The red-coated bloodhound sat in a slat-back pub chair, drooling.
“Hear hear!” A rumble of cheers went up from the men surrounding the most valuable dog in the empire. Zak Kennedy nodded to both Finn and Rafe, pointing to a few extra pints on the table.
Finn raised a glass. “And to what auspicious deed, do we owe this auspicious occasion?”
“Alfred has sired a litter of pups,” Melville boasted. “And the bitch has a great nose.”
“Stout lad.” Rafe tipped his drink. “How many new mouths to feed?”
Melville puffed out his chest. “Seven.”
Archibald Bruce, the much-touted young scientist of Special Branch, sidled over. “Hello, Mr. Gunn.”
Finn’s gaze shifted off the hound lapping bitters. “Mr. Bruce. It appears you will soon have an entire squadron of noses at your disposal.”
Archie wiped a bit of foam off his upper lip. “We’re hoping to have a son or daughter at every major port of entry.”
Last year, Archie Bruce had been hired to create a crime scene laboratory. As Finn understood it, the young man had quickly established a bomb detection squad as well as a bomb dismantling and detonation facility in the East End, an unofficial adjunct of the division and, as such, sub-rosa. Archie’s fledgling staff, along with Special Branch agents, had done well for the citizenry of London. Not only had they caught and jailed an assortment of anarchist dynamiters, but they had prevented quite a number of bomb attacks.
“I’m afraid Alfred has recently catapulted to the top of the dynamiters’ enemies list.” The young lab director added a grimace.
Finn stared. “There’s a price on his head?”
Bruce nodded, gulping his stout. “Five hundred pounds.”
Finn blew a low whistle.
With a nose that could identify trace particles of nitroglycerin and diatomaceous earth, Alfred was a serious threat. And London was awash with anarchists and rebels these days. American, Irish, Spanish, French—with enclaves in every major European capital. Which brought Finn to the reason he was here. He caught Kennedy’s eye.
Zak scratched the hound’s ear on his way over. “Shall we grab another pint and some air?” A crowd of lunchtime guzzlers spilled out the door of the pub and onto Greater Scotland Yard.
He and Kennedy relaxed against one of the pillared gates leading to Horse Guards. “So, you have news, Finn?”
He nodded. “Through a strange bit of fortune—or misfortune, depending on how one looks at it—I was able to identify your cat burglar.”
“I take it our man escaped, though you have an identity?” Zak’s mouth twitched.
Finn exhaled. “Your man is most definitely not a he, but a she. And a most lovely one at that.”
Zak straightened. “Don’t tell me—Catriona de Dovia Willoughby.” Much to his chagrin, the senior Yard man tossed back his head with a hoot. “And she got away.”
“You should have seen this early this morning.” Finn swept back his hair to reveal the injury.
Zak squinted. “Nasty knot.”
He released the lock of hair and recounted his evening with Cate, leaving out the more intimate details.
Zak pressed his lips into a firm, flat line, an irritating act that hardly obscured the Yard man’s amusement. “So what do you propose, Finn?”
“I’m not sure yet if she’s operating on behalf of Los Tigres or in her own self-interest. Either way, she’s going to need a fence. I’d like to give her Fabian’s name, but if we bring him in on the scheme, he’s going to need ready cash.”
Zak nodded. “Just so happens I have a satchel full of banknotes confiscated from an arms trafficker. I’ll negotiate with Fabian straightaway.” The detective lifted the brim of his hat and scratched. “It will take a few days to run down Miss Willoughby’s inheritance story. Baron Brooke, you say?”
“Arthur Willoughby, Baron Brooke,” he added, and accompanied Kennedy back across the yard and inside the pub. They were just in time to witness Alfred lap up a second bowl of stout. “He can do another pint.” Archie grinned. “After Victoria’s Golden Jubilee he swilled up several.”
Finn turned to Zak and lowered his voice. “I escort Cate to a musicale this evening, on the lookout for more of Uncle’s booty. I have a scheme in mind that may spur her into action.”
Zak nodded. “Flush her out and follow the money.”
Finn emptied his glass. “It’s the only way to be sure.” Having neatly polished off his bowl of stout, the hound belched.
* * *
FINN REINED HIS mount onto Horse Guards Avenue and hailed the tall, strapping urchin hawking an illustrated weekly. “Over here, lad.” Hoping to make a quick tuppence for holding his horse, the boy came running.
“What’s your name?”
“Charlie Doyle, sir.” The young man tipped his cap.
“Detective Inspector Kennedy tells me you are a trustworthy hard worker.”
The lad nodded shyly. “I do my best, sir.”
He leaned over the neck of his horse. “I’d like to hire you to do a bit of undercover work. There’s half a crown in it for a job well done.”
“Blimey, sir.” The lad’s eyes sparked from his sudden good fortune as well as a chance for adventure.
Finn scratched out an address on the back of his calling card. “I want you to keep an eye on the young woman who lives here.” Finn handed the card over. “Raven-haired, blue eyes, tall and attractive. She takes long, graceful strides—” Finn thought about Cate’s walk and smiled. “With her toes turned out.”
The paper boy scratched his head. “Hard to miss a sight like that, sir.”
“Indeed.” Finn sat back in the saddle. “If she leaves the house, follow her.” He handed the boy several coins. “Cab fare.” A quick study of the lad’s face showed no sign of confusion, only eagerness.
“Once she reaches her destination, wire me at once. Phineas Gunn, Nineteen Chester Square.” Finn gestured at the card and the lad turned it over.
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
He winked at the young hawker. “Keep a sharp eye, Charlie.”
Finn pressed his heels into MacGregor’s side and they made their way uptown. Bounding across Green Park, the greenest park in all of London, Finn maneuvered past the Queen’s gardeners. The lawns were receiving one of their last tidy-ups of the season.
They made reasonably good time crossing town, even with the street congestion. At the public stables, he handed his horse off to a groom and hoofed it down Harley Street.
He was late for his weekly appointment with his quack physician.
A middle-aged man with a wild, unkempt head of salt-and-pepper hair opened the door with a jerk. Keen gray eyes peered over spectacles. “Your hour started ten minutes ago.”
Finn slouched into his usual spot on the divan. “With a great deal of difficulty, over these last few months, I have come to understand something of your unorthodox therapy. And now I discover I must pay your exorbitant fee—to listen and make commentary—with or without my presence.”
Placing a kettle on a grate, Monty paid little mind to his remark. He circled an index finger in the direction of the hearth. “I aspire to become a sorcerer by the age of eighty, able to boil water with a flick of my finger.”
Finn glanced about the area. Threadbare carpets, peeling wallpaper. The treatment room was a shabby affair, nearly beyond repair. Obviously the man’s practice failed to prosper.
Nevertheless, Monty beamed. “One can’t really concentrate without a cup of tea at regular intervals.” The man pulled up a chair. “What’s on your mind, Finn?”
He took his time answering. Frankly, there was only one thing on his mind these days. He shook his head and sighed. “I am recently reacquainted with a young lady who has occupied a great deal of my time and patience.”
“Rather cheeky of her.” Monty tut-tutted insincerely. His physician was so easily amused.
Finn narrowed his gaze. “She kissed me this m
orning. Actually, she kissed an injury.”
His doctor didn’t hide his delight. “Disarmed by a gentle kiss.” Monty settled back and crossed one leg over the other.
Finn swept a few unruly waves off his forehead. “I find her to be intensely disturbing. I’m completely on edge around her. The entire effect is unnerving.”
Monty rubbed his chin. “Have you never felt . . . agitated by a woman?”
“Never.” Finn sighed. “Irritated, often. Stymied—always. Aroused, certainly. But never this kind of lingering . . .”
“Torment?” His physician’s grin couldn’t have been wider or more maddening. “I must say this is progress, indeed.”
Finn loosened his cravat. “How can you call such a thing progress? I’m supposed to feel better, aren’t I?”
Monty opened a notebook and began penciling. “Not necessarily.”
On the ride over, Finn had marveled at how quickly he and Cate moved from anger to affection around each other. Perhaps affection was the wrong word. Had he imagined the tenderness in her kiss? Even now he could feel the brush of her lips over the knot on his head. The one she had made with the butt end of his pistol.
“You’re coming alive.” Musing out loud, his doctor tilted his head to one side. “Which means you are beginning to feel things again. Emotions can be pleasant or unpleasant: positive—pleasure, for example—or negative—feelings of trepidation.” Monty stared for quite a long time. “Tell me something about this young woman.”
Careful not to reveal information sensitive to his case, Finn profiled his impressions of Cate and was surprised by all of the stark contrasts he was able to report. A rare beauty and accomplished ballerina. The lithe and lovely young woman was both clever and disconcertingly independent. When he spoke of her outbursts of temperament in Spanish, Monty grinned.
Silently, Finn ticked off additional notes on her perplexing situation. Possible anarchist sympathizer and put-upon heiress of a bankrupt estate. He was hard-pressed to decide what was the truth. Nor could he discern which one of Cate’s possible situations provoked him the most.
The doctor poured steaming water into a chipped teapot. “In the science of magnetism, there are positive and negative charges. Just so with human interaction. Currently, your emotional body does not readily discern pleasure—that is, good agitation—from displeasure, or bad agitation. I take it the young lady has a name? A given name will do.”
He sighed. “Cate.”
Monty smiled. “Short for Catherine?”
“Catriona.”
“Catriona. How lovely.” The man steepled his fingers under his chin. “What symptoms are expressing themselves these days?”
“Sweating, trembling, shaking. Sensations of shortness of breath. A feeling of choking or smothering. Chest pain. Nausea.” Finn hunkered farther down on the sofa. “Dizzy, but more of a general light-headedness—like a swoon.”
Finn inhaled a breath. Everything about this new therapy was humiliating; still, he pressed on. “Feelings of unreality, detachment from myself. Fear of losing control or going mad. Fear of dying. Paresthesia—your word for the numbness and tingling sensations. Alternating chills and feverish flushes.”
Monty scribbled furiously. “The full gamut, as it were. And when you are with Cate?”
“Some symptoms worsen. However . . .” Finn studied the cracks in the ceiling plaster. “Quite a few of them subside when I’m with her.”
“Then, might one conclude Cate is more of a pleasurable agitation than a distressing one?”
Finn tilted his head to peer at his doctor. “Believe me, she is both.”
“And do the exercises bring much relief?”
“Breathing in one nostril and out the other helps, eventually. Whenever I am outside of the house, I am in a state of moderate hysteria.”
Monty reached for his hand. “No major attacks to report?” He placed his fingers on the inside of Finn’s wrist and opened his pocket watch.
“In the carriage the other evening—the cabin started to close in on me. I nearly had a spell. Nothing full-blown, as long as I can escape small, dark spaces.”
“Your pulse is in the normal range and quite regular.” He released Finn’s wrist and poured tea. Adding a dash of cream to one cup, he passed it over. “I should like you to complete the story of your experience in the Northern Territories one day.”
Finn sipped the Darjeeling and sighed a bit gruffly.
“It’s the key to your cure,” Monty suggested, his spoon clinking softly as he stirred in cream and sugar. “Care to take another stab at it?”
His heart palpitated. “How far did I get last time?”
“A chap by the name of . . .” Monty peered over his cup to read the journal on his knee. “Abdul-Qadir Muhaddith threatened to pluck out your eyes.”
Chapter Nine
The marchioness swept up beside Cate with a wink. “I envy your choice of escort. Do not share that with a living soul.”
Cate pressed her lips together, which forced a telltale dimple. “Neither a tittle nor tattle, Lady Sutherland.” She took in the splendor of the recital hall. A torchère of yellow tiger lilies framed a grand piano on a low dais. The platform was surrounded by several rows of gilded chairs. Drinks in hand, guests grazed a length of buffet tables laden with delicate desserts.
The elegant hostess surveyed a circle of men standing inside the hall. “The Gunn brothers are divine, are they not?” Her narrowed gaze roamed up Finn and down Hardy.
“Very dashing to see them in their plaids.” Cate’s own inspection followed the woman’s example.
“Descended from Pictish tribes and Norse gods.” The marchioness sighed. In one fluid motion, the woman lifted a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing servant and deposited her empty.
Cate scanned a room brightened by kilts. “Quite a few Scots here this evening.”
“Lord George Murray, the marquis, is a Highlander. As a consequence, our invitations often state ‘traditional attire’—formal of course.” The woman dipped closer. “His lordship informs me the Gunn clan are the chief troublemakers of the North.”
“Misadventure does seem to find them.” Cate stole another glance at the devilishly good-looking brothers. Charming, smart, and dangerous, all wrapped up in those eye-catching skirts. In her brief acquaintance with the young gentlemen, she had observed a maelstrom of trouble swirl about them. Finn and Hardy were a formidable challenge to lesser males and a bona fide magnet to women. Worst of it was, they knew it.
Finn had not seemed overly surprised to find his brother at the recital. It seemed Hardy had shown up unannounced and uninvited. On the prowl, one assumed, for Gwen Lennox. Not that Lady Sutherland seemed to mind. Anything to give an evening of piano sonatas and selected arias a bit of a lift.
The marchioness lowered her eyelids and took another smoldering glance at Hardy Gunn. “Nothing quite like a red-blooded young man in a kilt.”
Cate half expected Lady Sutherland to break into song—a few bars of “Hielan’ Laddie.” A smile tipped the ends of her mouth. No, perhaps not.
Sleek and sophisticated, Lucinda Murray was striking to look at. She reminded Cate of a high-strung racehorse. Reluctantly, the lady tore her eyes off Hardy and gave Cate an impatient once-over. “I understand you are related to Arthur Willoughby, Baron Brooke—dear departed soul.”
“My uncle, Lady Sutherland.”
“You come from such excellent stock, yet you’ve taken up a scandalous métier—in the performing arts of all things.”
Cate’s gaze flicked over to Finn. He was on his way over. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “It’s hard to explain, actually . . .” She tried not to appear wistful. “I am passionate about dance and feel blessed to be doing the very thing I love most.”
“My dear, you sound like a vicar with a calling.” Finn stepped up beside her and nodded a bow to their hostess. “Good evening, Lucinda.”
The marchioness rolled her eyes. “I wa
s hoping for a naughty evening—ever since you and Hardy arrived. And Miss Willoughby, of course.” The lady fashioned her signature stiff smile.
Finn waved his brother over. “Then you’re in luck. Hardy is on the prowl for something equally misbehaved.” He stepped back to allow the younger Gunn to move in beside Lady Sutherland.
When the marchioness lifted her hand for a kiss, Hardy leaned in close. “How might I corrupt your evening, Lucinda?” Lady Sutherland snorted a soft laugh as Hardy set her hand on his arm. “And where might a man find a tumbler of whiskey around here?”
Cate tore her eyes off the elegant couple as they receded into the crowd. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. In a gesture that caught her completely off guard, Finn nudged her with his elbow and crooked an arm.
She exhaled a giant sigh and placed her arm in his.
“You aren’t enjoying Lucinda’s barbs and pricks? Come, come, Cate, the evening’s just begun—plenty of room for improvement.” He turned them about and headed for the back of the salon. As they passed the dessert table, Finn plucked a truffle from a tiered platter. He wrapped the round ball of chocolate in a lacy paper and slipped it into his evening jacket. “A bit of sugar for that sour temper of yours, should the need arise.”
“I am not sour, I’m . . .”
“Fractious, peevish . . . in need of a caper?” He tugged her along.
“It’s just that . . .” She returned the polite nod of a frail elderly couple. “A musicale is not quite as sparkling as a ball, if you take my meaning.”
“Nothing of particular note, except for a few stunning ring fingers.” Finn leaned in. “And, oh yes—number seven.”
Cate stopped abruptly and stared. “One sixty-five-carat Ceylon sapphire; 102 cabochon sapphires totaling eleven carats; 868 brilliant diamonds totaling seventeen carats; and two emerald eyeballs weighing a carat each—all set in white gold and platinum.” She pulled him closer. “That number seven?”
“The Panther Brooch.” The twinkle in his eye sent a shiver down her spine.
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 9
