“I don’t give a fig about your money, and you know it. Stop fishing for compliments,” she said, “and tell me what you and Tremont talked about over port.”
Alaric’s eyes gleamed at hers in the mirror. “What is discussed in the study stays in the study. First rule of gentlemen.”
“Surely wives are exempt from that rule,” she protested.
“Wives are the reason for that rule. Sorry, love, my lips are sealed.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “You won’t tell me anything?”
He set the brush down on the vanity with undue care. “A lot of time has passed since our Oxford days, and we were cronies for only a short time before he left his studies to work for some wealthy relative abroad. I don’t know what he was up to in all those intervening years, but whatever it was, it changed him. I suspect he has more than a few skeletons rattling in his closet.” Alaric’s lips twisted. “Takes one to know one, I suppose.”
Not wanting her husband to linger in the darkness of his own past, Emma placed her hand atop his. “You rid yourself of your skeletons.”
“With your help, yes.” He lifted her hand to his lips.
The warm caress made her nipples bud and jut against her robe. Her breasts were extra sensitive these days. Although most ladies of the ton retained a wet nurse for their offspring, the women in her family had always nursed their own infants, and she discovered that she enjoyed that special connection with Olivia. Nursing her daughter kept her breasts full and tender, however, and she felt a slight dampening at the tips.
Flushing, she pulled her wrapper more securely around herself. “Do you think any of Tremont’s skeletons might be related to his first marriage?”
“I can’t say for certain as he and I hadn’t reconnected back then. But rumor has it that his marchioness was above reproach in her behavior and he was devoted to her. Mayhap he still is.”
“Don’t tell me you believe The Angel business.” Emma couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
“You do not find the moniker fitting?”
“No one is that much of a paragon. Besides, the ton is prone to exaggeration and inaccuracy. Look at how they labeled you The Devil Duke,” she said indignantly, “when you’re the most honorable, loyal, and loving man I’ve ever met.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he murmured.
“It’s the truth. So if the ton got you all wrong, what are the chances that they got it right with Tremont? Do you know the wags claim he hasn’t had a mistress or lover since his wife’s death?”
“I’ve heard the talk, yes.”
“His wife died over four years ago. He’s a man in his prime,” Emma persisted. “Do you truly think that he’d mourn for that long?”
“If I ever lost you, I’d mourn for the rest of my days.” Her husband tipped up her chin, his touch possessive, his eyes hot and intent. “There’s no one else for me, Emma. Ever.”
Her insides melted. “I love you, too.”
His kiss made her senses spin.
“Darling?” he said.
She smiled dreamily up at him. “Hmm?”
“See if you like it.”
“Like what?”
With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face the looking glass once more. She blinked at the dazzling addition to her reflection. She’d been so absorbed in their kiss that she hadn’t felt him fasten the necklace on her.
“Oh… it’s beautiful.”
She touched her fingertips to the red velvet band, then to the large diamond-encrusted charm nestled in the hollow of her throat. Within the square frame of the charm was the initial “S,” also studded with diamonds.
While she was touched by Alaric’s gift, his extravagance could be a bit overwhelming. Last year, after visiting their friends’ country seat, she’d remarked upon the lovely orangery. Before she knew it, Alaric had summoned architects and builders to their London home and had a miniature conservatory added for her enjoyment. The glass-walled space lush with blooming citrus was now her favorite room in the house.
“The necklace is lovely, but I really don’t need more lavish gifts,” she said.
“It’s not a gift for you. It’s for me.” His eyes gleamed as he toyed with the choker. “I want you to wear it with your costume at the masquerade.”
Understanding turned her cheeks pink. “It’s… a collar?”
“So everyone knows who you belong to, my sweet puss,” he said huskily.
A secret thrill shot through her; she did adore his masterful streak. At the same time, she couldn’t help but query, “And what will you be wearing to remind you who you belong to?”
In answer, he cleared the surface of the vanity with a sweep of his arm, and before she could scold him for the mess he’d made, she was hauled from her seat and plopped on the table. She squealed as her back pressed against glass, an even harder presence wedged between her splayed thighs. Her robe parted, slipping off her bare skin.
Breathless, she stared into her duke’s smoldering green eyes.
“I’m not bloody likely to forget who holds my heart. But have it your way, lass,” he said, “and give me a reminder.”
Her sex fluttered at the emergence of the Scottish lilt, the flush of arousal on his slashing cheekbones. And that was before he cupped her milk-swollen breasts, his long fingers playing with the tender peaks. When he bent his head, the shocking, exquisite suction shot straight to her core, rustling a moan from her throat.
“That’s wicked,” she managed.
“Aye, and you love that about me,” he murmured. “Just as I love doing this to you… and this…”
Under his naughty ministrations, her thoughts blurred into a streak of vibrant red pleasure. Truly, there was no arguing with the man. With her typical pragmatism, she gave up and happily surrendered to His Grace’s loving.
Chapter Ten
“I hope you’re finding my soiree diverting, Miss Kent?”
Thea turned from watching Emma and Strathaven waltzing together and smiled at her approaching hostess. A supremely attractive and poised lady in her thirties, the Marchioness of Blackwood’s inky tresses had been styled à l’Égytienne, her violet-blue eyes vivid within an exotic frame of kohl that extended to her temples. Wearing a sleeveless white tunic accentuated by a dazzling ruby necklace, she appeared every inch the sensual Queen of the Nile.
The realm she commanded was no less magnificent. Costumed guests filled the vast mirrored ballroom, conversing under large potted palms and twirling over the dance floor. The lush notes of the orchestra blended with the sounds of gaiety, the tinkling of glasses overflowing with champagne.
“Your party is surely the crush of the Season, my lady. And may I compliment you on your looks?” Thea said sincerely. “The necklace is lovely on you.”
“A gift from my husband. He claims my price is far above any jewel.” Lips curving, Lady Blackwood touched her fingertips to the web of blood-red rubies and icy diamonds. “But enough about me. The truth is I came over to tell you how exquisite you look in your costume. You’ve attracted quite a few admirers this evening.”
“You’re too kind, my lady.” Thea’s cheeks warmed. “In this instance, the feathers do make the bird, I’m afraid. The credit must go to Madame Rousseau.”
True to her word, the modiste had created a masterpiece. The gown was everything Thea could have wanted and didn’t know how to put into words. The bodice, constructed of crimson satin, was low cut and left her shoulders bare. The gown fitted tightly to her torso and then cascaded into full skirts covered in shimmering feathers of red and orange. When she moved, the skirts gave the illusion of a dancing flame. Matching gloves of scarlet satin and a gold brocade demi-mask completed her transformation.
“What a modest creature you are. Yet not every lady can make a convincing phoenix. Reinvention requires talent, my dear, and my intuition tells me,” Lady Blackwood said with a wink, “that you are discovering your own gifts.”
“I am trying. But it is difficult t
o change one’s nature,” Thea said in earnest tones.
She was putting forth an effort nonetheless. She’d danced more in this one evening than she had all Season. Instead of merely observing or listening in on conversations, she’d made chitchat until her jaw ached. She was determined to do Madame’s costume and herself justice.
If this is what it takes to find love, then so be it.
“From what I’ve observed, your nature has been very popular with the gentlemen tonight.”
“Oh, that’s not truly me,” she admitted. “I’m more of a reserved and quiet sort. And my skills in flirtation are altogether abysmal.”
“Act with confidence,” the marchioness said with a wave of her fan, “and soon it shall become second nature. After all, we are what we repeatedly do.”
“Aristotle.” Thea recognized the words of her papa’s favorite philosopher. “You are well read, my lady.”
“Clever and gorgeous. I got myself quite a bargain, didn’t I?” a masculine voice said.
The Marquess of Blackwood materialized behind his wife. He was outfitted like a Roman gladiator, complete with metal breastplate and leather sandals, and it suited his military bearing. Steel blue eyes twinkled in his pleasantly weathered face. Sliding an arm around his marchioness’ waist, he said, “Although I oughtn’t flatter you quite so much, my dear. What if you became vain?”
“Alas, a woman’s vanity erodes with time. And children.” Lady Blackwood sighed. “Take it from me, Miss Kent: there is nothing to age a woman like three young boys.”
“You don’t look a day older than when I married you,” her husband said.
“Clearly, your eyesight is failing in your dotage, my lord. But I shan’t complain.” Her lips curved, the marchioness leaned toward Thea and said in a confiding whisper, “As you can see, husbands do have their uses. Are you in the market for one this eve?”
Thea renewed her resolve. “Yes, if I can find the right match.”
“No time like the present.” Her hostess surveyed the ballroom the way a queen might a map of her kingdom. “Now title or money—which is more important to you?”
Lord Blackwood grimaced. “That’s my cue to make myself scarce so you females can get to your mercenary talk.”
“Never fear, my lord. I married you for your looks,” his lady said in dulcet tones, “and your fortune came a distant second.”
“A comforting thought.” Smiling, Blackwood kissed his wife, made a precise bow to Thea, and left to circulate amongst his guests.
“Now back to the task at hand.” Lady Blackwood’s vivid eyes swept over the glittering ballroom. “How about Sir Rathburn? He’s in the gold robes, by the champagne fountain. His Midas costume is quite apropos: he is worth twenty thousand a year.”
Thea studied the gentleman in question. Although he was handsome and well-built, his smirk reminded her of the rooster they’d had back in the country. The puffed-up bird had paraded around the coop, pecking at the chickens and crowing at ungodly hours… until an exasperated Emma had put him in the soup pot.
“I don’t think Sir Rathburn and I are a match,” Thea said.
“You’re absolutely right. He is a mere baron.”
“Oh, it’s not that. I’m myself a middling class miss, after all, and quite content to be so,” she said earnestly. “In my family, we don’t marry for money or status.”
“Your sister landed the Duke of Strathaven,” Lady Blackwood said dryly.
“Emma would have married him even if he wasn’t a duke. In fact,” Thea said with a rueful smile, “their courtship might have gone a bit smoother.”
“A family of idealists, how refreshing. Tell me, then, what are you after, Miss Kent?”
Tremont leapt into her mind. She blocked out the image.
“Deep, true, and passionate love,” she said.
“Well. That does complicate things, doesn’t it?” Lady Blackwood’s eyes sparkled within their rims of kohl. “As it happens, you are a lady after my own heart, Miss Kent, and I should like to help you. Shall I acquaint you with a few eligible parti?”
As Thea was about to answer, awareness tingled over her nape. She glanced over her hostess’ shoulder, in the direction of the entryway. Standing by a pillar was a tall man clad in a black domino. From this distance, his hair looked tobacco brown, much darker than Tremont’s, yet there was something about him…
She blinked, and he was gone.
Well, that’s perfect, isn’t it? Not only did I imagine the attraction between Tremont and me, now I’m seeing him everywhere. If I don’t get past this ridiculous tendre, I shall turn into a madwoman.
Thea took a composing breath and smoothed her feathery skirts. “Yes, my lady. I would be most grateful for introductions.”
***
Behind the column, Gabriel cursed himself. Although he was a bit rusty at espionage, he still remembered the rules. Losing one’s focus was a sure way to botch a mission. Too much was at stake for such foolishness.
He told himself it was just the shock of seeing a swan transformed into a mythical creature of flame. Unable to help himself, he risked another glimpse around the pillar. With each of Thea’s movements, incendiary feathers fluttered, a beguiling contrast to the milky skin above her low-cut bodice, the gold-swirled curls piled atop her dainty head. Her gilded mask accentuated the delicacy of her features.
Fragile yet fiery, she was the essence of desire. Answering heat flared in him, the primal urge to claim her as his and his alone. Savagely, he locked away his needs.
You’re here for a purpose. Lives—including Freddy’s—depend upon it.
Deliberately, he took up conversation with a lady dressed as a nymph. She’d been sending him come-hither looks, and it was always best to blend in. All the while, he discreetly monitored his target for the evening: Pompeia, also known as Lady Pandora Blackwood.
She was doing the rounds, introducing Thea to various guests. Male guests. Gabriel’s teeth ground together as Thea waltzed off in the arms of some popinjay dressed like a pirate. He wanted to go over and give the blighter missing teeth to go with the damned eyepatch.
Firmly, he forced his attention back to Pompeia. Her husband was at her side again, exuding genuine affection, the poor sod. Blackwood was an upstanding gentleman, respected and admired for his actions on the battlefield. Which just went to show that even an intelligent man could be blinded by love. If Blackwood ever discovered the true viper he’d married…
The wriggling in the hidden pocket of Gabriel’s domino told him it was time. He’d scouted the field well enough. He’d put his next stratagem into play.
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 pos
t, 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.
M Is for Marquess Page 8