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.”