Thea had always liked Annabel McLeod, whose sensual auburn beauty belied a generous and practical spirit. From the snippets that Thea had gleaned over the years, Mrs. McLeod’s life had not been easy before her marriage, and she was never one to hold airs. Since Ambrose and Mr. McLeod were partners, the two families socialized frequently, and the warmth of Mrs. McLeod’s home had always reminded Thea of the cottage back in Chudleigh Crest. The Scotsman and his wife raised their two redheaded girls with the same cozy affection that Thea had grown up with.
“Finding Fournier there would be like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Mr. McLeod said.
“It’s not much to go on.” Lines of frustration were carved into Gabriel’s face. “It might not even be important, given that we have the Spectre.”
“Information is always important. We at Kent and Associates do not like loose threads,” Ambrose said.
“Heaven help us with the puns.” Tapping her chin, Emma said, “What do we know about Fournier at this point?”
“All her references were false,” Ambrose replied. “She must have been educated, however, as her lessons appeared to have been of good quality. She spoke French and English fluently. And we have this.”
Opening the drawer of his desk, Ambrose removed an item. Thea recognized the handkerchief she’d found that day at the zoological gardens.
“I took it around to a few shops. None of the clerks recognized its origins,” Ambrose went on. “They all agreed it is a commonplace handkerchief of middling quality and that her initials are rather overdone.”
“May I see it?” Mrs. McLeod said.
Ambrose brought it over.
Mrs. McLeod ran a finger over the large letters sewn in blue thread at the center of the handkerchief. Her expression turned pensive. “I don’t think those are her initials.”
“They’re not?” Ambrose’s brow furrowed. “What are they then?”
“The mark of the manufacturer,” the redheaded beauty replied. “The clerks you questioned wouldn’t know this because they work in a shop, not a factory. But for a time I was a seamstress, and I know it is the practice of some factories to have sample items for the seamstresses to follow. A yardstick, if you will, to measure the goods they produce. To prevent these pattern items from being stolen, the manufacturer would mark the piece with their insignia. The mark renders the item valueless; if one were to remove these letters, for instance, it would leave a handkerchief full of holes.” Her violet gaze circled the room. “In any case, I think what you may be looking for is a manufacturer with the initials M. F.”
“Annabel, you are brilliant,” Emma declared.
Mr. McLeod’s large hand came to rest on his wife’s shoulder. “Who’d have thought that that damnable time would prove useful, eh lass?” he said with tender gruffness.
Mrs. McLeod smiled, her hand covering her husband’s. “Since that time led me to you, I have no complaints.”
“How would Fournier have gotten such a handkerchief?” Thea asked.
“A good question. Samples are meant to stay in the factory.” A line deepened between Mrs. McLeod’s auburn brows. “My best guess is that Fournier once worked at this place and filched it. Since her own initials happen to match that of the manufacturer, she could use the item herself.”
“So we’re looking for a handkerchief factory in Spitalfields. One with the initials M. F.,” Thea said eagerly. “There can’t be too many of those.”
“I’ll pay a visit to Spitalfields tomorrow,” Gabriel said, his eyes grim.
“No, my lord.Wewill,” Ambrose said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The next morning, Gabriel managed to get Thea alone in the library. He shepherded her in between the bookcases. They didn’t have much time; Kent and the others would be arriving shortly to accompany him to Spitalfields, and he wanted a moment alone with her.
“You’ll be careful today?” Thea said.
“Yes.” He rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip, savoring its softness, the contact between them once more. “We’re probably just chasing our own tail.”
“You never know.” She shivered. “I just wish this business was truly over.”
“It will be soon. All evidence points to Heath being the Spectre, and, if anything, finding Fournier will just put the nail in his coffin. Now stop fretting, princess,” he murmured, “and give me a kiss goodbye.”
He bent his head, intending only to give her a little peck. But after a week of going without, desire roared over him… along with potent, heady relief when she responded.
She still wants me. I haven’t bungled things up beyond repair.
Before he knew what he was doing, he’d backed her into the shelves, her palms flattening against the leather spines, her lips parting in sensual surrender. Her taste, the feel of her so soft and giving, overwhelmed him. The need burgeoned in him to be closer to her, as close as he could possibly be.
