Chapter Thirty-Three
That evening, Gabriel broodingly watched the gaiety going on around him. Kent and his wife were throwing him and Thea an informal engagement party, and he was struck by a sense of unreality as he observed his betrothed’s laughing, boisterous kin. Their warm affection, the way they bantered back and forth so freely with one another… he’d never known families such as this existed.
His own parents had led separate lives. Papa had been off whoring or gambling, whilst Mama had spent hours praying, presumably to make up for her husband’s sins. Gabriel had a faint impression of his mother emerging from her cocoon. You mustn’t dirty Mama’s dress, she’d say in her cool, lilting voice. She would flutter out of reach like a beautiful butterfly whose wings must never be touched.
Much like… Sylvia.
He frowned as he made that connection for the first time. His first wife, too, had shied away from open affection. Visits with Freddy had been formal, conducted twice daily: a half-hour after breakfast and a half-hour before supper. She and Gabriel had taken their meals separately from their son; with a twinge, he recalled how stilted their conversations had become, the two of them dining at the opposite ends of an empty table.
Presently, the Kents were arranged with haphazard coziness on the furniture or on the carpet in front of the merrily burning hearth. Harry, the brother Gabriel had met for the first time that evening, had started off the festivities with a demonstration of his latest scientific creation: a batch of invisible ink. The vial of liquid was a clear, light pink that was nearly colorless; when Harry wrote a sentence on a piece of parchment, the paper appeared blank and untouched. When he held it near the flame of a lamp, however, his message appeared as if by magic:
Things are not as they appear.
After a resounding round of applause, Harry explained the chemical mechanism behind the mysterious ink. Ruefully, Gabriel thought Harry’s invention would have come in handy back in his espionage days. The younger Kents were tickled to pieces… and Freddy, too. When Harry presented the boy with a small vial of ink, Freddy’s eyes turned as big as saucers. He took the bottle as reverently as if it were the crown jewels.
As soon as the demonstration was done with, the boy plopped down on the carpet with Polly, Primrose, and Edward. The four proceeded to play a game involving a great quantity of sticks and even more hilarity. As Freddy whooped with joy when he successfully removed a stick without disturbing the pile, Gabriel could scarcely credit the change in his once timid son.
In a short span of weeks, Frederick had blossomed. Not only were his falling spells improving, but the warmth of Thea and her family had infused him with new vitality. Freddy was now a boy like any other. Glancing at Thea—talking quietly with Kent by the pianoforte—Gabriel experienced a spasm in his chest. It took him a moment to recognize his feelings as longing and gratitude… mingled with bone-deep fear.
He knew that he was being a bastard. Making a bloody hash of things. Day by day, he’d felt the chasm widening between him and Thea. It had started when she told him she loved him. The fierceness of his response had taken him aback; he hadn’t known how to answer. His inner voice had whispered, Begin as you mean to go on. Don’t set her up for disappointment.
To compound matters, the business with Heath the next day had… unsettled him. Resurrected a part of himself that he wanted nothing to do with. The mindless, bloodthirsty animal who had gotten Marius killed. No way in hell was he letting that near Thea. He had stayed away from her, couldn’t risk touching her, tainting her while the darkness raged inside him. When she’d pushed to get closer, he’d lashed out at her.
Guilt and self-hatred crept over him as he thought of how badly he’d treated her… again. She’d only wanted to help Freddy, and he’d acted like a damned blighter. When she’d left the room, a part of him had wanted to chase after her, to fall on his knees and apologize. The other part had kept him rooted in place, paralyzed by a growing sense of inevitability.
How could she love him, after all? When no one had done so before?
As the days had passed, thankfully the darkness in him had subsided, and finally, tonight, he’d felt in control again. The numbness had faded; he was back in his own skin. With crystal clarity, he realized that he needed to talk to Thea, to beg her forgiveness for his behavior. The only thing holding him back was fear. What if he’d bungled things up beyond repair? What if she no longer wanted him?
The advice that Strathaven had given him in the carriage suddenly echoed in his head. Drink from a clean cup.
The duke was right. Thea wasn’t Sylvia. She was unique, rare.
Stop acting like a namby-pamby fool, he told himself. Go and bloody talk to her.
Expelling a breath, he headed over to Thea and her brother.
“May I join in?” he said.
“Of course.” Her voice was light, her hazel gaze guarded.
“How are you finding our family affair?” Kent said.
“It’s lively,” he said honestly.
The investigator shared a wry glance with his sister. “We’ve certainly been called worse.”
“I meant no offense. By lively, I meant kind and welcoming—” he began.
“Ambrose is just teasing.” Thea’s smile chased away some of his emptiness. Hungrily, he absorbed her sweetness, her radiance, everything about her. “It’s a Kent tendency, I’m afraid.”
“Sometimes we can take it too far.” Kent’s gaze was directed at Harry and Violet, whose competitive game of cards had devolved into out and out war. “As Marianne loathes bloodstains on the carpet, I’d best put an end to that. Excuse me.”
Alone with his betrothed, Gabriel found that his heart was pounding.
“You look beautiful,” he said finally.
Her ivory gown clung to her exquisite bosom and slender waist, flaring into full skirts. With her golden brown hair arranged in cascading ringlets, she looked like a faerie princess. He felt like a dark goblin who wanted to spirit her away so that he could have her all to himself.
“Thank you,” she said politely. “You look very handsome yourself.”
There was a time when he masked himself in civility. But it suddenly felt like a tiresome barrier, something he wanted to rip away so that he could get close to Thea again. To her warmth and generous vitality. He resented having anything between them… even if he’d been the fool who’d put the wall there in the first place.
His chest tight, he said, “I wish to apologize.”
Her golden eyelashes flickered. “What for?”
Mentally, he reviewed his sins. Settled on the safest one. “For being an ass.”
She studied him, her expression so somber that dread crept through him. Then her mouth twitched. “You’ll have to be more specific,” she said.
He screwed his courage to the sticking place. “I know I’ve been… difficult this past week.”
“Yes,” she said, “you have.”
“I am sorry for it. For being disagreeable about Freddy’s treatment. For… everything.” He dragged the words out. “The whole business with Heath, discovering the nature of his betrayal—it disquieted me. I did not handle it well, and you did not deserve to bear the brunt of my behavior.”
After a moment, she said softly, “Anyone would be disquieted by such a shock. And I know how much you want to put your past behind you.”
“But it always comes back.” The returning warmth in her eyes made the truth tumble out of him like rubbish from a bin. “The things I despise about myself, the killer I was… During the capture, I lost control. I could have killed Heath. Wanted to.”
“But you didn’t. You stopped.” With gentle palms, she held his jaw, focusing him on her. His present. “You did what you had to in the past. One day, you’ll forgive yourself. You’re a good man, Gabriel.”
Her faith humbled him. He couldn’t speak.
“And I want to thank you for sharing what you just did. For talking to me,” she said in a rush. “The truth is it’s been a difficult week for me too. When you blocked me out, I didn’t know why. I can’t read your mind. I thought perhaps you were having second thoughts about marriage or me—”
“No, Thea.” Appalled at the conclusions she’d drawn, he said, “I want to marry you. More than anything. I can hardly wait to make you mine.”
“Truly?” Her eyes glimmered.
“Truly.” He took her hands, kissed her soft knuckles. “What I wouldn’t give to be alone with you right now, princess.”
“Oh, Gabriel,” she said tremulously, “I’ve missed—”
“Papa! Miss Thea!”
They both turned their heads as Freddy ran toward them. Sliding a longing, apologetic look at Thea, Gabriel said, “What is it, son?”
“We’re to play a new game. A spelling game.” His boy’s eyes were bright with excitement. “We need to make teams. Will you both be on mine?”
Gabriel and Thea exchanged amused glances.
“We’d be delighted,” she said.
When she made to follow Freddy, Gabriel took hold of her hand. She didn’t pull away, instead lacing her fingers with his. He held on tightly as they went over to the fireplace where the game was taking place.
The party had been divided into four groups. According to the rules—gravely presented by Edward—the object of the game was to gain the most points possible by accurately spelling a word. Each player had the chance to pull a scrap of paper from a box; the paper contained a single letter. The player had one minute in which to come up with a word beginning with that letter and to spell it properly. Each letter of the word equaled one point.
With things back on course with Thea, Gabriel found himself able to relax for the first time in days. Perhaps it was Freddy’s delight or the air of crackling competition, but he was actually drawn into the game. When he selected the letter “M” and correctly spelled out the word “meticulousness,” Freddy and Thea cheered aloud.
“That’s fourteen points, Papa!” Freddy crowed. “We’re in the lead!”
Gabriel smiled at his son’s enthusiasm.
Not to be outdone, Strathaven pulled the letter “F” and proceeded to spell out a word.
“Farfetchedness isn’t a word,” his duchess argued (she was on another team).
“Indeed it is,” the duke said loftily. “It refers to the quality of being farfetched.”
“Like your word,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Nonetheless, after some good-natured debate, Strathaven’s team was awarded fourteen points. The play continued, with the competition becoming fiercer and the words more outlandish. When they reached the last round, Gabriel and Strathaven’s teams were in the clear lead, head to head. Edward declared that there would be a final round between the two teams. Each player on the team would get the chance to spell one word.
Strathaven won the coin toss, and his team went first.
Harry correctly spelled “ambitiousness” for thirteen points.
Gabriel felt a moment’s worry when Thea pulled the letter “O.” But she, clever girl, provided the word, “orchestration,” tying them again.
Strathaven and Gabriel kept the scores even with their respective entries.
Then it was the turn of the final players, Violet and Freddy.
Violet drew her letter. “Q!” she said indignantly. “Dash it, that’s not fair. Who put a “Q” in here?”
“Forty-six seconds and counting,” Edward intoned.
Wearing a look of panic, Violet blurted, “Quinces!”
Her accurate spelling garnered her team seven points. As she accepted congratulations, she muttered, “Gadzooks, I hope that’s enough. But Q! That’s like boxing with an arm tied behind your back!”
It was Freddy’s turn. Sensing his son’s nervousness, Gabriel said, “You’ll do fine.”
“Remember ’tis only a game.” Thea ruffled Freddy’s hair. “Just do your best and have fun.”
With a nod, Freddy reached into the box. He unfolded the slip.
“T,” he said.
Gabriel waited, breath held, as his son frowned in concentration. Countless words flitted through his head, and he wished he could somehow put them into his son’s. But this was something Freddy had to do on his own. With half a minute to spare, Freddy spoke.
“Tenterhooks,” he said. “T-E-N-T-E-R-H-O-O-K-S.”
Eleven points. They’d won.
As cheers and congratulations went up all around, Thea said to Freddy in admiring tones, “You were brilliant, dear. However did you think up that word?”
“It just came to me,” Freddy said happily. “In one of our lessons, Mademoiselle Fournier…” He trailed off, as if he’d just realized what he’d said.
Gabriel tensed at the mention of the villainous governess. As far as he knew, she was still at large. He’d questioned Heath about his partner in crime, but the man had refused to talk.
“She taught you the word?” Thea said gently. “It’s all right to speak of her, if you wish. In fact,”—her gaze met Gabriel’s—“sometimes it is best to talk about things even if they are unpleasant.”
Freddy swallowed and nodded. “She was explaining how cloth was made. They used tenterhooks, she said, to stretch the fabric after washing. To make it dry flat and smooth. She said that the tentergrounds near where she lived were as colorful as a field of wildflowers.”
Gabriel stilled, his nape prickling. His gaze shot to Thea’s; though he saw the awareness in her eyes, she subtly shook her head. Warning him not to frighten Freddy.
“Did she mention which tentergrounds in particular? There are a few in London,” she said.
“No. All she said was that the tentergrounds had closed recently so that buildings could be put in…” Freddy’s eyes widened. “Do you think… is this a clue? To finding her?”
“Did she say anything else, son?” Gabriel said.
Freddy’s forehead furrowed. “I can’t recall anything else. I’m sorry.”
Thea patted his shoulder. “You’ve been incredibly helpful, Freddy. Now run along and play with the others.”
With an uncertain look, Freddy scampered off.
Thea said, “Are you thinking of continuing the search for the governess? After all, you have the Spectre in custody already. ”
“Let’s talk to your brother,” Gabriel said.
***
Thea asked Violet and Harry to take charge of the younger ones as Gabriel quietly assembled the others. They gathered in Ambrose’s study, closing the door just as sounds of “Hide the Slipper” could be heard from the drawing room. The four couples arranged themselves in a circle: Emma and Mrs. McLeod on the settee, their husbands standing behind them, Thea in a wingchair and Gabriel pacing behind her, and Marianne at the desk, Ambrose at her side.
“So Freddy said Marie Fournier lived near tentergrounds?” Ambrose said alertly. “Did he remember anything else?”
“That she said those grounds had recently closed and buildings were put in,” Gabriel said.
“She’s talking about Spitalfields.” Mr. McLeod’s shaggy head lifted like that of a hound on the scent. “The area bordered by White’s Row, Wentworth and those two lanes, what are their names…”
“Bell and Rose,” Mrs. McLeod supplied. “The area is the heart of the rag trade. Weavers, seamstresses, button makers—they’re all there, so crowded together that the streets are fairly bursting at the seams. No pun intended.”
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. We will,” Ambrose said.