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 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
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 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
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