M Is for Marquess (32 page)

She still wants me. I haven’t bungled things up beyond repair.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d backed her into the shelves, her palms flattening against the leather spines, her lips parting in sensual surrender. Her taste, the feel of her so soft and giving, overwhelmed him. The need burgeoned in him to be closer to her, as close as he could possibly be.

He threw up her skirts, his hand finding the curve of her knee and upward, past the frill of her garter. Her thighs were down-soft, tempting as hell. But he didn’t have time to linger.

“Gabriel, anyone can see,” she protested.

“Then you’ll have to decide, won’t you? Whether the risk is worth it.”

“I can’t possibly—
oh
.” Her eyes closed, pink suffusing her cheeks.

Triumph surged within him. “Open your eyes, princess. Look at me when I touch you.”

Her lashes lifted, the hazel depths swirling with passionate gold. He rewarded her by circling his thumb over her pearl, his other fingers surging upward into her voluptuous warmth. She was so snug and wet around him that he could hardly breathe.

“Did you miss this?” he said against her ear. “My fingers inside you?”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

He withdrew, drove upward again. “You’ve got two of them now. Can you take another?”

She whimpered, and a gush of dew dampened his palm. He’d take that as a yes.

It was the work of a moment to give her more, his cock rock-hard with envy at the way her sheath clutched his driving touch. Oh, to be balls deep in her pussy… heaven for another day. For now it was enough to reestablish that he owned her pleasure, that she was still his. This was real between them. Intimacy he knew how to give.

His teeth ground together as she came. He endured the exquisite torture of her cunny convulsing around his fingers, milking his thick digits before the flutters subsided. Only then did he pull free of her and settle her skirts back into place.

Smiling into her bliss-glazed eyes, he said, “Now give me a goodbye kiss, and I’ll be off.”

She looked at him and, in the next instant, sank to her knees. To his astonishment, she went to work on the fastenings of his trousers. When his heavy erection fell into her hands, he came to his senses.

“Thea, love, I don’t think—”

The rest of the sentence evaporated from his brain as her lips closed around him.

Christ.
Holy Mother of God.

His knees nearly buckled as she took him hard and fast, her fist pumping him as she sucked on his shaft. Her taking control like this wasn’t their agreement, he thought dazedly, but at the moment he couldn’t give a damn.

Her curls bobbed prettily as she took him deeper and deeper. As she endeavored to swallow his prick whole, to consume every living inch of him with her wildfire. His hands clenched in the silk of her hair; his hips thrust with animal volition, fucking her beautiful mouth, and she didn’t pull back. Raw words tore from his throat.

“I need this,” he growled. “I need
you
.”

She moaned in response, the moist vibration making his neck arch. Her hot, wet sucking drove him to the edge. When his cockhead nudged the silken end of her throat, lights streaked across his vision. Heat rumbled up from his balls, and with his last ounce of sanity, he tried to pull away.

She wouldn’t let him. Feeling her fingers dig into his buttocks, holding him in place as she had her wicked way with him, he lost all control. He came with a roar, the hot load rushing from him and into her generous keeping.

He staggered backward, his shoulders sagging against a bookcase. As he tried to catch his breath, she refastened his pants and rose. Through the haze of pleasure, he saw that she looked perfectly pristine and ladylike… unless one looked at her eyes. They were slumberous and sultry, brimming with feminine satisfaction.

The merging of lady and siren, the glowing wholeness of it, made his senses spin.

“That,” he said hoarsely, “was the best goodbye kiss I’ve ever had.”

“Consider it an incentive.” Her smile beguiled the hell out of him. “Because my hello kisses are even better.”

***

After Gabriel and the others left, time seemed to drag by at a snail’s pace. Thea tried practicing at the pianoforte, but she couldn’t concentrate. She was too distracted by thoughts of what might be happening in Spitalfields… and of the sensual encounter between her and Gabriel this morning.

I need you.

She hugged the words to herself. It was the closest he’d come to saying that he loved her. He’d trusted her enough to let her take the lead in their lovemaking, and it had felt glorious to be in command of his pleasure. More importantly, last night he’d apologized for his behavior and opened up to her. He’d reaffirmed his desire to marry her.

Things
were
progressing between them.

Her previous worries began to seem like the bridal jitters after all.

Seeing that she was getting nowhere with practice, Thea went to check in on Freddy. The boy was sitting at the desk in his room, his tawny head bent over a piece of parchment. He had a half-finished tray of roasted beef and carrots beside him.

Freddy’s health had continued to make excellent progress. Dr. Abernathy had begun to experiment with various foods in order to see their effects on the boy’s ailment. Thus far, they’d discovered that Freddy tolerated meats and fatty foods without any problem, while breads and sweets could trigger a megrim. Though the process required trial and error, Freddy remained full of hope, his resilience filling Thea with pride.

“What are you doing, dear?” she said.

Freddy looked up, his eyes bright with excitement. It was a common expression for him these days. “Edward and I are playing a game. We’re pretending to be spies,” he said eagerly. “I’m writing him a secret message using the invisible ink Harry gave me.”

Thea hid a grin.
I wonder what Gabriel would think of this new game
.

“That’s lovely,” she said. “Shall I see if Edward is available for a visit today?”

“Oh, yes,” Freddy enthused. “But I must finish my message before we go.”

Leaving him to the task, Thea sent a note to Marianne and received an affirmative reply to call. Thea debated sending for the carriage, but the idea of stretching her legs and getting some sunshine and fresh air seemed preferable to the trouble. It was less than a ten-minute walk away, and they’d take a pair of footmen with them. She decided to let Freddy make the choice.

“Let’s walk,” he said. “That way I can test the ink outdoors. I want to see if I can leave secret messages on fence posts for Edward to find.”

“I’m afraid that would be vandalism, dear.”

“How is it vandalism if you can’t see it?” Freddy said in reasonable tones. “Unless someone puts a flame near it, the ink will remain invisible. And if the ink does become visible, Harry says all you have to do is put water on it to make it disappear.”

Thea opened her mouth—then closed it.

“Just don’t let anyone see what you’re doing,” she said with a sigh.

Chapter Thirty-Five

It took them less than an hour to find what they were looking for.

Maison de Fortescue, a factory specializing in handkerchiefs, occupied a squat building in the heart of Spitalfield’s Petticoat Lane. It sat on a street crammed with shops on both sides, garments of every kind strung up along the low-hanging eaves. In this heart of industry, rules of civility gave way to commerce. A lady’s used corset dangled side by side with a pair of gentleman’s smalls. Morts sold stockings and garters from baskets on the street. Customers jostled one another as they tried on items, tugging them over their clothes.

Accompanied by Kent and McLeod, Gabriel entered the shop. Inside, Fortescue’s was more spacious and cleaner than its exterior might suggest. The front counter was polished, and the man who came to greet them had the glistening pink mien of one who never missed his meals. His waistcoat, patterned in a loud stripe, strained at the buttons. His thinning black hair had been meticulously combed to cover his balding pate.

He sized them up. His gaze gleamed like that of a man who’d been presented with a feast. He waddled over and performed an unctuous bow.

“James Fortescue, at your service.” Despite the French surname, the man’s Cockney accent was several generations thick. “How may I be o’ assistance to you fine gents today?”

Gabriel removed the handkerchief from his pocket. Placed it on the counter.

“Is this one of yours?” he said.

“As a matter o’ fact, it is, and it don’t belong outside the shop.” Fortescue frowned. “Don’t know as ’ow it fell into such fine ’ands as yours, but rest assured that that is a rough sample only. I’ve much finer examples if you wish to order a supply—”

“What I wish to know is if a woman by the name of Marie Fournier worked here.”

“Don’t know no Fournier,” the proprietor said. “But perhaps I could interest you in some o’ our fine merchandise—”

“She may have used a different name. The woman I seek is of average height, thin, dark hair and eyes. She is well-educated and speaks fluent French and English.” Seeing the sudden dart of the other’s eyes, Gabriel said evenly, “This is a matter of import, and I am offering a reward.”

Fortescue licked his lips. “A reward, you say?”

Gabriel removed a coin purse, letting the contents jingle.

“I might know the woman you’re lookin’ for.” His eyes on the purse, Fortescue said, “’Ad a seamstress by the name o’ Manette Fontaine workin’ for me.”

Gabriel’s nape prickled.

“How long ago?” Kent said alertly.

“She disappeared around three months ago. Left without a word.” Fortescue huffed. “Should ’ave listened to my gut and turned the hussy away from the start.”

Gabriel traded glances with the investigators. The timing matched with when Fournier—or Fontaine, rather—had started in his employ. This had to be the woman they were after.

“Why should you have turned her away?” Gabriel said.

“’Er manner. Hoity-toity, she was. Because she had a bit o’ book learning, she thought she was better than the rest.” Fortescue grunted­—his comment on educated females, apparently. “Claimed she’d been a governess for a rich family and ’ad been let go when the children went away to school. Only a fool would believe that tale when she didn’t have a single reference to show for it.” Fortescue’s thin brows rose. “My guess is that Miss High and Mighty got herself compromised and was shown the back door.”

“Then why did you hire her?” Gabriel said.

The proprietor’s eyes slid away. “I’ve a big ’eart, I do.”

The heart wasn’t the part of the anatomy that had made the other’s decision, Gabriel thought with disgust. “After she left,” he said coldly, “you heard nothing else?”

“I’ve said all I know.” Fortescue held his hand out for the purse.

Gabriel kept it back. “We will need to speak to your employees who knew Fontaine.”

“My seamstresses are busy. They ’aven’t the time to—”

Gabriel emptied the purse, the gold clinking onto his gloved palm.

Fortescue’s avarice got the better of him. “All right. You may speak to Alice—she and Manette were as chatty as magpies.” He took the gold, stuffing it into his pocket. “Ten minutes only, mind you. I’ve a business to run.”

***

The woman named Alice was more than happy to talk.

“Well, beats bein’ up in that bleedin’ garret room, don’t it?” Batting her eyelashes, she untied her fichu, making a great show of fanning her exposed décolletage. “La, it’s so
hot
up there.”

Gabriel observed that the woman’s milkmaid looks were already showing signs of wear. Fine lines were etched around her eyes and mouth, and her gaze was as jaded and assessing as that of any trollop. In fact, her coy manner suggested that she had at least some experience in the world’s oldest trade.

He’d sent Kent and McLeod back to the carriage so as not to intimidate their only lead to Fontaine. He and Alice were out in the alley behind Fortescue’s. Squeezed between buildings, the corridor was stifling and reeked of garbage. The back doors of the other businesses swung open now and again, letting out people or buckets of refuse.

It was the most privacy they were going to get.

“I’m told you know Manette Fontaine,” Gabriel said.

“Knew. ’Aven’t ’eard from ’er since she left this place.” Alice gave him a flirtatious smile. “What’er she did for you, sir, I reckon I can do better.”

“Manette is a prostitute?”

“You’re not one o’ ’er fancy coves?” Alice’s eyes thinned. “Who are you then?”

“Someone who wants to find her.” He held out a quid. “This is yours if you answer my questions.”

“Double that, and I’ll tell you everything I know,” she said.

He gave her half of what she asked. “The rest when you’re done. So you and Manette—you both worked in the streets?”

“I ain’t no common streetwalker. I’m a good girl, I am,” Alice said unconvincingly. “Work my fingers to the bone in my God-given trade, but sometimes it ain’t enough and if there ’appens to be a job or two on the side…” She shrugged. “A girl’s got to make ends meet, don’t she?”

“Manette was doing these side jobs as well?”

“
She’s
the one who ’ooked me onto the idea. We started ’ere ’round the same time and got friendly like. One day she says to me she knows o’ a way to make some extra blunt and am I interested? I says, do birds ’ave wings? That’s when she tells me o’ this ’igh-kick place in Covent Garden called the Tickle and Fancy. There, a girl can work whene’er and howe’er much she wants. The nobs there like it that way; they don’t fancy long-toothed whores.” Alice smirked. “They prefer fresh goods—seamstresses and maids wot only do it now an’ again and nicely like. Pay more for the likes o’ us, they do.”

“You said Manette knew some fancy coves.”

“She was a favorite, she was. The gents liked ’er since she was pretty and clever.” Alice arched a brow. “Why, before all this she used to work as a governess—but the masters, she said, they all ’ad wandering ’ands.
Why give it away for a governess’ wages, when you could make ’em pay properly for what they’re getting?
Manette always said. ’Ad brains, that one.”