Marrying Thea would lead to disaster for both of them. His past had risen yet again to remind him of what he’d been: a spy and cold-hearted killer. A beast through and through. Even though she’d responded to him in the carriage, what he’d shown her there had only scratched the surface of his carnality. His insatiable need for domination.
His blood was cursed. Eventually, if they married, she would get glimpses of the true darkness inside him, and he would repulse her as he had Sylvia. He’d find himself in the same torturous situation as his first marriage—only worse. He’d rather have his guts ripped out than see rejection in Thea’s eyes.
Locking away sentiment, Gabriel focused on the hard facts. “Pompeia is Lady Pandora Blackwood.”
He heard Thea’s indrawn breath and saw eyebrows go up around the room.
“The marchioness?” the duchess said incredulously. “How can that be?”
“As a spy, she had the singular ability to assume any identity. She speaks at least four languages that I know of and can charm or kill a man with equal ease.”
“But she was sonice,” Thea blurted. “I cannot believe it of her. At her masquerade, she chatted with me, introduced me to her guests…”
“Pompeia can seem very nice—until she has her garrotte at your throat,” he said flatly.
Thea’s hand fluttered to her own throat. Above her fichu, the tender column was smooth and white. Exquisitely vulnerable.
“Do you think Lady Blackwood is the Spectre?” Kent asked.
Describing the damning note he’d found in her bedchamber, he concluded, “If she’s not the Spectre, then she’s likely working for him. During our last mission in Normandy, she abandoned our group.” The old bitterness welled in him. “Because of her absence, we were shorthanded and captured. During our escape, one of our own fell. If the past is any indication, she cannot be trusted.”
“This note you found in her desk—it specified a time and meeting place?” Strathaven said.
“Five days from now. At a place called Fielding’s in Covent Garden.”
“Sounds like one of the market stalls,” McLeod said. “We could set up a watch there and see if this ghost of yours turns up.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Kent agreed. “And the other two suspects?”
“Cicero is Lord Cecil Davenport and Tiberius, Mr. Tobias Heath.”
“Good God,” the duke said, quirking a dark eyebrow, “a Tory and a radical with something in common? And that thing being a past in espionage?”
“Davenport and Heath are more similar than you think. Both are ruthless and capable of killing.”
“We’ll have to monitor them as well,” Kent said. “McLeod, do we have the men for it?”
“Aye. I’ll put Cooper and Jones on the job.”
“That covers the known suspects.” Kent’s brow lined with concentration. “Which leaves two other leads: the governess and the carriage explosion. Starting with the former, have you made any progress?”
“I put eyes and ears out for Marie Fournier, but nothing has turned up. She had the foresight to dispose of her belongings from the hotel prior to trying to take my son, so I have little to go on.”
“You have the handkerchief she dropped at the zoological gardens,” Thea reminded him.
Longing throbbed, deeper than his wounds. Why did she have to be so damned beautifulandastute? His every fantasy come true—and now a reality he would never have.
Reaching into his pocket, he removed the item, placing it on the coffee table for all to see. The handkerchief was plain, white, of middling quality. The kind one might find for sale in any shop in the city. Nothing notable about it except the governess’ initials, “M. F.,” sewn in prominent blue thread at the center.
Kent examined the handkerchief. “It’s not much to go on, but I’ll ask around at a few shops. If you have the names of her references, I’ll follow up there as well; chances are, those, too, are false. Which leaves the explosion as the more viable lead. When I examined your carriage, I found remnants of a gunpowder cartridge attached to the underside. My guess is that the overturned cart was part of a diversion; while you were stopped, someone lit the fuse. Do you have any memory right before the blast?”
Gabriel focused on the minute or so before the explosion. The carriage slowing. Vegetables strewn across the path, the cart tipped over. People starting to mill around the scene. He’d put his hand on the door handle, intending to get out and investigate, but he’d paused because—
“A man. He walked past my door just as I was about to get out. He was dressed in working garb, had brown hair and average features.” Gabriel put himself back in time, back in the carriage when he’d glanced briefly at the passing stranger. Why had he looked, what had caught his notice…? Memory glimmered. “He had a limp. Favored his left leg.”
“It’s a start.” Kent closed his notebook. “When we question the witnesses, we’ll ask about a man with a limping gait. Perhaps someone will remember something.”
“What can I do? I’d like to help,” Thea said.
