“That’s fourteen points, Papa!” Freddy crowed. “We’re in the lead!”
Gabriel smiled at his son’s enthusiasm.
Not to be outdone, Strathaven pulled the letter “F” and proceeded to spell out a word.
“Farfetchedness isn’t a word,” his duchess argued (she was on another team).
“Indeed it is,” the duke said loftily. “It refers to the quality of being farfetched.”
“Like your word,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Nonetheless, after some good-natured debate, Strathaven’s team was awarded fourteen points. The play continued, with the competition becoming fiercer and the words more outlandish. When they reached the last round, Gabriel and Strathaven’s teams were in the clear lead, head to head. Edward declared that there would be a final round between the two teams. Each player on the team would get the chance to spell one word.
Strathaven won the coin toss, and his team went first.
Harry correctly spelled “ambitiousness” for thirteen points.
Gabriel felt a moment’s worry when Thea pulled the letter “O.” But she, clever girl, provided the word, “orchestration,” tying them again.
Strathaven and Gabriel kept the scores even with their respective entries.
Then it was the turn of the final players, Violet and Freddy.
Violet drew her letter. “Q!” she said indignantly. “Dash it, that’s not fair. Who put a “Q” in here?”
“Forty-six seconds and counting,” Edward intoned.
Wearing a look of panic, Violet blurted, “Quinces!”
Her accurate spelling garnered her team seven points. As she accepted congratulations, she muttered, “Gadzooks, I hope that’s enough. But Q! That’s like boxing with an arm tied behind your back!”
It was Freddy’s turn. Sensing his son’s nervousness, Gabriel said, “You’ll do fine.”
“Remember ’tis only a game.” Thea ruffled Freddy’s hair. “Just do your best and have fun.”
With a nod, Freddy reached into the box. He unfolded the slip.
“T,” he said.
Gabriel waited, breath held, as his son frowned in concentration. Countless words flitted through his head, and he wished he could somehow put them into his son’s. But this was something Freddy had to do on his own. With half a minute to spare, Freddy spoke.
“Tenterhooks,” he said. “T-E-N-T-E-R-H-O-O-K-S.”
Eleven points. They’d won.
As cheers and congratulations went up all around, Thea said to Freddy in admiring tones, “You were brilliant, dear. However did you think up that word?”
“It just came to me,” Freddy said happily. “In one of our lessons, Mademoiselle Fournier…” He trailed off, as if he’d just realized what he’d said.
Gabriel tensed at the mention of the villainous governess. As far as he knew, she was still at large. He’d questioned Heath about his partner in crime, but the man had refused to talk.
“She taught you the word?” Thea said gently. “It’s all right to speak of her, if you wish. In fact,”—her gaze met Gabriel’s—“sometimes it is best to talk about things even if they are unpleasant.”
Freddy swallowed and nodded. “She was explaining how cloth was made. They used tenterhooks, she said, to stretch the fabric after washing. To make it dry flat and smooth. She said that the tentergrounds near where she lived were as colorful as a field of wildflowers.”
Gabriel stilled, his nape prickling. His gaze shot to Thea’s; though he saw the awareness in her eyes, she subtly shook her head. Warning him not to frighten Freddy.
“Did she mention which tentergrounds in particular? There are a few in London,” she said.
“No. All she said was that the tentergrounds had closed recently so that buildings could be put in…” Freddy’s eyes widened. “Do you think… is this a clue? To finding her?”
“Did she say anything else, son?” Gabriel said.
Freddy’s forehead furrowed. “I can’t recall anything else. I’m sorry.”
Thea patted his shoulder. “You’ve been incredibly helpful, Freddy. Now run along and play with the others.”
With an uncertain look, Freddy scampered off.
Thea said, “Are you thinking of continuing the search for the governess? After all, you have the Spectre in custody already. ”
“Let’s talk to your brother,” Gabriel said.
***
Thea asked Violet and Harry to take charge of the younger ones as Gabriel quietly assembled the others. They gathered in Ambrose’s study, closing the door just as sounds of “Hide the Slipper” could be heard from the drawing room. The four couples arranged themselves in a circle: Emma and Mrs. McLeod on the settee, their husbands standing behind them, Thea in a wingchair and Gabriel pacing behind her, and Marianne at the desk, Ambrose at her side.
“So Freddy said Marie Fournier lived near tentergrounds?” Ambrose said alertly. “Did he remember anything else?”
“That she said those grounds had recently closed and buildings were put in,” Gabriel said.
“She’s talking about Spitalfields.” Mr. McLeod’s shaggy head lifted like that of a hound on the scent. “The area bordered by White’s Row, Wentworth and those two lanes, what are their names…”
“Bell and Rose,” Mrs. McLeod supplied. “The area is the heart of the rag trade. Weavers, seamstresses, button makers—they’re all there, so crowded together that the streets are fairly bursting at the seams. No pun intended.”
Thea had always liked Annabel McLeod, whose sensual auburn beauty belied a generous and practical spirit. From the snippets that Thea had gleaned over the years, Mrs. McLeod’s life had not been easy before her marriage, and she was never one to hold airs. Since Ambrose and Mr. McLeod were partners, the two families socialized frequently, and the warmth of Mrs. McLeod’s home had always reminded Thea of the cottage back in Chudleigh Crest. The Scotsman and his wife raised their two redheaded girls with the same cozy affection that Thea had grown up with.
“Finding Fournier there would be like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Mr. McLeod said.
“It’s not much to go on.” Lines of frustration were carved into Gabriel’s face. “It might not even be important, given that we have the Spectre.”
“Information is always important. We at Kent and Associates do not like loose threads,” Ambrose said.
“Heaven help us with the puns.” Tapping her chin, Emma said, “What do we know about Fournier at this point?”
“All her references were false,” Ambrose replied. “She must have been educated, however, as her lessons appeared to have been of good quality. She spoke French and English fluently. And we have this.”
Opening the drawer of his desk, Ambrose removed an item. Thea recognized the handkerchief she’d found that day at the zoological gardens.
“I took it around to a few shops. None of the clerks recognized its origins,” Ambrose went on. “They all agreed it is a commonplace handkerchief of middling quality and that her initials are rather overdone.”
“May I see it?” Mrs. McLeod said.
Ambrose brought it over.
Mrs. McLeod ran a finger over the large letters sewn in blue thread at the center of the handkerchief. Her expression turned pensive. “I don’t think those are her initials.”
“They’re not?” Ambrose’s brow furrowed. “What are they then?”
“The mark of the manufacturer,” the redheaded beauty replied. “The clerks you questioned wouldn’t know this because they work in a shop, not a factory. But for a time I was a seamstress, and I know it is the practice of some factories to have sample items for the seamstresses to follow. A yardstick, if you will, to measure the goods they produce. To prevent these pattern items from being stolen, the manufacturer would mark the piece with their insignia. The mark renders the item valueless; if one were to remove these letters, for instance, it would leave a handkerchief full of holes.” Her violet gaze circled the room. “In
any case, I think what you may be looking for is a manufacturer with the initials M. F.”
“Annabel, you are brilliant,” Emma declared.
Mr. McLeod’s large hand came to rest on his wife’s shoulder. “Who’d have thought that that damnable time would prove useful, eh lass?” he said with tender gruffness.
Mrs. McLeod smiled, her hand covering her husband’s. “Since that time led me to you, I have no complaints.”
“How would Fournier have gotten such a handkerchief?” Thea asked.
“A good question. Samples are meant to stay in the factory.” A line deepened between Mrs. McLeod’s auburn brows. “My best guess is that Fournier once worked at this place and filched it. Since her own initials happen to match that of the manufacturer, she could use the item herself.”
“So we’re looking for a handkerchief factory in Spitalfields. One with the initials M. F.,” Thea said eagerly. “There can’t be too many of those.”
“I’ll pay a visit to Spitalfields tomorrow,” Gabriel said, his eyes grim.
“No, my lord. We will,” Ambrose said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The next morning, Gabriel managed to get Thea alone in the library. He shepherded her in between the bookcases. They didn’t have much time; Kent and the others would be arriving shortly to accompany him to Spitalfields, and he wanted a moment alone with her.
“You’ll be careful today?” Thea said.
“Yes.” He rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip, savoring its softness, the contact between them once more. “We’re probably just chasing our own tail.”
“You never know.” She shivered. “I just wish this business was truly over.”
“It will be soon. All evidence points to Heath being the Spectre, and, if anything, finding Fournier will just put the nail in his coffin. Now stop fretting, princess,” he murmured, “and give me a kiss goodbye.”
He bent his head, intending only to give her a little peck. But after a week of going without, desire roared over him… along with potent, heady relief when she responded.
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.<
br />
“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.
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