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

by Stone, Jillian

  Someone had muddled with the description of the necklace, but why? Interesting, Cate made no mention of it. Finn studied the edge of the notepaper. A fuzz of cotton fiber indicated a fresh tear. Abruptly, he rose from his desk chair and found Bootes in the foyer.

  “You haven’t seen my brother, by any chance?”

  The butler gave a good shake to an umbrella and placed it in the hall stand. His eyes rolled upward. “Two hot baths upstairs—one of them is growing cold.”

  Taking two steps at a time, Phineas strode directly into his dressing room, located his evening coat, and removed five strands of pearls and diamonds from the pocket.

  His pulse rate slowed considerably as he examined the broken clasp. Fisting the jewels, he exited his bedchamber and turned down the hallway. He tapped once and opened the door. “Sorry about the brawl earlier.”

  Hardy languished in a steaming tub, a wet cloth covering his eyes. “Good to know that nervous disorder of yours hasn’t affected your cock. I say, impressive, Finn.”

  He settled himself against the highboy. “Do you happen to know anything about this necklace, the one Lady Gwendolyn wore last night? The slightest detail could be helpful.” Five strands of shimmer and sparkle dangled from his index finger.

  “The old man is always lavishing trinkets upon her. I never ask about any of it.” Hardy lifted the towel and squinted at the necklace. “Ghastly thing.” He sat up in the tub. “I received a wire from Gwen. All’s well. Rufus left town for the estate in Shropshire—to cool off.”

  He stared at his younger brother. “About last night—my mistake. I dragged you into that escapade on the dance floor.”

  Hardy snorted a laugh. “People believe I’m the roguey one, but it’s your schemes that always get us in trouble.”

  Finn cocked an elbow. “Yes, but I’m not the one fucking an earl’s wife.”

  “Might I take you back more than a few years and remind you of your scheme to sneak into father’s study and unlock the cabinet with the French nudes for the stereoscopic? It was my youthful backside that took the brunt of that caper.” Hardy scrubbed a washcloth over his toes. “I would have danced with Gwen one way or the other. Old Ruffy was soaked—cupping all night with those smarmy investors of his.”

  Finn scratched the stubble along his jaw. “We’ll give it a few days. Lord Lennox will stand down.” He opened the bedroom door. “Do not skip off and do something you’ll regret. I mean it, Hardy.”

  “I’m back on duty. Four straight days. No leave.”

  “Excellent.” He paused to smile at his brother. “In fact, better than excellent.”

  Back in his dressing room, Finn stripped off his clothes and stuck a toe in his bath. Warm enough. He sank into the water and submerged himself. Underwater, he contemplated several scenarios as to how the diamond cravat pin came to be stolen.

  A number of people had seen him yank the necklace off the gorgeous but gasping Lady Lennox. Between last evening and this morning, someone—the thief presumably—had gone rummaging in his desk and run across the stickpin. He recalled Zeno’s words at the music hall. “The burglar appears to be rather selective. Takes one piece and leaves piles of other valuables behind.” He imagined a gloved hand plucking the rare item out of its case and dropping it between fleshy, feminine mounds.

  Finn blew a spout of air as he surfaced in his bathwater. He lathered up his hair and rinsed. The sting of soap in his eyes didn’t do much to hinder a grin.

  * * *

  CATE STOOD AT the ballet barre and extended her leg to the side. She executed four tendus front from a closed fifth position. A slow flush of heat crept from her neck to her cheeks. Phineas Gunn had witnessed a rare display of temper she was hard-pressed to explain, even to herself.

  “Dégagez à terre avec la pointe tendue.” Monsieur Didelot tapped his baton in his palm and walked the stage between rows of ballet girls at the barre. The music hall was empty but for their pianist and a cleaning crew. She was to have an additional hour of practice today with Mérante, the male lead.

  “And reverse, mes chers.” At the end of their tendus, the dancers pivoted in unison. Cate checked her posture. Clearly, it was none of her business if Phineas kept a mistress.

  She slid her toe out to a point, then drew her foot in. Tendu front. Tendu side. Tendu back. Another flush of humiliation washed over her. She had blurted out a string of profanity and curse words that would make a Portuguese sailor blush.

  She bit her lip and began the pliés. What was it about Phineas Gunn that encouraged the raving wanton in her? She recalled a night in Barcelona—though it had not been evening, exactly. A warm breeze had parted the curtains. Afternoon light had slanted across the hotel room and lingered on her nude body.

  His tongue circled a pointed nipple.

  Her knees wobbled as the memory swept through her body. “Open to me,” he had whispered. His fingers moved lower—pushed deeper. She obeyed him then, and now. Cate gripped the ballet barre and widened her stance. Sweeping her arm up to third position, and lifting her chin, she tried not to think about how he had moved a finger inside her—gentle, exploring, stretching. He had paused for a moment and pulled away. “Am I the only man who has touched you here?”

  She had reached out and drawn his face to hers, rubbing her flushed cheek against the stubble of his chin. “A few men have tried,” she murmured.

  He had studied her for a moment—evaluating, considering. She had pulled his mouth to hers and explained with her tongue how much she wanted this experience with him.

  He added another finger to his exploration and his thumb also found a place to stroke. “Do you like it when I touch you here?” He discontinued the taunting, circling pleasure of his thumb. “Tell me, Catriona.”

  Her sex was swollen, petulant—wanting more. “Yes,” she moaned. Strong arms, pulsing with life, drew her up against his hard body. With one hand, he clasped her wrists behind her—arching her, drawing her closer. He slid one finger, then two, farther, causing more shuddering and trembling.

  He had boldly taken control, but he did not threaten her in any way. In fact, she felt safe with him. Perhaps more so than with any man she had ever known.

  He had dipped his head and teased up a nipple. Pleasure rippled through her body. His hard organ pressed against her belly and she wondered if he would be forceful and plunge into her. Part of her wanted it—badly. He had looked up from his suckling. “I will make you very wet. It will be more comfortable until you adjust to me.”

  Her knees wobbled and she lost her concentration at the ballet barre. Cate took a deep breath and shook off heated memories of sensuous lovemaking. She concentrated on the dance master’s words. Moving off the barre, they worked on port de bras.

  Last night at the ball, after the gentlemen had taken their argument outside, she had stayed behind and discovered something wonderfully intriguing about Phineas Gunn. According to Lady Lennox, no one knew the jewelry of the noblesse better than Finn. The truth of it was, Los Tigres had disappeared overnight. She supposed they were back on the Continent, somewhere. The anarchists had left her with no help. No names of the current gem owners, or where she might go to fence the pretty baubles. She had tried several of the gem dealers of Hatton Garden, but they weren’t privy to private sales. No, if she was to recover the estate’s jewelry, she needed Finn.

  Only this time, her encounter with Agent Gunn would remain all business. She needed his knowledge of gems and his entrée to the beau monde. Cate suspected she didn’t have much time left. Very soon, Los Tigres would expect their share of the profits.

  Abruptly, Didelot tapped his baton on the piano and the corps executed le révérence, a dancer’s curtsy to show respect to the teacher and pianist.

  Class dismissed.

  While Cate waited for Mérante, she practiced solo parts of the pas de deux. Eight hops backward en pointe, into an arabesque with a drawn-out balance. Then on to a series of piqués, fouettés, and grand jeté.

&nb
sp; She landed with all the grace of an elephant. Badly done.

  “Again—from the beginning of the movement, if you would, Mr. Skym?” Cate took up a position to side of the stage and waited for the piano’s cue. She repeated the same combination of steps. This time she landed the jeté perfectly.

  The hollow sound of one person clapping came from the seats in the front of the theatre. “Bravo, Catriona.”

  She stepped closer to the footlights. Of course it would be him. A flutter of beats leaped in her chest. She placed both hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

  He removed his frock coat and loosened his cravat. Nervously, she adjusted her cramped toes by waggling her pointe shoe back and forth on the stage floor. He was up the steps and onto the stage before she could utter much of a protest.

  “It appears you are in need of a partner.” He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

  Unsure if she should smile or frown, Cate pressed her lips together. “You realize lifts require a great deal of strength.”

  He raised one of those supercilious eyebrows of his.

  Over six feet of pulsing sinewy muscle stood in front of her with his arms open. She sighed or huffed. “Dancers study for years to execute the lifts in this adagio. It would not be safe—” Her eyes darted about. “Male dancers touch very intimate places.”

  The bare semblance of a smile played at the edges of his mouth. She cringed, waiting for a crude reference to the private places he’d so expertly stroked and caressed.

  “I shall do my best to control myself.” His voice was huskier than usual.

  She studied him a moment. “Yes, you are always very much in control.”

  “Until I’m not.” He moved closer. “We’ll work until your partner arrives. Start with something basic—elementary.” He tilted his head and taunted her. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Cate?”

  She bit her lip and edged closer. “Very well. Perhaps the simplest way to move into the lift is for the ballerina to step into arabesque in front of her partner.”

  Cate assumed the position and lifted her leg behind her, waist high. “Place one hand on my waist and the other beneath the thigh of my working leg.”

  Finn slipped his hand around her waist and then hesitated. “Where exactly would you like the other?”

  “Reach under my skirt.” Cate bit her lip to hide her amusement. “This way you will have a better grip and you won’t ruin the drape of skirt.”

  His hand traveled gently up the inside of her thigh. A tingle shot up her leg and rippled through her body. “That’s high enough.” Cate shifted her weight to remain in balance. Instinctively, he steadied her.

  “We shall try a piqué de poissons—fish dive. Lift me off the ground—not too high. Once my head is above yours, dip me quickly toward the ground and hold.”

  Their first attempt was far from graceful.

  Hands on her hips, Cate walked off a muscle twinge. “From the lower position, you lift me up—as if you snatch me from the arms of death. Then you must dip me as though I am falling from your grasp—in a graceful swoop.”

  “Graceful swoop.” Finn nodded. “Is there a French term for that?” His grin caused her to shift her eyes away.

  Cate stepped closer. “I must keep all my muscles strong and engaged throughout the lift. If I don’t press my arabesque leg against your hold, I’ll fold in half and lose all stability.” She cleared her throat and swallowed. “Let me feel your hands.”

  “Like this?” His hand slipped under her thigh and his grip tightened.

  She flexed her thigh against his hold. “Do you feel me answer you?” The words were spoken in a raspy voice, one she didn’t recognize as her own.

  “Mm-hmm.” His breath brushed against the soft hairs of her temple.

  Her heart fluttered inside her chest. “Élevé.”

  He lifted on counts one and two. Dipped her on three and four. Cate swept her leg into passé position. He brought her upright on five, six, and returned her to earth—seven, eight.

  “Sans volume, monseiur—quietly.” He lowered her gently onto her pointe leg. Back on the ground, she turned to him. “You are better at this than I imagined.”

  She never knew men could grin with their eyes. At least, this one did.

  “All right then, something more challenging. Nothing too high—yet.” Cate tilted her head. “Perhaps you could lift me onto your shoulder?” Within one or two tries, Finn lifted her with ease—and he was both powerful and graceful. He lowered her gently to earth. Cate completed the lift with an arabesque. Standing in his arms, she arched back. “Bravo, Finn.”

  As a student, she had developed crushes on one or two male dancers. All that touching in places no man was allowed. And there was something deliciously wicked about engaging in such an intimacy with a man who was not a dancer. A year had passed and still the heat of her attraction to him shook her to the core. She had never been held by a dancer who moved her like this. She had trembled when his hand moved up the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

  Without a word, he lifted her again. “If I remember correctly, your partner held you like this.” He pressed her against his body and lowered her slowly.

  The delicate, sensuous notes of Debussy accompanied a brief nuzzle of his nose to her bodice. A warm exhale drifted across the curve of her breast, and the rough stubble of his chin brushed the hollow of her throat.

  Her toe shoes dangled inches off the ground.

  Face-to-face, his half-lidded scorching gaze lowered to her mouth. The memory of his words in Barcelona taunted her. Say yes, Cate, say yes. Her body strained against the corset of her costume, and her stomach muscles trembled. The tingle was back. The one that aroused nipples, clenched her womb, and curled her toes.

  Descending an inch at a time, her thigh pressed against his lower anatomy. A strong shiver racked his body, causing him to drop her with a thud. “Bollocks.” His apology was worse, barely more than a harsh whisper. “Sorry.”

  She could not help but notice the bulge. “Male dancers wear a dancer’s belt.”

  “A what?”

  “I have no idea why I blurted that out.” Cate shook her head and laughed uncomfortably. “It’s a kind of . . . codpiece to protect your privates.”

  A smile crept over his face. “Now, why would I—?”

  “This is not about r-rubbing,” she stammered, as a rush of heat singed her cheeks. “I could kick you by accident.”

  “Yes, I’ve experienced those toe slippers firsthand—painful to the shinbones, as well as a man’s testicles, I imagine.”

  She really must change the subject. “The lifts look simple and elegant, almost weightless. But as you can see, they require hours of practice.”

  He exhaled a long loud breath. “I was better at the bolero.”

  She tilted her head. “Yes, I believe you were.” She turned to the pianist. “Something by Strauss, Mr. Skym—adagio, please.” She returned to Finn with a blush of heat to her cheeks.

  “Like the waltz, the bolero is danced in three-quarter time.” Finn used a mock instructor’s voice. Drawing her to him, they practiced the basic pattern of the dance.

  She danced a circle—more of a strut—around him. “Quick, quick—slow. Draw me to you.” Finn swept her close. “Place your right leg between mine and pause.” The moves returned to him quickly as they whirled around the stage. Soon they were extending the glide of their steps together.

  For a large man he was graceful and very much in charge of his partner. He swiveled his body with hers—inserting his leg between hers. “Press your thigh against mine, and hold.” At times, in the turns, she felt as though their bodies moved as one. Perfecto, sensual, glorioso. Hips swaying, legs interweaving—coming together, drawing apart.

  Cate smiled. “You remembered.”

  He pulled her back and held her against his body. “How could I possibly forget?” The last strains of the waltz ended on a quiet note. His gaze lowered to her lips. “Lovely p
iece of music. ‘The Kiss Waltz,’ is it not?”

  Her eyes fell to his mouth. She allowed herself a brief fantasy then stepped back, breaking the spell. “You never answered my question. Why are you here?”

  His gaze tracked her every move. “I’ve had a chance to study your uncle’s list and have a number of questions. If you have time before the—?”

  She shook her head. “I go straight from rehearsal to the bathhouse and return in time to ready myself for evening performance.” Cate ducked her head to peer through the raised piano lid. “It appears Mérante has missed rehersal. Thank you, Mr. Skym.”

  “Tomorrow morning then, say ten o’clock, at your uncle’s residence?” Finn asked.

  “Ten is fine.” She picked up a Turkish towel and patted her forehead. “You might have offered to take me to supper.”

  “I’ve a rather a busy evening ahead of me. A few errands and obligations to attend to.” There was something deliberately evasive in the way he avoided her gaze. “And there is a necklace to return.”

  She draped the towel around her neck. “I take it Lady Lennox is recovered?”

  Finn shrugged. “Hardy claims all is well. The earl has left town—cooling off in the country.”

  She stopped a slow pivot midturn. “You mentioned obligations?”

  He stared for a moment before clearing his throat. “I think it best I settle affairs with Miss Hebert.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It would seem this pas de deux with Phineas Gunn was far from over.

  Chapter Six

  Finn sat in the darkest corner of the lady’s bedchamber and listened to the padding footsteps and soft murmurs of the servants as they closed up the house for the night. A rustle of leaves whipped up by a gust of wind carried the chill of evening across Lady Lennox’s sumptuously appointed four-poster bed.

  He had purposely left the window ajar.

  This surveillance would likely go nowhere this evening. Then again, he might catch a jewel thief.

  Gwen had been a good sport about the whole thing. “Something devilishly romantic about a night visitor to my bedroom.” Her reaction to the idea of a second-story man had gone from amused to angry in so many seconds. “Let the burglar have it. I shall never wear the bloody thing again.”