Excusing himself from the nymph, he took the hallway into the main foyer, where guests were still trickling in. A pair of footmen was rounding them up, one in front and one at the back to shepherd the tittering newcomers down the corridor to the ballroom. A third servant stood posted at the grand stairwell that led to the upper floors.
As the group headed toward the hallway behind Gabriel, he staggered into their midst like a soused sailor, incurring a few annoyed comments of “Watch it, man!” He slurred his apologies, picked his mark—a man whose scarlet domino matched his bloated face—and dropped the furry decoys into the man’s pocket. The harassed-looking footman holding up the rear passed him.
Ten… nine… eight…
Gabriel weaved toward the remaining footman at the stairwell.
“I say,” he mumbled in foppish, drunken accents, “where is the blasted convenience in this place? Ain’t so much as a chamber pot to be found anywhere, sirrah.”
… four… three…
“It is back toward the ballroom, my lord—”
A masculine scream rang from the hallway.
Right on cue.
“Egad, there’s mice in my pocket!”
“Vermin!” a lady shrieked. “One just ran up my skirt!”
A wave of shouts and exclamations followed.
“Beg pardon, my lord!” The footman abandoned his post, rushed to the hallway.
Gabriel scaled the steps to the first floor. He walked down the empty corridor, maintaining a drunken stride lest he run into any passersby. He could hear the brouhaha continuing downstairs—a lot of fuss over a couple of harmless dormice.
Gabriel located the master suites in the right wing. Having surveilled the house from the outside, he knew which room was Pompeia’s. He picked the lock and slid inside, closing the door behind him, sealing himself in a darkness of rose and patchouli.
Pompeia’s domain.
Moonlight filtered in through the partially parted curtains. The silver light shimmered through the double glass doors of the balcony, limning the feminine furnishings. Methodically, he searched through the chamber. He found a hidden compartment behind the bed’s headboard; it contained jewels but no evidence linking Pompeia to Octavian’s death or the Spectre.
Gabriel moved his search to the adjoining sitting room. With swift precision, he rifled through the contents of Pompeia’s secretaire, careful to return everything to its place. Correspondence, writing implements, a stack of invitations—nothing of note. He trailed his fingertips along the edges of each drawer, and his pulse quickened when he found the concealed switch. A soft click and the bottom of the drawer shifted to reveal a hiding place.
A missive.
He unfolded it, hairs lifting on his skin at the sight of the Spectre’s code. It’d been years since he’d seen it, but he’d never forget the spymaster’s cypher. His brain worked like a printing press in reverse, stripping off syntax and symbols until the message blazed through.
Fielding’s Covent Garden. Thursday 13th of August at ten o’clock.
Had Pompeia written this—was she the Spectre?
Or had she received this message? Was she working for the Spectre, planning to meet him at this time and place?
Possibilities ran through his head. No certain way to get answers except one. Jaw clenched, Gabriel throttled his impatience. Jumping the gun would result in losing the ultimate prey. The meeting was a week from now; he’d bide his time. Then, at the appointed hour, he’d be at Fielding’s. He’d capture the Spectre—Pompeia or whoever she was working for—and mete out justice.
His muscles tensed at a rustle in the outside corridor. Quiet, furtive movements, someone acting with deliberate stealth. He replaced the missive, closing the desk drawer. By the time a key scraped the lock of the bedchamber door, he was pulling the balcony doors closed behind him. Enveloped by shadow, he held his back against cold stone, wedging himself against the balustrade. Out of view, he waited.
Humid air clung to his face. The sounds of the masquerade floated up to him. He held perfectly still, slowed his breathing, and focused his senses on what was going on inside the bedchamber.
A slight shuffling from within—Pompeia checking her hiding places, ensuring all was intact? His ears prickled as he strained to hear every little sound. Footsteps… His hands closed around the hilts of his holstered daggers. Someone coming, stopping at the balcony doors. A soft swoosh of fabric, drapery being pushed further apart. He remained still, his back pressed against the chilled wall, picturing Pompeia looking out through the curtains. She was within a few feet of him, but she couldn’t see him, not yet. Not unless she decided to step out onto the balcony…
Glass rattled in the panes of the double doors. His blades gleamed dully, poised for action.
Another voice came from within the bedchamber. Muffled, deep. A man. A moment later, Pompeia gave a laughing reply. Gabriel couldn’t hear the exact words, but the tone was flirtatious. She’d been interrupted by her husband—or a lover.
Either way, the curtain twitched back into place. Her footsteps retreated back into the bedchamber, then farther away still. Gabriel didn’t move until the voices faded into silence.
He counted to fifty. Then did it again, calculating his next move.
Leaving through the bedchamber was too risky, especially if Pompeia had sensed threat. He had to get out of here now—and quickly. Sliding his knives back into their hidden sheaths, he crouched below the railing to keep out of sight. He crept forward; from between the balusters, he judged the distance to the ground.
Fourteen feet. On the run from enemy agents, he’d once jumped out the window of a hotel in the Marais from twice that height. Nothing to break his fall, either. At least here he could descend down one of the columns supporting the balcony. He wouldn’t even break a sweat.
As he readied to cross over the railing, a movement caught his eye.
In the far corner of the garden. A flash of scarlet—
Thea. She was… running? From some fribble dressed in gold. Before Gabriel’s disbelieving eyes, the whoreson caught her, flung her slender form against a dark hedge, and pressed up against her. Rage splattered across Gabriel’s vision, a roar in his ears. In the next heartbeat, he vaulted over the railing.
Chapter Eleven
“Let me go at once!” Thea’s lungs strained with effort, yet she forced herself to take a deep breath. To sound strong and firm. “Pray keep your hands to yourself, Sir Rathburn.”
“No need to play coy, my dove. You’ve been fluttering your feathers at me all evening,” the baron said with a leer. “Time to pay the piper.”
Cringing, Thea turned her head away. Even so, Rathburn’s lips landed slimily against her ear, his breath hot and reeking of spirits. So much for being calm. Planting her hands against his shoulders, she shoved with all her might. “Get off me, you oaf.”
The blighter only laughed. “A miss with sauce, eh? Just the way I like ’em.”
“I don’t care… what you like!” Thea dodged his slobbering lips. “I want nothing to do with you!”
Why, oh why, had she ignored her instincts and allowed him to take her out for some air? She’d been so intent on turning a new leaf and putting Tremont out of her mind that she’d acted rashly. Traded one disaster for another.
“You need to be taught some manners,” Rathburn said, smirking.
“I shall scream if you don’t let me go,” Thea warned.
“I don’t think so. Not unless you want to ruin your reputation. Now be a good girl and we’ll have some fun and games with none the wiser—”
Panic flared as he groped her bosom. She struggled, his grip tightening like a noose. When she tried to push him away, the sudden tearing of fabric snapped her to her senses. She couldn’t stop him; she needed help. Her virtue was more important than her reputation. She drew a breath to scream—
“What the—?”
The shriek came from Rathburn, his expression startled as he flew backward away from her. He landed against a hedge, groaning; it took her shocked faculties a moment to register that a stranger cloaked in darkness was beating her attacker, his fists connecting with lethal force. The baron flailed, his attempts to fight back ineffectual, like that of a housecat batting at a lion. When her rescuer’s knuckles smashed into Rathburn’s jaw, the crunch of bone jolted Thea out of her daze.
Dashing over, she grabbed onto Tremont’s drawn-back arm. The muscles were rigid, vibrating with elemental power. From behind the black mask, stormy grey eyes sucked the air out of her lungs. Awareness crackled between them.
“Stop it. You’ll kill him,” she said desperately.
“He deserves to die,” he growled in a voice she’d never heard from him before. “He touched you.”
The violence in his eyes made her swallow. As did the blood dripping from his hands.
“I’m fine. Truly,” she said. “Please, let him go.”
She didn’t care so much what happened to Rathburn, but she didn’t want Tremont committing murder because of her. The wrath in his eyes told her that he was fully capable of tearing her attacker from limb to limb. Gone was his skin of civility. With the façade ripped away, he exuded primal power, ferocity barely leashed. Her heart thudded with fear… and devastating attraction.