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

by Stone, Jillian

  A cloud bank partially blocked out the sun as they exited the long drive. Finn’s expression darkened along with the sky. Obviously disgruntled with the seating arrangement, Finn slouched into the opposite bench and glowered. “We will likely have opportunity to speak with the prison warden this evening. What can you tell us about him?”

  The wiry Frenchman sobered, somewhat. “Moreau’s nickname is Vipère. “Several years ago, he was taking his evening constitutional around the fortress grounds. At one point, he stepped off the path and into one of the gardens. He emerged holding a garter snake in his hand, blood dripping down his arm. On closer inspection, it was observed that the snake’s head was missing. The new warden swallowed and smiled triumphantly—teeth stained with red. It is said one of his guards fainted at the realization.”

  “You can’t mean . . .” Cate looked from one man to the other.

  Finn stared. “Jesus.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “So we’re dealing with someone who will go to great lengths to make an impression.” Finn loosed his collar. “Ferocious theater, at any rate.”

  “He’s a mild-mannered character—almost meek in some ways. A former priest. Defrocked, rumor has it. He finds me amusing.” Their fidgeting friend seemed less restless of late. “But there is often a predatory look in his eye, as though he challenges me to try another breakout. He ends conversations by saying, ‘You must visit us again, Sylvain. Stay a little longer next time.’ ”

  Cate stared. “He openly taunts you?”

  Sylvain shrugged. “Moreau prides himself on strict discipline and, of course, no successful escapes.” The Frenchman patted her gloved hand. “Something I know not to be true, by the way.”

  One side of Finn’s mouth twitched. “I thought you retired.”

  Sylvain held a finger to his lips and grinned. “What more can I tell you about Vipére? The warden walks with a slight limp. The knob of his cane is embellished with—”

  “Let me guess, the head of snake,” Finn interjected.

  “Ah, we are here.” The carriage turned onto a charming lane lined by topiary trees, a few fashionable shops, and a café. Sylvain leaped out of the carriage and swept them both inside the dressmaker’s salon.

  “Our Parisian couturier, Madame Gagelin.” Sylvain kissed the outstretched hand of a handsome woman dressed in a stylish gown. As if in a reverie, their odd companion bounced around the showroom without bothering with much of an introduction. “Friends of mine, madame, in dire need of your services.”

  Finn had observed the lines of a dress in the window. A lovely evening frock in shades of violet. Sumptuous fabrics with tonal designs draped over a narrow skirt. No lace. No bows. No need for the added frippery that British dressmakers were so fond of. The sleek bodice featured a plunging neckline with a draped diaphanous modesty panel. A man would still be entranced by a hint of cleavage, perhaps more so.

  The modiste wore a measuring tape around her neck as if it were the strands of a necklace. Her gaze swept from Sylvain to Cate and landed on Finn.

  He stepped forward and turned up the charm. “Enchanté, madame.” He brushed the woman’s hand with his lips—when in France, do as the Frenchmen do. Besides, he had a mind to cajole the woman into selling him the sample gown in the window. The dress would look ravishing on Cate. There were times when her brilliant blue eyes turned violet, and this gown would enhance the effect.

  Finn continued, “I’m afraid we have arrived in Saint-Martin ahead of our luggage. Quite unannounced, it seems Miss Willoughby and I are expected to attend a reception this evening at the Palais des Gouverneurs.”

  “Of course, the soiree for the chargé d’affaires.” Madame Gagelin flashed him a sultry look. “You have come to the right salon, messieurs; several of my gowns will be in attendance—a ginger and apricot confection, très magnifique, for Anny Ahlers. And the cut rose velvet with the raspberry satin apron—superb on—”

  “Mistress of the Belgian diplomat, Chapuys.” Sylvain lounged against a counter heaped with bolts of fabric. He gathered his fingers to his mouth and blew a kiss to the gods. “Une belle poitrine.”

  Madame picked up a yardstick and threatened. “Behave yourself, Sylvain.”

  The restless man danced away from the waving baton. “I can do better than that—I shall make myself comfortable in the lobby of the Richelieu with a bottle of cognac.” Sylvain tipped his cap and exited the shop.

  “The man is a nuisance—but also charming, no?” Madame swept a professional eye over Cate. “Statuesque and willowy. Any of my gowns will be exquisite on Miss Willoughby—perhaps a nip taken in here and there, and we will lower the hem.” The woman took another up and down look at Cate. “Evening slippers and gloves can be dyed to match. She swept her gaze around the salon’s displays. “Something in a pale buttercream . . .” Madame’s gaze lingered on a yellow gown.

  Finn could not hold back a tease, “Madame, it seems you name your gowns after sweets in a confectioner’s shop.”

  “Exactement.” The brazen women winked at him.

  He nodded toward the front of the salon. “I very much admire the dress in the window.”

  “It will cost you, monsieur; it is the loveliest in the shop.”

  Finn turned to Cate. “Rather rude of me to not ask if you had a preference, Miss Willoughby. There are several others—”

  “The violet gown is lovely,” Cate interrupted with a smile. When he lifted a brow, she answered with soft laughter. “Honestly, it is my favorite.” The look he received took his breath away. There was something in those twinkling eyes he had not seen from her in . . . a very long time.

  As an established bachelor, he had been the recipient of these kinds of stolen looks before. They invariably caused him to run in the opposite direction, as they generally included feminine designs, most often involving expectations of promise. So, why was it different with Cate? Now that he had caught a glimpse of affection in her eye, he was certain he would long for another, even chase after it.

  Madame turned her attentions to him. “So tall and well muscled, I do not expect any of the tailors in town will have a sample large enough to fit a man of”—the brazen woman took the opportunity to shift her gaze from his chest to his crotch—“your measurements.” The woman shot him a look seldom seen outside of bawdy houses. She swept a curtain back, revealing two young women bent over sewing machines in a dim, stuffy workroom. “This is our busiest season. From now through the end of the year, there are many gala social events. I hope you are prepared to pay, monsieur.”

  * * *

  CATE HUDDLED AGAINST Finn under the door awning as rain pelted the sidewalk outside Madame Gagelin’s shop. The landau waited in the street with its top up. Their driver, an Indian chap named Kieran, held an umbrella overhead, and they made a dash for the vehicle. Finn spoke to the driver as he steadied her climb into the carriage. “Le Richelieu, s’il vous plaît.” He ducked inside and sat across the aisle, stretching his legs, as best he could. His gaze darted here and there before settling squarely on her face. He cleared his throat. “Well, that was . . . harrowing.”

  “More for you, I expect.” Cate was in the mood to do a bit of goading. “I had no idea a fitting could be such a titillating adventure.” She tilted her chin. “In fact, I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone quite so—”

  “Groped about, publicly?” Finn snorted. His sense of humor had certainly returned.

  “You were blushing, Monsieur Curzon.” Cate purred in a French accent, “Thirty-five and a half inches!” She fell back onto the carriage seat as if in a faint. She peeked at him and exhaled an exaggerated sigh.

  “I believe it was that last inside seam measurement of Madame’s that raised all the trouble.” He added a charming boyish grin. “Saucy minx.”

  Awkward moments were rare for this man, and yet Finn had never seemed more adorable to her. Still, it wouldn’t do to let him off too easily. She righted herself, tucked her arms under her chest an
d slowly narrowed her eyes. “French women are sluts.”

  “Ah, you know this for a fact.” Amused by her remark, his grin widened. “Am I to understand you are a possessive woman?”

  Cate shrugged a shoulder. “You imply that I’m the jealous sort, which might have some basis in truth, if I were spoken for, which I am not.”

  “I’m quite sure you could be spoken for if you wished it so.”

  She returned his gaze rather intently. “Mercifully, I do not aspire to home and hearth.” Finn’s eyes darkened and intensified. The carriage slowed as they arrived in front of the hotel. She had expected him to say, “What a relief, nor do I.” But there were no such words forthcoming.

  Exiting the coach, Finn whisked her up the hotel stairs and behind one of the pillars holding up the portico. He yanked her close. “Perhaps you just haven’t been asked by the right man,” he practically growled. A lock of wet hair fell over his forehead and a drop of rain landed on her cheek. His gaze moved from her lips to the wet spot below her eye. He kissed the raindrop away, then moved to her mouth. She was expecting a long, sensuous, openmouthed kiss that would leave her all tingly and breathless, except that she was already tingly and breathless.

  No kiss. No words. He found her hand and twined his fingers with hers. Easing back, he tugged gently and walked her inside the hotel.

  “Mes amis!” Sylvain leaped up from the wing chair in the lobby and waved them over to a comfortable corner. “I have already reserved a room.” The Frenchman dangled a brass key.

  “Since I no doubt I paid for this bottle,” Finn whisked the cognac off the side table, “which way to the room?”

  “With a view—fantastique!” The man swept both arms to one side, inviting them to walk ahead.

  Sylvain escorted them up several flights of stairs and opened the door to a grand suite. Cate’s mouth dropped open. “My word, this is divine.”

  After a look around the spacious suite, Cate opened a door in an alcove off the bedchamber. “A private water closet.”

  Finn tipped the bellboy who brought up their luggage, and Cate saw the young man out. At the door she asked for a lady’s maid to be sent up.

  “I see that as long as we’re on Her Majesty’s tanner, you spared no expense, Sylvain.” Finn pivoted in place as he surveyed the comfortable parlor area.

  “Ah ha! Queen Victoria received a cut in room rate, compliments of Sylvain Robideaux. And this suite is worth every sou, monsieur.” The Frenchman pulled back a damask drape to reveal a most startling view of the Citadel.

  Finn blew a soft whistle and stepped onto an expanse of balcony. He gestured for Cate to follow. “The rain has abated, but watch yourself—the floor titles may be slippery.” He held on to her hand as they took in the startling sight of the fortress. “A man could map the entire prison grounds from here. Time the watch. Notate the daily routines—schedules.”

  Sylvain joined them on the terrace. “This view, in combination with an ancient map demarcating secret entrances and exits, would afford such a man a very intimate knowledge of the fortress.”

  Finn appeared fascinated by a section of parapet walk behind crenellated walls. “You have a set of fortress defense plans?”

  A sly smile crossed Sylvain’s face. “A copy of the original—the only one in existence.” Their mysteriously resourceful host exhaled a self-satisfied sigh. “You have the suite for the duration.”

  Finn tore his eyes off the prison grounds. “What duration?”

  “The convict ship does not sail as usual. They claim the ship undergoes repair work. Word on the street says they await a late delivery of prisoners.” Sylvain followed them back inside the suite. “This is most unusual, as the ship to my knowledge has never been delayed for prisoners.”

  Finn found three glasses in a cabinet by the table and poured them each a cognac. They warmed their innards with French brandy, ordered room service, and waited for dinner to arrive. A tap on the door produced a lady’s maid, and Finn raised a brow. “Why?” he questioned.

  She swept a few errant wisps into her topknot as she rose from the table. “For my hair.”

  Finn angled his head back. “Your hair looks . . . adequate.”

  Cate kissed the top of his head. “Glad you understand, dear.” She winked at Sylvain and exited the room.

  * * *

  FINN ALMOST CRACKED a smile, but for the bevy of other servants that followed the young maid into the suite. Some set the table, others moved to the terrace. He tilted his head to look out the French doors. Outside, the hotel help swept water off the balcony and into a rain gutter. As they dried off table and chairs, Finn dug in his pocket for additional tip money.

  Sylvan shifted in his seat. “You play the role of a person of influence well, monsieur.”

  Finn studied the curiously well-connected man. “Here’s a theory.” He sank into a wing chair and crossed a booted leg. “International prisoners are difficult to prosecute, especially terrorists; they’re often wanted in several countries.”

  “Extradition can become a contentious matter.” Sylvain toyed with his empty glass.

  Finn swirled a last swallow of brandy around in his glass. “Messy, to be sure. For one thing, anarchists aren’t exactly covered by the Geneva convention.”

  Sylvain leaned forward. “They are not prisoners of war, so what are they?”

  “More like criminals with a cause. There have been rumors of late that a few governments, France in particular, are beginning to capture and hold foreign anarchists, either for future trades with other governments, or even more insidious, for transport to offshore prisons—rid the world of the troublesome rubbish.”

  “Many years ago, the Citadel was renowned for its political prisoners, monsieur.” Sylvain proceeded to relate several instances of men being held who happened to be on the wrong side of one political imbroglio or another.

  Finn swallowed the last of his cognac. “One rather glaring problem is the detainee’s anonymity. No habeas corpus. No trial at all, in most cases. No records of their capture, or their incarceration. I dislike the idea of a conspiracy, particularly one perpetrated by powerful men of influence and sanctioned by—”

  A knock at the door signaled dinner had arrived. Sylvain grinned. “Huîtres, poulet rôti, et une tarte de pomme.”

  “Shall I translate?” A newly coifed Cate had returned to the table. She picked up one dish cover after another. “Fresh oysters, roast chicken—” She inhaled. “And an apple tart—what lovely fare.”

  Finn offered her a chair. Soft waves had been artfully wound into an elegant topknot. “Quite a pretty poof you’ve got there, mademoiselle.”

  Sylvain broke off a chicken leg and waved au revoir.

  Finn straightened. “You’re leaving?”

  “I must return to La Flotte, clean the lantern, light the lamp, and prime the clockworks.” He bit into a crispy piece of skin and chewed. “Délicieux. I leave you to eat, dress for the soiree, and plot against warden Moreau, oui?” He bowed as he backed out the door. “Bonsoir, mes amis!”

  Finn carved the bird, while Cate set out the plate of oysters. Having grown used to the near-constant chatter from their Île de Ré guide, she found the room quiet, but not uncomfortably so. She had also rekindled a fire in her belly for the man sitting across the table. Wherever Phineas Gunn went, it seemed, adventure followed. But there were other things he did, quite expertly, to cause her cheeks to blush. And there was something else—she felt protected by him, as well as valued. There was a word for that.

  Apreciado en español.

  The English word was cherished.

  Right on cue, heat swept over her cheeks. Finn studied her quietly. “Your hair is lovely. Sorry I was so boorish about it earlier. You have my permission to stab me with your fork if it makes you feel better.”

  “That bit of grousing earlier?” Cate popped a baby carrot into her mouth and rolled her eyes. “Uncle, as well as mi abuelo, my Spanish grandfather—big grousers. I hav
e put up with it for years. Doesn’t perturb me in the least.” She smiled a wily sort of smile at him.

  He met her gaze for a moment. “And what of our mercurial lighthouse keeper?” He added a few more roasted vegetables to both their plates. “If instincts serve, beyond the jocular, hairy laddishness, there may lurk another Sylvain Robideaux.”

  Cate looked up from her plate. “Friendly or not so . . .?”

  “Not sure, as yet.” Finn spooned a bit of jus over slices of breast meat. “He moves freely around the town. Well connected and well liked, it would seem. It’s just—” Finn forked up a piece of chicken. “He strikes me as a man who might very well work both sides of the angle.”

  “No surprise there; Dé Riquet recommended him.”

  Finn nodded. “Sylvain has been invaluable thus far—perhaps too much so.”

  “You think he’s steering us.” Cate set fork and knife down. “What do you recommend?” she asked through a particularly delicious bite of chicken.

  “For now, keep eating.” Finn uncorked a fruity golden wine, which turned out to be a delightful accompaniment to a slice of apple tart.

  After dinner, they took bottle and glasses into the sitting area of the suite. Finn sat beside her on the settee, hooked a finger into a waistcoat pocket, and read his watch. “Our wardrobe should arrive any time now.”

  He settled an arm around her. “Do you mind?”

  She snuggled up against his shoulder. “I should like another war story, please.”

  “Ah, my dear Cate—war is a gruesome, dismal business. If there is any glory in killing, I have yet to find it.” Finn sipped his wine. “Even a trained soldier cannot imagine the horror of it, not until you’re caught up in an ambush, surrounded by fallen comrades—dead or crying out in pain—the unseen enemy taking shots at you from hidden positions in the hills.”