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

by Stone, Jillian

  She placed her cheek against his chest. “Your heart is racing. In London, Lady Lennox made reference to some sort of battle fatigue, as did Cecil.” She sat up and turned to him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the condition you suffer, Finn? Something happened to you in India—in the Northern Territories.”

  A part of him wanted her to know. Hardy was aware of some of it, his quack doctor had wrung out more of the story, but Cate—there was something about her that made him feel like confessing. He wondered if he would get to a certain place in the story and shut down—“suppressed memories” is what Monty had called them.

  “All right.” He stared at her. “But perhaps it would be best if I didn’t look at you directly.” Finn set his glass down on a side table and pulled her back close to his chest with both arms. “It’s been called everything from extreme cowardice to battle fatigue to Soldier’s Heart—quite a romantic notion, that last one.”

  Cate scoffed softly. “I can’t imagine anyone having the nerve to call you a coward. They obviously haven’t seen you perform your duties.”

  Finn rubbed the side of her head with his chin. “I was often sent out on patrol. Mostly we were looking for any signs of tribal movements. We knew Al Qui tari Masari was amassing an army and would likely attack the fort. The only question was when. We got into a bloody skirmish west of Kandahar and suffered several casualties. I delayed our retreat to pick up our injured—suddenly we were surrounded, and taken prisoner.

  “We were held in a Pashtun village up in the mountains. As the highest-ranking officer alive, I was kept in a deep hole, underground. Each night I listened to the sound of my men being tortured. In the morning, they would lower a ladder—walk me by soldiers tied up and ready for execution.”

  His entire body began to tremble, just the slightest involuntary vibration. Her leg muscles quivered in a similar fashion after rehearsal. Cate sat up and turned to make eye contact. His gaze was fixed on a memory buried deep in his past.

  “Blocks of wood were placed into their throats so they could not swallow. Stop me if it gets too—”

  “I’m not the squeamish sort—please go on,” Cate said softly.

  “Then the tribal women took turns urinating into their open mouths.” He inhaled a long raspy breath. “They suffocated—or drowned. Not sure which term to use . . .”

  “Dear God.” She grabbed hold of him.

  “Sorry, I’m experiencing some dizziness, a bit of vertigo,” he said. His arm dropped to her waist and she clung to him. Strong arms throbbing with life wrapped around her. He rocked her, for what seemed like a very long time.

  Cate snuggled against him. “But you survived, Finn.”

  “Yes, I survived eight days and nights of interrogation, torture—”

  “Were you injured?”

  “Nothing like the men under me. Beatings mostly—and a hot metal rod jabbed at me. You’ve seen the scars on my chest. Not sure why they didn’t kill me. At one point, most of their fighters left the village—off to ambush a search party sent after us. It turned out to be a lucky break for me and the few men still alive. We escaped that night.”

  “A daring rescue, no doubt.” Cate tucked her legs up under her skirt. “This requires more wine, sir, as I need to be fortified for the next chapter of this adventure.”

  Finn marveled at Cate’s response to such a lurid story. Her resilient spirit, her bravery. He knew full well that she had nearly become ill over its telling. Even all these years later, he was as good as sick over it himself. But somehow, he had choked out the horrific details of those terrible executions—something he had only done once, years ago. He had given a complete accounting of his patrol’s capture and detainment to his commanding officer. Colonel Brown and several other officers had listened intently, stopping on only one occasion—for a bit of fresh air.

  He dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes. “You sure you want to hear more?”

  “The telling of your escape? I wouldn’t miss it.” Her blazing blue eyes were large and liquid. She squeezed his hand in encouragement.

  “All right then.” He inhaled a breath and exhaled slowly. “The screams and cries would begin as soon as the sun went down. To keep from going mad, I occupied myself digging footholds in the side of the old well they kept me in. The walls were lined with uneven stones held together with a bit of crude mortar—mostly mud. I must have been about eighteen feet down. Every night I tore at the crumbling sand and rock.”

  “Tricky work, to say nothing of the fall you might have taken.”

  Once again Finn pulled her close. “I did fall—twice.” She settled into the warmth of his body. “That night I grasped at anything for a leg up. If I could escape the bloody pit, I knew the layout of the village well enough to make an attempt to free the men. Worst case, we could fight our way out and get killed in the process.”

  “The latter being preferable to the kind of death that awaited if you did not escape.” Cate murmured her thoughts aloud.

  “I had another six feet left to climb—enough to get a shoulder aboveground, so I could lift myself out of the shaft.” Finn swallowed a sip of wine.

  Cate angled away to look back. “Whatever you do, don’t stop now, or I shall bite my fingernails.”

  “I only fell once that night—wrenched my ankle but it made no matter. I would have run the fifteen miles back to the fort on a broken leg. I remember poking my head up out of the hole, thinking, ‘They’ll shoot my head off,’ and not caring if they did. As it turned out, all that was left of the tribe’s warriors were a few guards, elders, and the women and children.

  “A second bit of luck was it was pitch-black; the moon had set. Once I was out of the hole, I managed to crawl behind a barrier—part tent, part hovel. A row of horses were tethered to a line—including the big red lad.”

  Cate straightened. “Sergeant MacGregor.”

  Finn nodded. “I swear to you, Cate, seeing that horse nearly brought tears to my eyes—and there were a few more of our mounts there. I fished about in the dark for our tack. Much of it was strewn around the back of the shelter. I managed to bit up three horses, then I set off to find my men.

  “Circling the village I came across a branch of timber, something the size of a cricket bat, which I took up as I came upon a small house—khaneh they call them. There was a guard at the door. I took the man out with a crack to the back of his neck and dragged the body inside the hut. Inching forward, I could just make out several bodies lying prone on sleeping mats—likely my men—and then I was jumped from behind. My assailant had a knife to my throat, leaving me only one thing to do.”

  “And that was?” she rasped.

  “I ran backward as fast and as hard as I could, hoping to crush the man behind me into a wall—leastwise, before he had a chance to slit my throat.”

  “I’ve seen that scar, as well.” Cate’s hand moved through his beard stubble and down the side of his neck. Gently, she traced a thin, curved line that ran in a crescent shape toward his throat.

  Finn caught her hand in his and brought her wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips to her pulse.

  She swallowed. “You got your men out.”

  “I left the fort with a dozen soldiers and returned with less than half that number.”

  “You cannot blame yourself, you—”

  “I was responsible for their lives, Cate. Do I blame myself for getting captured? Absolutely. Should I have abandoned those injured men—after the ambush?” Finn ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been over it a thousand times and have not seen another choice in the matter. I could never have left those men behind.”

  Her eyes were large and round. “You did the right thing.”

  He frowned. “Outside of my commanders, I have never told anyone the details of the capture—until now.” Gently, he turned her to him. “I should not have subjected you to such a savage accounting of war. I cannot think why I did such a thing.”

  Cate lifted both hands to his fac
e and kissed him softly. “As for telling me your story—I am not shocked so much as saddened that you took so long to speak of it. Holding all those cruel memories inside.” She shook her head gently. “I’m not sure how a person gets over such an event. The relentless fear, the chilling brutality, the constant uncertainty and terror. What is praiseworthy is that you have fared as well as you have—on your own—all these years.”

  Finn let the moment between them sink in. She had not shrunk from him, nor looked at him with pity, judging the damaged soldier that sat beside her. She had stayed and listened—even admired him. Just for good measure, Finn inhaled and exhaled slowly. And he had managed to get through the whole tale, beginning to end, without dissolving into a debilitating attack of nerves.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Perhaps he did feel less burdened and less alone for the telling. He reached over and covered her hand with his.

  “The trembling has stopped.” Her smile brightened. “A good sign, is it not?”

  He tipped her chin up. “Never in my life have I—”

  A sharp rap on the door could only mean one thing: the delivery from Madame Gagelin’s had arrived. He sighed rather loudly. Still, he was determined to finish his thought. “You are quite the most extraordinary young lady.”

  “As extraordinary as you, señor. Eres mi héroe.”

  Finn raised a brow. “Now that is a tall order.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Even in the cool darkness of the carriage, Cate could feel her cheeks burn. Finn could make her blush like a schoolgirl. And he was the only man in the world, it seemed, who could do it. She had emerged from the bedchamber in the hotel suite, and he had risen from a wing chair. His gaze had taken in everything—from the toe of her lavender slipper to the amethyst-colored crystals pinned in her hair. He had asked for a pirouette in dancer’s language—adagio—and she had turned a slow pivot. When she returned to him, his gaze had turned feral, with eyes that glowed like a cat in the dark. It was the kind of look that made her wish the evening was not beginning, but about to end—in the large four-poster in the bedchamber. She had imagined her new gown being removed slowly, with soft caresses down her back from that generous mouth of his.

  He had whisked her downstairs, past the turning heads in the lobby. Into the waiting carriage and into his arms. He kissed her hard, a ravaging kiss that took possession of her mouth and demanded more. Their tongues lashed and chased, softening into a lingering caress. She could feel his breath on her face. “You are a goddess.” He slanted his mouth over hers again. “You are much adored . . .” He added the slightest tease of tongue. “And you are entirely too tempting.”

  A flicker of gaslight swept inside the carriage. The look in his eyes caused a quiver, one of those womanly shudders in the belly that made her want to couple with him. Have his children. Her cheeks burned with the thought.

  He angled his mouth above hers. “Another kiss like that and I’m afraid I’ll shred the lovely violet gown I paid more than a hundred francs for—”

  “She had us over a barrel.” She glimpsed a grin in the dark. “Though I suppose Madame Gagelin did move heaven and earth for us.”

  “She certainly managed to make of bit of heaven for you, Cate.”

  “And you as well, Agent Curzon—I will remember to call you Hugh now.”

  “That would be very helpful.” He leaned back into the comfortable squabs of the carriage seat. “Shall we prepare a few strategies on our way to the reception? In this situation, perhaps we should try to keep our story as close to the truth as possible. The truth can be as persuasive as the best-contrived scheme, and no one ever expects it.” Finn went on to outline several other scenarios, including the promise of favors. “My advice to female operatives is to never offer favors, not unless you are prepared to deliver them, and then, only as a last resort.” Finn’s gaze remained cool, in control—almost aloof.

  She stared at him. “Do you still believe I’m some sort of agent working undercover?”

  Finn dipped his head to peer out the carriage window. “First we complete this mission. Then we get out alive. Then we discuss who works for whom.”

  Cate was careful not to disavow too insistently or act offended. “And if it is the man who propositions the favors . . . ?” Her question trailed off as she met his gaze.

  Finn’s handsome face darkened considerably. “You listen to the offer, then you use your wiles to delay—hold him off.” Her undercover operative and lover seemed a bit rattled, and adorably so. She reached up and ran her fingers along his jawline to his chin.

  He caught a finger and brought it up to his lips. “Should someone blow our cover story—hardly a remote possibility at this juncture, as the chargé d’affaires likely wired an inquiry to the Foreign Office—just follow my lead, like dancing the bolero.” He dipped his head to peer out the coach window once more. “We have arrived.”

  They exited the carriage and were escorted to hall entrance. “Let’s make this less painful, shall we?” Finn turned to his reception line duties and greeted their host and hostess, the Lieutenant Governor and his wife. “Ravi d’être présent, belle soirée.” He pulled her out of line and skipped ahead until she was back in front of Adrian Fortesque. “Such a lovely evening, thank you for inviting us.”

  “The pleasure is all”—clearly enraptured, Adrian’s gaze lowered down her décolleté—“mine, Miss Willoughby.”

  Finn addressed the honoree. “Delighted to attend, Mr. Fortesque.” The man turned away from Cate reluctantly and nodded. “Mr. Curzon.” Finn was about to move past when Fortesque raised a finger and leaned in to speak in hushed tones. “After toasts, might you and Miss Willoughby join me to discuss a . . . private matter?”

  Finn tried to read him. “In the study?”

  Adrian nodded to the woman in line behind Finn. That would be a yes, in foreign service nonspeak. He caught up to Cate. “Ah, we’re in luck—the champagne has arrived.” Finn lifted two flutes from a silver salver and handed one to Cate.

  “What went on between you and Mr. Fortesque?”

  “Our first intrigue of the evening. The chargé d’affaires, ad interim, wishes to see us privately after the toasts.”

  “Is this good news or bad?”

  “Hard to know—the foreign service are a cagey lot.”

  Cate smiled her wily half smile. “Nothing like their undercover agents.”

  Finn scanned the room. “Amongst all the flora and fauna, might we try to find a serpent?” He led her onto the terrace, and they quickly settled into a dark corner. “Drink up.” He encouraged her to take a sip of champagne and then stuffed their glasses in one of the potted shrubs.

  “Someone with a cane standing by the pianoforte.” Cate wrinkled her nose. “A bit too plump for our man. I envision someone a bit more—”

  “Beady-eyed, long thin nose, hair slicked back, sporting a goatee . . .” Finn turned her slightly.

  Her scan of the room halted on an olive-skinned man of medium stature, somewhat broad-chested with rather severe lines to his countenance. “Swarthy. Looks sinister enough.” She took a second look. The man appeared a great deal less ominous when conversing. “He’s likely the local schoolmaster.”

  “A headmaster with a shiny black walking stick?” Finn’s breath lifted the small hairs on the back of her neck. “Shall we see if he slithers?”

  “Mesdames et messieurs.” The high-pitched clinking of a spoon to a crystal glass signaled the call for a toast. Finn procured more champagne and raised his glass. “Cheers—à votre santé!” He angled Cate in front of him as Fortesque began his greeting. The man’s French was as halting and strangely cadenced as his speech was in English.

  “Every time the man speaks I feel like I’m back at university, having to sit through a good stiff reading of King Lear,” he said.

  Cate purposely backed up to Finn. He bent forward. “Yes, darling?”

  “You’re right, it is Moreau.” She nodded toward a small
cluster of guests as bony fingers caressed the serpent-handled cane. She shivered and Finn squeezed her hand.

  Fortesque concluded with a few words of gratitude and disappeared into the crowd. “I believe we have an appointment in the library.” Finn opened a side door and slipped her into a narrow passageway. The circuitous route took them through several pantries and a bustling kitchen.

  “Pardonnez-nous, la bibliothèque?” She smiled sweetly at the harried waiter who graciously opened several doors and showed them out into the main corridor of the governor’s palace.

  Finn raised her hand to his lips. “Thank you, darling.”

  Cate hurried her pace to keep up with him. “Why do gentlemen not simply ask directions?”

  His only answer was a slight upturn at the edge of his mouth. He stopped at a door and knocked.

  “Entrez.”

  Finn stuck his head in the door. Fortesque stood near the window in his usual corner of the room, hands behind his back, only this time he faced them. Cate stepped through the opening and Finn closed the door quietly.

  “Mr. Curzon, Miss Willoughby.” Adrian studied them both briefly. “I shall get right to the point. Say nothing to anyone regarding the offer in your documents.”

  Finn squared his shoulders. “Why?”

  “Because I am in possession of similar documents.” Fortesque narrowed his eyes. “Authentic ones.” The stoic emissary moved to the desk. “No doubt these papers of yours were something you cooked up over at Special Branch. You will hand them over.” The man waited patiently, palm open.

  Finn removed an envelope from his inside pocket. “Whether we use your papers or mine, does it really matter? The last time I checked, we both work for the same side.”

  Fortesque’s gaze darted to Cate. “And Miss Willoughby?”

  Finn dropped the packet on the desktop. “She has agreed to see her brother returned to England to answer charges.”

  In one swift move, Fortesque opened a drawer, swept the envelope inside, and slammed it shut. Impressively done—and surprising for such a deliberative man, who continued to stare at her. He raised a brow. “Is this true, Miss Willoughby?”