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.
