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

by Stone, Jillian

  Cate swallowed. “I have agreed to such an arrangement. Though it saddens me to think of my brother imprisoned anywhere, I do believe he will receive fair treatment by the British government.”

  Finn took a careful look about the room. “With whom have you been in communication? Salisbury’s crew or Castlemaine’s?

  Fortesque’s gaze moved to Finn. “Yes, I understand you work for both the Foreign Office and the Home Office.”

  “And the Admiralty.” Finn returned an equally imperious gaze of his own. “On occasion.”

  Cate bit back a grin. The chargé d’affaires nearly always appeared taxed beyond reason—no matter the occurrence. Fortesque bit out the words, “And . . . naval intelligence.”

  The British emissary’s eyes rolled upward. “In a few minutes, the director from the French Ministry of Justice, as well as the prison warden, will knock on the door.” Fortesque unfolded a wire message and donned a pair of reading glasses. “I have been directed to make an offer for two prisoners held in a building known as the old cellblock.

  “An anarchist by the name of Nicolas Crowe—” As he spoke, Fortesque glanced at Finn over the rim of his spectacles. “In actuality, he is one of ours. A counterinsurgency informant by the name of Graham ‘Gray’ Chamberlain.” Fortesque’s gaze moved over to her. “And a Spanish anarchist, risen from the dead—Eduardo de Dovia.”

  She could not stop the rush of tears that welled up. “Eduardo is alive,” she whispered and collapsed into Finn’s arms.

  He moved her to a chair and handed her a pocket square. Leaning in close, he tilted her chin and spoke softly. “I’m proud of you, Cate, you didn’t give up.” She smiled through tears. “Have a sniffle or two, then dry your eyes.” He winked. “We have work to do.”

  Fortesque cleared his throat. “I am prepared to confront the prison officials on behalf of the Crown, and present the offer for an exchange of prisoners.”

  Finn straightened. “They’ll just deny they have men in custody.”

  “Quite. Impossible.” The British emissary appeared unruffled. “I have obtained a copy of the convict ship’s manifesto, with said prisoners . . . listed.” The man’s grin appeared closer to a sneer. “By name.”

  “Well then, you’ve no need of our services.” He pivoted to Cate. “Shall we make it an early night, Miss Willoughby?”

  “Hold on.” Fortesque stepped around the desk. “I’ll put the press on Moreau, but we need to keep it on.”

  Finn’s eyes flicked upward. She knew that look. He was conjuring a plan. “Introduce Miss Willoughby as exactly who she is. I’ll play the amiable cousin escort.” He turned to her. “You are thrilled to hear your brother is alive. Press Moreau to let you meet with Eduardo tomorrow.”

  Cate moistened her lips and nodded.

  “Just look at those lovely eyes gleam—such an adventuress.” She caught Finn’s wink of encouragement.

  A sharp rap came at the door. “That would be the warden.” In no rush to answer, the chargé d’affaires straightened to his full height. There was a certain unflappability about the man, she’d give him that.

  “One moment,” Fortesque called out as he pivoted toward her. “Make the appointment for the morning. We’ve only got tomorrow to get the exchange accomplished. The convict ship leaves on the evening tide—with or without your brother.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Outside the Governor’s Palace, a wispy layer of fog covered the drive. Finn handed Cate up into the carriage. The meeting with Moreau had been mercifully brief, owing mainly to an urgent message the warden had received. He had left the meeting in haste, but not before settling a lingering kiss on Cate’s hand. She had also received a most cordial invitation to the Citadel, to meet again in the morning.

  Finn climbed into the carriage and reached across Cate to tug down a window shade. In doing so, he brushed against her and the scent of lavender soap filled the air. On second thought, he decided to leave the window uncovered, capture whatever moonlight filtered through the cloud drifts.

  He wanted to see the pretty beige nipple as he lifted her breast above her décolleté. His gaze lingered as cool air hardened the tip. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes met hers. “I’ve waited over a year for you—for this,” he said. She answered him with a soft gasp, and arched a hard peak into his mouth. He swirled and suckled ravenously. He uncovered the other breast and plucked the rosebud lightly between his fingers.

  His hand slid down her body and gathered up her skirt, baring her upper thighs. He yanked her dress up around her waist and met her gaze. “I need to be inside you, Cate,” he rasped, his voice thickened by lust. She spread her legs, giving him the access he wanted.

  Finn stroked the soft inner flesh of her thighs above her garters. He kept his fingers patient, gentle. He would heighten her arousal to match his own. He slipped his hand through the slit in her pantalets and into moist folds. He watched her eyelids flutter as two fingers penetrated gently, then slid deep inside. He used his thumb to swirl over the center of her pleasure. She moaned, and of her own volition, straddled him.

  He was hard as a stone and ready to take her. “Unbutton me, love.”

  Deftly, she opened his pants and drew him out. She stroked lightly at first and then tighter. She varied her grip and then added a bit of fingernail. He sucked in air through his teeth. The little minx was getting good at this.

  Pushing up her petticoats, he opened the satin slit of her pantalets and pressed into her glorious velvet sheath. Planting himself deep, he paused and let the carriage rock them both into a state of greater arousal. “Miss Willoughby.”

  She licked the underside of his top lip. “Yes, Agent Gunn?”

  “Might I take you quite roughly? As long as I make it up to you once we are back in the hotel?”

  Her lips parted as she exhaled softly. “You may.” His kiss muffled her answer, and his tongue tangled and swirled with hers. He dropped his head, kissing her neck and then lower, to bite the skin of her shoulder. Nipping at a breast, he rolled a hard tip between his teeth. The carriage hit a pothole in the road and she cried out. Gently, he licked the raw spot and whispered apologies.

  He was going to come quickly and she was gloriously aroused, nearing her own pleasure. He steadied her hips above him and thrust into her like some kind of lust-crazed beast. On the edge of climax he stopped himself. He rested his forehead against her chest. His breath rasped over the firm flesh of her breasts. “Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Pistol cocked, Mr. Gunn?”

  “Ready to fire, Miss Willoughby.” Finn lifted his chin and met those glorious sapphire eyes in the dark. “And no rubber goods.” He lay his head back against the plush carriage seat and waited for the right moment to withdraw from her.

  “Is there anything I might . . . do?”

  A slow grin tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Come to think of it—that last whisper of yours in my ear at the palace. Something about a bit of lolly for the old tosser?”

  “It would be one way to relieve your discontent.” She darted sultry eyes at him. Her lips were puffy—swollen from kissing. He made a note to himself to kiss her hard and often. A picture came to mind: Cate’s mouth exploring, taking all of him.

  He dipped his head for a look out the window. The hotel was just ahead. He slumped back onto comfortable squabs and took in the delightful dishabille of her. She sat astride him, a glorious Catalan demigoddess. Her breasts were fully exposed, nipples peaked from his attentions. A mass of waves tumbled from her hair arrangement, but no matter; the more disheveled the better. For tonight, she was all his. “Change of plans. Would you mind terribly if I asked the driver to take us on a longer drive?”

  * * *

  A BRUSH OF derriere roused his cock and stirred Finn from a deep sleep. He opened an eye. Daybreak streamed into the bedchamber through a slit in the draperies. He was aware of Cate’s soft breathing and the scent of her skin close by. He lifted the covers. She slept quietly beside hi
m, in all her naked splendor. In answer to the chill in the air, she tucked herself into the warmth of his body. His hand went around the lissome, oh-so-flexible torso and pulled her against his lower parts.

  “Good morning, Miss Willoughby.” He kissed a smooth bare shoulder.

  She uttered a soft “Mm-mm” and turned onto her back. Finn propped himself on an elbow to look at her, allowing his gaze to linger on her luscious mouth. Her eyes remained closed, while the loveliest smile appeared, as though she could sense she was under scrutiny. “Do you inspect the little mole on my cheek, or search for a stray, unplucked eyebrow hair?”

  “There is the slightest chip on one front tooth that is about to set me upon you again. Shall we reprise last night?” He dipped his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth. He let it go with a pop. “ ‘Mon Dieu, mon Dieu—don’t stop,’ ” he teased, mimicking her cries of pleasure.

  Cate stretched like a cat, and he slid his hand over ribs, barely felt, to cup her breast. “Does everyone call out, ‘God, oh God,’ in the heat of coupling?”

  “Depends on who is doing the lovemaking, I suppose.” Pale golden rays poured across the unkempt bed, warming their skin. Finn pressed against her and she opened her legs slowly, inviting him in. He smiled. “I believe a part of God swells below.”

  The lovemaking was quick to come to a finish, at least for Finn. He nuzzled the base of her throat. “It appears I am as randy as schoolboy for you.” Gently, with one hand on the rubber goods, he slid his cock from her. He moved his hand between her legs and stroked her inner folds, circling the place that made her shiver and arch upward. She thrust her breasts toward his mouth and he dipped his head, happy to nibble. He stroked faster and increased pressure to the spot that made her moan unintelligible words of encouragement. Like now.

  His mouth released a rosy pink nipple. “Are you saying you want more?” A flood of moisture met his fingers as he moved them inside her.

  “Más, por favor,” she moaned. He delved deeper inside, then pulled out, playing at the edges of her opening. She answered him by arching her back and thrusting her hips.

  “You came for me twice last night.” He could feel her arousal soar to a new level. “Give me another, Cate. Come for me now.” A flush rose up her chest and her expression looked as if she was barely aware of the world. There was something delightful, even joyful about watching her surrender to pleasure. Using patient manipulations, he brought her to gasping climax, then he kissed her trembling belly.

  Gently, he rolled her onto her side, and she wrapped her legs around him. Her body shuddered once more and he soothed her with his hands. He ran his fingers down the small of her back and over the curve of her bottom, drawing out her après l’amour moment of bliss. She peeked out from the soft linen folds to smile at him. “Mm-m-m,” was all she managed, but it was exactly what he needed to hear.

  A muffled thud and the squeak of a serving cart filtered into their room. Finn sat up and pulled the covers over Cate. “Mes amis! I have arrived with café et croissants. A good start, oui?” The Frenchman poked his head in their bedchamber.

  “Sylvain.” Finn grunted.

  Cate’s answer came from under the covers. “Who else would it be?”

  “The waiter is still here—shall I order something more?”

  Cate sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts. “A sauté of eggs, please, and plenty of rashers fried crispy.”

  Propped on his elbows, Finn admired her shapely back and dimpled rump. He nodded to Sylvain. “Order enough for all of us.”

  The moment the door closed, Cate sprang out of bed and opened the door a crack. “Oh, and hot water, pour le bain.” She sat at the vanity and unpinned the rest of her hair.

  “You could be a painting in an art gallery.”

  She brushed raven tresses, taking long strokes. “In Paris, Edgar Degas drew several sketches of me during rehearsal. He invited a few of us to his studio—to pose in the nude.”

  Finn rolled onto his side. “And did you?”

  “I have a dancer’s body, I am not ashamed of it.” She looked at him through the mirror. “I can see you don’t approve.”

  Finn tried to soften a growl. “I don’t suppose I enjoy the thought of any man looking at you in such an intimate way.”

  “I was very young. This happened more than a year before we met in Barcelona. The artist was a perfect gentleman. I remained innocent”—she raised a brow—“until I met you, if you recall.”

  “I remember it well.” Finn eyed her through the mirror.

  A flush of color rose from her chest to her cheeks. She set her brush down and met his gaze. “How is it you are the only man who can make me blush this way?”

  He rose from the bed, and she eyed his randy prick, at full tilt—again. “See what you do to me?” He leaned over, wrapping his arms around her silken flesh. Covering a breast with each hand, he let the image in the mirror do his speaking for him. Mine, it said. He met her gaze in the mirror.

  He kissed her neck, the spot just behind her earlobe. “I have no idea why I turned into such a prig just then.” A sheepish, apologetic grin surfaced. “Please forgive me.”

  * * *

  BREAKFAST WAS DELICIOUS. “Glorious morning, wot? Let’s hope the rest of the day goes as well.” Finn spooned berry conserve onto a piece of croissant, and popped the warm bread into his mouth. Sated from a glorious night of lovemaking, he marveled at his good mood in the face of the tasks before them. “The meeting last night might have gone better—rather tight-lipped, the warden. And the other man—the director of justice . . .”

  “Jean Luc Séverin,” Cate offered.

  He sipped his coffee and winked at her. “Very likely they’re partners in this clandestine venture, which I suspect has little to do with justice.” He studied the intrusive Frenchman, who was much more than a simple lighthouse keeper. “At least we got the warden to admit he is in custody of both anarchists.” Finn sliced into a rasher. “Meek as he is, Moreau comes off as a right nasty chap—just as you observed.”

  “We have suspected him for years . . .” Sylvain pressed a fresh cup of coffee. “This side business of Moreau’s—now it is confirmed.”

  The morning sun warmed the terrace patio. “Another French official with his hand out. What a surprise.” Cate rolled her eyes as she forked up a bit of egg.

  Sylvain poured them each another coffee. “Moreau’s hand reaches into pockets in Spain, as well as Italy. But it likely doesn’t stop there.” He added steamed milk and a lump of sugar to his cup. “It is rumored the warden deals with the anarchists themselves, disposing of double agents, spies caught in the midst of anarchist organizations, like your Nicolas Crowe.”

  Cate exaggerated a shiver. “Horrid little man. I shudder to think of the kind of treatment prisoners receive.”

  “Then don’t, Cate,” Finn advised. “You’re going to see your brother this morning. With a good deal of luck, and with the diplomatic press on, Moreau will release Eduardo to our custody by the afternoon.” He eased back in his chair and narrowed his gaze on Sylvain. “I am curious about your use of the word we. Ever since Dé Riquet advised a respite in La Flotte, I have had my suspicions. Tell me, Sylvain, who are you besides a gardien de phare who dabbles in clockworks? And exactly who is included in this we of yours?”

  Sylvain met his gaze. “Let us say, I am not quite as mercenary as Dé Riquet. This small island’s prison—both its detainment and deportation service—has been under surveillance for many months now. You might call this a joint venture, between my government and yours. The chargé d’affaires had been planning a transaction of this very kind—”

  “Then Miss Willoughby and I show up with nearly identical papers,” Finn interjected, “offering a similar exchange of prisoners.”

  Sylvain rocked back and forth, adding a nod. “An odd coincidence, to be sure. You cannot blame us for doing a quick inquiry by wire. Not a simple thing in this town; the telegraph office reports any suspicious
messages to foreign countries to the warden.”

  With the exception of a few overly expressive mannerisms, Sylvain Robideaux almost appeared sober. A slow grin crept over Finn’s face. “Quite a cover act you’ve devised for yourself. Not a soul in town suspects, I imagine.”

  “Un imbécile excentrique.” Sylvain winked. “As resident fool I move in and out of gatherings and events and rarely get stopped. Occasionally, I overhear things, like two anarchists being moved to the Citadel for transport overseas.”

  Finn slumped back in his chair. “So you were the source in the report. Two suspected anarchists being detained illegally in the Citadel at Île de Ré. You had already set this whole thing up with Fortesque, though I suppose Miss Willoughby fits neatly into your plans.”

  “As it turns out, invaluable. With Miss Willoughby here to attest to her brother’s identity—they were forced to relent.”

  “Let us hope things continue to go our way.” Finn sipped the last of his coffee. “I suppose it was either you or Dé Riquet who got hold of the ship’s manifest?”

  Sylvain waved both hands in the air. “Who else might acquire such a thing?”

  As long as the Frenchman was talking, it was time to press further. Finn rose from the table. “I want us to start working together, not at cross purposes. We share what we know from here forward. Agreed?”

  The French operative nodded, and Finn entered the bedchamber. He came back with a pair of binoculars and a small tripod, which he set up on the table. “I’m not sending Cate into that meeting alone, not without a contingency plan.” He adjusted the focus on the eyepiece for Sylvain, who edged over for a look.

  “The prison is formidable, yes, but in effect, the Citadel was designed to keep the enemy out, not keep prisoners in.” Sylvain glanced up above the binoculars and adjusted the tripod toward one of the structures in the center of the compound. “In point of fact there are many avenues out of the fort, both by land and by sea. In the event of a siege, every well-designed fortress must have ways to resupply—without the surrounding army’s knowledge.”