A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard)

by Stone, Jillian

  She closed her eyes and ran the soothing cream over darkened eyelids. When attending soirees with Cecil, she had always assumed the raised brows were due entirely to her avocation. Obviously, there was another layer here. Cate used a soft cloth to wipe away the greasepaint.

  If a man was a philanderer before marriage, what might a girl look forward to afterward? She almost felt sorry for the fiancée. Daphne, he had called her.

  Though her experience with stage-door gentlemen could hardly be called extensive, she knew enough to be quite sure of one fact. Men didn’t change—not much anyway. They were either trustworthy or they were not. She hardly knew which one of the posturing males outside her dressing room was worse: Cecil Cavendish or Phineas Gunn, as he now called himself.

  “Phin-e-as.” She whispered the name under her breath. New name, same old deceiver. A man who played false for a living could never be trusted. So why then did her lips still burn from the heat of his kiss?

  She once believed they had met by accident on the Passeig de Gràcia. Lugging along two large hatboxes, she had given up on a cab and decided to walk to her aunt and uncle’s home. The fashionable avenue in Barcelona was as broad as the Champs-Élysées. A favorite place for aristocrats to display their riding skills and expensive carriages.

  “Perdón, señorita. Estoy . . . buscando la casa de Gaudí?”

  Shading her eyes from the low rays of the sun, she peered up at a magnificent horse and an equally imposing rider. “You are English, señor?” Drawing closer, Cate made out a charming grimace from a strikingly handsome man.

  “Pardon my poor Spanish. I’m looking for a new residence designed by Gaudí. I believe it is on Carrer Nou de la Rambla—” Distracted, his eyes narrowed and shifted away.

  Cate followed his line of sight to a teetering pony cart driven by a chubby-faced, curly-haired child that was traveling at a dangerously fast pace down the broad street. Wide eyes accompanied the girl’s panicked expression and whimpering cries. Cate’s heart accelerated even as the Englishman pressed his mount into action and overtook the out-of-control pony. Leaning far over his seat, he grabbed hold of the reins and slowed the animal.

  Cate dropped her hatboxes and ran onto the boulevard. She positioned herself alongside of the cart just as the flushed child burst into tears. A tired old groom trotted up to join them. “Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios. Gracias, señor.”

  “If the child cannot control the animal, you’d best take hold of these.” With quite a singular glare, the gentleman on horseback handed the reins to the groom.

  Cate replaced the Brit’s glare with a smile and translated. She added an eye roll and shrug. “Inglés.”

  The groom tugged on the pony’s head. “¡Adelante!” The elder man admonished the child gently, and led the pony and cart away. The little girl wiped off a tear and stuck her tongue out at them.

  “Well done, sir,” she murmured. “Even if your damsel in distress thinks you a spoilsport.”

  He had studied her a moment before dismounting. “You speak in a decidedly British vernacular. Are you a native of Spain?”

  “A Spanish mother—and my father was an Englishman like yourself.”

  “Was?”

  “Both my parents were killed adventuring in South America.”

  “Sorry to bring up a sad subject.”

  “It happened quite some time ago.” She reached up to scratch the muzzle of his horse. “You have a magnificent mount, sir.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Amusement flashed in his eyes, and something else. Something much more unsettling. There was a kind of intimacy in those liquid brown orbs—as if he understood her secrets, her most personal desires.

  “His name is Bhai Singh, but he answers to Sergeant MacGregor.” The burr in his r and the soft g in MacGregor instantly brought out the Scot in the man.

  He tipped his hat. “Hugh Curzon, here in Barcelona on business.”

  “Catriona Elíse de Dovia Willoughby.” She smiled at his reaction. “It seems your horse and I answer to a mélange of names.”

  “And which do you prefer?”

  Actually, she preferred to change the subject. “You asked about Palau Guëll, designed by Gaudí. You are an architect?”

  “I studied architecture at university. Love to have a look at those parabolic arches and hyperbolic capitals . . . under construction.” His eyes traveled over her gently. Not in a lascivious way by any means, but with definite interest. “I am fascinated by curves.”

  She half smiled when she shouldn’t have. She should have said buenos días and pivoted on her heel. Instead, she offered her escort. “I live quite near Carrer Nou de la Rambla. Why don’t I show you the way?”

  A sharp rap at the dressing room door snapped Cate out of her reverie. “So sorry, mademoiselle, but I had to repair a torn skirt.” Lucy, her dresser, swept into the room and finished unhooking her costume.

  With her face cleansed of its theatrical mask, Cate dusted a bit of powder over her nose. Lucy added a pale brush of peach to each cheek and a tint of rose to her lips. “Just enough, not too much,” Lucy said. Cate undressed and slipped into a simple gown. Her dresser dug in the costume chest and added a smart velvet riding jacket and silk evening hat.

  “You have a flair for styling, Lucy.”

  The girl beamed. “Dancers can’t afford much finery. I do what I can to help the corps dress for their engagements with gentlemen.”

  “If you can call them that.” She kissed the girl’s cheek and winked.

  Hugh Curzon had acted the perfect gentleman that first afternoon in Barcelona. After rescuing the ungrateful child in the runaway pony cart, he’d gently prodded both packages out of Cate’s hands. She’d watched him juggle reins and hatboxes. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded. “Lead the way, Miss Willoughby.”

  His large red hunter ambled along behind as they spoke of the weather and points of interest. All the things people talk about when they don’t know each other well but might wish to know the other person . . . better.

  When they reached her aunt and uncle’s residence, he handed her one hatbox at a time. “The Güell palace is just around the corner.” She pointed down the lane.

  He tipped his hat, turned away, then swiveled back. “Would you . . . have dinner with me tonight?”

  She clearly remembered the flush of heat on her cheeks. “Regretfully, I have a dance lesson this evening. Besides, my aunt and uncle are very old-fashioned. I’m afraid they would insist on a chaperone.”

  He arched a brow. “Dance lesson?”

  “While I am here in Barcelona, I wish to study the Catalan dances—the zambra mora, bolero, fandango.” She remembered smiling up at him. “You are interested in the old gypsy dances, Mr. Curzon?”

  “I am interested in you, Miss Willoughby.” He appeared to consider what she had just revealed to him. “And if you were not here in Barcelona, where might you be?”

  She smiled. “Paris. I dance with the Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique, monsieur.”

  He stepped closer, his resonant voice huskier. “And if your aunt or uncle were by chance . . . out of town?”

  “Then . . . I would ask you to meet me at nine o’clock in the square—the Plaça Reial.” She dipped a brief curtsy and slipped inside the courtyard. But she hadn’t missed the flash of light in his eyes. “I must go. Talué, señor.”

  That evening, at dance class, she could not get his unsettling, deep brown gaze out of her mind, especially when she emulated Doña Marguerite’s sway and roll of the hips.

  Cate opened her dressing room door and shut down the memories. All that lovely romance wasted on a professional liar. And the discovery came just days after she had given herself to him. Hugh Curzon—or rather, Phineas Gunn—was a British spy. A man who could not be trusted.

  Chapter Three

  “Darling, forgive me, but you are a stunner.” Finn held the diamond to the light and twirled the stickpin between his fingers. A soft tap and
click of the door latch meant his butler had entered the study. “Bootes, have a look at this. Note the exquisite, old European brilliant cut—near perfect clarity.”

  “My word.” Bootes leveled his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. “Something over ten carats, I wager.”

  “Twelve and half,” he murmured. “A touch of azure in daylight, likely to move toward violet by gaslight.” The gem was set in a delicate nest of gold filigree. “This has to be a Tavernier diamond. Note the splendid workmanship on the setting. Downright vulgar as a tiepin, wouldn’t you say?

  A wavering of eyelashes was all it took to read his butler’s opinion of the superior gem. “I see what you mean by garish, sir. Fitting, perhaps, for a Russian prince on holiday here in British Isles.”

  Finn snorted. “A Russian prince would use this pretty bauble to pick his teeth.”

  His man’s gaze narrowed, along with an uptick at the edge of the mouth. A smirk was the closest one got to a smile from Bootes. He had always called his loyal manservant Bootes. At this moment, mesmerized by the glittering trinket, Finn could not recall why the sobriquet Bootes, nor could he remember the man’s real surname—Morton, was it?

  Over the last few years, he and Bootes, who functioned as both valet and houseman, had developed their own informal parlance, a bachelor’s code of sorts. And Finn quite admired his butler’s ability to communicate without uttering a single word. The somewhat quirky manservant spoke volumes with the slightest tilt of his chin or shift in his gaze. A serviceable and, at times, amusing accomplishment.

  “Has Hardy arrived?” Finn asked.

  Bootes rolled his eyes up and to the left.

  “Then is he dressing?”

  The butler cleared his throat. “I believe so.”

  They were late for the Beauforts’ ball. Phineas returned the gem to its diminutive case and rose from his desk. “Is my tie straight?”

  Studying his neck, Bootes made no effort to hide his satisfaction with himself. “As it was when I tied it, sir.”

  Finn sauntered over to Hardy’s room, where his brother kept a wardrobe of clothes in a bedroom he rarely slept in. His mind wandered from stolen diamonds to Catriona de Dovia Willoughby and his heart began to race, in a good way. Every powerful emotion he had felt for her and abandoned in Spain came roaring back to life last night.

  And she also knew something of his connection to her brother’s demise, yet she hadn’t called him a murderer. A technicality perhaps, but a relief nonetheless. And he couldn’t help but wonder, had she played him in Spain? The very idea that she was a clever operative sent to distract him while he had used her to move in on Los Tigres—Good God, he found the idea intensely arousing.

  Finn leaned against the open doorjamb of his brother’s room while Hardy attached his braces. He reminded himself that sweetly innocent young ladies did not traipse around Barcelona with strange men nor jump into bed with them.

  And yet, he could have sworn she was a virgin. He cringed slightly. What was it about Cate that was so captivating—so rare? He knew full well he was a man of appetites; even so, he remained in control of himself at all times. But this lovely young woman had quickly become utterly . . . irresistible.

  The assignment had ended in a hail of bullets, an explosion, and a barn full of dead Spanish insurgents. And still, he had returned to her. Rather odd for him. A highly placed anarchist had been killed, one who also happened to be her flesh and blood. In Barcelona Finn had sent Cate an urgent message, but she had not met him at Café Almirall. Not that evening, nor the evening after that. Thinking back, he remembered waiting many nights.

  Finn straightened. “About ready?”

  Hardy swung around and looked him up and down. “I believe we’re going to slay the ladies tonight, Brother.”

  Finn narrowed his gaze. “With both Lady Gwendolyn Lennox and the bothersome husband in attendance, I’d have to say you’re the more likely candidate to be slain.” He inched over so Bootes might enter and examine Hardy’s tie.

  His valet grimaced at the badly done loops and retrieved a fresh cravat from the highboy. His brother lifted his chin. “Rufus is not going to call me out, and if he does I’ll wing the old earl—I won’t kill him.”

  His brother’s lack of care for life and limb, propriety or scandal, was refreshing at times, but not this evening. Finn ignored the band of tension moving across his forehead and replaced a grin with a frown. Hardy was going to get himself killed one day—or tossed into Newgate gaol for murder.

  The carriage ride through Mayfair was mercifully brief. Finn could barely listen to his brother go on about Gwen. Hardy was smitten, all right, or was he just taken with the danger of it all? The stolen moments, the surreptitious meetings. The ferocious sex. Heady stuff. Investigative undercover work was likely the perfect career choice for his little brother. In some ways, he and Hardy were cut from the same cloth. They both loved fast horses and, whenever possible, faster women.

  So, why did he keep returning to Cate? A twitch played at the edges of his mouth. The very thought of her sparked a fire inside strong enough to trigger a nervous spell. Happily, this evening he just felt pleasantly stimulated. If this sort of lascivious reverie over Cate Willoughby continued, he would require a good long fencing lesson tomorrow.

  He and Hardy exited the carriage and entered the Beauforts’ palatial town house on the square. Perfunctorily, they checked coats, hats, and extra gloves with the staff.

  One last thought lingered about the fascinating young woman. She had quickly become a deeply affecting and keenly felt distraction in Barcelona. If he had been her assignment, as suspected, then mission accomplished. And this most recent turn of events—what might she be up to in London? He was certainly game to find out.

  Finn ignored the heart palpitations.

  Hardy broke off his chat with a couple in the concourse and joined him at the top of the stairs. “Out and about in public two nights in a row, Finn. Some kind of record for you.”

  “I’ve reconsidered.” He waited for his younger brother to be announced. “I’ll gladly second you in a duel with the Earl of Lennox.”

  Hardy snorted a laugh.

  The moment he and his younger sibling entered the hall, Finn was aware of the tilting heads and surreptitious glances. They soon found themselves surrounded by a bevy of young ladies—a sea of pastel gowns and corseted bosoms. Not an entirely unpleasant predicament to find oneself in. With the exception of a few polite greetings and one or two introductions, Finn maintained a cool distance, choosing not to chat for any length of time with the young women. Generally, when he and his brother were on the town, he let Hardy do the lion’s share of the flirting. Until he saw something he wanted.

  “Phineas Gunn, my word, this is a rare treat.”

  “Anatolia.” He bowed. “I must apologize for missing the reception—I blame it all on him.”

  The Duchess of Beaufort turned to his brother, a distinctive arch to her brow. Her cool gaze warmed considerably when Hardy took her hand and kissed it. “Such a handsome rapscallion,” the duchess clucked, adding a wink to Finn. “He deserves his reputation.”

  A smile played at the edges of his mouth. “There is a sort of exuberant devilishness about him. At least Mother says so.”

  “Phineas, you terrible man!”

  He turned toward the high-pitched whine with a haughty lilt. “Ah, Muriel.”

  “Why, I would have worn my new blue gown by Madame Mateaux had I known you planned to attend the Beauforts’ ball.” She settled in beside him with a stomp of delicate foot. Muriel bobbed a curtsy. “Anatolia.”

  “An eleventh-hour decision.” Finn wrinkled his brow. “You look lovely in . . .”

  “Apricot.” Muriel sniffed and prattled on to the duchess. “A gentleman would inform a young lady he was coming.” She fluttered a breeze with her fan.

  Finn edged closer to Hardy. “I’m quite sure I inform a woman when I’m coming.”

  “You always were the pol
ite one.” Hardy’s wink interrupted Muriel’s pout; she assumed the twitch in his brother’s eye was intended for her. The blushing chit sighed a tut-tut of disapproval.

  There was a time when Finn would have considered Muriel Villers-Talbot’s protrusion of lower lip a charming diversion. He had briefly courted Muriel, but by God’s Grace—or some other stroke of luck—he had come to his senses quickly. Unfortunately, the poor girl had never gotten over it. This past spring, at a soiree, she had maneuvered him into a scandalously intimate situation in the gallery. That he had barely escaped her entrapment served only to goad her onward.

  Of late, rumors of their imminent pairing floated about like fall leaves in the wind. Muriel appeared to be campaigning the idea about that Phineas intended marriage as soon as he recovered from his pitiable nervous condition, Soldier’s Heart.

  A tilt of chin enhanced her sulk. “Honestly, Finn, I had no idea you were feeling right enough for a ball.”

  “Actually . . .” Finn lowered his voice. “I’ve a bit of business to attend to.”

  Muriel blinked. “Business?” A blur of pale plum–colored satin brushed past him. “Ah, my new friend.” Muriel snagged the dark-haired beauty into their circle. “Phineas Gunn, please meet Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. She is a première danseuse with the Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique.” Muriel leaned in. “She is also one of us—the British half, anyway. Isn’t that right, Cate?”

  Instantly, the atmosphere in the hall grew warm and stifling. He knew this because he sucked in a large quantity of the oppressive air. Finn paid no heed to an elevation in heart rate and nodded a bow. “We meet again, Miss . . . de Dovia, or do you prefer Willoughby?”

  Confused or distressed or both, Muriel turned to Cate. “You two have met?”

  Finn knew for certain he grinned. “Zeno Kennedy invited me to the Alhambra last night.” When Muriel raised a supercilious brow he added, “On a bit of business.”

  An amused duchess leaned in. “My dear, I’m afraid a man’s business is conducted just about everywhere these days.”