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.
“What is the significance of this?” he said. “What message are you passing onto the Spectre?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen that before in my life.” Her lips curled in derision. “Unless you count those barrows where the hawkers are always trying to sell off their family’s last heirlooms.”
“This is no heirloom.”
Picking up the figurine, he hefted its weight—and smashed it against the desk. Clay crumbled into shards and dust, revealing straw and a small satin purse. He picked up the drawstring bag. It was heavy.
“Give that to me.” Pompeia surged to her feet. “If you don’t, I vow you will regret it.”
He ignored her, emptying the contents into his palm. A fortune of rubies and diamonds glittered in the afternoon light. He dangled the necklace in front of Strathaven.
“How much, would you guess?” he said.
The duke’s brows rose. “Ten thousand, at the very least.”
McLeod whistled under his breath.
Gabriel faced Pompeia. “Why are you giving the Spectre this? What nefarious schemes are the two of you plotting together?”
“It’s none of your sodding business what I do.” Her polished accent slipped a little, revealing an edge of Cockney. “Give the necklace back to me, or you will regret it.”
“You’re going to hang for treason unless you give me a reason to see you spared.”
“A threat from a man. Now there’s something new,” she spat. “You’ll get nothing from me.”
He had half a mind to call her bluff and hand her over to the Crown forthwith. Clearly, she was withholding evidence; she’d been caught red-handed giving goods to an infamous traitor. She had guilt written all over her.
The door suddenly opened, and Gabriel’s jaw tautened as Thea, the duchess, and Mrs. Kent marched in. He glared at Lugo, who brought up the rear.
“Don’t blame Lugo,” Thea said quickly. “We made him let us in.”
Lugo shrugged his massive shoulders, his broad features abashed. “I tried to stop them.”
“He couldn’t very well prevent me from entering a room of my own home, could he?” the duchess said. “Hello there, Lady Blackwood.”
Uncertainty flashed across Pompeia’s features before she said coolly, “Good day, ladies.”
“I thought we agreed that the study was my private domain.” Going over to his wife, Strathaven tipped up her chin. “What happens here stays here, remember?”
“Which is why we thought it best to be present,” she replied, “so we don’t miss anything.”
“And one misses all sorts of things when one is eavesdropping from the next room.” Thea came up to Gabriel, peering at the necklace he held. Her eyes rounded. “Is that what you were saying was worth ten thousand pounds?”
He gritted his teeth. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I belong here.” Her gaze was steady on his. “Let me help.”
Aware of Pompeia’s scrutiny, he shuffled Thea off to the side, said under his breath, “You can help by turning around and leaving. It’s not safe for you to be here.”
“For you, either. And from what I overheard,”—her hushed tone matched his—“you’re not making much headway. Why don’t you let me speak to her, woman to woman?”
“Because she’s not just a woman. She’s a spy.”
“She’s both. And a wife and mother as well.” Thea touched his sleeve. “Trust me?”
As much as he wanted to argue further, he knew it was too late and that Pompeia was taking everything in. Storing knowledge, information about his relationship with Thea to use against him in the future. In her situation, he’d do the same thing. If he didn’t back down, it would only highlight his vulnerability when it came to Thea—and thereby put her at greater risk.
It took all his willpower to step back. “Do what you will,” he said indifferently.
Thea smiled at him, her presence so lovely that his chest tightened. Outwardly, he showed nothing. They returned to the larger group, and Her Grace waved everyone toward the sitting area, where she promptly plopped herself onto a settee.
She gestured to the cushion beside her. “Come, Lady Blackwood, you are a guest. This business is awkward enough as it is. No use in being even more uncomfortable.”
“Am I a guest, Your Grace?” Pompeia arched an eyebrow.
“Well, yes… unless you are involved in the evil schemes to harm Tremont and his son. If you’re involved with the Spectre, then that’s a different story altogether,” the duchess said. “Then we’ll have to see justice done.”
One could never accuse Strathaven’s lady of being indirect.
“I see.” After a moment, Pompeia crossed over to sit next to her hostess, her amber skirts settling around her.
Everyone else took a seat as well, except Strathaven. He stood behind his wife, his posture rigidly protective. Gabriel sat in the wingchair closest to Pompeia, ready to act if she so much as laid an untoward glance on anyone.
Thea spoke from across the coffee table. “Lady Blackwood,” she said quietly, “why don’t you tell us what is truly going on?”
“Why should I bother?” Pompeia circled the room with a scathing glance. “You’ll twist my words, use them against me. If I say I am innocent, no one will believe me.”
“I would believe you,” Thea said.
“And why would you do that?” the marchioness scoffed.
“Because you have a loving husband and three young boys, which means you have a lot to lose. Why would you sacrifice so much? What could the Spectre possibly offer that was greater than such happiness?”
Gabriel saw the flicker in Pompeia’s eyes. Not anger this time, but… fear? She pinned her lips together, remaining silent.
“Do you know what I think, my lady? No spy on earth could give you more than what you have.” Thea paused. “But they could take it away, couldn’t they?”
Gabriel frowned at the direction of Thea’s hypothesis. Pompeia was no victim; she was cold-blooded and cunning. He remembered the old rumor of how she’d seduced a man—and killed him that same night without blinking. Her marriage to Blackwood had to be a front. A mere cover she’d constructed to protect her from her past. She wasn’t capable of decency and devotion.
“Are you being blackmailed, my lady?” Kent’s voice was as steady and calm as Thea’s. “If you are, extortion is a crime, and we can help you.”
“Help me?” Pompeia’s lips took on a cynical curve. “What could you possibly do? You cannot change the past.”
“No, but we can alter the future—if you tell us the truth.” Her gaze earnest, Thea said, “You were wearing that necklace at your ball. You told me it was given to you by your husband, who valued you above those rubies. What could compel you to give up such a priceless gift, a symbol of his love and regard, something I know you must hold dear?”
Pompeia’s throat worked. “You know nothing.”
“I know you love Lord Blackwood and your three boys. I know you would do anything at all to protect your family.”
Damn… she’s good, Gabriel thought with a jolt of surprise. With her gentle, natural sincerity, Thea was making more headway than he had with all his threats. He saw Pompeia’s stricken expression—and the moment that the fight drained from her.
“It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does.” Bitterness infused his former colleague’s words. “He didn’t get his payment today, and he’ll carry through with his threat soon enough.”
“This is the Spectre you speak of?” Kent said tersely. “He’s blackmailing you?”
Pompeia gave a dull nod.
“What hold does he have over you?” the duchess said.
“You know what I was. You have to ask?” Pompeia’s smile conveyed the opposite of mirth. “He is threatening to provide my husband and the ton with a document outlining in explicit detail my actions during the war. The men I killed, the men I… was associated with.”
Gabriel hadn’t expected to feel empathy for his old comrade, but the anguish and self-hatred in her eyes… it was like staring into his own looking glass. She might have abandoned them during their last mission and escaped the beatings that he, Tiberius, and Cicero had been subjected to. Yet it seemed even she hadn’t emerged unscathed.
“We all do things we regret, my lady.” The husky words came from Mrs. Kent, who sat with her husband on an adjacent loveseat. “You were working in service of your country, and in a time of war, right is not always clear from wrong—”
“It is to my husband. Blackwood is an honorable man and knows nothing of my true past. He thinks that I come from a good family, that I was raised abroad until I returned to London that Season when we met. But I’ve lied to him from the start. From the very beginning, I’ve deceived Blackwood,”—Pompeia’s voice cracked—“and he will never be able to forgive me.”
Silence blanketed the room. Gabriel thought Pompeia’s assessment was dead on. Chances were slim that her husband—that any man—could forgive such deception.
“When did the Spectre first contact you?” Kent said quietly.
Pompeia’s face was bone-white. “Two months ago. An unmarked letter appeared at the top of my correspondence, and I recall opening it at breakfast. I could hardly fathom what I was seeing: Spectre’s code and handwriting in front of me… as Blackwood sat not three feet away.” Her lips gave a betraying tremble. “The letter named names from my past and threatened to expose me if I didn’t bring five thousand pounds to a park near Russell Square three days later.”
“You gave the blackmailer money?” Gabriel said.
“A sapphire bracelet to be precise. I didn’t have that sort of money lying around and couldn’t raise it without Blackwood noticing. But I wasn’t about to be bled dry. I went that day prepared to silence our old foe if need be,” she said with the ruthlessness he remembered, “but the Spectre never showed. He sent a street urchin to collect, and I tried to follow him, but my skills had gone rusty. The sprat lost me in the rookery.” Her lips twisted. “When I received the second blackmail note, I was informed that my disregard of the instructions would cost me. For this next payment, he demanded ten thousand dollars. That is why I had to give him the necklace.”
“Forgive me for asking,” the duchess said, “but wouldn’t Lord Blackwood notice the absence of such expensive jewelry?”
“I had replicas made to wear. High quality glass. My husband is generous but not a connoisseur of jewels,” Pompeia said dully.
“But the Spectre didn’t get the necklace today.” Thea nibbled her lower lip. “How will you prevent him from following through on his threat?”
Helplessness glimmered in Pompeia’s eyes even as her hands balled. “I don’t know. But I would do anything—anything at all—to protect my husband from my past.”
“We will help you,” Thea said.
What?
“We have a common enemy, after all, and thus would benefit from working together,” she went on brightly. “Don’t you agree, Tremont?”
“No,” he said.
The fact that he had a twinge of sympathy for Pompeia didn’t mean that he trusted her. Even if he believed that she wasn’t the Spectre, years of antipathy didn’t vanish in an instant. He couldn’t forget that her actions had indirectly led to the fiasco in Normandy. To his torture and the death of Marius.
As if reading his thoughts, Pompeia said coolly, “You never were the trusting type, were you, Trajan?”
“I prefer to stay alive,” he said.
Pompeia rose. Good manners prompted the men in the room to follow.
“You’re the one who brought me here,” she said in biting tones. “I never asked for your interference. I can handle the Spectre myself.”
“No, you can’t,” Thea said.
Precisely. Gabriel couldn’t agree more. Even though he didn’t trust Pompeia, he didn’t want her off on her own, potentially scaring off the true prey. It was best to keep her under close watch.
“And neither can Tremont,” Thea added.
He scowled at her. “I bloody can and will.”
“Is it a rule of espionage that agents must be stubborn?” she said mildly. “The fact is that the both of you need to work together in order to capture this spymaster.”
“My sister is right,” Kent said. “My agency is here to assist, of course, but in this room the two of you are the experts on the Spectre. My lady, do you know his true identity?”
“I have only suspicions.” Exhaling, Pompeia said, “I believe him to be one of ours. That is the only way he would have access to information pertaining to my past activities.”
“Octavian found proof of the same thing. The Spectre was a double agent and one of the Quorum,” Gabriel said flatly.
Her throat rippled as if she were trying to digest the unpalatable piece of information. The telltale sign suggested that she was telling the truth. That she’d been betrayed just like him.
Her gaze thinned. “So if neither one of us is the Spectre…”
“Then we’ve narrowed the field down considerably, haven’t we?” he said coolly.
Thea beamed at both of them. “Then why don’t we put our heads together and capture the villain?”