Chapter Eight
Madame Rousseau’s words lingered with Thea that day and the next. Whenever she tried to guess what kind of costume the other was designing for her, she felt a charge of excitement and hope. Whatever form the creation took, she vowed that she would do it justice. For the modiste’s words had resonated with a truth she hadn’t considered before.
It wasn’t enough to want others to believe that she was strong—she had to believe it too. Her first task, then, was to prove the depth of her resolve to herself… and there was no better place than at the Blackwood masquerade.
Tomorrow night, she wouldn’t sit on the fringes of the ballroom like a frail invalid or dejected spinster. She wouldn’t just watch the world go by as the old Thea used to do. No, her new self would dance and flirt and make new acquaintances. She would behave like any woman in search of a spouse. She would work toward finding the love she wanted.
Her plans for the ball took a backseat, however, when Freddy developed a megrim that afternoon. As worried as she was for the boy, she was also surprised and touched when he asked for her personally. She kept him company, placing cool towels on his forehead and distracting him with Captain Gulliver’s exciting adventures with the Lilliputians until Dr. Abernathy arrived. During the physician’s examination, Freddy’s small hand clung to hers, and she didn’t let go until after the laudanum had taken effect and he drifted into sleep.
“How is my son, Dr. Abernathy?”
Tremont had remained at the foot of the bed while the doctor treated Freddy. Despite his stoic demeanor, Thea saw his tight grip on the bedpost. The wags of the ton oft made note of his lack of emotion, but Thea suspected there was a surfeit, rather than lack, where he was concerned. From her observations, he was a man who guarded his feelings and secrets tightly.
His feelings are none of your business. You’ve moved on, remember?
Right. Her gaze returned to Freddy’s face, and a frisson of anxiety coursed through her. His freckles stood out in stark relief against the pallor of his cheeks. She brushed a damp lock of hair off his forehead.
“The willow bark will help with the pain,” Dr. Abernathy said. “Let’s leave him to his rest and talk outside.”
The three of them removed to the sitting room. Thea and Dr. Abernathy sat near the hearth while Tremont remained standing, his arm propped on the mantel next to a vase filled with damask roses. With any other gentleman, the posture would be indolent. Yet Thea noted the taut ridges of muscle straining against his tailored waistcoat and trousers. The morning light cast a metallic sheen over his hair and illuminated the sculpted angles of his face.
If Tremont was an angel, it certainly wasn’t the cherubic sort that lounged about on clouds. Or the ones whose voices lifted in heavenly song. No, he was kind that carried a sword and avenged trespasses.
“Well?” His tone held polite menace.
“Your son has suffered a mild aftershock,” the physician said without preamble. “His complaint of a headache is not uncommon after a prolonged spell such as the one he suffered at the gardens. Has he complained of such symptoms before?”
“No.”
“The situation was extraordinary, so I’m not surprised it overset his nerves. I wouldn’t worry about it. He should be right as rain by the morrow.”
While Tremont remained still, Thea sensed some of the tension leaving him.
Dr. Abernathy stroked his sideburns. “If I may, I’d like to get a further history of your son’s ailment. How old was he when the spells began?”
“Less than a year old,” Tremont said curtly.
A clamp closed around Thea’s heart. Poor little fellow.
“And what is the frequency of the seizures?”
“It waxes and wanes. Four to twelve episodes a month.”
“Have you tried any treatments?” the physician asked.
Tremont’s laugh held no humor. “We have tried all the treatments, sir. My late wife had great faith in your profession. Freddy has been thoroughly poked and prodded and has tried every herb, root, and snake oil concoction under the sun. When one quack proposed to drill a hole in his skull to release the unnatural forces, I put my foot down.”
Thea’s fingernails bit into her palm. With her own ailment, she knew that sometimes the so-called cure could be worse than the cause, and it pained her to think of Freddy undergoing so much and since such a tender age. The lump in her throat grew, as did her admiration for the lad: how strong he was to survive such ordeals.
“As a man of science, I can offer no excuse for such ignorance,” Dr. Abernathy said, his burr deepening with disgust. “There are charlatans in every profession, and unfortunately mine is no different. One must not throw the baby out with bathwater, however. There are newer, scientific treatments being studied that may—”
“My wife consulted the most prominent physicians in London. They were unanimous in prescribing bed rest and a quiet environment to calm Frederick’s nerves.”
“I don’t wish to disagree with my learned colleagues, my lord, yet in my own practice I have seen that cloistering a patient can have adverse effects. Especially for children.” Dr. Abernathy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, expression earnest. “As such, I have been researching experimental treatments including—”
“My son’s health is not an experiment.” Tremont’s words hovered over the room as ominously as thunderclouds. “Had I not taken Freddy on this trip, none of this would have happened. As soon as he has recovered, I will return him to my estate and see that he suffers no further disturbances.”
I’d give anything to be like other boys. Freddy’s forlorn voice wound like a vine around Thea’s heart, squeezing. To be… normal.
How well she understood.
“He has spells there, too,” she said quietly.
Tremont turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”
She held herself steady in the wake of his stormy gaze, the tempest of frustration and anguish that he was clearly struggling to hold in check. Strangely, his potent emotions didn’t intimidate her. The knowledge that he didn’t want her—that she had nothing to lose in terms of his esteem—allowed her to speak with new freedom.
“Just now you said that Freddy has two to six falling spells even at your estate,” she pointed out. “What have you to lose by trying Dr. Abernathy’s treatment?”
“I’ll not raise Frederick’s hopes needlessly,” Tremont said, his tone curt. “He’s been through enough.”
“Do you think isolation isn’t a trial in itself?” Memories of being bedridden made her hands curl in her lap. And she hadn’t been shut away. Even when she’d been too weak to leave the room, her siblings had come to her, amused her with stories and games. “Do you know that your son longs to have friends, to have someone to play with? He wants to be normal. He needs to be.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’ll never be,” Tremont said.
“Perhaps if you didn’t lock him away on your estate, he might have a more normal life. He’s stronger than you think. And he wants your approval more than anything.”
“What makes you think he doesn’t have it, Miss Kent?”
The hostility in Tremont’s voice goaded her to honesty. “He’s afraid of disappointing you, my lord. Of embarrassing you in public with his illness. All he wants is to be able to ride and play sports with you, to do the things other boys do with their papas.”
Lightning flashed in his eyes. “Three days has made you an expert on my son?”
“No. Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“My wife did everything possible to cure Frederick. On her deathbed, Sylvia’s only wish was that I continue to keep him safe away from the dangers of the world.”
“He needs to be part of the world—not shut out from it,” Thea insisted.
“You are gainsaying the wishes of his own mama?”
He said it as if she’d contradicted the teachings of a saint.
Wrangling back impatience, she said, “I do not mean to step on toes; I am merely presenting an alternate point of view. Your wife might have been a paragon, my lord, but I have been invalid.” Whoever thought that would be a source of confidence. “Trust me when I say I have intimate knowledge of what it is like to live with a condition beyond one’s control.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to interfere,” he said in arctic tones.
She teetered on a see-saw of embarrassment and anger. Why did the dashed man keep her off balance and disorder her feelings so? Before Tremont, she’d counted herself patient and even-tempered. She didn’t quarrel or provoke or invite conflict. Amongst her siblings, she often played the intermediary, grounded by her natural equanimity.
At the moment, however, her greatest desire was to pluck the vase from the mantel and smash it over Tremont’s head. She allowed herself to enjoy the image of him sopping wet, crowned by wilted flowers. Then she rose.
“If Freddy asks for me when he awakens, send word and I will return to keep him company.” She gave a cool nod. “Good day, sirs.”
***
That evening, supper was a strained affair.
Given his earlier behavior, Gabriel had expected no less. A part of him had wanted to avoid going down altogether. Thus far, however, he’d had his meals on a tray with his son and hadn’t yet dined with his hosts. Abernathy had been right about the headache passing, thank God, and Freddy had awoken after his afternoon nap feeling much recovered. Good manners dictated that Gabriel should make an appearance at the supper table.
As only the Strathavens, Thea, and he were dining, the long mahogany table had been set cozily at one end.
“No sense in shouting down the table,” the duchess said pragmatically.
The duke occupied the end chair, with the duchess to his right and Thea to his left. Gabriel had been placed on Thea’s other side. Tonight she looked more like a faerie tale princess than ever in an off-the-shoulder gown of light blue silk. As he cut into his filet of beef, he tried not to notice how the glow of the candelabra slid over her décolletage, kissing smooth, bare skin and creating an intriguing play of shadows. He picked up her sweet, subtle scent the way a bloodhound lifts it nose and scents a fox.
Beneath the table, something else lifted as well.
His lack of control was appalling. Not even the cold shoulder she presented him could dampen his physical reaction to her nearness. On the surface, she was all that was polite, yet the tension between them was downright Siberian and would have frozen a lesser man.
He deserved the chilly reception. Hell, he might be angrier at himself than she was.
You’re one stupid bastard. Devil take it, why had he lashed out at her? She’d only wanted to help Freddy. He sliced the beef with a vicious stroke, letting out some of his pent-up frustration, the helplessness of not being able to aid his own son.
Sylvia had consulted quack after quack in search for the cure. He’d stood by as physicians peddled their diagnoses like tinkers with a barrow of second-rate goods. Some termed Freddy’s falling sickness a “mental defect”; others cautioned against the contagiousness of the condition—ridiculous when no one around Freddy had developed a similar affliction. When one leech had gone so far as to declare the illness “the work of dark spirits,” Gabriel had finally intervened and ejected the charlatan from his property.
He supposed he’d developed a prejudice against the medical profession. As physicians went, he could find no fault with Abernathy, who seemed learned and had more common sense than most. But Gabriel had no intention of subjecting Freddy to further indignities. The cycle of hope and disappointment was too much for a child to bear. Or even an adult.
He must be kept away from others. Sylvia’s decision had been weighted with finality. For his own good and for ours.
He fought back a sudden, unexamined swell of emotion. He told himself that Sylvia had wanted what was best—for all of them. Her well-bred nature made it difficult to acknowledge imperfections, and when they couldn’t be fixed, she avoided them or swept them under the carpet.
Out of sight, out of mind. Closed doors and brief, scheduled visits with one’s child. That philosophy had worked well for her.
Guilt gnawed at him. He had no cause to think ill of Sylvia, who’d only wanted peace and harmony, a civilized existence for all of them. His grip tightening on his fork, he blamed his reaction on stress. After all, a murderous spy was on the loose—one who was most likely a former associate of Gabriel’s, a treacherous double agent. His son had nearly been kidnapped and suffered another falling spell. And the woman who starred in his nightly fantasies, whose delicate sensuality had been driving him mad for months, was acting as if he didn’t exist.
A man could only take so much. He couldn’t have Thea for a lover, but he found the idea of them being enemies repugnant. Clearing his throat, he fished for an opening.
“Er, how do you find the asparagus, Miss Kent?” he said.
Her head turned slightly in his direction. Her hair had been simply and elegantly dressed, the chandelier’s glow burnishing her honey brown curls. A pair of tortoiseshell combs held those luxuriant tresses in place, and, for an instant, he allowed himself to imagine plucking out those impediments and feeling the silken weight sliding over his palms.
That’s a husband’s privilege, you bastard—one you’ll never know.
Her brows raised. “You care to have my opinion, my lord?”
He winced. He deserved that.
“You must know I do,” he muttered. “If I have given you reason to doubt that, then I must ask your forgiveness.”
She said nothing, lifting a bite-sized chunk of asparagus to her mouth. The green spear slid smoothly between her coral lips, releasing another debauched image: of her on her knees, taking him that way. Of her eyes, sultry gold, looking up at him as her mouth sweetly received his throbbing length…
A shudder travelled through him. He reached for his wine glass.
She finished chewing. “The truth is, I find it rather hard to swallow.”
He choked on his beverage. “Er, I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t like to waste time and effort on something that ought to be simple,” she said calmly. “Food, like company, ought to be easy and comforting rather than a challenge to enjoy.”
Touché. Unfortunately, he was still preoccupied by the outrageously erotic notion of her swallowing what he yearned to give her. Of her willingly submitting to one of his favorite pleasures. God’s teeth. His napkin tented in his lap; if he got any more aroused, he’d be butting the underside of the table.
“Is something wrong with the asparagus?” Looking puzzled, the duchess sampled some from her plate.
“Don’t worry, darling. It tastes fine to me. Then again,” Strathaven said, “there’s no accounting for a person’s appetite. Or lack thereof.”
The duke flicked an amused glance between Gabriel and Miss Kent.
At least someone was enjoying himself, Gabriel thought irritably.
“Take Tremont, for instance,” his host went on. “He’s abstemious by nature.”
“Perhaps he just doesn’t like asparagus.” Turning to him, Her Grace said, “Would you care for a different vegetable? I’m sure Cook could whip something up.”
“Thank you, Duchess, but I like asparagus,” he said quietly. “I like it very much indeed.”
Thea’s thick gold-tipped lashes lifted. She cast a pointed glance at his plate. “If that is the case, then why have you left it untouched?”
Because my demands would scare you witless. I want to chain you to my bed, have my way with you day and night. And I want you to love it.
“Just because one likes a thing doesn’t mean one should have it,” he said.
Her shoulders stiffened in their frame of blue silk.
“It’s just asparagus,” the duchess said, clearly befuddled. “How much harm can come from indulging in a vegetable, for goodness’ sake?”
Strathaven, the bastard, looked like he was trying not to laugh. Picking up his wife’s hand, he kissed the knuckles. “Have I told you lately how much I adore you?”
This distracted the duchess and gave Gabriel the opportunity to say in an undertone, “May I ask for your forgiveness? I apologize for my churlish behavior earlier. I know you meant well—”
“Frederick is your son, my lord, and I’m sure you know best.” Thea dissected a potato into neat pieces. Perhaps as she’d like to do to him. “I won’t volunteer my opinion in the future.”
But he wanted her opinion. Wanted much more…
You can’t bloody have her. Pull it together, man.
Jaw taut, he said, “Whatever you believe, Miss Kent, I do wish for us to be friends.”
The hurt that shimmered in her hazel eyes cut him more deeply than her anger had. “I’ve come to the conclusion that friendship is not possible between us.”
“Why not? You must know that I admire you.” It was paramount to him that, if naught else, she knew that much. “The fault lies entirely with me.”
“It’s not me, it’s you?” she scoffed.
“It’s the truth. Miss Kent—Thea,” he said in a low voice, “I could not admire you more.”
A pulse fluttered at her throat. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and we must move forward.” Her lips fixed in a bright smile that told him they were under scrutiny again. “With the end of the Season fast approaching, I am certain you are as busy as I am.”
He did have plenty to do, although not the sort of social obligations she was referring to. He had three old colleagues to investigate and a turncoat to identify. Then he had to eliminate the problem—and avenge the deaths of Octavian, Marius, and all the other good men who’d been betrayed by the double agent who’d hidden himself—or herself—behind the guise of the Spectre.
Cicero, Pompeia, and Tiberius were all currently in London, which made Gabriel’s task easier. Direct confrontation would only put them on guard, so he’d called upon old contacts, setting eyes and ears on all three. He didn’t expect much to come out of the surveillance, however. From past experience, he knew that the former agents were too careful and cunning to reveal any misdeeds. Thus, he also planned to perform a clandestine search of his ex-comrades’ private domains. To find solid proof that one of them was the Spectre.
“Speaking of busy, I do hope your costume arrives in time, Thea,” the duchess said.
“Costume?” Gabriel said.
“The Blackwood’s annual masquerade. It’s tomorrow night,” Strathaven said. “Join us, if you’d like.”
It was, Gabriel thought grimly, the rare occasion when Fate was smiling upon him. A costume ball would make his plan so much simpler: he could walk into his enemy’s territory through the bloody front door. Conveniently disguised, he could carry out his covert plans during a public affair. The perfect opportunity.
“I have a few appointments, but I might drop by later,” he said.
“Excellent. You can help with escorting duties,” Strathaven said. “I’ll be outnumbered by the ladies.”
“As if you’ve ever complained about that,” the duchess teased. Turning to her sister, she said, “What last minute changes did Madame Rousseau have to make? I can’t imagine there were many. The swan ensemble was perfect for you.”
The vision unfurled in Gabriel’s head: Thea, resplendent in a pure white gown trimmed with feathers. She was every bit a swan. Graceful, delicate, so very lovely.
“We came up with a few new ideas. You’ll see tomorrow,” she said.
Small talk continued, and a wall of politeness once again descended between the two of them. After supper, the duchess suggested that her sister play a few tunes on the pianoforte. Gabriel sat there, riveted by Thea’s lithe lines, her elegant movements. Her music wove a spell over his senses, each note penetrating deeper and deeper through the layers he’d built, excavating artifacts of shame and desire…
The years lying alone in his bed, the closed door of his marriage. The agony of unreciprocated desire, the need that no amount of brandy or frigging could ease. The urge bled into the shadowy rooms of a club, the discreet sanctuary where his darkest pleasures could be unleashed. I’ve been a naughty slave, milord. Punish me. Ram me harder, fuck me…
As Miss Kent’s slender hands stroked the keys to a crescendo, the dark yearning in him strained, yanking on its tether. He knew it would need to be satisfied soon, and yet the idea of paying a visit to Corbett’s didn’t seem like much of a solution. Since becoming a widower, he’d gone to the exclusive club on occasion, but he knew from experience that any relief he obtained would be fleeting. There, he would find release but no peace. The depraved games were a mockery of what he truly wanted; in the end, fucking would relieve his lust but leave him cold and empty. The trading of one beast for another.
At the end of the performance, Strathaven suggested withdrawing for port and cigars, and Gabriel accepted with relief. Fleeing was not the most honorable way of dealing with trouble, but at times it was the most prudent. Miss Kent was an unholy temptation. If he wasn’t careful, his dark desires would break free—and lead to consequences that he wasn’t prepared to face.