Finn paced a circle around the boy. “You’re sure it was her?”
“Saw her plain as day—wearing a blue traveling coat and dress. Carrying the same heavy satchel.”
“All right.” Finn played out several possible scenarios in his head. “I need you to follow after. Just a hunch, but she’s likely on her way to St. Pancras station. Hopefully, she’ll have to wait for the train to Dover.”
Finn handed the boy several coins. “I’m off to the wire office. Meet you at St. Pancras.” He turned back. “And next time, don’t wait for me—jump on board with the lady. I’ll catch up somehow.”
Charlie nodded. “I will, sir.”
Aboveground, Finn checked on Sergeant MacGregor, then made for the telegraph office. He entered the busy hall and took a chance on the only free clerk. “May I help you, sir?”
He noted a single wire form lay in the OVERSEAS basket on the man’s desk. There was a chance Cate’s message had not yet been passed on to the translating department. And if her missive had not been made into code . . .
Finn leaned across the counter. “A young lady was here, not long ago, lovely to look at—tall, wearing a blue traveling costume. She likely paid for a wire to be sent overseas. Is that the message?” He nodded toward the tray. “If so, I’d like to have a look at it.” He pushed his card across the counter. “The young lady may be in danger. This is of upmost importance to the Crown.”
The man read the card and raised a brow. “One moment, sir. I must clear this with my supervisor.”
Finn pushed a fiver across the polished wood counter. “Just turn the message over, and let me read it from here, while you collect your boss.”
The clerk palmed the note and flipped Cate’s missive over.
The message was written in a familiar cursive hand.
Arrive Giverny late tomorrow. Quiet Woman.
Finn reread the words. She was off to the countryside outside Paris. And she had signed the wire Quiet Woman. Or was the Quiet Woman the name of an inn?
* * *
CATE EXITED THE Underground and made her way along Pancras Road to the impressive rail station. Holding on to her hat, she tilted her head back to take in the curved steel arches and the orderly red bricks of the tall clock tower.
From Farringdon Station to King’s Cross she had thought of nothing else but him. She had come to know the stubborn, dogged nature of Agent Gunn these last few days. Boarding the Underground train she had glimpsed a determined scowl and a promise: I will catch you soon enough, Miss Willoughby. The very thought sent shivers, as well as tingles, though her.
Her lower lip was raw from too much gnawing. She bit down anyway. Try as she might, she could not get Finn’s fierce look out her head. And she was sure it was his fist that pounded the door as it cranked shut. Cate swallowed. No doubt he believed her to be a traitor and a thief. And perhaps she was. At this juncture, it wasn’t important what Finn thought.
She spotted her contact ahead, dressed in a black overcoat. The man stood beside a balustrade overlooking St. Pancras station. “I received a rather shocking wire this morning,” the man grumbled.
She leaned over the balcony. “Can I count on you?” Her query floated into the vast space above the platforms. He made eye contact briefly, then turned toward the view of the train shed below. “You realize you are very likely walking into a trap, my dove.”
She knew him only by the initial W. And he had given her a code name, Paloma. Spanish for dove. “If there is a chance Eduardo is alive, I must see this through.” She could barely hear her own speech over the hubbub.
The man’s scowl warmed into a fatherly frown. “We are willing to go along with your plan—for the time being. And we will help if we can.” Abruptly, the man stepped away, and then turned back. “As I can spare no one, it might not be such a terrible idea to encourage . . . Agent Gunn?” A bushy brow lifted.
She lifted her gaze to the sweeping arc of skylight overhead. “I believe his involvement to be inevitable.”
The grin she received from W. was more of a smirk. “Well, that is a spot of good news.” He turned and disappeared into a throng of travelers.
Cate headed downstairs to the train platforms. She was playing both sides in this game of chance—but the reward was so much greater than the risk. She blinked back a bit of excess moisture in her eyes. There was no time for regrets or tears. Not when there was a chance her brother was alive.
* * *
FINN STORMED INTO his study and unlocked his gun cabinet. “Bootes!” He removed his Purdey double rifle and his ten-gauge, double-barreled, sawed-off shotgun, known affectionately as Bully. He placed both guns on his desk, along with several cases of shells and bullets.
“You’re leaving us, sir?” His manservant stood in the doorway, prepared for duty. Finn’s field assignments seemed to always happen in a hurry.
“Pack the saddlebags. Field attire—plenty of clean shirts, nothing formal. Be sure to include a bedroll and canteen.” He handed Bootes the ammunition boxes. “Bullets on top—and when you’re done, let the groom tie everything on, along with my rifle holster.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler slipped out of sight.
Finn forced himself to sit down at his desk and scribbled off a message. Folding the note, he consulted the Metropolitan Rail schedule. The train to Dover was scheduled to depart at 12:25 p.m. The mantel clock read 11:45. Forty minutes to cross town and grab Cate before she escaped London.
Devil take it, Sergeant MacGregor would have to grow wings.
He might have sent Scotland Yard a message from the telegraph office earlier. Finn took in a deep breath and exhaled. The young lady was having her effect, on gray matter as well as other extremities. No matter. He would proceed under the assumption that she would not be apprehended in London. And bugger all, if he was going to end up chasing Little Miss Anarchist over every hill and dale of the Continent, he was not leaving town unprepared. He had taken a calculated chance and ridden straight for his residence. Even if her trail went cold, he was confident he would pick it up again. Over the years, he had developed contacts in France. People who had an ear to the underground.
Finn checked his coat pocket and removed Fabian’s revolver. He replaced the inferior gun with his old service pistol for good measure. Sliding out several desk drawers, he removed an ammunition belt, compass, spyglass, hunting knife, and his military-issue holster.
He shrugged off his jacket and slipped both arms through the shoulder harness. With an eye on the clock, he holstered his Webley Mk1 and pulled his coat over the lot. On his way out the door Finn grabbed both long guns and flung the belt of bullets over his shoulder. He ran into Bootes in the hall.
“Packed and ready, sir.”
He tugged his duster coat on and made his way to the mews. Saddled up for field service, Sergeant MacGregor snorted a greeting. Finn checked the rigging and slid his rifle into the side holster angled along his mount’s flank.
“Do you expect to be gone long, sir?” Bootes handed him his slouch hat and travel papers. Finn checked the name on his passport. Hugh Curzon.
“Not long, I hope.” He donned the wide-brimmed hat, grabbed the pommel, and lifted himself onto the saddle. “If I’m not home by this evening, deliver this to Hardy.” He handed his manservant the note.
Bootes stepped out of the way. “Safe journey, sir.”
He and MacGregor fought a snarl of traffic congestion from Piccadilly to Charing Cross Road, but when they turned for the station he thought he might have a fighting chance to catch her. He parked his horse with a stout lad and descended belowground. Crossing under the expansive vaulted ceiling of the train shed, he read the schedule board. DOVER PLATFORM 9. Due to depart in less than . . . Bollocks.
He zigged and zagged against a horde of arriving travelers, keeping his eyes peeled for either Cate or Charlie Doyle. Where was the lad?
A flap of blue traveling coat flashed just ahead. “Excuse me.” Finn pressed through a k
not of passengers blocking his view. “Pardon.” He caught sight of the woman in blue as she entered one of the passenger cars. Stepping up his dodge and weave, Finn raced down the platform and entered the second-class passenger car. He spotted her sitting midway down the aisle.
Finn approached from behind. “Would you like me to arrest you here, or do you promise to leave the train—” He nearly choked. “You’re not Cate.”
An attractive middle-aged woman looked him up and down as a slow smile curved the ends of her mouth. “Unfortunately not.”
The passenger car lurched as the brakes released. “Sorry to disturb.” Finn tapped the brim of his hat and scanned the rest of the railcoach. Might she be hiding in plain sight? The train began a slow crawl out of the station. He checked the section of car ahead, then turned and walked every aisle to the rear baggage car. Cate was nowhere to be found.
He stepped off near the end of the platform and watched the train fade into the velvet blackness of the tunnel.
“Where is she, Mr. Gunn?” Charlie ran up beside him. “The young lady got on the train. I saw her myself.”
“It wasn’t her.”
“No, sir. I got a good look at the lady on the train. It was her. I swear it.”
“I’m telling you—” Finn glanced upward. Another flash of blue from high above the platform. He narrowed his eyes. The woman appeared to be in a hurry. He sprinted for the stairs that led to the street-level balcony. Open arches afforded passengers an excellent view as they entered the grand station.
“I see her, sir.” He and the boy raced along the balustrade. Outside the station, they caught sight of her again as she climbed into a waiting carriage.
“Hold the team, Charlie.” Finn flashed his revolver up at the driver. “Scotland Yard.” He ripped the door open. Almost in unison the frightened females inside the coach screamed.
He dipped his head inside the cabin, swearing under his breath. “Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.” His cursory search ended on the young lady’s companion, a matronly scarecrow who raised her umbrella. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” The chaperone missed his head, but got off a good thwack to his shoulder.
“My apologies.” He backed off and closed the door, signaling the boy to release the horses. The driver flicked his whip and the carriage swiftly pulled into traffic.
Finn rubbed his shoulder. A disquieting scene intruded upon his thoughts. An image of Cate dressed as a chimney snake. She unbuttons a man’s tailored shirt and reveals a curve of breast. She turns her back. Sleeves slip off silken shoulders; trousers roll off rounded buttocks and drop to the floor.
Finn shook his head and exhaled. “You were right, Charlie.”
“I like being right—what about?” The lad beamed.
“She was on the train.” Another picture emerged—pure conjecture, mind, but it was the only plausible explanation. Cate cramped inside the water closet of the passenger car. She must have changed clothes. He remembered a blur of bowler hats peeking above open newspapers. He’d passed more than one gent with his head buried in the afternoon edition of the Guardian.
He stared into a blur of bustling street traffic. First rule of battle: never underestimate your opponent. He had underestimated Cate.
“Is something amusing, sir?”
He turned to his young helper. “I fail to find anything comic about losing Miss Willoughby.”
Charlie shrugged. “You’re smiling, is all.”
Chapter Thirteen
Cate leaned over the passenger rail as the steamer chugged past a majestic, tall-masted ship. She inhaled a breath of ocean air. “Heave away! Stand by to tack!” The captain’s order to set sail easily carried between passing vessels. “Take them away now!” The great ship’s sails snapped back at her crew and caught wind.
They were almost to port. The ferry slipped between a pair of giant stone sentinels, ancient watchtowers that had stood guard at the entrance of La Rochelle for centuries. The day-long voyage from Cherbourg had allowed her a restorative nap and time had ticked by quickly. While the ferry pilot skillfully maneuvered the boat dockside, Cate admired a jumble of colorful shop fronts. Higher up, as the view receded, tile-roofed buildings stacked themselves against the old fortress walls of the city.
She reached for her portmanteau. “Attendez, s’il vous plaît, mademoiselle.” The call came from the pilot housing above. Cate waited at the gangway of the steamship.
The boat’s captain handed over a letter. She stared at the sealed envelope in her hand. More instructions. She scraped pearly uppers over her lower lip. So far, Los Tigres Solitarios had given her explicit instructions and little time to think. Their detailed travel itinerary had ended here, in La Rochelle. Until now.
She supposed she ought to feel relieved. Instructions would mean she would know what do next—where to go, who to contact. The idea of blindly following more of their directives, however, did nothing to assuage her unease. Growing suspicions and fears had kept her tossing and turning most of last night.
Yesterday, upon arrival in Cherbourg, she had booked passage to La Rochelle and taken a room at the inn. She had spent the night drifting in and out of disturbing dreams. In one strange reverie, she followed a shadowed figure, calling the name of her brother. She had pursued the amorphous creature down an endless corridor, opening and closing door after door. And just when she got close enough to reach out—the dream shifted.
Immersed in darkness and smoke, an imposing figure walked straight toward her. He wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his face and a long coat. Belts made up of bullets crisscrossed his chest. The face of the stranger remained shaded, but a shiver rattled her down to her bones. He levered a double-barreled gun and fired.
Her body jerked her upright and she gasped for air. A drizzle of sweat had run down the bridge of her nose and fallen onto her lower lip. She had licked drops of perspiration away. They had tasted like tears.
Cate pocketed the letter, and checked her timepiece. Plenty of light left to explore La Rochelle. Gripping her travel case, she made her way down the gangway and onto the pier. A carriage rolled off the ferry onto the cobbled lane. She dashed around the team of horses and wound a path through luggage carts and crated goods. She nodded to a few finely dressed travelers; wealthy merchants, likely.
Yesterday, she had eluded Finn and that young street urchin spy of his—very well done, she thought. At the very least, she was confident she had delayed his departure from England. She had telegraphed a false destination in France and made it abundantly clear she was headed for Dover, then Calais. But in actuality, she had changed trains in Lambeth. Not knowing which, if any, of her ruses worked, she arrived in Portsmouth in time to catch the last ferry to Cherbourg.
Cate made her way along the broad avenue of Quai Duperré. The clear sky of her sea journey had begun to cloud over. A splash of rain fell on her cheek. More wet spots pattered softly on the pavers. She turned down an arcade-lined street and took refuge under the impressive arches of the clock tower. The exotic scents of the port town concentrated into a heady mélange in the dank stew of light rain. She sniffed: Madeira, tea chests, and the pungent scent of clove.
She opened the letter. No surprise here. More instructions, much less detailed this time. Consulting the message again, she pivoted toward the east and spied a small address sign on a building ahead. 3 Place L’Hôtel De Ville. On the corner, a waiter scurried about, moving chairs and tables under the arched walkway.
Cate brightened at the sight. It was teatime and there was a café connected to the hotel. The rumble in her stomach reminded her how long it had been since she’d had a good strong cup of French coffee and a plate of madeleines. She opened her umbrella and dashed out into the rain.
* * *
LIGHTNING CRACKED OVERHEAD, followed shortly by a boom of thunder. The big red horse leaped sideways, ears flicking front to back. “Aye, MacGregor, looks as though the storm’s caught us.” Finn spoke softly, gentling his skittish mo
unt.
The weather had threatened a downpour since he and MacGregor stepped ashore. The storm obscured Finn’s vision enough that he nearly missed the gravel drive. “Bloody hell.”
Sergeant MacGregor snorted clouds of pale breath as he splashed through small puddles en route to Château Du Rozel. Finn squinted at a few cottages scattered along the coastline. Les Pieux was more of a whistle-stop than a seaside resort, barely a dot on the map. He had spent a pleasant few days with Aurélien and Gilbert last year, on his way back to London. The Clouzot brothers lived in a charming old ruin of a castle not fifteen miles from Cherbourg. It was a long shot; the two could be off adventuring in the skies somewhere. But time was of the essence, and if anyone could help him catch the wily Miss Willoughby, they could.
There had been no time to change his legend. His travel papers identified him as Hugh Curzon. The Foreign Office or Naval Intelligence would confirm his identity if questioned by French authorities. His cover assignment was more of an inquiry, a dull bit of business for the Crown. The French held a number of political dissidents at a prison called the Citadel. Disrupters of every stripe, including dynamiters. He was to contact a British chargé d’affaires there. Finn carried on his person an official offer—a proposal for an exchange of prisoners.
Unofficially, he was in pursuit of Cate Willoughby, jewel thief, anarchist collaborator, agent provocateur.
A crooked line of brilliant light met the ground up ahead. Thunder rumbled softly. The storm appeared to have moved ahead of them.
Finn had spent a restless few hours on the ferry from Portsmouth to Cherbourg trying to reconcile his past memories of the woman he hunted. A year ago, her guileless, innocent beauty had captured him, body and soul. Even now, he was bewitched by her daring—her courage. She was as desirable now as she was then—perhaps more so.
He had wrestled with his reemerging feelings for Cate the entire voyage across the channel. If dealing with his nervous condition had taught him anything, it was to take several deep breaths and evaluate the circumstances. Especially before scuttering after dangerous maidens, no matter how tempting they might be.
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 12
