M Is for Marquess (21 page)

“Our own?”

Marianne arched a brow. “Solving the case requires more than physical prowess.”

“You have a point. Actually, I’ve been mulling over the evidence against Lady Blackwood,” Thea said thoughtfully, “and I still can’t believe she is guilty. I’ve another hypothesis.”

“By all means, do tell,” her sister-in-law replied.

Bending their heads together, they got to work discussing the case.

Chapter Twenty-One

Hidden in a covered cart next to the stall, Gabriel surveyed the teeming piazza from a discreet hole bored into the side. On market days, Covent Garden was a site of chaotic industry, and today was no exception. ’Twas as if Bedlam had been contained and put to work within the square bounded by St. Paul’s Cathedral to the west and the arched porticoes of the Italianate buildings on the other three sides.

Within the booming market, stalls and barrows overflowed with fresh produce, flowers, and goods of every kind. The scent of violets and lilac mingled with that of savory pasties and fresh green herbs. Merchants cheerfully haggled with passersby from every walk of life, from the bleary-eyed rake just stumbling home from the night’s entertainments to the housewife looking for the best bargains to the fine lady whose entourage of servants lugged home baskets of hothouse blooms.

Even William McLeod seemed to be infected by the market’s mercantile fever. Sporting a straw hat, an apron over his rough linen shirt and trousers, and a bright silk handkerchief in lieu of a cravat, the brawny Scotsman made a convincing costermonger. With the brashness of a true peddler, he strutted before the fruit-laden table, his Cockney accent ringing with authenticity.

“Fresh melons fer sale,” he chanted. “Come get yer ripe and juicy melons.”

A pair of painted light skirts stopped in front of the stall, and one cooed out, “Ripe an’ juicy as these, my good fellow?” She jiggled the generous wares on display in her skimpy bodice while her companion snickered.

“
My
melons won’t get trouble and strife after yer life,” McLeod tossed back good-naturedly.

Trouble and strife
, Gabriel knew, was thieves’ cant for
wife
. Giggling, the prostitutes blew the Scot a kiss before sashaying off to look for customers elsewhere. Once they’d moved on, Gabriel had a clear view of his target again: the stall across the way. He’d been monitoring Fairfield’s for the past hour and thus far seen nothing untoward. The flower supplier was doing brisk business, emptying and replenishing buckets of fresh blooms.

Gabriel consulted his pocket watch.

Almost time. Pompeia should be arriving at any moment.

They were ready for her. In his head, he reviewed their strategy once again, the invisible perimeter Kent and Associates had set up around Fairfield’s. He and McLeod monitored the stall itself. Kent and his men, all disguised as market goers, roved along the western entrance to the market, covering possible escape routes via King and Henrietta streets. The agency’s other partner, Mr. Lugo, masqueraded as a coachman, surveying James Street to the north.

Lastly, Strathaven, whom everyone agreed could not pass for anything but a duke, kept watch over Russell Street to the south from an unmarked carriage.

Everyone and everything was in place. The plan was simple. They would catch Pompeia and whoever she was meeting in the act. They would discover the Spectre’s identity and put an end to the villain’s malevolence for good.

Then Gabriel could give his attention to Thea. The thought of her waiting at home with his son gave him hope. He hoarded the memory of her passion like glowing coals against a winter night. She represented a fresh start. He couldn’t wait to get back to her and start their future together.

A sixth sense interrupted his thoughts. With trained efficiency, he shut out everything, honing in on the figure walking like a queen down the crowded aisle. The thrill of the hunt rushed through him.

Pompeia had arrived.

She wore a dress of rich amber, her bonnet secured beneath her chin with a blue bow. Ever the excellent actress, she showed no hurry, no indication that she was heading toward a nefarious purpose. She stopped to examine merchandise, smelling this and tasting that. As if she had all the bloody time in the world.

Eventually, she neared Fairfield’s. Gabriel pulled back from the viewing hole, counting out twenty heartbeats. Trained by the same spymaster, he and Pompeia played the game by the same rules. If he were about to commit wrongdoing, he’d be conducting a thorough sweep of the terrain before moving forward. He had no doubt that she would take similar precautions. He forced himself to count to twenty again before returning his gaze to the hole.

She was directly across from him now, at Fairfield’s, her back to him. The eager flower seller asked if she was looking for anything in particular. She demurred and was invited to browse, which she did with studied deliberateness. She perused the selection of hydrangeas, tulips, and daffodils, her gloved fingers brushing over the petals.

Do whatever you came here to do,
he silently urged.
Expose your evil schemes.

Gabriel’s attention suddenly snagged on a man approaching Fairfield’s. The stranger came from the opposite direction that Pompeia had, his gait jaunty…
and uneven
. The hairs lifted on Gabriel’s skin. He couldn’t see the man’s face—it was obscured by the brim of a brown cap—but there was no mistaking the slight limp in the stride, the favoring of the left leg. This was the bastard who’d passed his carriage right before the explosion.

The man jostled into Pompeia, muttering an apology, and Gabriel saw it happen.

Pompeia’s hand dipped into her reticule. In a movement so quick and sly it would have been lost in a blink, she removed something, slipped it into the pocket of the man’s jacket. The transaction completed, the man continued on his way and she on hers, moving in the opposite direction.

Gabriel jumped from his hiding place, fruit flying onto the cobblestones as he hurdled over the cart’s edge. He landed on his feet in the aisle, surprised gasps erupting around him. Both Pompeia and her conspirator whirled around; their faces registered shock.

McLeod was instantly at Gabriel’s back.

“Who’s mine?” the Scot demanded.

“She is.”

“Bloody hell, why do I get stuck with the female?” McLeod grumbled. “They don’t fight fair,
and
you can’t hurt ’em.”

Gabriel didn’t bother to reply, taking off after the man in brown. The suspect was plowing through the crowd, taking no heed of women and children, shoving everyone and everything out of his way. His limp didn’t slow him down a whit.

Feral aggression lengthened Gabriel’s stride. He’d chosen to go after the man because he knew Pompeia, knew she was too clever to engage in a tussle. Contrary to McLeod’s dire prediction, she wouldn’t give him any physical trouble; she’d simply feign innocence, use her status and influential husband as a shield of protection. They couldn’t touch her without proof. And the proof lay in the pocket of the bastard Gabriel was chasing down.

He was only several paces behind now, but the man suddenly rounded a corner, pulling down a stack of crates as he went. A hawker’s angry shouts in his ears, Gabriel leapt over the boxes, nearly losing his footing on the scattered potatoes but keeping his momentum. He almost caught up to his target, but then the man turned another corner.

Devil take it.

The bastard had chosen a vegetable aisle, one populated by old women in aprons shucking peas into baskets. Cries went up as the scoundrel grabbed the baskets, throwing them behind him as he ran. The morts scrambled forward on hands and knees, blocking the path as they tried desperately to collect the rolling green bits of their livelihood.

Cursing, Gabriel judged the blighter to be halfway down the aisle. Instead of following, he sprinted toward the next row. His lungs burned as he propelled himself forward, determined to head his foe off at the next intersection.

He made it, just seconds after his target, a half-dozen yards to his left. They’d emerged on the less populated northern edge of the market, and the man took off again, heading east. Gabriel gave chase, his blood pumping as he narrowed the gap between them. Bystanders spared them less than a glance, the chasing of pickpockets and thieves as common as the pigeons that scattered from their path.

Gabriel trailed his target onto a deserted lane. Almost there…

The bastard ducked again, this time into an alleyway between buildings. Gabriel went in right after him, grabbed him by the shoulder, slamming him into the wall. The villain recovered quickly, feigning to the left, a blade suddenly glinting in his grip. Gabriel caught the arcing hand, the tip of the blade inches from his own throat. He gripped hard and twisted.

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.

He narrowed his eyes. “He came to me for help. He was on the trail of the Spectre, and somebody killed him for it.”

“I hadn’t spoken to Octavian in years. That part of my life is done with,” she said flatly.

“Then why do you have a note written by the Spectre in your desk?”

Her fingers gripped in her lap. “You had no right to search my things.”

“I have every right if you’re a turncoat. If you betrayed Octavian and Marius and caused the deaths of countless men during the war.”

Her expression was scornful. “You have no proof of that.”

“Don’t I?” Gabriel said.

He removed the figurine from his pocket and placed it on the desk. Against the rich mahogany, the biscuit pottery looked crude and cheap. Yet it held some vital secret.