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
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
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