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

by Stone, Jillian

  A gentle smile lit up her face as she sponged off yesterday’s grime. “Yes, and these gangly legs require a shave.”

  Finn reached into his travel bag bedside. Stretching further, he passed her the straight razor.

  “Merci, chéri.” Cate curled her toes over the edge of the tub and soaped her leg. She opened the razor and guided the instrument up from her ankle. “This appears to be an excellent razor. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “I’ll give it a good stropping after you’re done.” Finn punched up a few pillows and leaned back. “Do all dancers groom their legs and underarms?”

  “Body hair is a distraction on stage—some costumes reveal more than others.” Cate grabbed her toes and pointed her leg straight up in the air. She guided the razor along the back of the extended limb.

  “My word, you’re flexible.”

  She lifted one leg then the other for a last inspection. “And getting less so every day I do not practice.” Finished with his razor, she soaped her hair, then piled the tangle of wet strands on her head. She squeezed the sea sponge and a soft rain of clear water rinsed the suds down her neck and back.

  She climbed out of the tub and caught him ogling again.

  “Cate—what am I to do? Not look? Pretend I don’t see those rivulets of water meandering down every curve?” By the time she finished drying off with the rough towel he was hard. And she noticed. And Finn noticed her notice.

  “Touché, Monsieur Curzon.” A smile tugged at the ends of her mouth. “I believe you need a washup. Unless you wish to go around smelling like a shellfish dinner.” She collected a cake of soap and a basin of water and moved to his bedside. Using the sea sponge, she washed him off one limb at a time. She untied the drawstring. “Lift your derriere, sir.” He raised up off the mattress and she pulled off his drawers.

  She purposefully avoided the waving, randy staff that twitched with her every touch. Just when he likely thought she wasn’t going to venture further—she smiled. “Now for the manly bits.”

  Her hand wash left him thoroughly clean and greatly aroused. Once again, she dried him off, ministering to cuts and bruises from a jar of salve. Reaching back into her portmanteau, she unscrewed a tin of scented oil. “Rosemary and lavender oil—for those tight muscles.”

  “I do hope you plan to rub some of that on the caber.” Finn punched up a pillow and locked his hands behind his head. His gaze moved down her legs with a kind of raw hunger, as though he were considering which part of her to taste first. She pulled up the nubby cloth that barely covered her. “Are you determined to drive me mad, Cate?”

  “How impatient you are. Turn over.” She applied the lotion to his skin and massaged his neck and back muscles.

  Finn groaned into the pillow. “M-mm, you are considerably improved in temperament from the peevish young lady of last night.”

  “I was tired and . . .” Her voice drifted off.

  “Randy. Admit it, girl—all that riding on MacGregor and rubbing has made you lusty for me.”

  Cate slapped his bum.

  “Do that again, please.” Finn snorted a laugh and turned over.

  The door to their room opened without a knock. Sylvain stuck his head in the room. “Hoo-hoo! Have I arrived in time or am I too late?” Their host ogled Cate, who wore nothing but a towel. “Perhaps a ménage à trois to begin the day?”

  Finn grabbed a pillow and fired it across the room. It hit the door hard enough to slam it shut. A few goose feathers fluttered to the floor.

  “You must both ready yourselves—quickly,” Sylvain mumbled from the hallway. “We have an appointment in one hour’s time with the British chargé d’affaires. This is a rarity, my friends. No one knows why he is here in town. Une mission très réservée—very secretive! But if anyone can help you, perhaps this man can.”

  * * *

  “HOW DOES THE Mad Hatter of La Flotte get an appointment with the British chargé d’affaires?” Finn backed out of the front door carrying their travel satchels, both firearms slung over his shoulder. “After you, darling.”

  “Might I suggest you ask?” Cate stepped in front of him and stopped abruptly. Finn followed her stare to a rather elegant landau, top down, its tufted leather seats gleaming in the midday sun. MacGregor was saddled and tethered to the back of the fancy carriage.

  Their host opened the door and waved them forward. Finn exhaled, loudly. “I thought we discussed this, Sylvain.” He handed both bags to the driver. “Something a bit drab, so as not to draw attention? Did I not make myself clear?” Finn helped Cate into the carriage and fell in beside her, deliberately quashing the Frenchman’s designs on sitting beside her.

  Sylvain took a seat opposite, seemingly well satisfied with his choice of vehicle. “Why be drab when one can travel in style?”

  Finn glared at the increasingly irritating man. “You might have a few pipers and drummers accompany us into town.”

  “Impossible to sneak into Saint-Martin. You’d both be noticed even if you arrived on a hay wagon. Besides, the sun shines, the weather is mild—let us enjoy.” Sylvain reached under the seat and pulled out a parasol. “So you don’t get spots on your nose.”

  Cate shook her head. “Very kind of you, but I don’t freckle.”

  Finn stared at her, tempted to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. “Ah, but there are moments when you blush a lovely rose color.” Without taking his eyes off her, he ripped the sun umbrella out of the man’s hand and set it beside his long guns.

  He read Cate’s pointed glare perfectly. Temper, Finn.

  Twice in so many days he’d been robbed of intimate relations with Cate. The most desirable young woman he had ever had the good fortune to know, intimately. He exhaled again—harsher still. And hang it all, he had not been able to chase her out of his mind for well over a year now.

  Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for the coitus interruptus, he might be the model of amiability. Tempering a frown, he leaned forward to speak man-to-man with Sylvain. “I had thought to do a bit of skulking about town. That is why I would prefer the carriage to be as inconspicuous as possible, so that my surveillance might remain, how can I put this? Inaperçu—unobserved.”

  Sylvain also leaned forward. “Ah, I did not realize, monsieur.” They were nose to nose. “But, of course, you are a spy. One of those British foreign office agents—”

  Finn very purposely flicked his eyes up to the driver and back. He lowered his voice. “I would prefer to keep that between us for the time being.”

  “I’ve had my suspicions.” Sylvain fell back in his seat. “Dé Riquet sent you.”

  “If we were the truly clever sort, we’d use the landau as a kind of ruse. Spies, as you put it, wouldn’t parade into town—” Finn broke off his speech to study their new cohort. Might this man’s madcap facade mask a more formidable ally or enemy? There was something about the odd Frenchman—Dé Riquet as well.

  “Gentlemen!” Cate sat up straight, her eyes locked on the shore ahead. “Might this be the Citadel? Oh, it must be!”

  Sylvain craned his neck to see over the driver. “None other, mademoiselle.”

  Finn’s gaze swept over the stately, imposing fortress. “I studied Vauban and his designs at university—he is considered one of the greatest military engineers of all time.” He took a moment to admire the impressive arrow-shaped bastions that projected out from the massive stone walls of the enclosure.

  Sylvain explained the layout. “The entire township is under the Citadel’s protection. It is known as a bastioned enceinte. The fortified walls enclose both the village and the Citadel. The stronghold occupies the point on the eastern edge of town. It was converted to a prison more than a century ago.”

  Finn squinted past the great walls to the bay. “The fortress has its own docks, does it not?”

  Sylvain jumped up onto the seat and pointed. “You see the entrance into the quay—just there, reaching out into the bay. The docks are used by supply boats and, of course, to tra
nsfer prisoners.”

  Cate hadn’t spoken much. Finn traced her gaze to the basin. An immense three-masted transport dwarfed the other boats in the surrounding waters. Something about the convict ship reminded him of an old British battleship. “Might I inquire as to how you were able to procure an appointment with the British chargé d’affaires?”

  Rather predictably, Sylvain shrugged. “From time to time, I do favors for the commune magistrate, as well as the gouverneur régional. We travel, en fait, to the governor’s villa for your appointment.”

  If the tales of the man’s exploits were true, that Sylvain had successfully led an escape from the Citadel, then these political connections of his made sense, especially if he was obliged to the state. Very often skilled thieves and confidence men were turned to legitimate service. Finn began to formulate a theory about the odd character twitching on the bench seat opposite.

  “Mais oui, we are here.”

  Inside the walled city, Saint-Martin appeared much like the villages in the southern regions of France. Tile-roofed, whitewashed houses trimmed with pale blue window shutters. As they approached the middle of town, the carriage turned through open gates and stopped at the entrance to the Palais des Gouverneurs.

  Finn spoke in low tones to both Cate and Sylvain. “Shall we get our stories straight? I am prepared to present the letters in my possession. A straightforward offer for an exchange of prisoners.” He turned to Cate. “I do this with the understanding that we will return your brother to England. I will do everything in my power to see that he is treated fairly, Cate, but he must answer to the Crown’s accusations.”

  He waited for her nod, which understandably came with a bit of lip chewing and the most adorable furrowed brow he’d ever seen attached to it. “Good.”

  “Also, we mention nothing about the explosion in La Rochelle harbor.” When Sylvain blinked, Finn shook his head. “Not enough time to explain everything—try to stay with us.”

  Sylvain appeared extraordinarily calm, for once. “For the time being.”

  Finn checked back with Cate. “I’ve a mind, the local authorities might just as soon arrest the lot of us—ask questions later. Especially since we’re going to be poking about asking awkward questions.”

  At the door, Sylvain abandoned them with a wink. “If anyone asks, you are staying at the Le Richelieu!”

  The villa’s lower floor was more of a reception area than a private residence. A thin, storklike gentleman approached them in the foyer, and Finn handed the man his card. “Mademoiselle Willoughby and Monsieur Curzon to see the Attaché Britannique.”

  “Mademoiselle and monsieur, the chargé d’affaires is expecting you. This way, s’il vous plaît.” The man swept ahead of them, pointing to the floor. He appeared to be both butler and secretary. “Over fifty thousand hand-crafted tiles went into the design below your feet,” he intoned. And tour guide.

  By and large, most studies were dimly lit dens oppressed by walls lined with dusty bookshelves. But not this one. Finn followed Cate into an airy room filled with sunlight. A tall figure stood at the window with his back to them. The gentleman stared out past a garden terrace to a view of the Citadel jutting out into the bay. “Embodies the very word formidable, wouldn’t you say?” The unmet gentleman’s voice was resonant, if somewhat overly mannered.

  Finn stepped closer. “Appears to form its own peninsula.”

  The gentleman turned slowly and examined Finn. “I am Adrian Fortesque, British chargé d’affaires.” He spoke in a slow cadence, articulating each word carefully. “Ad . . . interim.”

  Finn met the man’s cool, appraising gaze with one of his own. “And I am your noon appointment. Hugh Curzon, on assignment for the Home Office.” He cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe the Citadel holds two unnamed prisoners, Spanish insurrectionists wanted in Britain for illegal arms trafficking.” Finn paused, unsure how much more he wished to reveal. “If the French will release names, I am authorized to offer a trade. I carry papers signed by the foreign secretary to that effect.”

  Fortesque’s gaze flickered over to Cate. Finn could not say the man’s steely eyes warmed any, but there was definite interest.

  “Allow me to introduce”—as Finn moved back, Cate stepped forward—“Miss Catriona de Dovia Willoughby.” She reached out with her palm down.

  Fortesque bowed and kissed the air above her hand, the proper English way. “Miss Willoughby.” The man straightened to his full height, something just shy of Finn’s own stature. Finn evaluated the man physically. Fortesque was fairly impressive in countenance. A somewhat long nose divided a pleasant, symmetrical face that featured gray eyes and an elegant, high forehead. An honest face, but then he was also a diplomat—hardly trustworthy. Finn exhaled quietly.

  The chargé d’affaires appeared to be in his early forties—or was it the peppering of gray that aged him prematurely? The mane of unruly hair that fell about his face and ears was certainly reminiscent of his own, which caused a grin. Frankly, Finn wondered if this kind of tonsorial splendor was de rigueur for foreign operatives.

  “Lovely name, Catriona.” Fortesque’s movements were smooth, almost stealthlike, as he stepped closer. “You speak the Queen’s tongue, and yet . . .” His eyes drank her in. “I detect an accent.”

  * * *

  CATE WAS USED to unseemly stares from men. Fortesque’s interest was mannered, more gentlemanly, but disquieting nonetheless. What troubled her more than his leer was his power. It seemed clear he was in a position to help her greatly, if he so wished. She wondered if he was the kind of man who would take advantage, but knew, without a doubt, she would have her answer soon enough.

  “Sir, though I am of both Spanish and English blood, my loyalties have always leaned toward England, whereas my brother, Eduardo—his heart is with the workers of España.” Cate twisted a lace-edged pocket square in her hands. “He is El Tigre Solitario.”

  “The Lone Tiger,” the chargé d’affaires murmured.

  Finn fell in beside her. “A romanticized moniker derived more from his tracts and speeches than actual misdeeds. We have reason to believe he may be one of two unnamed anarchists detained in the Citadel.”

  Fortesque straightened. “It is my understanding that that ring of anarchists was broken up last year. The man you refer to was killed during a raid—bombs set off by gunfire.”

  “And since it was my report you likely read,” Finn added a bit of chagrin to his expression, “let me be the first one to admit that I might have been . . . mistaken.”

  “And your hope is that I might fa-cil-i-tate”—the man lifted a brow, as if to accent each syllable of the word—“a dialogue with the French authorities.”

  Cate pressed her lips together and nodded. “If you would, sir.”

  Fortesque studied her a few moments longer, then abruptly shifted his attention to Finn, who opened his coat pocket and handed over an official-looking envelope. “We’re offering up Bonnet and Lefevre if the two unnamed men turn out to be—”

  “The right sort of anarchists.” Fortesque rounded the library table and settled into a chair. “Have a seat.” He gestured to a set of wing chairs and removed the documents from the envelope.

  The longer the man shuffled through the pages, the more nervous Cate became. Her gaze darted over to Finn, who appeared right enough. He winked at her. Desperate not to fidget, Cate tried to slow her intake and exhale of breath, a calmative exercise she’d noticed Finn used on occasion. She had become subtly attuned to the odd quirks of the man sitting beside her, including his breathing exercises. Something he kept to himself, the kind of thing no one would notice unless they observed him closely, as well as the kind of thing that she found incredibly endearing in such an otherwise stoic man.

  Fortesque folded the papers and stuffed them back in the envelope. He looped a finger through one of the ties. “As it happens, there is a reception here this evening in honor of—me.” Fortesque’s grin faded quickly. “It is my unde
rstanding a director from the Ministry of Justice will attend, as well as the gardien de prison. I encourage you both to attend.”

  “Information often flows with the champagne.” Finn uncrossed a booted leg and leaned across the table for the documents.

  Fortesque rose from the desk and tugged on the bell pull. “Mr. Guyot will see you out. My secretary will also see that an invitation is”—he took another long look at Cate as he extended his hand toward Finn—“hand delivered.”

  The moment the British chargé d’affaires left the room, she leaned across the arm of her chair. “He imagines himself a bit splendid. I do hope he means to help us.”

  “Condescending, stiff-arsed bureaucrat.” Finn grunted. “Believe what you wish, Cate, but I’ve learned never to trust a chargé d’affaires—especially an en interim. They’re temporary. They’ve got nothing at stake.” He offered her a hand up. “He’d also enjoy a bit of alone time with you.”

  A sharp knock preceded the gaunt-looking secretary. “Allow me to escort you.” He waved them through the door.

  Cate tugged on Finn’s arm. “I cannot attend a soiree this evening.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I’ve got nothing to wear.”

  Sylvain Robideaux sprang from behind a large potted palm, beaming. “There is to be a gala event this evening. You are invited to attend, yes?”

  “It would seem so.” Finn checked his pocket watch. “My lovely companion has just pointed out the obvious fact that we are woefully underdressed for a such an occasion.”

  “Ah, not to worry.” Their ever-jubilant companion opened the carriage door. “Sylvain knows the best tailor and seamstress in all Saint-Martin.”

  There were times, Cate thought, when the clever Frenchman could be a great deal more than companionable; in fact, he appeared to be connected to everyone in town. “How fortunate we are to travel in your company!” She patted the comfortable upholstered seat and the Frenchman scrambled in beside her. He shouted directions to the driver. “Rue Gaspard.”