M Is for Marquess (7 page)

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.

Chapter Seven

The next morning, Thea and her sisters arrived for an appointment with Madame Rousseau, a fashionable modiste. The shop on Bond Street had recently expanded its premises in order to accommodate its ever-growing legion of devotees. The spacious atelier, done up in fresh shades of spring green and pale bronze, was brimming with patrons rhapsodizing over Madame’s exquisite creations. An assistant dressed in black led Thea and her sisters back into a large private dressing room.

Thea and Polly shared the cozy loveseat while Em occupied the cream velvet chaise longue. Not one for sitting still, Violet wandered around the room, inspecting things.

“
Madame
will be in shortly,” the assistant said. “May I bring some tea while you wait?”

They all declined, except for Violet, who asked if a biscuit could be had as well.

“Didn’t you have breakfast this morning?” Thea said after the assistant left to fetch the refreshments.

“That was ages ago.” Violet sifted through bolts of fabric on the worktable. “I get hungry.”

“I wonder why,” Emma said in dry tones. Their middle sister had moved on, investigating a grid of colorful bobbins that hung on the wall. “Sitting still isn’t a crime, you know.”

Vi spun a spool on its hook. “But it feels like punishment. It’s so boring.”

If there was anything Violet couldn’t abide, it was boredom.

“You’re about to have your final fitting for a masquerade,” Em said in exasperation. “That should be exciting enough, even for you.”

This Friday night, Emma, Thea, and Violet were to attend a costume party given by the Marquess and Marchioness of Blackwood. The annual event coincided with the winding down of the Season, and, with unattached ladies and gentlemen still searching for mates, it was guaranteed to be a crush.

For once, Thea was looking forward to a social event. She was determined to get her mind off Tremont and start afresh. Mama had always said that the important things in life were worth working for. If Thea wanted love and marriage, she couldn’t let one disappointment stop her from pursuing her goal. She refused to rot away like forgotten fruit. No, she would dedicate herself to meeting possible candidates and, if necessary, learn to play the marriage mart game.

But why did the notion make her heart feel as heavy as lead? Tremont, for his part, seemed unaffected by what had passed between them. Actually, he’d been avoiding her; she hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning in Freddy’s room.

“I wish I could go.” Polly’s aquamarine eyes were wistful. “The costumes will be so beautiful.”

“You’ll get to go next year, dear. After you’ve had your come out,” Emma said.

Now that their sister was a duchess, the Kent girls were being introduced at Court. It was a far cry from their previous lives, where the most esteemed personage they’d met had been the local mayor. Polly bit her lip, her gaze lowering to her hands. Guessing her youngest sister’s fears, Thea set aside her own turmoil and gave the other’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“It wasn’t all that bad, Polly,” she said. “It’s mostly standing around waiting. The actual presentation itself only takes a minute. And since Rosie will be making her curtsy too, you’ll have her by your side.”

“Rosie’s not afraid of anything,” Polly said with a relieved nod.

“Exactly. Between her exuberance and your gentle charm, the two of you will take Court by storm,” Thea said.

Polly’s slow smile transformed her little face into a thing of beauty.

The door opened, and the
modiste
entered. A slight French woman with dark coloring and pale skin, Madame Rousseau managed to look utterly chic in severe black. The pair of assistants behind her scurried over to the dressing screens and carefully hung up the dresses.

“
Bienvenue
, Your Grace. Misses Kent.” Madame Rousseau’s skirts rustled crisply as she curtsied. “I am most eager for you to view my finished creations.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Emma said. “We’re grateful that you expedited our order.”

“You are family to Mrs. Kent,” the modiste said simply.

Marianne Kent, their sister-in-law, had been one of Madame Rousseau’s first patrons, helping to launch the dressmaker’s star. The two women were confidantes, and Marianne had brought the Kent sisters into their realm of high fashion and impeccable taste.

Which had been no small feat, Thea thought with amusement. Growing up in Chudleigh Crest, she and her siblings had not only been lacking in Town polish, they hadn’t even known what polish
was
. For most of their life, they’d sewn their own clothes, many of which had been passed down, patched over, and remade.

Yet here they all were now, looking as shiny as buffed apples. The fact never ceased to amaze her. How far her family had come; she had so much to be grateful for.

“Who would like to go first?” Madame said.

Violet jumped at the opportunity. When she emerged from behind the dressing screen in a bright yellow gown, Thea smiled. Madame had made Violet into a daffodil. Exquisite leaves of emerald green decorated the bodice, matched by long satin gloves of the same shade. The bold, fresh colors perfectly captured Vi’s vibrant spirit and the long, clean lines clung to her lithe figure, emphasizing her femininity.

“Lovely,” Em approved. “You put me in mind of that poem by Mr. Wordsworth.”

“
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in a spritely dance
,” Thea quoted softly.

“
And then my heart with pleasure fills
,” Polly chimed in, “
and dances with the daffodils.
”

Grinning, Vi swung this way and that in front of the looking glass. “This daffodil definitely plans to waltz the night away.”

“Now, Vi, you do know the rules about waltzing—” Em began.

Violet directed her tawny eyes at her hairline. “Not to worry, mother hen. ’Tis only a figure of speech.”

Emma exchanged looks with Thea, who shared the other’s concern. As a young girl, Vi’s high-spirited nature had landed her into plenty of scrapes; luckily, most had proved harmless. Now that she was older, however, and circulating in London’s higher circles, her impulsiveness could lead to more damaging consequences.

“Even so, you must have a care, Vi,” Thea said. “You know how sticklers can be.”

“If sticklers are anything like
sisters
, I’ll be in suds for certain.” Violet snorted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be so proper and demure they’ll mistake me for my shrinking namesake.”

She trotted off to change, snatching a biscuit along the way.

“Who would like to go next?” Madame Rousseau waved at the second dressing screen.

Emma volunteered, and when she returned Thea and Polly applauded her appearance. The modiste had transformed their eldest sister into a sleek feline with luxurious ermine trimming the bodice and hem of her dove grey gown. The cleverly designed headpiece gave the appearance of two small pointed ears protruding from Emma’s dark curls.

“How adorable you look,” Thea said.

“It was Strathaven’s idea.” Emma blushed. “But never mind me. It’s your turn, Thea.”

Thea took her turn behind the dressing screen. Madame helped her to don her outfit, and when they were finished, she regarded the image in the looking glass. She’d seen the unfinished costume before at previous fittings and approved the elegant design.

Yet looking at herself now, emotion hit her like a wave.

A tear leaked and slipped down her cheek.

“
Alors
, what is this?” the modiste said, frowning. “You do not like the ensemble,
mademoiselle
?”

“N-no. It’s l-lovely.”

In vain, Thea tried to control the quiver in her voice. But it was as if a hidden dam had broken inside her and the tide of emotions she’d been holding back came rushing to the fore. She thought of her sisters so vivid and hale in their costumes, and despair filled her.
Why can’t I be like them?
Her own feathery white image blurred.

Instead, I’m a stupid swan. Pallid and useless. An ornamental creature.

“Ah,
je comprends
. The dress, it is not how you envision yourself, Miss Kent?”

Looking into Frenchwoman’s shrewd eyes, Thea said helplessly, “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. You’ve done a splendid job, and I am ever so grateful
—
”

The modiste cut her off with a hand. “We must begin anew.”

“Oh no,” Thea said, horrified, “there’s nothing wrong—”

“If it is not right, then it is wrong,” Madame Rousseau said simply.

“Thea,”—Em’s voice drifted from the other side—“is everything all right? Shall I come and help you?”

Why do I always need help? Why can’t I be strong? Why can’t I even kiss a man without my lungs giving out on me?

One after another, thoughts tumbled through Thea’s head. Heat pushed behind her eyes.

The modiste murmured, “I’ll be right back.”

Numbly, Thea heard the proprietress saying to Emma and the others that Thea’s fitting required more time. She instructed her assistants to show the Kents some accessories in the main shop.

“Are you certain you don’t need me?” Emma called out.

“Don’t worry about me,” Thea managed. “I’ll be right out.”

The doors closed behind the others, and Madame Rousseau returned.

“Thank you, Madame.” Embarrassed, Thea said, “I’m usually not a watering pot.”

“In my profession, tears are as common as pins. And like pins, they are useful if one knows what to do with them.” The modiste passed Thea a handkerchief, her manner matter-of-fact. “In your case,
mademoiselle
, tears may yet lead us to the truth.”