edge of Cockney. “Give the necklace back to me, or you will regret it.”
“You’re going to hang for treason unless you give me a reason to see you spared.”
“A threat from a man. Now there’s something new,” she spat. “You’ll get nothing from me.”
He had half a mind to call her bluff and hand her over to the Crown forthwith. Clearly, she was withholding evidence; she’d been caught red-handed giving goods to an infamous traitor. She had guilt written all over her.
The door suddenly opened, and Gabriel’s jaw tautened as Thea, the duchess, and Mrs. Kent marched in. He glared at Lugo, who brought up the rear.
“Don’t blame Lugo,” Thea said quickly. “We made him let us in.”
Lugo shrugged his massive shoulders, his broad features abashed. “I tried to stop them.”
“He couldn’t very well prevent me from entering a room of my own home, could he?” the duchess said. “Hello there, Lady Blackwood.”
Uncertainty flashed across Pompeia’s features before she said coolly, “Good day, ladies.”
“I thought we agreed that the study was my private domain.” Going over to his wife, Strathaven tipped up her chin. “What happens here stays here, remember?”
“Which is why we thought it best to be present,” she replied, “so we don’t miss anything.”
“And one misses all sorts of things when one is eavesdropping from the next room.” Thea came up to Gabriel, peering at the necklace he held. Her eyes rounded. “Is that what you were saying was worth ten thousand pounds?”
He gritted his teeth. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I belong here.” Her gaze was steady on his. “Let me help.”
Aware of Pompeia’s scrutiny, he shuffled Thea off to the side, said under his breath, “You can help by turning around and leaving. It’s not safe for you to be here.”
“For you, either. And from what I overheard,”—her hushed tone matched his—“you’re not making much headway. Why don’t you let me speak to her, woman to woman?”
“Because she’s not just a woman. She’s a spy.”
“She’s both. And a wife and mother as well.” Thea touched his sleeve. “Trust me?”
As much as he wanted to argue further, he knew it was too late and that Pompeia was taking everything in. Storing knowledge, information about his relationship with Thea to use against him in the future. In her situation, he’d do the same thing. If he didn’t back down, it would only highlight his vulnerability when it came to Thea—and thereby put her at greater risk.
It took all his willpower to step back. “Do what you will,” he said indifferently.
Thea smiled at him, her presence so lovely that his chest tightened. Outwardly, he showed nothing. They returned to the larger group, and Her Grace waved everyone toward the sitting area, where she promptly plopped herself onto a settee.
She gestured to the cushion beside her. “Come, Lady Blackwood, you are a guest. This business is awkward enough as it is. No use in being even more uncomfortable.”
“Am I a guest, Your Grace?” Pompeia arched an eyebrow.
“Well, yes… unless you are involved in the evil schemes to harm Tremont and his son. If you’re involved with the Spectre, then that’s a different story altogether,” the duchess said. “Then we’ll have to see justice done.”
One could never accuse Strathaven’s lady of being indirect.
“I see.” After a moment, Pompeia crossed over to sit next to her hostess, her amber skirts settling around her.
Everyone else took a seat as well, except Strathaven. He stood behind his wife, his posture rigidly protective. Gabriel sat in the wingchair closest to Pompeia, ready to act if she so much as laid an untoward glance on anyone.
Thea spoke from across the coffee table. “Lady Blackwood,” she said quietly, “why don’t you tell us what is truly going on?”
“Why should I bother?” Pompeia circled the room with a scathing glance. “You’ll twist my words, use them against me. If I say I am innocent, no one will believe me.”
“I would believe you,” Thea said.
“And why would you do that?” the marchioness scoffed.
“Because you have a loving husband and three young boys, which means you have a lot to lose. Why would you sacrifice so much? What could the Spectre possibly offer that was greater than such happiness?”
Gabriel saw the flicker in Pompeia’s eyes. Not anger this time, but… fear? She pinned her lips together, remaining silent.
“Do you know what I think, my lady? No spy on earth could give you more than what you have.” Thea paused. “But they could take it away, couldn’t they?”
Gabriel frowned at the direction of Thea’s hypothesis. Pompeia was no victim; she was cold-blooded and cunning. He remembered the old rumor of how she’d seduced
a man—and killed him that same night without blinking. Her marriage to Blackwood had to be a front. A mere cover she’d constructed to protect her from her past. She wasn’t capable of decency and devotion.
“Are you being blackmailed, my lady?” Kent’s voice was as steady and calm as Thea’s. “If you are, extortion is a crime, and we can help you.”
“Help me?” Pompeia’s lips took on a cynical curve. “What could you possibly do? You cannot change the past.”
“No, but we can alter the future—if you tell us the truth.” Her gaze earnest, Thea said, “You were wearing that necklace at your ball. You told me it was given to you by your husband, who valued you above those rubies. What could compel you to give up such a priceless gift, a symbol of his love and regard, something I know you must hold dear?”
Pompeia’s throat worked. “You know nothing.”
“I know you love Lord Blackwood and your three boys. I know you would do anything at all to protect your family.”
Damn… she’s good, Gabriel thought with a jolt of surprise. With her gentle, natural sincerity, Thea was making more headway than he had with all his threats. He saw Pompeia’s stricken expression—and the moment that the fight drained from her.
“It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does.” Bitterness infused his former colleague’s words. “He didn’t get his payment today, and he’ll carry through with his threat soon enough.”
“This is the Spectre you speak of?” Kent said tersely. “He’s blackmailing you?”
Pompeia gave a dull nod.
“What hold does he have over you?” the duchess said.
“You know what I was. You have to ask?” Pompeia’s smile conveyed the opposite of mirth. “He is threatening to provide my husband and the ton with a document outlining in explicit detail my actions during the war. The men I killed, the men I… was associated with.”
Gabriel hadn’t expected to feel empathy for his old comrade, but the anguish and self-hatred in her eyes… it was like staring into his own looking glass. She might have abandoned them during their last mission and escaped the beatings that he, Tiberius, and Cicero had been subjected to. Yet it seemed even she hadn’t emerged unscathed.
M Is for Marquess Page 17
