Chapter Six
After ensuring that Freddy was settled, Gabriel descended the steps to the main floor.
What the devil are you doing flirting with her?
He had urgent business to take care of—and that didn’t include dallying further with an innocent miss he couldn’t have. Yet in Thea’s presence his principles seemed to fade, the compulsion to be near her, to possess every glowing inch of her, making him act like a damned cad.
God help him, her passion had burned so brightly at their midnight encounter, illuminating his darkest fantasies. He’d stared at her lustrous hair, knotted in his fist, and the beast in him had hungered to use that silken skein like a rein. To flip her onto her knees, tear off her shift, and plow her until she screamed his name—until she let him do anything. Everything.
Instead, he’d hurt her. Caused her to have an attack.
He passed the landing, his shoulders rigid.
He knew better than to get involved with a woman who couldn’t give him what he needed. And whom he couldn’t please no matter how hard he tried. Memories of his marriage fell over him like a shadow.
Fresh from leaving the Quorum, he’d met Sylvia at a society ball, the first he’d attended as a newly minted marquess. After the life he’d led, he’d felt out of rhythm with the carefree dance of the ton, but from the moment he’d been introduced to Sylvia, her delicate brunette beauty and ladylike graces had anchored something inside him. Over the next few weeks, they’d fallen in love. He’d asked for and received her hand in marriage.
He’d been certain that he’d finally found what had been missing in his life. Sylvia had been like a shining torch: her lightness and beauty, her tranquil presence, had promised to chase away his shadows. For the first time, his future had seemed bright.
Their marital relations had come as a shock—to both of them. Having spent his adult life immersed in the murky world of espionage, he’d never been with a lady before. He hadn’t realized how debauched his sexual preferences were. The whores he’d bedded prior to his marriage had never complained; in fact, they’d urged on his depraved demands the way a jockey does a mount.
But Sylvia was no trollop. She was his bride, an innocent. He’d made every effort to tame his lovemaking, to change his needs and see to her pleasure—but nothing changed.
She didn’t enjoy his touch. Every time, she lay there, tense and stiff as a board, waiting for it to be over. When his hope began to fade and his visits to her bedchamber became less frequent, he could see the relief, the sense of reprieve in her blue eyes, and it was like throwing sand on the flames of his soul.
After she gave birth to their son, she’d finally told him what she wanted. For him to do what every considerate gentleman did: take a mistress. Please, you can’t expect me to see to all your needs. You want too much. Tears had leaked down her beautiful face. Isn’t it enough that I’ve given you an heir and a peaceful home?
Shame crept over him, thinking of that accusation. That he was too… needful. He knew that she’d meant not just sexually but emotionally as well. He cringed to think of how, in those early days of their marriage, he’d let down his guard for the first time in his life. He’d been so damned eager to put his dark past behind him, to start life over as a new man. The humiliating truth was that he’d been like a foolish puppy, annoying and pathetically eager for her new bride’s attention.
A sinful, needful bastard. No wonder Sylvia had found him tiresome.
His mama’s deathbed words had risen to haunt him. ’Tis the curse of the Tremont blood. Her beautiful, pious face etched by years of suffering, she’d whispered, All of you, beasts of excessive appetites. I’ve prayed for your soul, son. That you will not become a degenerate like your father.
At age twelve, he hadn’t understood her words. By the time he had, it’d been too late. His tainted blood had won out, the beast’s hungry presence pulsing within him. Yet despite everything, his heart had belonged to his wife. He couldn’t betray her, so he’d lived in limbo, wanting the woman he loved and knowing that she didn’t want him back.
Hell had been staring at the closed door between their bedchambers night after night. Sitting at the breakfast table, making polite conversation with his dutiful marchioness who despised his touch. Pretending to be happy for her sake and their son’s.
He would never put himself in that situation again. He knew what he was and the bitter futility of wanting what could never be his. In the unlikely event that he should remarry, he would base the match on things that might at least be attainable. Sexual compatibility. Honesty. There would be no talk of love or such other nonsense.
Even so, the first criterion made finding a suitable mate nigh impossible. How could one ascertain one’s sexual fit with another prior to marriage, after all? The kind of well-bred female he desired for a wife was not the sort of filly one could take for a test ride and decide whether to buy. You didn’t get to try out a potential bride to see if you could make each other happy in bed. And what were the chances that that could happen anyway? His own sexual tastes were dark, filthy, and likely to send any virgin into a dead faint.
So there it was. He wanted a gentle lady by his side, a submissive wanton in his marriage bed, and no complicating emotions between them. In other words, he wanted the moon, stars, and all the heavens in between.
You’re a great bloody fool, aren’t you? And a bastard. From now on, he had to stay away from Thea, for both their sakes. Last night had demonstrated that his desire for her was a madness in his blood. His loins stirred at the memory of how fervently she’d returned his kisses.
But Sylvia, too, had seemed to enjoy kisses during their courtship. It wasn’t enough to predict a true sensual connection, which for him would involve more than kisses. He expelled a breath. A hell of a lot more.
“On your way out, Tremont?”
Reaching the foyer, he was greeted by his host—and was surprised to see the duke cradling an infant in the crook of his arm.
“This is my daughter Olivia,” Strathaven said. “Poppet, say hello to our guest.”
“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Gabriel said.
The babe stared up at him with big green eyes. Her tiny rosebud mouth opened, and a silvery line of spit dangled before landing on the arm of the duke’s pristine jacket. A dark spot gathered and spread.
“She likes to drool over me. Gets it from her mama, I expect,” Strathaven said complacently.
“You’re quite reformed, my friend.” In truth, Gabriel could scarcely credit the changes in the former rake.
“The influence of my women. They civilize me.” The duke cocked his head. “Or, quite possibly, the reverse is true.”
“You civilize them?”
“No, my wildness rubs off on them,” the duke said in rueful tones. “Over breakfast, Her Grace continued deliberating the merits of her plan. She means to convince you to hire on her brother’s firm.”
Icicles prickled Gabriel’s muscles. He couldn’t afford to have investigators poking into his business. If his instincts were right—and they tended to be a reliable compass when it came to murder and mayhem—the attempted kidnapping had been triggered by his enquiry into Octavian’s murder. In the past three weeks, he’d been tracking down information on his mentor’s last mission, trying to discover what had gotten the other assassinated.
His intuition told him that he was getting closer to the killer, and the latter had struck out at Freddy as a warning. Rage simmered. No one hurts what’s mine.
This was spy business, and civilians would only get in the way. He couldn’t risk exposing his past activities or those of his former colleagues. Intelligence agents might have not have many scruples, but, like thieves, they had their own code of honor. Respecting the anonymity of the game and its players was one of them.
“I appreciate her concern,” he said, “but I must do as I see fit.”
“I told her as much. Won’t stop her from trying.” Strathaven rocked his daughter, his expression serious. “Far be it for me to interfere, but as you know, I had troubles of my own last year. If it weren’t for Kent and my brother William, I might not be standing here today. They have my highest recommendation—and not just because I happen to be related to both of them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, my friend, for everything.” Gabriel hesitated. “Would you keep an eye on Frederick while I attend to some business?”
“Of course.” The duke looked down at his sleeve and sighed. “As it appears I’ve been reduced into a napkin, I’d best return this sprite to her nurse and summon my valet.”
The two exchanged farewells, and Gabriel called for his carriage. As the conveyance headed eastward into the city, his mind worked over the facts. Since Octavian’s murder, he’d been retracing his mentor’s steps, searching for clues. What had Octavian done or discovered that had gotten him killed?
Et tu, Brute.
Octavian’s last act on this earth had been to communicate that he’d known his killer, an intimate from his innermost circle. The faces of Gabriel’s fellow agents in the Quorum flashed through his head, as familiar as the passing streets.
Cicero. The statesman of the group, his silver tongue had gotten them out of trouble more than once. One could never tell if Cicero was the telling the truth or lying. The former agent had taken up his seat in the House of Lords and now occupied a place of importance in politics.
Tiberius. Aristotle had written that there was no great genius without a mixture of madness, and nowhere was this more apparent than with this particular colleague. Rumor had it that Tiberius’ tenuous grip on sanity had slipped even further, thanks to the use of opium. According to Gabriel’s recent reconnaissance, Tiberius had joined a radical group that supported tenets bordering on treason.
Pompeia. Beautiful and deadly, she was a lady now, moving in glittering circles that belied her true beginnings. She had a talent for playing any role, inventing any identity she pleased. Clever and cold, she’d abandoned the Quorum in a time of need, leaving them shorthanded and vulnerable during that last fateful mission.
Gabriel’s back tautened at the thought of Normandy… and his final comrade. Marius had been the brilliant strategist and thinker; if there had been one person in the Quorum who could be trusted, it’d been Marius. The latter had been the true leader of the group, the glue that held them together when mistrust, jealousy, and self-gain threatened to pull them apart.
To Gabriel, Marius had been like an older brother—except, unlike his blood sibling, Marius hadn’t beaten him to a pulp at every opportunity. Marius could outtalk Cicero, outwit Pompeia, outthink Tiberius, and occasionally outfight Gabriel. Yet he’d always employed his abilities for the greater good.
For an instant, Gabriel returned to the edge of the chalky cliffs, sea air abrading his lungs, moonlight shattering over the dark waters below. His chest tightened on the name he’d shouted again and again that night to the raging waves. If only he hadn’t lost control, if only he hadn’t been hell-bent upon slaying every last enemy, if only he’d moved faster to save his friend…
But if only changed nothing. There was no going back, and Marius was not a suspect. Death had relieved him of that one burden at least.
Near Temple Bar the carriage slowed to the glut of people and vehicles outside. Rapping on the ceiling, Gabriel had his driver deposit him on the street, with instructions to reconvene in the same place in an hour’s time. He set off on foot toward his destination; just before he passed beneath Sir Wren’s arched gate, he glanced up. The Portland stone monument, crowned by statues of Tudor monarchs, appeared innocuous enough now, yet heads of traitors had once been displayed on spikes upon the arch’s roof.
Britain showed no mercy for those who betrayed her. Even those who worked in clandestine service for her welfare walked a thin line. Octavian had liked to put it this way: If you succeed, no one will ever know what you did. If you fail, treason may claim your head.
His mentor had always had a way with motivation.
Gabriel continued along Fleet Street toward his destination. His taste for simple clothing was not purely aesthetic; somber colors and clean lines enabled him to blend into the surroundings. Beneath the low brim of his hat, he monitored the environs. Printing shops and booksellers flourished in this area, customers leaving the tidy establishments with paper-wrapped packages. He saw nothing to rouse his suspicion, yet one could never be too careful.
He felt the slight weight concealed in the inner pocket of his coat. He’d received the letter the day before he was to take Freddy to London. With prickling premonition, he’d read the enigmatic lines:
I am writing to carry out the instructions left by a mutual friend. Upon his death, he instructed that his subscription to my services be passed onto you, and as such I must inform you that I am now in possession of the rare item he ordered. My only regret is that I was not able to obtain it prior to my patron’s passing.
The item awaits you at your earliest convenience. All that is required is the enclosed card of membership and the name given to you by our mutual friend.
Respectfully yours,
Theodore Cruiks
As Gabriel had been bound for Town the next day, he’d planned to kill two birds with one stone: grant his son’s birthday wish and collect whatever item Octavian had left for him. The need to find the culprit behind his mentor’s death had been rooted in a sense of duty and loyalty tarnished but not destroyed by bad blood and the passing years.
The attack on Frederick, however, had made things personal. Whoever had tried to hurt his boy was going to pay.
Gabriel arrived at the appointed address, a brick storefront with a sign that identified it as Cruiks Circulating Library. He entered the premises to the soft tinkle of a bell; several patrons glanced his way before returning to their perusal of magazines and newspapers. A clerk stood behind the counter assisting customers. A lady with a flower-trimmed bonnet handed over a white card; after a quick exchange, the clerk exited through a green curtain and re-emerged minutes later with a book in hand.
Pretending to browse, Gabriel waited until the clerk was free before approaching the counter.
“Good day, sir,” the clerk said. “How may I be of service?”
Withdrawing the subscription card from his pocket, Gabriel laid it down upon the gleaming wood surface. The white card bore his name in elegant flourish.
“I believe you have an item of mine,” he said.
The clerk bowed low. “Very good, my lord.”
He made a trip through the curtain, returning moments later with a short fellow with wire-rimmed spectacles and brown hair greying at the temples.
“Welcome. I am Theodore Cruiks,” the proprietor said. “I understand you are inquiring about a biography. Any particular one you are interested in?”
Gabriel recognized the underlying request.
“Yes, I’m reading up on the Romans.” For the benefit of any eavesdroppers, he adopted the bored drawl of a gentleman with too much time on his hands. “Do you have anything on that old boy… the soldier who became an emperor? What was his name, by Jove?” He drummed his fingers. “Ah, yes. Trajan. That’s it.”
“Indeed. A moment, if you please.” Cruiks went to the back of the store, returning with a plain brown volume which he placed on the counter. “This is a rare item, obtained through special auction from an anonymous source. The cost was significant. There was no way to trace its origins.”
Translation: a high-end fence. Cost: in the thousands of pounds. Seller unknown.
“Although it took many years to find, our mutual friend always believed it would resurface,” Cruiks went on. “I regret that he did not live to see it. The reading room is to the left if you wish to examine the item.”
Gabriel thanked the dealer. He found the reading area, empty save for a pair of ladies flirting with a dandy. They paid Gabriel no attention. He found a desk in the corner which put a wall against his back and a full view of the room before his eyes. Then he went to work opening the “book.”
His fingers skimmed the edges of the pages—wood carved to give the appearance of paper. He’d dealt with more than a few of these in his time. Within seconds, he located the hidden mechanism in the spine. A soft click and the cover released.
Gabriel’s heart thudded in recognition.
He ran a finger over the blade’s distinctive pattern, flowing water captured in steel. He knew that his hand and the hilt would fit together like puzzle pieces. If he removed the two knives from the halter beneath his jacket and put it next to this one, the three would be a perfect, lethal match.
This was his missing dagger. From the set of six Octavian had given him years ago, before his first mission. Damascus steel is a lost art, and this is a rare surviving set. Use it well, Trajan. His mentor had spoken with a gruffness that might have been pride. You’re ready now to defend your country.
Gabriel’s mind whirred, buffering shock, distilling the facts. The last time he’d seen this knife was Normandy. When he’d sent it flying into the Spectre’s chest. Somehow this dagger had survived the explosion and gotten out of the inferno.
His mentor’s voice played in his head. Without proof, we don’t know he’s dead… he’s survived blades, fire, explosions before… he’s walked away from death more times than I can count…
This was what Octavian had been after the whole time: the proof that now lay in front of Gabriel. The French spymaster who was ultimately responsible for the death of countless British officers and agents—including Marius—was still alive.
Et tu, Brute?
The chill settled deep in Gabriel’s bones. Only one kind of betrayal would cut Octavian that deeply. It explained so much. How the Spectre had been able to get access to secrets. How the other had seemed to know British intelligence inside out. How the bastard had always been able to stay one step ahead.
The grim conclusion stared Gabriel in the face.
Not only did the Spectre live, he—or she—was a double agent.
One of the Quorum.