Three days later
Olivia sat on the plush damask sofa in the Order’s drawing room, observing Gabriel as he explained what they’d discovered in the valise.
“The items hold nothing of interest, save for the metal token engraved with a swallow, and the phrase concealed beneath the painted miniature:Beware the Ides of March.”
While Mr Daventry listened like a man equally intrigued by puzzles, she studied her husband’s mouth. Memories filled her mind, the heat, the intimacy, the skill in those tempting lips, but now they moved with careful precision, revealing nothing of the passion she remembered.
“And you think this quote relates to betrayal and your father’s secretive dealings, Lady Rothley?”
Mr Daventry cleared his throat and repeated the question while she sat staring at Gabriel like a bedlamite. Her husband was right. Awakened desire was like an ember that refused to die. The need to stoke the fire had become a quiet obsession.
“Lady Rothley?”
She started. “Forgive me. I’m not accustomed to hearing my new name. Yes, my father was trying to warn me about something.”
“Or someone,” the master of the Order added.
She thought of Justin Lovelace. Where had he been for the last ten years, and why try to kill a woman for a worthless trinket? Assuming the man in the watch-house was Gabriel’s long-lost friend.
Mr Daventry must have read her mind. “I sent Gentry to examine the body found in the cottage. As a doctor, he understands howrigor mortisaffects muscles and tissue. I asked that he compare the facial structure to the miniature owned by the countess.”
Gabriel sat forward. “He went without me?”
“Yes. In a professional capacity. Gentry was also Justin’s friend, and I didn’t want the moment clouded by sentiment.”
Gabriel’s laugh rang with derision. “I don’t have a sentimental bone in me.”
She wondered if he knew that was a lie. Was the second chair he’d placed in his private library merely practical? What of the space he’d cleared for her small collection of books?
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr Daventry said, though his tone held no amusement. “Because resurrectionists stole the body.”
Gabriel shot to his feet. “Stole it? When?”
“The night you visited the watch-house.” Daventry drew aletter from his leather portfolio. “Barker admits the watch was lax. He said shots were fired as you left. The man must have returned to steal the body, though there are more holes in his statement than a cook’s sieve. Barker spent the last two days searching for the culprit, hoping to have the corpse returned before the coroner discovered it missing.”
While Gabriel cursed the watchman’s incompetence, she felt a flood of conflicting emotions. Relief that the devil had met his due. Pity for the countess, who would have no closure. And sadness for Gabriel, who might never know peace.
“That’s not all,” Mr Daventry said, his tone grave.
“Let me guess.” Gabriel returned to his seat, his irritation barely contained. “Your agent failed to find the original inquest report when he visited Cambridge.”
“Apparently, it was lost some years ago.”
A tense silence settled, along with the sense they were merely pawns in a game without rules.
“There’s more.” Mr Daventry met her gaze, and the knot in her stomach tightened. “Someone desecrated your father’s grave. They left evidence to suggest they’re from Whitechapel. And we’re supposed to believe thieves journeyed sixty miles to disturb one plot.”
A pang gripped her chest, sharp, disbelieving. Before she knew it, she reached across the sofa for Gabriel’s hand. He took it without hesitation, their first touch since he’d torn his mouth from hers and broken lust’s spell.
Her fingers clung to his. The room seemed to shrink, the air too thin.
She swallowed to loosen her throat. “They took him?”
“They took whoever was buried there and conveniently left a scrap of cloth with an undertaker’s stamp. We can’t besure it was your father, just as we can’t be sure what’s been staged for our benefit.”
Gabriel exhaled slowly. “Then we focus on what we do know, on what we can prove, in the hope of understanding what the blazes is going on here.”
Mr Daventry agreed. “Can you recite the poem you mentioned during the drive to Bow Street? The one that led you to World’s End and the mausoleum.”
