M Is for Marquess (26 page)

“Your own is very fine. New?” Pandora said casually.

Lady Davenport preened, brushing her fingers over the rope of large, unblemished pearls dangling over her scant bosom. “As a matter of fact, yes. Davenport spoils me terribly, you know.”

Thea thought a necklace such as that must cost a pretty penny. And the lady’s gown looked expensive too. If the Spectre was indeed in need of money, then Lord Davenport might not be a likely suspect after all.

“I’m about to give a few words. You must take the place of honor next to me, Duchess,” Lady Davenport said. “I insist.”

“Um, hello, Lady Millicent,” Gabby blurted.

Lady Davenport’s brows formed thin arches. “Miss Billings. I didn’t see you there.”

Gabby’s face turned scarlet.

Turning her back to the girl, Lady Davenport said, “Ladies, shall we proceed to the head table?”

Thea was aghast at the lady’s rudeness. Seeing Gabby’s bottom lip tremble, she said firmly, “Miss Billings is in need of a seat, too.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t room at my table.” Lady Davenport’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m sure Miss Billings can find a seat elsewhere.”

“It’s all right, Thea,” Gabby said anxiously. “I’ll just—”

“Miss Billings can have my seat,” Thea said.

“You cannot mean to sit on your own, Miss Kent?” her hostess said in a hard voice.

“I’ll go with Miss Kent,” Pandora drawled. “Miss Billings can accompany you and the duchess.”

Lady Davenport’s face rippled with ill-temper… and then smoothed into pragmatic lines. Her hand closed on Emma’s arm, holding on to her ultimate prize. “This way, Your Grace.”

She led Emma toward the table at the front of the room, Gabby trailing timidly behind.

“Good work,” Pandora murmured. “That was a narrow escape.”

Thea had only been reacting to Gabby’s snub, but she realized that Pandora was right. It would have been far too conspicuous to leave and conduct a search if they had been seated with their hostess. She followed Pandora to a pair of seats closest to the exit. A bell rung, bringing the room to order.

Lady Davenport stood at the front of the room, clearing her throat importantly. “Welcome, dear ladies. How good of you to take time out of your busy schedules to attend my luncheon. Even the Duchess of Strathaven herself, a close personal friend, is here to join us in our worthy endeavor. Please welcome my distinguished guest.”

At the polite applause, Emma turned beet red.

“But, as you know, not everyone has been blessed with the same good fortune as you and I,” Lady Davenport went on, “and it is for the benefit of these Unfortunates that we gather here today. Through our good works, we shall lift these Downtrodden from their doomful fates. Our moral strength will fill them with virtue. Our shining example will teach these poor, diseased creatures to disavow their lives of sloth and turpitude.”

A coal began to smolder beneath Thea’s breastbone. Having known hunger herself, she was quite certain the Downtrodden needed food more than moral condescension. And if the poor ought to be taught anything, it was the skills of an honorable trade that would earn them a fair living wage. According to her papa, the true antidote to poverty was education.

Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day,
he’d say.
Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime.

“To that end, I am proud to present my newest charitable cause.” Lady Davenport gestured imperiously at the footman posted at the entryway. “Send her in.”

The door opened, and Thea’s stomach churned as a young woman in a mobcap shuffled awkwardly toward the beckoning Lady Davenport. She was dressed in a tawdry, low-cut gown that bore the stamp of her trade. Gasps and titters went up as the woman stood slouched at the front of the room.

“Behold,” Lady Davenport said with a self-satisfied cluck, “a Woman of Loose Virtue.”

Thea’s jaw tightened. Beside her, Pandora stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“Our mission today is to rescue slatternly creatures such as this from a life of sin. How, you ask?”

Lady Davenport waited, smiling, as murmurs rose in the room. Then, with dramatic flourish, she produced a piece of white cloth. Bustling over to her model, she made a great show of tying and tucking in the fabric, so that the scarf covered the woman from bosom to chin.

Stepping back, Lady Davenport declared, “I introduce my newest pet project, which I like to call
Fichus for the Fallen.
”

Thea blinked as applause broke out, excited murmurs rolling through the room.

“After lunch, we will retire to the sitting room to sew these mantles of modesty,” their hostess went on. “Thanks to our efforts, these Fallen Women will regain dignity and virtue—and be an eyesore to civility no more.”

A lady dressed in blue satin waved her hand.

“Yes, Miss Simpson?” Lady Davenport said.

“I was thinking we might add a touch of embroidery to the fichus. Perhaps a cross—or some other reminder of piousness?” the lady said in simpering tones.

“An excellent suggestion.” Lady Davenport beamed. “Any others?”

Why not sew hair shirts for the poor and be done with it?
Thea wanted to snap. But she restrained herself. She couldn’t afford to attract attention when they were on a covert mission.

“Time to go,” Pandora whispered.

Thea gave a quick nod. As the crowd debated vital issues such as embroidery designs and thread color, she and Pandora slipped unnoticed from the room. Outside, she drew a breath, trying to put the scene of smug pretension behind her. She must concentrate on the present task.

If Pandora had been affected, she showed no sign, leading the way through the hallways with focused intent. They rounded a corner into another corridor, and, as they approached the end, voices could be heard coming from the intersecting hallway. Pandora pressed against the wall, and Thea immediately did the same, waiting with bated breath until a pair of maids passed. Once the servants disappeared, the marchioness turned right, and moments later she and Thea arrived at a set of double doors.

Pandora tried the door—locked.

“Keep watch,” she murmured, removing a length of wire from her reticule.

Nerves prickling, Thea did so as the other worked on the lock. A minute later, there was a click, the soft sweep of the door giving way. Pandora went inside first, and Thea followed, closing the door with damp palms.

With the curtains drawn, Davenport’s study was dim and cavernous. It seemed ordinary enough with its dark wood and leather furnishings, the book-lined shelves. The large portrait over the fireplace dominated the room. It depicted Lady Davenport sitting beneath an oak tree in a gown of frothy lace, her hat dripping with plumes. Thea presumed that the man in the painting—the one Lady Davenport gazed up at such with wifely adoration—was Lord Davenport. The viscount was a distinguished-looking man in his forties, with slight greying at the temples and a tall, fit figure.

Yet there was something disturbing about his eyes, which met the viewer’s straight on. That pale gaze seemed so penetrating and life-like that Thea had the sudden panic that she was being watched. A shiver chased over her nape.

“We don’t have much time.” Pandora’s urgent tones broke the spell. “Both of us will have to search. You start with the desk. Try not to disturb anything.”

With a quick nod, Thea padded over to the desk, its surface neatly organized with a silver tray of writing instruments and a thick leather blotter. With trembling hands, she pulled open the top drawer and carefully rifled through the contents. Nothing remotely suspicious. She continued onto the two other drawers. Still nothing, not even a hidden compartment.

If I were Davenport and had something to hide, where would I put it?
As she mulled, she drummed her fingers against the desk… and awareness prickled over her at the faint hollow vibration. The resonance was similar to the sound she made when tapping against the lid of a pianoforte. Crouching, she placed her ear close to the top of the desk, repeating the rhythm of her fingers, and she heard it again—a muffled echo coming from within.
There’s an empty chamber inside.
Heart thumping, she ran her hands under the ledge of the desk, her fingers encountering a hidden button. She pressed it, and the entire blotter slid to the side, revealing a hidden cache.

Excitement rushed up her spine at the sight of papers.

“Pandora,” she called softly.

The marchioness arrived just as Thea lifted out the top document for inspection. Written in a bold hand, the string of words was strange and nonsensical. She heard the other’s sharp indrawn breath.

“
Spectre,
” Pandora whispered.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Thea and Pandora returned just as the ladies were beginning to file out of the ballroom.

Emma hurried toward them. “Find anything?” she whispered.

Thea nodded, barely able to suppress her excitement.

Em huffed out a breath. “Thank heavens. Let’s get out of here. Because if I have to listen to one minute more of this patronizing claptrap, I swear I’ll—”

“La, there you are!” The voice rang shrilly from behind her. “Oh, Duchess!”

Em froze like a hunted deer.

Lady Davenport hurried over. “We’re just about to begin sewing the fichus. You shall have the seat of honor in my circle, Your Grace.”

“That sounds lovely, but I’m, um, getting rather tired—”

“I shall call for caviar and champagne to keep our energies up. I won’t take no for an answer.” The viscountess’ hand wrapped like ivy around Emma’s arm. “You wouldn’t want to let down a good cause, would you?”

“No,” Em said, looking desperate, “but truly I have to go—”

Thea let out a gasping breath, grabbing her sister’s free arm.

“What is the matter, Miss Kent?” Lady Davenport said, looking alarmed.

“I… I c-can’t… breathe.”

Emma’s brown eyes rounded with worry, her arm going instantly around Thea’s waist. “Breathe deeply, dear. In and out. Just as Dr. Abernathy taught you.”

Seeing Lady Davenport take a step back, Thea wheezed, “Yes, stay back. It might be catching.”

Instantly, the hostess retreated farther. “Er, can I have anything fetched for you?”

“Air… just need… air…”

“Let’s get you outside,” Em said.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Davenport,” Pandora said.

The three of them left the townhouse.

“We’ll get you home straightaway,” Emma fretted, “and call for Dr. Abernathy—”

“I’m fine,” Thea said in her normal voice.

“You are?” Her sister blinked. “But back there… what happened?”

“I was improvising.” Thea felt absurdly proud of herself.

Pandora’s lips curved. “As I suspected from the first, you are a lady of hidden talents.”

Just then, Thea caught sight of a mob-capped figure leaving from the servant’s entrance several yards away. The woman paused, tugging the fichu from her neck, crumpling it in her hand. Shoulders hunched, she began walking in the opposite direction.

Thea gave her sister a hopeful look. “Couldn’t you use another maid?”

“Let’s talk to her,” Em said.

Thea and Emma approached the young woman, who bobbed a startled curtsy and identified herself as Sara Tully. Miss Tully eagerly accepted Emma’s card and direction, promising to come by the house for an interview. They were saying goodbye when Gabriel’s carriage arrived. He jumped down from the vehicle with predatory grace. His grey gaze went from Thea to the departing Miss Tully.

“Who was that?” he said, frowning.

“A new acquaintance,” she said.

He tipped her chin up with a gloved hand, his eyes radiating concern. “How did things go in there?”

“Splendidly, thanks to Miss Kent’s ingenuity,” Pandora said. “She’ll explain in the carriage.”

***

“Lord Davenport will see you now.”

The secretary led Gabriel, Strathaven, and Kent into well-appointed chambers paneled in dark wood. Sun shone through the mullioned windows, gleaming off heavy furniture and the burgundy carpet of Oriental design. The secretary closed the door discreetly behind him.

Rising from a carved desk, Lord Cecil Davenport came over to greet them. Tall, fit, possessed of patrician features made even more distinguished by the greying at his temples, the viscount was every inch the polished politician. His light blue eyes showed polite curiosity and nothing more.

Cicero had always been a master of disguising his true intent.

“Gentlemen.” He bowed. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“We’re here to talk about blackmail,” Gabriel said.

Davenport’s brows lifted, his gaze skirting for the briefest instant toward Strathaven and Kent. He adopted a puzzled smile. “Is this some sort of jest, Lord Tremont?”

“No jest, Cicero,” he said steadily.

The other’s tone remained light. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Now I’m a very busy man and—”

“We found the blackmail notes in your study. In the hidden compartment of your desk.” Despite the volatile situation, Gabriel felt a flash of pride at Thea’s cleverness. She continued to amaze him with the depth of her spirit and strength. “You are being blackmailed by the Spectre,” he said.

A faint crack showed in Davenport’s composure. At his sides, his manicured hands curled.

“There had better be a good reason for you betraying our code of anonymity. What do you want, Trajan?” he said in level tones.

“Your help in catching the Spectre. With the help of Strathaven and Kent here, I’ve been hunting down possible suspects,” Gabriel said.

Davenport’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve just confessed to breaking into my study and ransacking my personal effects. Why should I trust you?”

“Because someone tried to kill Tremont,” Kent said, “and succeeded in murdering your mentor, Octavian. You could be next.”

Davenport’s lips thinned, and Gabriel understood the other’s struggle. They’d had the same teacher, after all.
Keep your guard up, and trust no one.
After a taut silence, the viscount gestured to the sitting area.

The men took their seats, and Gabriel gave a terse summary of the facts. Out of habit, he gave the least amount of information necessary. Octavian’s summons and death. The recovery of his dagger at Cruik’s. The extortion of Pompeia. All the while, he monitored Davenport’s expression and saw nothing but bleak acceptance.