Sebastian's Lady Spy (13 page)

Gabrielle had attempted to relax the past few days, reading books she'd wanted to read but hadn't had time for, walking in the garden her gardeners spent so much time keeping beautiful.

It was the fourth morning since she and Sebastian had parted at her front door. Four days thinking of him, wondering what he would have said if she hadn't silenced him on her front stoop. Damn it, she hadn't wanted to hear excuses and reasons that they couldn't be together. She hadn't wanted the pain of hearing him say there was no harm in carrying on as they had been.

There
was
harm. Harm to a heart already bruised and beaten.

Gah! She threw her book down on the settee and stared out the window at the bright, sunny morning. Someone knocked on the door, but she didn't move. Riggs had instructions to tell everyone she was not at home. She had no desire to receive callers, to gossip and chat as if nothing were wrong. Claire had called several times, and Gabrielle hated that Riggs had turned her away, but there was no way she could listen to Claire talk on and on about what a great man Sebastian was.

The door to her sitting room opened and Riggs stepped in. “My lady, there is someone here to see you.”

“I told you I'm not receiving visitors, Riggs. Take their card and send them on.”

“I think you should see this gentleman.” He stood resolutely in the doorway, unbudging. “It's Lord Claybrook's valet.”

“Lord Claybrook's valet? Why ever would he be calling on me?”

“I think you should speak to him, my lady.”

A cold chill raced up Gabrielle's spine and she stood. Whatever Sebastian's butler had to say, she didn't want to hear it sitting down. “Send him in.”

Riggs stepped back and a short, robust fellow hurried in, looking nervous and out of place. She'd never received a valet before. He bowed. “My lady.”

“What's happened?” she whispered.

“I don't know, my lady. I was hoping to find his lordship here, but your butler”—he shot Riggs an apologetic smile—“informed me that his lordship hasn't been here in days.”

“I'm unsure why that's important.”

Sebastian's valet cleared his throat. “I'm worried, my lady. His lordship has not been home since early yesterday afternoon. Normally I wouldn't question his whereabouts.” Again the apologetic look. “But yesterday he had Cook prepare dinner because he said he would be home to eat it.”

Gabrielle locked her quaking knees. Surely Sebastian had missed a dinner here and there after being called away on an assignment. Surely the valet was overreacting. However, she remembered Sebastian once telling her that his staff had been with him for a long time; he paid them well to discourage turnover and to know he could trust them. If the valet was worried, then she should worry, too. “Have you checked his club?”

“I sent one of the footmen to White's, and he was told that his lordship was at his club until around seven in the evening; he ate dinner there. Apparently he received a message and told the servant that he was supposed to meet a Lord Wilcott but that he had to postpone. No one has seen him since.” The valet became more agitated. “His coach was found abandoned near the docks, and we have not been able to locate his driver.”

Gabrielle swallowed the thick fear coating her throat. “Has anyone come to the house with a message?”
Or a ransom demand?

“No, my lady.”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“Samuel, my lady. Just Samuel.”

“Thank you, Samuel. You did right by coming to me.”

“Lord Claybrook told me a few weeks ago that if anything appeared amiss, and he wasn't available, to come to you.”

Gabrielle was surprised that Sebastian had set up precautions with his staff that included her. “You did well. I will find Sebas—rather, his lordship and return him forthwith.” She straightened her shoulders as if her words gave her confidence when they did anything but.

Riggs showed Samuel out while Gabrielle's mind whirled. She needed to contact Atwater to inform him that one of his agents had gone missing. Why would Sebastian have made an appointment with Wilcott, and what was so important that he had to cancel the appointment? Had he walked into a trap? Had McFadden finally made his move?

She hurried from the room, calling for Riggs as she went. He met her on the steps. “Find me paper and a pen and the fastest footman we have. I need him to deliver a message immediately. There's no time to waste. I need my pelisse. Where's my pelisse?”

“Right here, my lady.” Eliza rushed down the steps with the pelisse in hand. Gabrielle, too, had chosen her staff with care: They were ready for anything at a moment's notice.

“I will accompany you,” Riggs said as he hurried away to find the paper and pen.

She penned a swift note to Atwater that simply said,
Sebastian missing. Meeting with Wilcott. Will update you later.
He would be furious, for this wasn't how things were done, but she didn't care.

She threw on the pelisse, swatting Eliza's hands away as the maid tried to make it presentable. Gabrielle and Riggs hopped into the carriage before it even came to a complete stop.

When the carriage came to a rocking halt in front of Wilcott's address, Gabrielle jumped out. Riggs tried to exit as well, but she stopped him. “Stay here.”

“No.”

She rolled her eyes. The problem with collecting her servants from the streets was that they had no sense of respect. “You can't go in there with me. You'll scare him to death.”

Riggs crossed his massive arms over his chest. “If you think I'm letting you go in there by yourself, you're wrong, my lady.”

Gabrielle rolled her eyes and stepped back as Riggs exited the carriage.

She knocked on the door and glared at Riggs. “Stay outside. Wait right here. I mean it, Riggs. If you walk in this house, I'll sack you immediately.”

His look was mutinous. “No, you won't, but I'll stay out here. Just know that if I hear anything, I will come in.”

“Very well.” She turned as Wilcott's butler answered the door. She stuck her foot in the doorway and pushed her way in.

“Madam! I say!”

She strode in. “Wilcott! Get down here!”

“He is not available to accept callers,” the butler sputtered.

“Where is he?”

When she started up the stairs, the butler raced forward to block her path. “Out of my way, man,” she warned. “Before you get hurt.”

“This is highly improper. I have to ask you to leave.”

She pushed the butler out of the way and raced up the stairs, opening and closing doors as she made her way down the hall. The butler chased after her, wringing his hands and stammering his objections.

Her heart pounded in fear and dread. McFadden wasn't here. If he were, the butler wouldn't have been the one to answer the door.

She found the fool behind the fifth door she opened. He was standing at the far end, by the windows that overlooked the street, which meant he'd probably watched her drive up. Coward.

“Where is he?”

“Lady Marciano! This is highly irregular. I do not accept callers in my bedchamber.”

“I don't care if this is His Majesty's bedchamber. Where is Sebastian?” She stalked toward Wilcott, who cowered away from her.

“He's not here.”

“Where. Is. He?”

“I…I…I didn't mean to. I mean, I had no choice.”

Gabrielle stopped, her worst fears realized. Up until now she'd hoped that Sebastian had simply forgotten to tell his staff of an important meeting, or that he'd been called away on another mission. Or maybe he'd heard from a friend and they'd spent the evening drinking and carousing, even though the thought of Sebastian carousing was incongruous to the tightly controlled man.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I told him that I had information on the gentleman who was…” He winced. “Blackmailing me.”

Gabrielle closed her eyes. “Tell me everything.”

“He wouldn't meet me here, so I penned a note from you asking for his presence.”

Gabrielle waited for more, but when none was forthcoming, she motioned with her hand. “Go on.”

“That's all I know.”

“And who told you to pen this note?”

“The man who was blackmailing me.”

“His
name,
Wilcott. What is his name?”

Wilcott straightened his shoulders. “We were never formally introduced.”

Gabrielle stalked Wilcott into the corner, where he recoiled, nearly curling into himself.

“So help me, Wilcott, if so much as one hair on that man's head is harmed, you will know no end to my revenge. The least of your worries will be your secret life revealed.”

He whimpered as she spun on her heel and marched out of his townhouse.

Riggs was waiting for her. “To The Coxswain,” she said.

She needed to find Phin.

Sebastian woke to a haze of pain.

His hands were secured behind his back, and his shoulders ached from the unnatural position he'd been in for…He looked around, trying to locate a window to determine the time, but it was difficult to see through an eye that was swollen shut. Blood dripped into his good eye, obscuring what little vision he had. His ribs screamed like a son of a bitch every time he took a breath. Broken, no doubt. And his head ached where he'd been hit.

He tried to move his legs, but his ankles were secured to the chair. Despite the pain in his shoulders, he twisted his arms to see if he could free his wrists, but they were tied securely.

Apparently Wilcott's plea had been a ruse. Sebastian had suspected as much when Wilcott approached him. 'Twas the reason he'd insisted they meet in public. Unfortunately, Sebastian had fallen for the ruse of Gabrielle's note. He was such a besotted fool. If he hadn't been thinking of her all day, hadn't wanted her so badly, he would have known the note was a sham right away. He jerked his wrists in anger and frustration, but all that did was jostle his ribs and make him groan in pain.

To keep the pain at a minimum, he remained still and looked around the room to determine where the hell he was. The soft swaying told him he was on a ship. Damn, but that was an inconvenience. If he'd been taken to a home or an inn or someplace not on the water, his captor's escape would not be as easy.

He strained to hear any noise that would tell him more. The rigging clanged. Men spoke softly above him, but other than that, he heard very little.

The door opened and someone slipped in. Outside, the sky was blue, the clouds puffy and white, and the sun up. It was daytime, then.

The man stood before him. Tall, thin, long brownish-red hair, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Good afternoon, Lord Claybrook. I trust you slept well.”

“Go to hell, McFadden.”

McFadden's expression registered surprise. He chuckled to cover, but it was too late. “Very good, Claybrook. You have done your work well.”

“You won't get away with this.”

McFadden leaned back, the smile wiped from his face, replaced with cold cynicism. “That's where you come into play, Claybrook. You're our insurance that we
will
get away with it. Once the crown discovers we have one of their best spies, they'll back down.”

“Don't be naive. I'm nothing to them.”

“Maybe you alone would be. But not if I have two of you.” McFadden smiled a slow smile full of arrogance.

Sebastian lunged at him but was brought up short by the ties that bound him and the pain that consumed him. “You bastard. Where is she?”

“Not here. Yet. But once she learns that we have you, she will come, and we will be waiting.”

Sebastian snarled and twisted his wrists, desperate to break free, to get his hands on the smug bastard. But he was tied tight, and the more he struggled, the tighter his bonds became.

McFadden laughed on his way out of the room, leaving Sebastian breathing deep in terror.

The occupants of The Coxswain—a more disreputable lot than Gabrielle had ever seen—must have thought her a madwoman when she demanded to speak to Phin Lockwood. No matter how much demanding she did, it did not produce the pirate. He was not in, she was told by the bartender and a sneering serving wench. And they did not know when he would be. She contented herself with leaving him a note, praying he knew how to read.

She was fully aware that the clock was ticking and she was wasting precious time. While she knew it would be counterproductive to go off willy-nilly, racing around England in the hopes of finding Sebastian, she couldn't
not
do anything.

There was one person who would know where McFadden was. One person who knew all of the major happenings in the city. But first she needed to prepare herself.

When she arrived home, there was an urgent note from Atwater to report to him. She ignored it. He would have men scouring the city, looking for clues and talking to the people they needed to talk to. Besides, Atwater would tell her not to do what she was about to do, and she had no intention of listening to him.

She spent a considerable amount of time deciding what to wear. She knew she should wear breeches for ease of movement, in the likely scenario that she would have to run, and to offer access to her weapons. But for once she wanted to wear a gown. The most expensive day gown she owned. Practicality won over pride, and she donned the breeches and shirt.

She hired a hack to take her deep into Seven Dials, because if she took her own coach, it wouldn't be intact—or there at all—when she returned. Riggs insisted on accompanying her, and quite truthfully, she was happy with that. The coachman entered Seven Dials but refused to go farther than the sundials, stopping the coach and insisting they disembark right there. Gabrielle didn't blame him. Seven Dials was a scary place even for the people who spent their entire lives there.

She and Riggs walked the rest of the way. They were both on alert, constantly assessing the area for any trouble.

The place where she'd spent her childhood was everything Gabrielle remembered and more. The scent of raw sewage brought memories crowding back. The women skulking in the doorways with defeated expressions and dull eyes reminded her of her mother. They'd never had much of a relationship—there had been very few hugs—but her mother had made sure there was always food on the table and coal to keep their drafty apartment warm. It wasn't until Gabrielle was eight that she'd realized what her mother did for a living. It wasn't until she'd escaped the filthy, desperate place that she'd realized there was a different world out there.

She'd been rough when the Office first recruited her. Her language, her dress, her thoughts were all whittled down to the basic need to stay alive without selling her body, to steal enough to eat and maybe rent a room for the night. If she was very lucky, she could rent a room for the week.

She had known enough to realize she didn't want to live the life her mother lived—rutting in doorways, sneaking men up to her room, hoping her daughter didn't hear the rough grunts and groans. The bruises from those less gentle. The broken ribs from those who liked it rough.

No, Gabrielle wanted nothing to do with that life, but getting out was something she didn't know how to do until an agent of the Office snagged her by the collar. It had been just her luck that she was picking his pocket as he strolled by. He'd tossed her over his shoulder, stuffed her into a carriage, and like that, her life changed forever.

At the time she'd been living as a boy, dressing as a boy, had even cut her hair like a boy's in the hope of avoiding the flesh peddlers, in particular, Cutthroat. She'd known her time was coming to an end. Cutthroat's men were closing in, and word on the street was that he'd already accepted payment for her from some rich nob.

For years now, she'd entertained the notion of walking back into Cutthroat's lair and confronting him. Yes, she'd even dreamed of killing him.

Now that she was closer to realizing her dream, she was far more nervous than she wanted to be. Cutthroat was still a force to be reckoned with. He'd expanded his reach and had his hand in almost every enterprise there was in Seven Dials; if he didn't, it was because he hadn't tried yet.

That's why she was here. He would have heard about the French's half-baked plan to invade England by diverting its meager land troops to Scotland. He would have heard that McFadden was in town, and he would have tried to gain what information he could in order to sell it to the highest bidder.

Well, the highest bidder was about to walk in his door, and there was no way in hell she was paying for her information unless he paid in blood.

She stopped at his door and took a deep breath. Riggs moved closer and looked around, also familiar with the ebb and flow of Seven Dials. Cutthroat did not live ostentatiously. At least on the outside. His home was as run-down, dirty, and grimy as any other on the street.

She knocked and clenched her hands at her sides to keep them from shaking. Damn, but she wished she wasn't this nervous.

The door opened a crack and there stood Kevin, Cutthroat's protector. Kevin. Such an ordinary name for a not so ordinary individual. Kevin was every bit as big in size as Riggs and almost smarter than Cutthroat.

His eyes widened, but he quickly masked his surprise with a knowing smirk. “So she returns.”

“Shut your gob and let me in.”

Kevin opened the door wider and leaned on the frame. His nasty gaze took in her well-worn boots and slowly worked its way up, stopping at the V of her thighs encased in black breeches, pausing for long minutes on her bosom, concealed behind her black shirt. He whistled softly. “Wait till 'e gets a lookie at you.”

Gabrielle resisted the urge to squirm, already feeling dirty. She gave him a steady look that said she wasn't impressed or frightened by him any longer.

They were attracting attention. People on the street were staring, although they would never dare stop and watch. They knew to stay out of Cutthroat's way.

Kevin's gaze flicked to Riggs, standing so close to Gabrielle that their arms were touching. “ 'E stays outside.”

Riggs snarled, but Gabrielle put up a restraining hand, having predicted this. “He comes inside and stays at the front door.”

Kevin shook his head. “He stays outside.”

They stared at each other for a few moments of silence before Gabrielle shrugged. “Very well, then. Let us go, Riggs.” She turned to leave and wasn't at all surprised when Kevin called them back.

“He stays right inside the doorway,” Kevin said.

Gabrielle nodded, and she and Riggs stepped into the devil's lair.

It looked the same as it had fifteen years ago. Yes, she'd been in here before. The one time Cutthroat had actually caught her, before she'd learned the rules of the street. She'd managed to slither out of his grasp that time—another reason he'd been so intent on having her. No one escaped Cutthroat when he wanted you. At least no one who lived.

Kevin shut the door behind them, dousing the small entryway in murky gray shadows. Dust motes danced through the stale air. Most of the wallpaper had long since fallen off, though some hung in uneven chunks, faded reds and golds of a long-ago owner who attempted the appearance of a better life.

“I'll need to pat you down.” Kevin eyed her bosom again with bright eyes and licked his lips. He stood so close she could see his rotting teeth and smell his fetid breath. “For weapons.”

“No.”

His brows went up and his gaze flew to hers. “No?”

“You will not touch me.”

He crossed his arms and smirked. “Then I ain't lettin' you in t'see him.”

She raised her brow. “I feel for you, Kevin. Truly I do. If Cutthroat learns that I was here, in his home, and he didn't get to see me…” She let her words trail off and shrugged, giving him a pitying look. She'd used those fifteen years well, honing her skills to fine, sharp points, and she was prepared to use every one.

Kevin's mouth opened, then closed, and he narrowed his eyes at her. “I ain't supposed to let no one in unless I know they don't have no weapon.”

She turned back to the door. “Very well. Good day, Kevin.” She managed to get the door open a few inches before Kevin's hand appeared over her head to slam it closed. For a moment she stood facing the door and feeling Kevin's body nearly pressed to her back. Shivers skittered up her spine, but she held them in check.

He removed his hand and stepped back. “Follow me.”

She looked at Riggs. “No one comes in or leaves while I'm here.”

Riggs nodded and Gabrielle followed Kevin up the rickety set of steps that had long since lost its banister. She made sure to put her feet in the same places Kevin had, not trusting him that the steps were sound.

The upper floor looked as if someone had made an effort to decorate. The walls appeared to have been painted recently, or at least more recently than the lower floor. There were no pictures on the walls, but the sconces had been lit, and it was brighter here than downstairs. Though they hadn't encountered anyone, Gabrielle didn't fool herself into thinking it was just her, Kevin, Riggs, and Cutthroat in the building.

Kevin stopped in front of a door and knocked, shooting her a nervous glance. He'd broken the rules, and if things went wrong, he would pay the price. She couldn't care less.

“Enter.”

Hearing Cutthroat's voice made her knees knock, but Gabrielle locked them as Kevin opened the door.

The room was bright, the sun streaming in through the clean windows. The walls were painted a cool blue, the wainscoting white. Pillars supported the ceiling here and there. Fake, no doubt, but in style. If she hadn't just taken her life in her hands by walking through Seven Dials, she would have guessed they were in the drawing room of some rich nob.

Cutthroat looked up from reading a newspaper and paused as his gaze landed on her. She was surprised at his appearance. He had gray around his temples, bags under his eyes. His skin was sagging and he'd lost weight. In her mind, he'd always been a monster—never aging, always scary. It was a shock to see that not only was he a normal-looking man, but he was a normal-looking
old
man. He still dressed in the height of fashion. His coat was bloodred, his waistcoat and breeches black, his cravat snowy white. But there was a frailness about him now, and it took her a moment to let her mind adjust to the change.

He put the paper down slowly with hands that at one time were meaty and dangerous but now were gnarled, covered in age spots, with veins popping up on top.

“Well. This is a surprise.” He stood, resting a shaking hand on the table, his gaze flickering to Kevin. “That will be all, Kevin.”

Kevin hesitated before stepping out and closing the door behind him. For the first time, Gabrielle and Cutthroat were alone in the same room, and the feeling was not a good one.

Along the far wall, in front of a cheery fire, was a group of expensively upholstered chairs. Along another wall, a bookcase full of leather-bound books. For a fleeting moment Gabrielle wondered if Cutthroat had read the books or bought them simply for show.

Cutthroat waved to an empty chair at the table. “Please, have a seat.”

“I prefer to stand, thank you.”

His face tightened, but he nodded. “I must say, I never expected to see you willingly enter my home. I'm at a bit of a loss here.”

Satisfied that she'd put him on the defensive, she nodded.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Gabrielle? Or should I call you
Lady
Marciano?”

“Lady Marciano will be fine. I need information.”

A slow smile spread across his face, and there was the monster she'd feared for so many years. He'd been lurking under a polite veneer and the signs of aging, but he was still there.

He rocked back on his heels. “Information does not come free around here.” He eyed her up and down, not as Kevin had done, with sick lust, but as a commodity he could bargain with.

“I don't pay for information.”

He laughed. “You have grown some backbone, haven't you, my little rabbit?”

Little rabbit?
Ah, because she had run from him, apparently.

“Among a few other things.” She sauntered into the room, closer to him. He watched her warily, his body taut. He didn't know what to expect from her, and that pleased her greatly.

“Your choice of attire does not become you. If you had stayed with me, you would have been richly clothed.”

A small smile touched her lips. “Who says I am not normally richly clothed? I am a contessa. A rich widow. Not the waif you chased on the streets.”

“You were never a waif. You had the world in the palm of your hand,
Lady
Marciano.”

“I have the world in the palm of my hand now, and I did not have to go through you to get it.” She watched his face tighten in anger. “Does that bother you?” she asked. “That I escaped and made something of myself?”

“You're still a whore. I've heard the stories.”

She tilted her head in agreement. “But on my terms.”

“Yet unprotected.”

“Is that what you think?”

He made a show of looking around the room. “I see no protector here. You've come alone. Has the well of rich protectors dried up? Is that why you are here? To ask for my forgiveness so we may do business together?”

His words enraged her, but she kept the slight smile on her face and mockery in her eyes.

“I can help you, Gabrielle. I can secure you a rich protector. Better than the ones you've been with.”

“I am no man's mistress. I am master of my own fate.”

“No woman is master of her own fate.”

There was a bit of truth to that, especially where she was concerned. She was by no means master of her own fate, for the crown directed her every move.