“Because you don’t know me.” Her smile was cold. “Amusing how with all your knowledge and experience you can’t understand the simplest facts. Unlike your little Miss Kent.”
“Don’t bring her into this.” Warning edged his words.
He didn’t like her even speaking Thea’s name. For an instant, the memory of Thea’s soft confession and their tempestuous lovemaking blazed; he snuffed it out just as quickly. Later, he would examine the damnable tangle of his feelings. For now, he needed to remain focused and in control. Sentiment had no place in the night’s work.
Or in your private life, you sod. One torturous marriage wasn’t enough for you?
“Touchy, are we?” Pompeia’s brows arched. “I don’t blame you. It’s not easy for people like us to fall in love.”
Why was the world so obsessed with the blasted emotion?
Before he could tell her to mind her own business, Heath’s disheveled figure emerged from the flat.Finally.Standing on the landing, Heath was dressed in the rough, casual clothes of an artist, his cravat carelessly knotted, his wild black curls completing the Byronic look. Gabriel angled his head away as Heath scanned the street. From the corner of his eye, he saw Heath descend the steps into the street.
“He’s headed west. On his way to Davenport.” Pompeia’s eyes were razor sharp.
“Let’s go in,” Gabriel said.
They exited the tavern, him with swagger and her with a saucy stride that made them blend with the crowd in the street. The cooling night air was a welcome change from the humidity of the tavern. They headed for the alleyway next to Tiberius’ building.
Kent and McLeod arrived moments later. The pair had been circling the neighborhood in a carriage, keeping an eye on things.
“Subject’s headed west on Holborn. Hackney,” McLeod said without preamble. “It’ll take him a half-hour just to get to Davenport’s club and back. Depending on how long your friend can hold him up, you’ll have an hour tops.”
“Let’s not dally,” Pompeia said.
“We’ll keep watch here.” Kent tapped the whistle he wore around his neck. “I’ll sound a signal if Heath returns.”
Once the coast was clear, Gabriel led the way up the creaking steps to Heath’s flat. On the landing, Gabriel took out a set of wires and set to work on the lock. Heath being Heath, the mechanism was absurdly complicated but finally yielded with a click.
He opened the door, motioning for Pompeia to stay behind him. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom—and then pointed to the slightly raised floorboard to the right.
“Avoid that,” he said.
“Ah, yes. Tiberius always did like to surprise unwelcome visitors,” she drawled.
The surprise, as she put it, had tended to take the form of an explosive or other life-threatening device. Heath’s paranoia was trumped only by his creativity. With an eye for his former comrade’s old tricks, Gabriel crept cautiously into the room.
Pompeia found a lamp, lit it, and set it on the ground to keep the bulk of the light from the windows. It cast shadows over the floor and just enough of a glow to see the chaos of Heath’s apartment. Books, maps, and piles of paper littered most surfaces. The kitchen occupied a far corner, a pyramid of dishes standing precariously on a multipurpose table. In another corner stood an easel, several half-completed canvases lying around it. Finished paintings hung on the wall at crooked angles.
Gabriel followed a hallway to a single bedchamber. He searched the sleeping pallet, piles of strewn clothing, floorboards. For all that Heath was a man of means, he lived like a resident of Bedlam. Gabriel returned to the main room to find Pompeia gingerly picking through the pile of papers and oddities on Heath’s desk.
“How the devil are we going to find anything?” Gabriel muttered.
“I don’t know. But something justmovedunder here,” she said.
Rolling up his sleeves, Gabriel dug in. In silence, he and Pompeia methodically searched every filthy nook and cranny of the place… and found nothing.
“It’s been nearly an hour,” Pompeia said at last. “We don’t have much time left. Do you think it’s possible there’s nothing to find?”
“We’re missing something.” Gabriel circled the room, trying to see it from Heath’s eyes. “Tiberius always was a clever bastard. If he wanted something hidden, it wouldn’t be easy to find.”
Pompeia made her own loop around the cluttered chamber. “He’d hide evidence someplace accessible to him but not others. Someplace that might have some meaning to him.” Her eyes narrowed. “Someplace hiding in plain sight…”
They arrived at the easel at the same time. Gabriel examined the incomplete canvases piled on the floor; the agitated strokes of color could have been the beginnings of a flower field or a nightmare—memories of Normandy blazed through Gabriel’s brain. Perfect, now Heath’s madness was rubbing off on him. Grimly, he lifted the canvases and found nothing hidden behind them.
He joined Pompeia, who was staring at the paintings hung on the wall. Four in total, the small framed portraits all depicted the same pretty, doe-eyed woman. They were so radically different from the unfinished canvases that one would assume they’d been executed by a different artist. Yet Heath’s signature was upon each one.
“Do you know who she is?” Pompeia said.
