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

by Stone, Jillian

  “Really, Finn, the ballet girl?”

  The earl peered over his wife’s shoulder. “Courting? With that egg on your noggin?” Rufus raised his quizzing glass for a better look. “Shall I send for Dr. Murphy? I want him fit enough to second for his brother.”

  Gwen faded back, her liquid silver eyes clouded over.

  “A physician will not be necessary.” Finn’s gaze met the earl’s. “Do have your man contact me.”

  Lady Lennox returned to her chair. “Have a piece of toast, Finn. You need your strength.”

  He leaned over the table, poured himself a splash of tea, and gulped it down. The very thought of Miss Cate Willoughby worsened the pounding in his skull. Everything about the young woman made him throb, either from pleasure or pain.

  Had she actually outwitted and overpowered him? Frankly, he couldn’t quite believe it. Rather a sly move for a ballet girl—and what a clever cover at that. If she was a foreign operative or anarchist sympathizer, what better way to move around greater Europe undetected? And what a noddy-fool she had made of him. Thieving, irritating virago.

  * * *

  A FLASH OF rare morning sunlight flared between the stately homes of Belgrave Square. Finn blinked from the glare. The dull throb in his head had returned. He searched his upper coat pocket and withdrew a pair of blue-tinted spectacles. Originally designed to cure certain forms of eye disease, the glasses were used by many soldiers to shade their eyes from the unrelenting sun of Egypt and India.

  He hooked an armature over each ear and exhaled. Better.

  The impressive facade of a nearby mansion set off thoughts of Cate scaling walls and jimmying windows. He recalled her daring high-wire act in the theatre. And it was clear she had decided to operate by her own set rules when it came to the recovery of her uncle’s estate jewels. If, indeed, the list was authentic and not designed by a clever ring of thieving anarchists.

  Asking for nothing more than a fast trot from his chestnut hunter, the two-block jaunt across Belgravia did nothing to clear his head. He turned his horse down a row of terrace homes on Eaton Square. If Cate Willoughby thought she was going to get away with this sort of outrageous behavior, she’d best think again.

  “Nine Upper Belgravia, if I remember correctly, Sergeant MacGregor.” The horse snorted and tucked his head into his chest. Smart as a whip and twice as brave, his fiery-coated steed was as sturdy as a plow horse with the added speed and stamina of the Thoroughbred. A special breed of equine. Finn tied him to a hitching post and climbed the portico steps of 9 Upper Belgravia.

  A young servant opened the door, holding a pail of sudsy gray water. “Phineas Gunn.” He presented his card. “I’m here to pay a call on Miss Willoughby.”

  She wiped her hand on a dingy apron and took his card. “A bit early for callers, sir. The mistress has asked that you return in a few hours.”

  Finn pushed the dark spectacles down his nose. “Has she?” He entered the foyer. “I insist you show me to her this minute or I shall find Miss Willoughby myself.”

  When the maid hesitated, he pushed open every door along the hallway until he found a comfortable parlor, more of a conservatory, with a view to a garden beyond. The girl tugged on his sleeve. “Please, sir, let me take you to her. I believe Miss Willoughby is in the baron’s study.”

  He gestured ahead, but the young servant turned down an intersecting passageway. She tapped on a door and rushed inside. “Pardon, miss, but I couldn’t stop him—”

  Finn stood in the door. The furnishings were a bit faded and frayed, but comfortable-looking, like the rest of the house. In fact, he found the residence rather charming after the luxury of Lennox House. “Bullyragged my way in. Don’t blame the girl.”

  Cate sat behind a grand desk, a silver breakfast tray in front of her. “Do come in, Phin-e-ass.” She emphasized the last syllable with a smile.

  He ignored the inflection and handed the servant girl a few coppers. “Find a groom, and have him mind my horse.” He strode into the study and headed straight for the backside of the desk. As he rounded the desk corner, Cate leaped from her chair and circled, keeping a polished expanse of mahogany between them.

  “After a search of this fine-looking desk, I believe I shall arrest you on several counts of burglary.” He flung open cupboards and slid out drawers as he chased her around the room.

  She paused at the opposite end of the table. “I thought we had an agreement. Eighty, twenty.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Seventy-five, twenty-five, and my assumption was we would locate the jewels, state your claim, and let the courts settle the matter.”

  “Who has time for such nonsense?” she scoffed. “I have estate taxes to pay—the overhead of two houses . . .” Cautiously, they continued around the writing table, matching each other step for step, eyes fixed. “Hardly manageable on a dancer’s wages.”

  “Yes, I suppose stealing does solve your dilemma.” Finn vaulted onto the desktop and Cate made a mad dash for the door. Bounding over tea trays and paperwork, he jumped to the seat of a wing chair and over the arm.

  He caught her by the train of her skirt and yanked her into his arms. “There now, pretty Cate. That was a right flash-heist you pulled last night, but I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

  She pulled her fist from his grip and pressed her hand against his chest. “On what charges?”

  He wrapped both hands around her waist. “Burglary, possession of stolen property, handling of stolen property, criminal conversion, and any other offenses I have yet to think of.”

  Cate ceased her wriggling and writhing, and stared at his temple. “Nasty knot. How are you feeling?”

  He flicked his eyes upward. “Wicked headache, but otherwise fit enough.”

  She sighed. “I don’t believe you’re going to arrest me.”

  Finn peered at her over wire-framed glasses. “Just because a dear departed relation—touched by senility—concocted a list of valuable trinkets . . .” She pushed away and he pulled her against his groin.

  On tiptoes, she pressed her lips to the swollen bump.

  “Does not entitle you . . . to steal from every noble house in Belgravia and Mayfair.”

  Her brows lifted. “But the jewels have been restored to their rightful owner.”

  He frowned. “You mean stolen.”

  Cate smiled patiently. “Restored.” She brushed a shock of hair off his forehead and touched the swelling. “And the list was not concocted, as you say. Uncle would never invent such a thing.”

  Finn swallowed. “All right then. Prove it.”

  Her gaze dropped to meet his. Sapphire eyes shaded with desire. Yes, he was quite sure of it. His heart quivered in his chest. Monty Twombly, quacksalver and doctor of phrenology, would call this episode of erratic beats an arrhythmia.

  Finn studied her upper lip. Hard to resist the somewhat plump, well-defined peak. He dipped his head for a kiss, which she quickly broke off and wriggled out of his grasp. It pained him to let her go. All that rubbing and kissing had caused a pleasant, burgeoning effect.

  Cate retreated to her chair behind the desk and dipped a spoon into blackberry preserve. “Piece of toast?”

  “Nothing for me.” Finn strolled around the room. “Robbery is a serious crime with a nasty change of address if you’re caught.” He stopped to admire a bound set of sonnets. “Have you ever paid a visit to Newgate gaol, Cate?”

  Her gaze shot up from the breakfast tray. “My uncle was robbed of a number of valuable pieces of jewelry. I sometimes wonder if those thieves will ever see the inside of a prison.”

  Finn looked up from a small volume of Keats. “Why didn’t you report the theft?”

  She dropped the silver spoon in the preserve. “I most certainly did. An inspector came out from Scotland Yard and took a report.”

  He settled into a chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Simple enough to corroborate.” He removed his spectacles and tucked them away.

  A brief tap at
the door brought a gray-haired woman into the room—a housekeeper of some sort. “Might you be needing anything, Miss Willoughby?” The woman eyed him with a good deal of suspicion. Word traveled fast among house servants.

  “Another cup, Mrs. Mettle. And perhaps one of your powders for that knot on Mr. Gunn’s head?”

  The elder women squinted at his injury.

  Though his gaze remained on Cate, he eased his head back to let the woman prod. “Rather touching, your sudden concern—ouch!”

  Clucks and tsks accompanied more of the woman’s poking. “He’ll be needing a compress, as well.” The elder servant backed away. “Bring him downstairs, if you would, miss.”

  “As you can see, we’re rather informal here at Brookes House.” Cate led the way down the servants’ stairs. “I am forced to get by with the barest amount of help until—” She caught herself. “That is, for the time being.”

  Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Mettle took a damp cloth to the wound. “You mean until you are able to fence the jewels,” he hissed and drew breath between his teeth.

  Unmoved, the woman dipped the cloth in soapy water and continued to dab. “Listen to you—big strapping man like yourself—this’ll give you something to complain about.” She uncorked a small bottle and applied a tincture.

  Finn yelped.

  * * *

  CATE BIT BACK a grin. She’d made no attempt to sell the recovered jewels. Not a single inquiry. And nary a clue how to begin or where to go. Against her better judgment, she had risked additional contact with Agent Gunn. How was she supposed to explain to him that the jewels were part of a larger covert operation? And at the same time, the gems were very much a part of her uncle’s estate, and therefore she needed an idea of their worth. She still held out hope that Finn might point her toward the right sort of buyer—one who would not ask many questions.

  “Fence?” She leaned over her housekeeper’s shoulder. “Whatever do you mean, Finn?”

  He raised a slow, skeptical brow. “A fence is a receiving house for stolen goods.”

  Mrs. Mettle chirped in. “I’ve a cousin who dabbled in a bit of crime. Led the high life for a time, now he’s spending his days in Wormwood Scrubs.” The housekeeper wrapped a length of clean cloth around shaved ice and twisted.

  She took his hand and pressed it over the muslin pouch. “Keep a bit o’ pressure on that egg, sir.”

  Cate held up a dropper. “Tincture of opium, just a—”

  Finn grabbed her hand and jerked it away. “No laudanum.”

  The housekeeper stared. “Cup o’ tea, then?”

  He released Cate’s hand and nodded. “Please. With a spot of cream.”

  Periodically, he displayed quite jarring episodes of temper—or nerves. She had never paid them much mind until recently. He looked at her a bit sheepishly. “I had a close brush with an opium habit after I returned from India.”

  She remained quiet and nodded.

  He studied her from under the compress. “You did a right smart noddle on my head—for a ballet girl.”

  “I shall not apologize for last night, Finn.”

  He lowered the cloth. “Did I ask you to?”

  Gently, she raised the compress up again. “Dancers are always dealing with sprains and swelling. Give it a bit longer.”

  “Sneaky, as well as clever—that move of yours into my coat pocket. Laudable, though mortifying.”

  “You’re humiliated? And what would you call that table dance you had me do at gunpoint?” A slow grin crept across his face and she stared a bit too long at those sensual lips. A pleasant tingle fluttered through her. “You needn’t answer that.”

  “Where are they, Cate?”

  She met his gaze briefly. “I suppose it is a bit ridiculous to play coy at this juncture.”

  Finn lowered the compress. A larger smile created a deep line that ended in a dimple. “I would say so.”

  She produced a pouch from her skirt pocket. Pulling the silk cord, she rolled out the fabric, arranging the jewels on top of the satin. Finn leaned over the table.

  “Two necklaces. A bracelet. A dazzling set of emerald earbobs and a diamond stickpin.” Cate looked up from the array of gems. “Everything I’ve recovered so far.”

  “Stolen,” he corrected her.

  “Recovered.”

  He exhaled. “We’ve been down this road.”

  “Truthfully, I haven’t tried to cash them in because I haven’t a clue where to go.” She hesitated. “I was hoping you might direct me to a jeweler who . . .”

  Even though his grin widened, it was apparent he was not going to volunteer any names.

  “Miss Willoughby will be needing a sharp swag handler. A fence, sir, just as you were saying before.” The housekeeper set his tea down, along with a small pitcher of cream.

  Finn stirred a drop into his cup. “Have you seen these jewels before, Mrs. Mettle?”

  “Not these here, sir.” She nodded at the pretty baubles on the table. “Leastwise, not while the baron was alive.” She slipped a calling card out of her apron pocket. “But this man did.” She slid the card across the table. “Heard them discussing the gentleman’s fee in the baron’s study.”

  Finn removed the cold compress and picked up the gilt-edged card. “Adophe Picard.”

  Cate immediately noticed the raised brow. “And who is Adophe Picard?”

  “Perhaps the most respected gemologist alive. His father was a master jeweler. Years ago, Cartier apprenticed at his workshop.” Clearly flummoxed, Finn pressed her housekeeper for more. “Are you are quite sure Picard met with Baron Brooke?”

  “Oh, their business was real private-like, but I reckon he appraised the gems, sir.”

  Cate blinked at her servant. “You might have told me, Margaret.”

  “Didn’t realize you were a part-time snakeman, miss—until now.” The housekeeper winked.

  “And if I have anything to say in the matter, that sort of risky behavior on the part of Miss Willoughby is about to come to an end.” He answered Cate’s frown with narrowed eyes and a grin. “All right, my dear, I will help you locate and identify the jewels. But in return, I expect due diligence. You must continue your search for proof of ownership.”

  He rolled up the velvet pouch and handed it over. “For the time being, I am willing to entrust the jewels to your safekeeping.”

  Cate suspected this was a peace offering of sorts.

  He held up Picard’s calling card. “May I keep this, Mrs. Mettle?”

  “I’ve no use for it, sir. Only kept it because I thought it was pretty, all those fancy gilt flourishes.”

  Finn rose to leave. “See me out?”

  He didn’t take hold of her arm. Nor did he lightly press his fingers to the small of her back, like a gentleman. His large hand wrapped around hers, warm and reassuring. And something else; there was a kind of intimacy with this man that she quite . . . adored. Cate shook off the thought and reminded herself not to get used to anything about Phineas Gunn, no matter how tempting.

  He retrieved his hat from the vestibule table and turned to her. “There’s a musicale this evening at Ross House, the Marquis of Sutherland’s London residence—old friend of Mother’s. I will fetch you directly after your performance. We’ll miss supper but arrive in time for entertainment. Evelyn Walsh, a fine mezzo-soprano, shall warble out a few arias whilst you and I do a bit of skulking about.”

  “Have I anything to say about this?” she huffed in protest.

  Finn stepped into the street. “New rules, Cate. You cooperate with my investigation and I won’t arrest you.” He tipped his hat.

  She slammed the door. “Wicked, arrogant devil.” She stomped through the house and up the stairs. “Horrid, overbearing beast.” In her bedchamber, she threw open the doors of her armoire. So what might she wear tonight?

  Chapter Eight

  Finn parked MacGregor at the public stables and entered Scotland Yard in a tumult of troubled thoughts. His musings ran from lasc
ivious fantasy to grave speculation, and they were all about Cate Willoughby. He passed Horse Guards stationed at the entrance to 4 Whitehall and headed upstairs, but turned a corner a bit too sharply and stopped short.

  “Phineas Gunn.”

  He blinked at the man he nearly crashed into. “Rafe Lewis.”

  “On my way over to The Rising Sun. Care to join?” The Yard man swept back a shock of hair that perpetually fell in front of his eyes. “I believe Kennedy and Melville are there.”

  Finn pivoted on his heel and followed the agent downstairs. “Exactly who I’m looking for.”

  “New case?” Rafe opened the front door and gestured Finn through.

  “A new old case.” He settled in beside Rafe for the brief walk across Greater Scotland Yard. “What brings you to town? Last I heard, you and Fanny married.”

  “I finally won forgiveness and the darling girl said yes. Couldn’t be happier.” Rafe grinned. “Actually, I’m here to discuss an agent-at-large position in Edinburgh. Fanny won’t let me resign—won’t hear of it. Says I’ll get peevish stuffed in an office all day.” The good-natured agent chuckled. “She’s right, of course.”

  Finn stole a glance at the detective, who appeared annoyingly content. Fulfilled somehow. “Lovely young woman. Mad about you, as I recall.”

  Rafe’s grin went a bit lopsided. “If you ask me, she was entirely too keen on you.”

  “Fanny shamelessly used me to needle you.”

  “And you willingly cooperated.”

  Finn rolled his eyes. “A man would have to be blind to refuse her. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?” He shrugged his way past a blockade of customers at the pub entrance. They found the gray-whiskered director of Special Branch, William Melville, standing amongst his men at a nearby table.

  Glass in hand, Melville cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. Most of us know our intrepid protector of Queen and country as a tireless investigator, working into the wee hours without complaint, except for the occasional grunt or snort.” Melville poured a pint of bitters into the soup bowl placed on the table. “To a nose brave and true. Let us drink a toast to Alfred.”