Anatolia’s innuendo breezed by Muriel. “You see how at ease I am with theatrical dancers? Finn says I can be pompous and rigid.” She tapped her fan on his chest. “Don’t deny it. I mean to prove to you I can be just as common and gay as—” Muriel stopped. “Oh dear.” She turned to Cate. “It’s not that I believe you to be common, in the vulgar sense—” With each word, Muriel dug herself in deeper.
Finn cleared his throat. Loudly.
Cate bit back a smile. A side-by-side comparison of the two young ladies proved amusing. Pleasurably plump versus lithe and lovely. Cate was nearly a head taller than Muriel. He angled closer to his brother to mumble, “Ask Muriel to dance.”
Hardy was incredulous. “How will you ever return such a favor?”
Finn was not amused. “You know as well as I that you must make a show of dancing with available young ladies. Afterward, you can take Gwen for a spin around the dance floor without raising too many brows.”
Hardy pivoted with a smile. “Muriel, did I tell you how delightful you are in that ruffled confection of a gown—peach, is it?”
“Apricot.” She sighed.
There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist him—or so Hardy believed. “The very color of your blush, I should think. Is your card open for a dance?”
In fact, Muriel’s cheeks colored the very pastel of her gown. “Why, now that Finn is here—”
“I’m sure he won’t mind sharing.” Hardy stepped up and took her by the arm. “Shall we, dear?”
He assumed his brother steered Muriel off to the dance floor; he wouldn’t know, as he was otherwise occupied staring at Cate. “Does it bother you? The pretension as well as the snide quips?”
She returned his interest for a very long time. “You are resplendent in formal attire, Mr. Gunn.” She leaned in with a grin. “Please don’t read anything into the compliment. It is just . . . what it is.”
“A compliment.” He grinned. “And if I said I had never seen a woman look lovelier in pale plum?”
Her gaze swept the room, a half smile on her face. “Then . . . I’d say I managed to change the subject.” Long dark lashes fluttered above indigo eyes that returned to him. He recalled a night in Barcelona and a look of deep blue ecstasy.
Finn cleared his throat. “I presume the première danseuse’s card is full?”
“All the waltzes are reserved.” Those extraordinary eyes sparkled with laughter when he blinked. “You’re not the type of man who would be interested in anything other than a waltz.”
“Here you are, my dear.” Cecil Cavendish, Baron Burleigh, strode up beside Cate. He eyed Finn suspiciously. “I hope I arrived in time?”
“To rescue me from the arms of Mr. Gunn?”
Finn kept his grin stiff. “All the waltzes are taken.”
“With my name.” Cecil beamed as he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
The dazzling brilliance of a half-dozen chandeliers suddenly felt glaring. Finn ran a finger under the stiff points of his collar and moved to a less sparkling side of the ballroom. He reminded himself why he’d attended one of the biggest balls of the season. He was here to take silent inventory of the aristocracy’s jewels. After all, it was those glittering gems and the golden fizz of champagne that put the beau in beau monde.
A quick scan of décolletés told him he was familiar with nearly all of the most extraordinary pieces in the room. At one time or other, he had either been party to the sale of or had appraised the value of the exquisite baubles. He drifted through the crowd, a good length behind Cecil and Cate as they took a turn about the room. At the far side of the hall, he caught sight of Hardy and Muriel on the dance floor. One of the new quick-step polkas—something fast and fancy. Finn marveled at his brother’s ability to look dashing no matter how ridiculous the hops and skips were.
Lady Lennox also watched Hardy dance from a small circle of friends. Drawing closer, Finn concentrated on Gwen. Dressed in something gossamer, the woman always looked ravishing. Even more breathtaking was the teardrop diamond nestled above deep cleavage. The exquisite gem dangled from several delicate strands of diamonds and pearls.
Finn inhaled a sharp breath. The necklace appeared to be something quite extraordinary, and he had not been consulted. He would have remembered a gem like this one. He needed a closer look.
The three-quarter time of the music ended on a high-spirited up note and Finn zigzagged a path to intercept his brother and Muriel as they left the dance floor.
A breathless Muriel snapped open her fan. “I must freshen up after a polka like that. If you would excuse me, gentlemen?”
Finn stabbed an elbow into his brother’s side.
“Great fun, Muriel—full of vigor. We must do it again.”
Finn watched Muriel until she disappeared into a sea of pastel silks and chiffon. “And how are your toes?”
Hardy remained stoic. “One has to give the young lady credit for trying.”
He grabbed hold of his brother and lowered his voice. “I’d like to get a closer look at the latest bauble Lady Lennox is wearing, as well as have a turn round the floor with Cate Willoughby.” A grin widened. “You, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to steal a dance with Gwen.”
“Brilliant. We’ll have a trade-off—just like the old days at Trinity.” Hardy’s eyes lit up. “Where is Miss Willoughby?”
“On the arm of Baron Burleigh. He’s a bit testy with me, but you might easily cut in.”
“Isn’t Burleigh recently engaged?”
“He claims to be as promised to Daphne Portman as I am to Muriel.”
Hardy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I wonder if Daphne feels the same way about the betrothal.”
“You always were sweet on her.”
Hardy exaggerated a shiver. “Brainy Miss Minx? I think not.”
Finn caught the eye of Lady Lennox, who smiled. He nodded in return. As the first strains of the waltz began, the lady appeared unpartnered. Finn wasted no time closing in. He reached into her circle and she clasped his hand. “Excuse us, gentlemen.” Finn whisked her onto the ballroom floor.
“Good evening, Gwen.”
“Good to see you, Finn.”
His eyes dropped to the gleaming strands on her chest and lingered long enough to pay two jiggling mounds a compliment. “ ‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear.’ ”
A feminine brow arched. “Do you believe Mr. Shakespeare admired such trifling gems apart from, or adorning the wearer?”
He whirled her into a series of turns. “Must it be either, or? If I choose bosom over bauble I risk life and limb from either your husband or my sibling. And as for the lovely gems—?”
The lady’s mouth quirked a bit. “The earl entered my boudoir this evening and fastened the necklace around my throat.” Storm clouds passed beneath mercury irises. “A reminder of his—”
“Possession?” Finn shortened his stride and steered them toward the center of the dance floor. “I must have details, madam.”
Gwen exhaled quite a darling harrumph. “He purchased the necklace from a jeweler who claims it came from a chest full of gems—the dowry of a princess.”
“Prussian?”
“I believe so.” Her faraway gaze returned to him. “I hate it.” Silver eyes shaded a darker gray as rosy lips pouted. It was obvious what Hardy saw in her pale beauty. The Gwen Lennox he knew, however, was hardly a swooning lily.
He caught a glimpse of Hardy dancing with Cate. In the space of a few more turns, they would be soon be side by side.
Finn kept his voice low. “Follow my lead closely, Lady Lennox.” With his hand centered above her head, he whirled Gwen beneath his arm and stepped in the opposite direction. He released her hand to his brother as Hardy passed Cate over to him. A sliding side step brought him into position as Cate finished her twirl. He drew her into his arms, smooth as silk. If they had rehearsed the move a dozen times, it might not have come off as well. Hardy whirled the countess off with a wink.
/> “My, my, aren’t you and your brother the clever ones.” The pleasant surprise in her eyes set off an irregular series of thumps in his chest. And she danced exactly as he remembered—as light as air with a sway to her hip—like the bolero, a Spanish version of the waltz. She had shown him the steps one evening in the Plaça Reial. Finn lengthened his stride and she was with him through every fluid turn.
He tried a conciliatory smile. “Got off a bit wrong-footed last night. Perhaps we can start over?”
Chapter Four
“Starting over implies a new beginning, which is impossible for us.” Cate held his gaze well past the six beats of a complete turn.
She remembered him standing in the Plaça Reial. She had pointed to one of the sculptured lampposts in the square. “Gaudí.” And he had kissed her suddenly—without any warning. A tingle had run through her body, from her lips to her toes. An unexpected intimacy from such a quietly intense man. She had thought her heart would leap from her chest.
Their attraction had quickly led to an afternoon and evening of torrid lovemaking. When the brief affair was over, she had cast the unnerving event into the furthest recess of memory. Even now he was so distractingly masculine. “I did not know they taught debauchery at the spy academy.”
One side of his mouth lifted slightly. “If only there were such a such an institution—”
“You seduced me in Barcelona.”
A spark flashed in those deep brown eyes. “Who seduced whom, Miss Willoughby? As I recall, I was bewitched—” He dipped his head to make eye contact. “In Barcelona.”
Cate followed every bend of his body as he lengthened his stride. A muscular leg grazed hers and she arched away to cover a tremble. They danced close. The kind of close that made it impossible not to admire the way they fit together.
Indeed, the fit had been sublime.
What on earth had come over her recently? The most obvious answer to that question held her in his arms and turned her gracefully—nay, sensuously—about the dance floor. Cate sighed. “The young woman you took advantage of in Barcelona believed you were smitten beyond measure. You are a clever operator, Agent Curzon.” Her gaze narrowed. “That is, Mr. Gunn.”
As if on cue, the music stopped, but he didn’t let go. Even the dance of candlelight in his eyes refused to acknowledge the end of their waltz. Caught in his spell, she didn’t push Finn away, not at first. Gradually, he withdrew his hand from her waist.
She dipped a curtsy and walked off the dance floor.
He took hold of her arm. “Cate.”
She whirled around. “You murdered my brother.”
“Let me explain—”
“I’ll not warn you again, Finn.” Cecil stepped between them. “Stay away from her.”
He looked her escort up and down. “Sorry, I must have missed a warning somewhere.” He ducked Cecil’s swing.
“Cecil, stop!” she cried.
“Hold on there, Burleigh.” Hardy Gunn stepped up beside his brother with Lady Lennox on his arm. “Can’t we resolve this like gentlemen?”
“Give me a moment with Cate, then we’ll take this outside.” As Finn turned to her, an older gentleman, the Earl of Lennox, burst through the gathered circle.
“Not much of a lady, my wife.” The sneering man grabbed hold of the jewels at Lady Lennox’s throat and yanked harshly. Chains of pearls and diamonds cut into the neck of the beautiful countess. Cate stood frozen in horror as Gwendolyn gasped for air.
In a frenetic burst of movement the Gunn brothers sprang into action. Ignoring the shocked cries of onlookers, Finn grabbed the necklace and broke the clasp. The younger brother shoved the old man off and tucked the lady behind him. With a single well-placed blow, Hardy laid her attacker out cold on the ballroom floor.
Hardy turned to Lady Lennox. “Are you all right?”
She managed a nod, but continued to cough and appeared wobbly. The younger Gunn helped her to one of the empty chairs placed around the perimeter of the ballroom. “A glass of water—someone?”
“Come with me.” Finn took hold of Cate’s arm and steered her through a bewildered crowd of onlookers. He turned back to Cecil. “Be right with you, Burleigh. Perhaps you might find a second and wait for me in the square?”
Her escort swallowed hard.
Cate turned to the man hauling her toward the supper room. “Did the Earl of Lennox just try to strangle his wife in public?”
“Raving bastard.” His eyes were filled with pain and something darker—fury, perhaps. Quite disconcertingly attractive on Mr. Phineas Gunn. “Cate, there are no words I can offer that will ease the loss of your brother, but I want you to know that after he was killed, I returned to Barcelona in hopes of seeing you again—if only to apologize and explain in person.”
Finn picked up a seltzer bottle and two glasses. “Hold one for me?”
She accepted the crystal flute and he poured the water. “There is nothing to explain. You used me to get close to Eduardo. Then you and your men followed Los Tigres to Béziers and fired upon the farmhouse.”
“What happened shouldn’t”—he exhaled—“have happened.” Brows drawn, his gaze ransacked the room, as if he might find a better explanation hiding under the arch of a potted palm. “Still, I take full responsibility.” Finn searched her face. “Cate, I didn’t give the order to fire. I wanted to capture and question—”
She pivoted on her heel. “I’ve heard enough, Mr. Gunn.” A pattern of familiar beats palpitated inside her chest. Her Catalan temper was on the rise. Soon she would be shrieking in Spanish, which wouldn’t do at all. Not at the Beauforts’ ball. What she needed to accomplish here must be done without notice. She could not unduly draw too much attention to herself.
Thankfully, Finn did not press the argument. Thus far, he had not come right out and accused her of an affiliation with Los Tigres, but these meetings—last night at the theater and now again, here at the ball—these were not chance meetings with Agent Gunn.
Her eyes narrowed to slits as she swept another glance at the man. It was clear British intelligence had set him upon her. But to what purpose? What was his game? A year ago, in Barcelona, she had been an innocent in more ways than one. She had lost her virginity to the madness of anarchy. And nearly lost her heart.
She and Finn arrived back at the scene in the ballroom to find several guests surrounding the elder earl, still out cold on the floor. “One for Rufus.” Finn lifted the glass from her hand and splashed water on the man’s face. Instantly, the groggy earl opened his eyes and sputtered.
He turned to the countess. “And one for the Lady Lennox.” He handed the flute to Hardy, who hovered over Gwen.
A rustle of evening gowns parted as the duchess approached. She was accompanied by a disgruntled gentleman, presumably the duke. Anatolia Beaufort flew to Lady Gwendolyn’s aid while the duke took Hardy aside.
One had to admire the younger Gunn brother’s audacity. Not only did he demand the earl publicly apologize to his wife, he challenged him to a duel of honor. The number of mouths that simultaneously dropped open in the crowd nearly caused a giggle. In fact, much to her dismay, a gasp of laughter escaped her mouth.
She covered her lips with her fingers and glanced at Finn. The expression on his face was unreadable, but there was something about his stance—a panther ready to spring into action in defense of his brother.
Dear Lord. Was it to be fisticuffs for Finn and Cecil? Pistols in the park, as Hardy took aim at the earl? Her sudden involvement in the Gunn brothers’ imbroglio caused a wellspring of nerves to surge though her body.
When the earl finally rose to his feet, Hardy broke through the opposing circle of guests and the two men nearly came to blows a second time. One of the gentlemen referees pulled the young man aside. “Are you barking mad? If you insist on this contest, it must be quietly done.”
Finn stepped into the fray. “Shall we allow a cooling-off period of, say, a day or two? If both gentlemen still wish to proceed, I�
��ll make the arrangements.”
Hardy jerked his arm away from the man holding on to his sleeve. “I mean to see the brute finished off.”
* * *
“EN GARDE!”
“Better to guard your bollocks, mon ami.” Finn lunged forward and used several rapid, well-placed strokes. Having been on the poking end of a blunt épée, he knew well his instructor’s ability to concentrate on the subtle, telling moves of his student.
“Exactement, the right riposte, Phineas—you improve.” Sword master Raoul d’Artaine returned a volley of strokes that sent him into a scrambled retreat across the room.
“Stay sharp, Finn,” Hardy called from one of the benches that lined the ornately paneled walls. High ceilings and chandeliers hinted at the spacious gallery’s previous life as a room designed for gala receptions. Several years ago, at the height of his disability, Finn had had the room converted into a kind of gentlemen’s gymnasium.
“Razor-edged, little brother.” He employed a feint and reengagement from the opposite direction, using well-practiced, agile footwork. The silent gaps of cautious circling were less frequent now, punctuated more and more by the high-pitched ring of metal-on-metal rapiers.
Raoul feigned, then made a very deliberate move, foil to the inside, sliding the blade edge cleanly down Finn’s sword, a coulé.
Long hours of practice had finally paid off. Finn’s dueling skills had elevated considerably in the last year. He could hold his own with a swordsman of much greater experience. That is, unless his concentration wandered to a certain half-Brit, half-Catalan ballerina. The line of her elegant neck. Translucent nipples the color of—
Raoul deflected Finn’s blade out of his hands and into the air. His sword landed with a clatter on the polished wood floor.
“Bollocks.” Fisting his hands on his hips, Finn sucked in a deep breath.
Hardy hooted from the bench. “Bravo!”
Finn’s glare chastened his brother’s glee. “Until that unfortunate bit at the end.”
Next up, Hardy leaped to his feet, flexing his épée. “Now that you’ve run our sword master down, let’s see if I can take him out.”
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 4
