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

by Stone, Jillian

  Laurette added a bit of laughter. “He also boasts that he led the only successful escape ever in the history of Le Citadel.”

  Finn stared at the two of them. “So . . . you don’t believe a word of it?”

  “On the contrary, he helped rescue our uncle, Fulbert Géroux.” Bruno cut the motor, and his sister guided the ferry up to the quay. “Sylvain is a friend—raving mad, but . . . a hero to our family.”

  Finn paid their fee and something extra for the information. He also asked a few directions. Laurette called to Finn as the ferry putted away. “Stay close to your lovely woman—Sylvain has roving hands.”

  Bruno barked a laugh. “Arms, hands, legs, feet—tongue. Bonne chance!”

  * * *

  CATE WAVED, EVEN as Finn swept her up in his arms. “I wasn’t planning on getting much sleep tonight anyway.” He lifted her onto MacGregor’s back.

  “And why would you say such a thing? Might you be expecting a reward of some kind for spiriting us safely out of town?” Cate fell back against Finn’s broad chest as he settled in behind her, resting his chin against her hair.

  “I was hoping for something warm and sloppy and wholly erotic.”

  Cate muffled a snort with the lapel of his overcoat. “Friendly, weren’t they, the Géroux siblings? And very helpful, as well.” She angled her chin upward and caught a smug tilt to his mouth.

  He looked down. “Are you always so trusting of people’s stories, Cate?”

  “Are you always such a doubter?”

  “Ah. That is why you need me on this adventure of yours. For I shall play the sober, unwitting suitor who bumbles along, yet somehow manages to keep the beautiful, strong-willed heroine alive.”

  “No, you play the handsome, sober, unwitting suitor—and I am most certainly not an adventurer.” Indignant, Cate looked out into the blackness of the country road, beyond the thick mane and neck of Finn’s horse. Even the sound of the surf failed to soothe, for the moment. “My parents were adventurers. I am no such thing.”

  His incredulous hoot made her cheeks hot. “You boldly sashay into anarchists’ dens. You enjoy a theatrical career, featuring a dangle in midair on gilded swing. You go about your daily life—whether in London, Paris, or Barcelona—unfettered and unchaperoned. I’d have to call you mightily adventurous. An uncivilized prig would call you worse.”

  “Stop taunting me, Finn, or I’ll get down and walk.”

  “We’ve several miles to go yet, and you’re yawning,” he teased good-naturedly.

  “You’d best watch out then—I’m overwrought and peevish.”

  Finn rubbed the top of her head with his chin. “Indeed, you are.” There was something comforting about those pinpricks of beard scratching her scalp. A bit uncouth of him, but also affectionate and intimate.

  “I’d give anything for a few jelly babies right about now,” she sighed.

  “Check my left inside pocket—there might be some seaside rock in there.” Cate dug around and came up with a sack of candy sticks. She swirled one of the hard sticks into her mouth and settled back against him.

  “When Hardy and I were wee lads, Father would lay on the floor between our beds—he suffered from gout—and tell us battle stories. Mostly old Gunn clan legends.”

  “My father told army tales.” Cate lay her head against his chest. “I should like an army tale, Finn.”

  “Most of my service stories would give you nightmares.”

  “You must have at least one.”

  There was a long pause as he, presumably, shuffled through memories for a less gruesome tale. She had gotten the impression several times that his experience in Near Asia had been difficult. Perhaps more than difficult. Finally, he cleared his throat. “There is one . . . possibly.”

  Cate yawned. “Tell it, please.”

  “Not long after I arrived in India, I was transferred to Lahore, the Third Punjab Cavalry—made up of Sikhs, mostly, and a few British officers,” he began slowly. “We received orders to reinforce Kandahar and set off straightaway. The terrain was steep, rugged—completely unforgiving. We were attacked in a narrow pass and my horse was shot out from under me.

  “I heard a shout—‘Behind you’—and rolled over in time to put a bullet in a man swinging a large curved sword at me. I then crawled over to the Sikh soldier who had warned me. Both his legs were shot up. He pointed to a young horse, a cannon hauler. Part of the trail had collapsed under the horse, and he was mired chest deep in bodies and loose earth. To top it off, the loose ground around us threatened to slide again, to take everything with it—cannon, horses, wounded.” Finn checked his pulse mentally as he continued and found it elevated well beyond the norm. “Bullets were still flying, by the way.”

  She sighed. “Making you all the more brave.”

  Finn grunted. “Men take risks in battle. Risks they’d never take otherwise—for their comrades.”

  Cate tilted her chin up and grinned. “Either two- or four-legged, I presume.”

  “What was left of the regiment had taken cover. Pashtun snipers were picking off anyone who moved below. When the sun moved behind a mountain peak, everything in the ravine was thrown into shadow. I organized a few of our men to return fire, which gave me enough cover to get over to the trapped horse. I unhooked his rigging and slipped a bridle on him. I’ll be damned if the horse didn’t listen to me like he spoke English as well as you or I. Calmly, I coaxed him up out of the debris one leg at a time.

  “I picked up two other injured men and the big red horse carried the three of us up the trail, where we met up with more of our men. We made the fort by nightfall. Late that evening, I got called to the infirmary. The chap who had called out—saved me and the big red horse—wanted to chat for a bit. Said his name was Sergeant Bhai Singh MacGregor. I thought he was not in his right mind—delirious—Scot and Sheikh? As it turned out, he was dying. And he, indeed, was part Scot. Adopted and raised by a Third Gurkha Rifleman named MacGregor.”

  “And the big red horse—you named him Sergeant MacGregor.” Cate nestled into his chest. Finn rested his chin beside her temple.

  “That, I did.”

  “Did you and MacGregor have other adventures in Afghanistan?”

  “Several. But I must reserve those tales for another day. Look ahead, Cate, toward the water.”

  Cate straightened at the sight of the lighthouse. “This is where we find the man Sylvain.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Finn stepped back from the door, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Bonjour! N’importe qui à la maison?” He squinted up at the steep roofline. A row of gabled windows remained dark and closed. The residence turned out to be a two-story stone cottage, something that might accommodate the keeper and his family—but at the moment it seemed no one was home. Which was quite impossible, as a beam of powerful light swept past shoals and surf at regular intervals.

  A strong offshore breeze whipped up from the shoreline. Cate pulled his coat tighter around herself. “There must be another entrance.”

  Finn grabbed her hand, and they circled the residence. They found a rise of wooden steps leading up to the tower door. He rapped on the door. This time he tried the latch. The door swung open almost silently and he ushered Cate inside.

  He kept his arm around her and pressed her against the closed door. “I can’t see a blasted thing—if you’ll excuse me?” He opened and slipped his hand inside his coat—the one Cate was wearing. His hands accidentally brushed across her breasts. “Sorry for the rudeness.” He could not see her expression, but imagined a delightful eye roll.

  Cate sighed. “Such a lie. You’re not the least bit sorry.”

  “No, I am not.” He thought about kissing her. There was something about Cate that made him desirous of her in the most inappropriate situations. He groped around and found the deep inside pocket he was looking for. He pulled out the torch. “Ah, here you are.” He toggled the switch and for good measure banged the cylinder holding the batteries
against his palm. A swath of light illuminated parts of the room. A modest secretary and traveling chest occupied most of the space. “The keeper’s office, is my guess.” He swung the beam over Cate.

  “What is that thing?” She blinked at the gadget in his hand.

  “An electrical torch powered by experimental batteries. Quite a miraculous bit of invention, compliments of Scotland Yard’s crime laboratory.”

  Finn pointed the beam up a staircase that spiraled around the cast-iron cylinder that ran down the center of the lighthouse. “Hello? Anyone on duty?” Finn called out again and waited. Nothing but whirring and clicking . . .

  He turned to Cate. “What do you make of those sounds?”

  She peered up through the twisting stairs. “Clockworks, perhaps?”

  Finn nodded. “Let’s have a look.”

  They reached a landing near the top of the tower, which housed a number of clockworks, large and small, all buzzing and whirling. It appeared they were in some sort of service area, just below the lantern room. A shadow played on the stairs overhead.

  A figure swung over the railing and landed directly in front of them. Finn pulled Cate away from some sort of mad, grinning gorilla. Or was this leaping figure a drunken, naked Frenchman? One covered in copious amounts of body hair. “Ah, nuit glorieux. Les étoiles, la lune, une belle femme . . .” The man made no attempt to cover himself and lunged closer.

  Finn stepped in front of Cate. “Shall we leave it at bonsoir?”

  “Ah—you are Anglais! I spend three years in Portsmouth. I shall translate. Une nuit comme ce soir? On such a night as tonight? Une beauté visite mon phare? A beauty visits my lighthouse?” The man craned his neck to get another look at Cate.

  Finn stared. Accompanying the man’s annoying French lesson, there was a good deal of bobbing and weaving and wild arm gestures. The strange character appeared to be in performance mode for an audience of one—Cate. Finn drew himself up to his full height and leaned over the furry little devil. “Far be it from me to dash your hopes with the young lady, but she’s taken. And might I suggest you don . . . a loincloth?”

  The man leaped backward. For a moment, Finn thought the wiry, athletic character might backflip and walk away on his hands. It didn’t help matters any that Cate was laughing. Uncontrollably.

  He silently cursed Dé Riquet’s suggestion of a respite in La Flotte. “Ooof! The little man dances in the breeze,” he said. The strange creature wiggled his hips side to side. “But not so little, oui?”

  Finn looked back as Cate peeked around his shoulder. “You find gypsy circus performers with Saint Vitus Dance appealing?” He kept himself positioned between the mad Frenchman and Cate, who did not try very hard to smother her laughter at—yes, this had to be him—Sylvain Robideaux.

  “Bugger this!” Finn pulled out his pistol.

  Immediately, the wily man sobered. “You are here to rob me? As you can see, I have nothing to steal.” He dropped his hands to display his gentlemanly wares. “Nothing but nature’s jewels, mais oui?”

  “We are not here to steal anything. Dé Riquet suggested we might rest here.” Finn holstered the gun inside his coat. “An obvious mistake on our part. Come on, Cate.”

  “Did you say, Dé Riquet? One moment!” The character waved a finger and disappeared up the stairs.

  “Good God, even his ass is hairy,” Finn remarked as he craned his neck to peer up the curved rise of stairs. A smattering of whispers and giggles emanated from above, along with feminine laughter. The odd man poked his head over the railing. “Don’t go.”

  Finn turned to Cate. “What do you make of this? Do you wish to stay or leave?”

  She raised both brows, along with her shoulders. “I don’t believe he’s dangerous. Besides, I have you to protect me.” Finn studied her lopsided grin, which had an infectious effect on him.

  “All right,” he groused, “but if he comes back wagging that little ferret in the air again . . .”

  “Bonjour de nouveau et bienvenue!” Descending the stairs, Sylvain now wore trousers and pulled braces over his shoulders. “Please sit down—friends of Dé Riquet are friends of mine.” Their host, if one could call him that, added a few lumps of coal to a small iron stove. “Wine, cognac?” He opened a glass cabinet and took down a bottle. “I am Sylvain Robideaux.” There was a small cot placed against the wall, and two ladder-back chairs. He bid them each take a seat. “And you are?”

  “Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. Please, call me Cate.” Every so often the man fiddled and twitched. It was distracting.

  Finn examined every corner of the room, before settling into a chair beside Cate. “I am Hugh Curzon, the lady’s escort. Might I ask—why do you suppose Dé Riquet suggested we pay you a visit?”

  Robideaux gathered up three glasses from a sideboard and uncorked a bottle of brandy. “Let me wager a guess. You journey to Saint-Martin. Perhaps you have some sort of business at the Citadel?” He passed them each a glass of cognac and sat down. The man wasn’t down a second before he jumped out of his seat and called to the ladies standing on the steps above. “Are you dressed, mes chéris?”

  Two plainly attired but rather pretty young women descended the stairs. With a nod to Cate and a surprisingly brazen inspection of Finn, the girls gathered their coats and started downstairs. Robideaux followed after, protesting their departure.

  Cate leaned across the table. “It appears we interrupted the gentleman’s leisure.”

  At least one side of Finn’s mouth cracked in a smile. “Hard to know whether we arrived pre-, mid-, or postcoitus.”

  Her gaze traveled warily about the lighthouse service room. “There has got to be a reason Dé Riquet sent us here,” she whispered. “He must have heard the anarchists talking—something about my brother being held on this island. I believe Monsieur Robideaux can help us. And I so fear that Eduardo is about to be transported off to—”

  “Devil’s Island.”

  Finn turned toward the voice behind him. A sobered Robideaux stepped onto the landing. “Prisoners are gathered and held at the Citadel until they fill the convict ship. Then bon voyage, never to be—”

  At least the man had the decency to stop, Finn thought.

  Finn sipped on the excellent French brandy and studied the bedeviled fellow. It seemed nothing about this chap was quite right. His hair was arranged in a series of lopsided ragged tufts, and there was something about the mad gaze . . . One eye didn’t quite track with the other. Robideaux poured himself a glass.

  “Haven’t you had quite enough for one evening?” Finn grumbled.

  “This?” He held up his glass. “Mais non, Monsieur Curzon. It is the absinthe that makes me crazy.”

  Finn supposed that explained at least some of the man’s confounding behavior. Their host settled back in his chair and stared at Cate. “How is it you don’t know if your brother is in the Citadel? People are either prisoners or they are not, mademoiselle, it is not a matter of guessing.”

  Finn set his glass down and uncorked the cognac. “Mind if I pour myself another?”

  Robideaux shrugged. “As I said, if Dé Riquet sent you, then you are my guests. What is mine, is yours.”

  Finn sat back with his glass and explained, “The incarceration of political prisoners is tricky and very often secretive. Anarchists sometimes fall into a gray area not covered by the War Powers Act. Nor do they enjoy a citizen’s rights. And though not strictly lawful, the names of these men can be withheld. As it turns out, I have a bit of business to do with the French authorities in Saint-Martin. Might you have any contacts there?”

  “We would be most grateful for your assistance—” Cate covered a yawn. “And a bed for the night. I would love to rest my head on a pillow for a few hours.”

  Robideaux tossed back the last of his brandy. “You are tired. We shall talk in the morning.” Once again, the wiry man leaped from his chair and led the way out of the tower.

  Inside the keeper’s cottage, he showed
them to a small upstairs bedchamber that was clean and recently swept, clearly indicating the man employed a housekeeper.

  “I’m off to bed down MacGregor and see to our bags.” Finn leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well. Shall I wake you early?”

  “Don’t you dare.” Cate flopped onto the bed, fully clothed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A shaft of morning light angled across a small copper tub in the middle of the room. Cate shed her pantalets, testing the water with her toe. “Was your swim in the ocean invigorating?” she asked. An offshore breeze teased up a window curtain as well as dusky nipples. “Compared to a ballet girl au naturel?”

  Finn’s gaze lingered. “You are the very definition of the word invigorating.”

  She sank into the water and sighed. “I shall kiss Adèle for this bath.”

  Finn rubbed his hair dry with a rough towel and stepped into a pair of clean drawers. “So, we’re on a first-name basis with the staff now?”

  “And what about you, sir—up with the cock’s crow, I take it?” She dunked a washcloth in the water. “I found this small bath in the kitchen along with a housekeeper, who introduced herself as Adèle. An attractive woman, don’t you think?”

  “She bakes a bonny brioche.” Finn flopped down on the bed and stuffed a few pillows behind him. “I do hope you had yours dripping with melted butter and strawberry conserve.”

  “I swooned over every morsel.” Cate closed her eyes, and lay back against the rear of the tub. “According to Adèle, who insisted on practicing her English, you and our host Sylvain spoke at length this morning—in hushed tones. ‘Sylvain go the village and Monsieur Curzon groom and feed his cheval.’ ” Cate perfectly mimicked the housekeeper’s heavy accent.

  “Lovely patois of French and English.”

  “And what of Eduardo?” Cate used a washcloth to soap her neck and shoulders. “We should push on to Saint-Martin soon.”

  “Sylvain seems to believe the transfer to the ship will take place tomorrow. He’s gone to the village to see what else he can ferret out.” Finn appeared to be enjoying her bath as much as she was. “If I were a painter, I would paint you this way—with those few strands of hair loosed from the knot on your head and those dancer’s limbs draped over the sides of the tub.”