M Is for Marquess

by Grace Callaway

  He sized them up. His gaze gleamed like that of a man who’d been presented with a feast. He waddled over and performed an unctuous bow.

  “James Fortescue, at your service.” Despite the French surname, the man’s Cockney accent was several generations thick. “How may I be o’ assistance to you fine gents today?”

  Gabriel removed the handkerchief from his pocket. Placed it on the counter.

  “Is this one of yours?” he said.

  “As a matter o’ fact, it is, and it don’t belong outside the shop.” Fortescue frowned. “Don’t know as ’ow it fell into such fine ’ands as yours, but rest assured that that is a rough sample only. I’ve much finer examples if you wish to order a supply—”

  “What I wish to know is if a woman by the name of Marie Fournier worked here.”

  “Don’t know no Fournier,” the proprietor said. “But perhaps I could interest you in some o’ our fine merchandise—”

  “She may have used a different name. The woman I seek is of average height, thin, dark hair and eyes. She is well-educated and speaks fluent French and English.” Seeing the sudden dart of the other’s eyes, Gabriel said evenly, “This is a matter of import, and I am offering a reward.”

  Fortescue licked his lips. “A reward, you say?”

  Gabriel removed a coin purse, letting the contents jingle.

  “I might know the woman you’re lookin’ for.” His eyes on the purse, Fortescue said, “’Ad a seamstress by the name o’ Manette Fontaine workin’ for me.”

  Gabriel’s nape prickled.

  “How long ago?” Kent said alertly.

  “She disappeared around three months ago. Left without a word.” Fortescue huffed. “Should ’ave listened to my gut and turned the hussy away from the start.”

  Gabriel traded glances with the investigators. The timing matched with when Fournier—or Fontaine, rather—had started in his employ. This had to be the woman they were after.

  “Why should you have turned her away?” Gabriel said.

  “’Er manner. Hoity-toity, she was. Because she had a bit o’ book learning, she thought she was better than the rest.” Fortescue grunted­—his comment on educated females, apparently. “Claimed she’d been a governess for a rich family and ’ad been let go when the children went away to school. Only a fool would believe that tale when she didn’t have a single reference to show for it.” Fortescue’s thin brows rose. “My guess is that Miss High and Mighty got herself compromised and was shown the back door.”

  “Then why did you hire her?” Gabriel said.

  The proprietor’s eyes slid away. “I’ve a big ’eart, I do.”

  The heart wasn’t the part of the anatomy that had made the other’s decision, Gabriel thought with disgust. “After she left,” he said coldly, “you heard nothing else?”

  “I’ve said all I know.” Fortescue held his hand out for the purse.

  Gabriel kept it back. “We will need to speak to your employees who knew Fontaine.”

  “My seamstresses are busy. They ’aven’t the time to—”

  Gabriel emptied the purse, the gold clinking onto his gloved palm.

  Fortescue’s avarice got the better of him. “All right. You may speak to Alice—she and Manette were as chatty as magpies.” He took the gold, stuffing it into his pocket. “Ten minutes only, mind you. I’ve a business to run.”

  ***

  The woman named Alice was more than happy to talk.

  “Well, beats bein’ up in that bleedin’ garret room, don’t it?” Batting her eyelashes, she untied her fichu, making a great show of fanning her exposed décolletage. “La, it’s so hot up there.”

  Gabriel observed that the woman’s milkmaid looks were already showing signs of wear. Fine lines were etched around her eyes and mouth, and her gaze was as jaded and assessing as that of any trollop. In fact, her coy manner suggested that she had at least some experience in the world’s oldest trade.

  He’d sent Kent and McLeod back to the carriage so as not to intimidate their only lead to Fontaine. He and Alice were out in the alley behind Fortescue’s. Squeezed between buildings, the corridor was stifling and reeked of garbage. The back doors of the other businesses swung open now and again, letting out people or buckets of refuse.

  It was the most privacy they were going to get.

  “I’m told you know Manette Fontaine,” Gabriel said.

  “Knew. ’Aven’t ’eard from ’er since she left this place.” Alice gave him a flirtatious smile. “What’er she did for you, sir, I reckon I can do better.”

  “Manette is a prostitute?”

  “You’re not one o’ ’er fancy coves?” Alice’s eyes thinned. “Who are you then?”

  “Someone who wants to find her.” He held out a quid. “This is yours if you answer my questions.”

  “Double that, and I’ll tell you everything I know,” she said.

  He gave her half of what she asked. “The rest when you’re done. So you and Manette—you both worked in the streets?”

  “I ain’t no common streetwalker. I’m a good girl, I am,” Alice said unconvincingly. “Work my fingers to the bone in my God-given trade, but sometimes it ain’t enough and if there ’appens to be a job or two on the side…” She shrugged. “A girl’s got to make ends meet, don’t she?”

  “Manette was doing these side jobs as well?”

  “She’s the one who ’ooked me onto the idea. We started ’ere ’round the same time and got friendly like. One day she says to me she knows o’ a way to make some extra blunt and am I interested? I says, do birds ’ave wings? That’s when she tells me o’ this ’igh-kick place in Covent Garden called the Tickle and Fancy. There, a girl can work whene’er and howe’er much she wants. The nobs there like it that way; they don’t fancy long-toothed whores.” Alice smirked. “They prefer fresh goods—seamstresses and maids wot only do it now an’ again and nicely like. Pay more for the likes o’ us, they do.”

  “You said Manette knew some fancy coves.”

  “She was a favorite, she was. The gents liked ’er since she was pretty and clever.” Alice arched a brow. “Why, before all this she used to work as a governess—but the masters, she said, they all ’ad wandering ’ands. Why give it away for a governess’ wages, when you could make ’em pay properly for what they’re getting? Manette always said. ’Ad brains, that one.”

  “Do you know the names of the gentlemen she kept company with?”

  Alice shook her head, her fat brown curls flopping beneath her cap. “Manette kept as quiet as a clam about ’er affairs. Discretion, she said, is the difference between us an’ the common run whores. Gor, she ’ad class, make no mistake about it. Makes sense that she’d land ’erself a nob.”

  Gabriel stilled. “What nob?”

  “Don’t know ’is name—like I said, Manette knew ’ow to keep her gob shut. But one night, she and I got a bit top ’eavy, and she said she’d got ’er ticket to a better place. Some toff ’ad given it to ’er. Thought it was the bottle talking, but sure enough, a fortnight later she was gone. Gor, by now she could be a Lady-So-And-So,” Alice enthused.

  Gabriel did not share the other’s optimism. “You can recall nothing else she said about this man?” he said tersely.

  “No, sir. I’ve said all I know.”

  Gabriel handed over the rest of the money. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Are you certain I can’t ’elp you with anything else?” Alice said coquettishly.

  “That is all,” he said firmly.

  “Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.” She gave a good-natured pout, sashaying back into the building.

  The door closed behind her. Gabriel remained, his thoughts racing.

  Was Heath the nob Manette/Marie had met? Had he been the one to hire the Frenchwoman, not for carnal purposes as Alice believed, but to spy and kidnap? Gabriel’s gut told him that the governess was somehow the key to everything. He would go next to the Tickle and Fancy and see i
f anyone there knew Manette’s whereabouts or could identify Heath as one of her customers.

  The door to the adjacent building swung open. A sandy-haired man emerged, and as he turned, shock spread like frost through Gabriel. He stood, frozen, as the vision closed the distance between them.

  The familiar face bore a wry smile. “Hello, Trajan.”

  “Marius?” Gabriel whispered.

  Quick as lightning, the other moved. Even as Gabriel’s arm came up instinctively, he knew it was too late. Powder wound into his nostrils and lungs, choking, inescapable. He staggered backward, away from the ghost, and this time he was the one to tumble into oblivion.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The world came into focus.

  Gabriel’s mind analyzed his situation even as he remained perfectly still.

  Windowless room. Lying on a bed, hands and legs manacled. Don’t let him know you’re awake. Marius. My brother—my enemy.

  “Welcome back, Gabriel.”

  Devil take it. Slowly, he sat up, the chains between his wrists rattling. Marius emerged from the shadows, and Gabriel’s gut twisted as he beheld the face that had haunted him for so many years. Time had been kind to the bastard. A few more lines in the tanned skin, grey sprinkled in with the short brown hair. The keen blue eyes were the same. Sharp as a blade.

  The kind one found in one’s back, apparently.

  “How?” Gabriel bit out. “Why?”

  Marius smiled. “With two words, you open a universe of questions, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend.”

  “And I am not your enemy.”

  “Prove it,” Gabriel said calmly as he seethed on the inside. “Unchain me and then we’ll have a discussion about friendship.”

  “I’m not a fool. In hand to hand battle, I never could best you. Which is why I had to arrange this tête-à-tête.” Marius shook his head. “I won’t free you until you listen to what I have to say. And you will listen carefully, Gabriel. I came back from the grave to convey this message.”

  “Devil take your message.” Rage incinerated Gabriel’s composure. “And speaking of the grave—why in damnation aren’t you in one?”

  Marius sighed. “I suppose there’s no getting around history. I’ll have to start from the beginning. But I warn you: we may have little time.”

  “I don’t need your warning, you backstabbing blighter. You’re the Spectre, aren’t you?” Gabriel was on his feet in a second, forced to shuffle his manacled feet as he advanced toward his former friend. “All along, it was you. For years, I lived with the guilt of your death. But there’s no blood on my hands, is there? It’s all dripping from yours!”

  Marius withdrew a pistol from his pocket. Aimed it at Gabriel’s heart. “Come any closer, and I’ll be forced to kill you. I don’t want to, but I’ll do it.”

  “Damn you to hell,” Gabriel snarled.

  “Sit down. In that chair.” Marius motioned with his gun.

  Chest heaving, Gabriel forced himself to comply. Get in control. Find a way out of here.

  “One move and I will put a bullet through your heart,” Marius said. “Understand?”

  I’m going to rip you from limb to limb. It required all his inner resources, but Gabriel gave a terse nod. He would bide his time.

  “Since you brought it up, we’ll start with that last mission. From the start, I tried to talk Octavian out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. Hardheaded bastard, he was.”

  “Is that why you slit his throat?” Gabriel said through his teeth.

  “I tried to hand Octavian my resignation,” Marius continued as if Gabriel hadn’t spoken. “By that time, I’d had more than enough of espionage and all the ugliness it entailed. But Octavian wouldn’t have it. He reminded me of what I owed him, how he’d plucked me from poverty, the pile of shite I’d sprung from, and made a blooming gentleman of me.” Marius’ lips twisted. “He convinced me to do this one last mission. To put my neck, and those of my fellow agents, on the line because of his obsession with capturing the Almighty Spectre. And I did it—because I could never bloody say no to the man. He was a master of manipulation, our mentor.”

  Don’t listen to Marius. He’s a lying bastard. What does he want?

  “The night of the mission, everything went wrong. It was a trap. I escaped by the skin of my teeth, and I waited for three days at our agreed upon meeting place in Rouen. When no one showed, I knew you’d all been captured.” Marius’ bronzed features were harsh in the dimness. “I’ll be honest: I was tempted to run. To let Octavian think that he’d lost all of us that night and to start a new life, free of him at last. But I couldn’t.”

  “Why should I believe anything you say?” Gabriel bit out.

  “Because I came back for you and the others when that was the last bloody thing I wanted to do,” Marius said tightly. “Like a madman, I argued with myself—and was damn pissed with the side of me that won. But I couldn’t leave you in the hands of the Spectre, knowing what the bastard was capable of.”

  “Loyal to a fault.” Gabriel’s voice dripped with sarcasm even as his heart thudded.

  “Call it loyalty or stupidity—it doesn’t matter. The fact is, I came back, freed you all. And when you and I were fighting our way to freedom and that bugger pushed me over the cliff, I had but one thought in my head: Damn, this is all it’s come to.” Marius’ throat worked. “I was going to die in the middle of bloody nowhere, with no one knowing or caring, and for no purpose whatsoever. This was how it was going to end for me—and it didn’t even come as a bleeding surprise.”

  Don’t listen to him. Don’t be fooled again. “That would all be very touching—if you were dead. But you’re not,” Gabriel said acidly. “You’re alive and pointing a gun at me.”

  “I wouldn’t need the gun if you weren’t so bullheaded.” Marius expelled a breath. “There was a ledge on the cliff, hidden beneath a larger outcropping. On my way down, I managed to grab hold of it and hoist myself up. I lay there, bleeding from the shot in my arm, and in that moment, I knew that Marius had died. He’d fallen into the ocean to his unmarked grave. But I, John Malcolm, was going to live. The universe had given me a second chance at life, and I was damn well going to make it one worth living.”

  Gabriel hated that he heard the truth in Marius’ words. Hated even more that he understood those sentiments all too well.

  “I thought you died because of me,” he said, his voice gritty. “For over twelve years, you’ve let me live with that guilt.”

  Marius had the gall to look surprised. “Why would you think that my death was your fault? You didn’t push me over the cliff.”

  “I was the reason we were slow getting out of that hellhole.” The memory seared through Gabriel like lava. “You kept telling me to run, to go, to get out of there, but I wouldn’t listen because I was out of control, caught up in bloodlust. Instead of running, I stayed and fought and killed. By the time we reached the outside, the enemy surrounded us. If I’d listened to you, we’d have had a good ten minutes start on them. You wouldn’t have been forced to have a stand-off on the cliffs.”

  Comprehension shifted over Marius’ worn features. “You thought that the delay you caused led to my death?”

  “Not now that you’re standing there as alive as I am,” Gabriel bit out. “But for all the years before—yes, goddamnit, I thought it was my fault. You died because I let my emotions rule instead of my head. Because I lost control. Because I failed to heed Octavian’s teachings—”

  “Control was never the problem.” Now Marius’ eyes glowed with anger. “Don’t let our mentor’s so-called lessons blind you to the truth. To block out all emotion is not normal. To kill, to see the things we’ve seen, and pretend that that doesn’t affect one’s soul is bloody wrong. That was why I needed to get out. I didn’t want to become a deadened, soulless soldier. An empty shell of a man.”

  A vise clamped around Gabriel’s chest. He couldn’t speak.

  “I’m not the Spec
tre, Gabriel,” Marius said quietly, “and I’ve lived a life of peace—some might say boredom—since I started over again. I’ve no reason to be here today except to pay a debt that’s owed.”

  “What debt is that?” Gabriel said hoarsely.

  “Loyalty I owed to you—to the comrades I’d left behind. Normandy has continued to niggle at me over the years, like a pebble in my boot. Or, more aptly, like a snake in the grass. How did the Spectre know our group’s inner workings well enough to set such a trap?” Marius’ eyes narrowed. “There was only one answer, of course. When I got word of Octavian’s death followed shortly by your own carriage ‘accident,’ I knew unfinished business had risen. As much as I tried, I couldn’t ignore it. So I came back. As it turns out, my apparent death has given me a great advantage when it comes to spying. I’ve been monitoring events for the past fortnight with no one the wiser. And I was able to step in when needed.”

  “The shooter in the alley,” Gabriel said suddenly. “That was… you?”

  Marius nodded. “I followed you and Pompeia to the market that day. And when it looked like you could use a hand, I gave it.”

  “You always were a crack shot.” Swallowing, Gabriel said, “Why didn’t you reveal yourself to me then?”

  “Because at the time I still didn’t know who the Spectre was. I needed the benefit of obscurity to watch things unfold. To see who would finally show themselves as the guilty one.”

  “You know who the Spectre is?” Gabriel said.

  “Yes.”

  He read all he needed to know in the other’s somber expression. What his gut had been trying to tell him all along. “It’s not Heath.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Devil take it.” Anger blazed through him. “Davenport.”

  Marius gave a grim nod. “Cicero always had the cunning of a fox, and he’s suspicious by nature too. Several times I followed his carriage from his offices—only to discover later that it had been a decoy. He’d hired another to pose as him, running errands on Bond Street and the like, whilst he was off God knows where making trouble. Only by accident did I catch his true scent. I was also watching Heath, the other viable suspect, and who should show up at Heath’s place but Cicero. Heath wasn’t home, but Cicero let himself right in. I knew he was up to no good; I just didn’t know what exactly. Then three nights later, you ‘discovered’ the Spectre’s plans at Heath’s home, and I deduced that Cicero had framed our mad friend.”