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

by Stone, Jillian

  “You didn’t by any chance bring that map of yours?” Finn asked.

  “It’s all up here.” Sylvain pointed to his temple. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “I do hope Warden Moreau will be less odious this morning.” Cate’s eyes fluttered upward. “The way he pranced about the room last night with that lewd sneer of his whenever he looked at me . . .” Deliberately setting aside her efforts to remain calm, she shivered. “Slithy man.”

  “Slithy? A bit on the mimsy side, if you ask me.” Finn’s gaze was rather affectionate. “The Jabberwocky will behave himself or answer to me.”

  She moved to kiss him and he leaned away. “Non, mademoiselle—lovemaking only as a reward for practice.” Frustrated, she pinched him. “Ow—why do females pinch?” He was laughing. “My sister pinched.”

  Cate blinked. “You never mentioned a sister.”

  “Audrey died many years ago of a virulent meningitis. She was a snappish, bookish sort, always a bit frail. A crack wit and disarmingly charming when she wasn’t torturing Hardy and me. We all doted on her.” Slowly, the faraway look in his eyes was replaced by a wry grin. “She was a mighty distraction—just as you are, my dear.”

  Capturing both her hands, he pinned them to her sides. The boldness of his action and the sheer proximity of him caused her pulse to elevate. He took his time. He did not kiss her mouth, but he came close. “Think of this as a dance rehearsal. You want the performance to come off well, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” Cate thrust her lower lip out. “You don’t believe they will allow me to see him, do you?”

  The dark glimmer in his eyes settled on her lips. “I know I don’t trust them.” His gaze returned to hers. “I will do my best to accompany you into the meeting, but at some point, I suspect they will stop me. They’ll have some excuse—one visitor per prisoner or the like. If I give them an argument they could toss one or both of us out. I want you to see your brother, so you will go on without me, but here are my rules:

  “One: The moment you suspect something is wrong, ask to leave. Two: If they employ excuses—ask you to wait longer than a few minutes—leave. Three: If they threaten or touch you in any way . . .”

  Cate nodded. “Leave.”

  He nodded. “And if you are suddenly overpowered—”

  “No worry there. I’ll scream bloody murder.”

  “If they cover your mouth, break objects, kick over furniture, make noise. I will get to you as fast as I possibly can.”

  Cate dipped her head. “And how, might I ask, will you overpower the guards?”

  “Perhaps there won’t be so many. Don’t worry about me, Cate. Take care of yourself first. I’ll find you one way or another.”

  “You have weapons on you—now?”

  He rocked back, as if he was going to release her hands, and then quite suddenly pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her passionately, savagely, in a lingering, sensuous kiss. A kiss that caused her entire body to shudder. Her eyes opened to his heavy-lidded gaze. Her lips throbbed—puffy, no doubt. “I like kissing you—hard—so you can feel me hours later.”

  Oh, she could feel him all right. Lips, nipples, womb. It was a pleasant ache—a reminder of his passion, his expertise, and his magnificent phallus erectus.

  He eased up on her arms. “I carry an assortment of guns and knives on me at all times. In fact . . .” He dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a small blade attached to a band of leather. He unbuttoned her sleeve and fastened the leather sheath to her wrist. “Leave a few buttons undone, in case you have to get to the blade quickly.”

  He had her remove the knife several times. “One last time. This time jab me with it, as quickly as you can.”

  She stared at him. “You are beginning to frighten me, Finn.”

  He dipped his head to peer out the window. The carriage turned into the single lane that led to the west entrance of the prison. He frowned. “A little fear is good. It will keep you on your toes.”

  Cate removed the knife and thrust it at him. He stopped her hand and moved her fist higher, toward his face. “A slash to the torso won’t stop a man driven by madness or lust. Aim for an eye or the brow above. A good cut will send blood pouring and obstruct his vision.” Finn gave her a nod, and a wink of encouragement. “Once more.”

  Cate looked to the side, out the coach window, then lunged at him with the blade. He arched backward and caught her wrist. “You employed a feint.” He slipped the knife back into the sheath on her wrist and settled down beside her. “I believe that makes you dangerous enough, Miss Willoughby.”

  The carriage slowed and turned into a parking yard. “Why are we not driving inside the gates?” Cate asked.

  “Security.” Finn opened the door and helped her down. “They have to stop and search every vehicle in and out of the fortress.”

  Cate craned her neck to see the top of the bastion walls. “I can only imagine how one might get in or out of here once they lock up.”

  Finn gripped her arm a little tighter than usual. “I must confess, I wouldn’t last a day in the belly of this beast.”

  “You can’t mean it,” she scoffed. “You’re the bravest man I know.”

  The look on his face was unreadable, as usual, the countenance of a seasoned undercover man. She knew his heart must be pounding. He was walking back into that pit in Afghanistan—and she could not shake the idea that he was doing it mostly for her.

  “I’d find a way to end it quickly, one way or another,” Finn muttered.

  Cate stepped ahead and blocked his way. “This is about Kandahar—when you were held captive.”

  He covered her hand with his and a lingering shudder passed through his grip, into her. “Sorry.” He exhaled, adding a bit of chagrin to his apology. “Uncouth of me to worry you. Pay no attention to my ramblings.”

  Inside the guard station, she signed the register. Finn went next. She watched his gaze travel to the signature above hers. Adrian Fortesque.

  A guard opened the iron gate and escorted them through a labyrinth of inner walls until the narrow passage gave way to an expanse of lawn. A number of pathways crisscrossed the green, most of them headed toward a cluster of buildings several stories high. Each structure featured row upon row of small barred windows. Cellblocks.

  Finn leaned in. “With each turn, take in the surroundings, even small details.” When she raised a brow, he explained. “In case we have to find our way out—in a hurry.”

  He accompanied her into the vestibule of the warden’s office, where two guards appeared to be waiting for them. Just as Finn moved to close the door to the corridor, a third man slipped into the room to block their exit.

  Cate surveyed the anteroom. Marble floors and columns framed both windows and entryways. The metalworks, including gaslamps, were either bronzed or gilded. In France, many departments of government were housed in royal palaces, but this was . . .

  Finn leaned close. “Rather grand for a prison warden.”

  “A mind reader, as well,” she whispered. “I had no idea you were so talented.”

  They approached the warden’s secretary, who was sitting behind an ornately carved desk. Frail in appearance, the pale-faced gentleman rose from his chair. He peered over rimmed spectacles. “We’ve been expecting you, Miss Willoughby.” The man’s gaze slid to Finn. “And you are?”

  “Hugh Curzon,” Finn answered perfunctorily, scanning the men positioned about the room. “Miss Willoughby’s cousin—and escort.”

  The man’s severe countenance reminded her of something weasely. Pointed nose, beady eyes, not unlike his boss, Moreau. The smile, more of a smirk, was not particularly reassuring. “I’m afraid there is only one visitor permitted per detainee.” The secretary ushered Cate ahead. As she passed through the door she glanced back at Finn. Three guards appeared to close in around him. “No need for concern, Mr. Curzon.” The secretary nodded to Finn. “M
iss Willoughby will be just on the other side of this door.”

  She expected something akin to a throne room and was not disappointed with the warden’s office. A good deal larger than the foyer, with a number of rich furnishings and an imposing desk, there was a sumptuous ease about the room while still maintaining an air of business.

  “Take a seat, Miss Willoughby. The warden will be with you in a moment.” Cate sat to one side of the desk and waited.

  After several minutes, a whine of door hinges and a scraping, shuffling noise came from behind her. Cate peeked around the wings of her chair and gasped. “Eduardo!” Instantly on her feet, she was shocked by the sight of him. Her brother had always been wiry but he was very thin now, almost gaunt. His hair was close-cropped, and he sported a week’s growth of beard, but she recognized him nonetheless.

  “Catriona?” He leaned to one side, as if favoring a leg.

  She crossed the room, flinging her arms around him. Nothing but skin and bones. But his arms returned her hug with a surprising amount of vigor. Cate eased away to look at him. “My God, what have they done to you?”

  “Not us, Miss Willoughby.” The warden walked in a cadence of three beats. Cane, step, step. Cane, step, step. “He arrived in this pitiable condition.”

  Eduardo’s shrug nearly doubled him over. “Might have had a touch of Gaol Fever in La Santé, I cannot be sure.”

  “You’re in pain. I must get you to a doctor.” Cate turned to Moreau. “Please, you must release him to me, immediately.”

  Moreau appeared mildly amused. The warden barely raised his voice. “Return him to his cell.”

  As quickly as Eduardo had entered the room, he was whisked away. “Do not desert me—Catriona,” Eduardo called. Barely able to keep up with the guard, her brother listed terribly to one side as he was escorted out.

  “Never!” she shouted. “I won’t leave without you.”

  The door slammed shut. Cate buried her hands in the folds of her skirt and clenched her fists. She blinked at the closed door, and then turned to the warden. “He should be attended by a physician. You must let me—”

  “Demanding little chit, aren’t you? More British than Spanish, to my mind.”

  “I’m no chit, sir. I’m three and twenty.”

  Moreau approached her and stood too close. “Blue eyes, almost violet in color.” The man reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of his fist—part caress, part threat. “Most extraordinary.”

  Cate veered away. “What is it you want, Moreau? What will free Eduardo?”

  “It may be possible for your brother to avoid the French Guiana penal colony”—even as she retreated, the man edged closer—“if I am duly compensated for his release.”

  Up close, Moreau was not an unattractive man. Dark lashes surrounded fierce, almost feral eyes, golden around the pupils. Close-cropped black hair and high cheekbones helped, but there was also a cruel mouth and a severe gaze. The total effect was rather draconian to Cate’s mind. “What about the offer from the chargé d’affaires?”

  “Doesn’t interest me,” Moreau snapped. “I told Fortesque to take it up with officials in Paris. Unfortunately, by the time they make a decision, your brother will be clearing jungle on Devil’s Island.”

  Cate stared. “And your price?”

  “Twenty thousand English pounds.”

  The currency Finn recovered from the anarchists was a few thousand pounds. She and Finn had been spending like drunken sailors on wardrobe and the hotel suite, though she was beginning to see the sense in it. Moreau thought she had money, and money would buy her brother’s freedom.

  She had to find a way to delay her brother’s departure, long enough to devise a stratagem. “A great deal of money, indeed. It will take time to come up with that kind of cash. Might it be possible to delay the ship a few more days?”

  Moreau lunged at her, yanking her against his body. “Most anything is negotiable, mademoiselle—if you are part of the bargain.”

  Cate bit her lip. “I can get you the money.” The harder she pushed away, the more his grip tightened. Moreau brushed his lips across the rounded mounds of breasts and she did not hesitate to scream. “Let me go!”

  There immediately followed shouts from outside the warden’s office. Moreau stopped his pawing and gasped. “The troublesome Mr. Curzon, I believe.”

  More crashes and groans. Cate imagined guards, in a semiconscious state, being tossed into walls and sliding down wainscoting. With renewed vigor she was able to push Moreau off and quickly back away.

  Several loud smacks and a thud reverberated through the door.

  Breathless from her struggle with the warden, Cate’s eyes darted toward the door. “Ohh, I imagine that one hurt,” she said, backing away.

  “The warden’s men aren’t feeling anything at the moment—perhaps when they recover consciousness.” Finn strode into the room under the continued protests of the warden’s secretary, who trotted after him. All it took was a glare to shut the little ferret up.

  “Moreau.” Finn boldly stepped toward the warden, who stood his ground with only the slightest recoil.

  “Be careful, monsieur, I could have you arrested.”

  “But you won’t, will you?” At the last moment, Finn reached for her hand. She bit her lip and scurried around the cringing warden. She was quite sure this outrageous behavior of Finn’s was causing her to fall deeply in love with him. Her heart raced, just from the way he looked at her—protective and possessive. “Cate, I take it you have seen and identified your brother?”

  She nodded. “I have.”

  Finn turned to the warden. “And?”

  “And,” Moreau straightened, “I have given mademoiselle my terms. She has until four o’clock this afternoon.”

  Cate bobbed a curtsy. “You will be hearing from me, Warden.”

  “I’m sure your brother hopes so, Miss Willoughby.” The man’s sneering grin was back. “As do I.”

  “No need to wake the guards. We can find our way out.” Finn shut the door to the warden’s office and helped her over the fallen men on the floor of the vestibule. Finn gripped her arm as they half walked, half trotted down the corridor and out the door. He said nothing until they were well across the green. “I take it the warden made unwanted advances. What’s his offer? You, on your back, in trade for your Eduardo’s release?”

  Cate darted a warning look his way. “I honestly don’t believe he is excessively concerned with sexual matters. When he sees me, he . . .” She tucked her lower lip between her teeth and chewed. “He is the kind of man who wishes to dominate a woman—perhaps cruelly.” She shook her head and sighed. “What he really wants is twenty thousand in small denomination banknotes.”

  “And the chargé d’affaires’s offer?”

  “We discussed the trade briefly.” Cate held her straw boater in place as a gust of wind buffeted across the compound. “He couldn’t be less interested.”

  They signed out at the gate and boarded their carriage. It was only when Finn settled in beside her that she noticed his bruised cheek and a nasty new scratch on his neck. She swallowed. “How much do we have left—?”

  “A far cry from twenty thousand.” He tossed his hat onto the opposite seat and pressed his fingers to his temples.

  “He wants the money in his hands by four o’clock or my brother gets shipped off to Devil’s Island.” Finn massaged the sides of his head. “We must do something. It seems to me we have a good deal of experience in these matters in the person of Sylvain Robideaux.” She fidgeted in her seat. “He knows every square inch of the fortress inside and out.”

  He stopped his circling and opened his eyes. “What are you suggesting, Cate?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Finn shook his head. “Oh no.” The thrill of the caper was written all over the beautiful, adventurous Miss Willoughby’s face.

  “But why not? Surely between the three of us—”

  “Three?” Finn thought his
eyes might bulge out of his head. “Maybe one of us might try—possibly two. Sylvain’s crazy enough to give it a go. But you, you will never be a part of something so dangerous.”

  Cate’s eyes gleamed. “You’ll do it then? Break Eduardo out of the Citadel?”

  What rankled him more than anything about Cate’s question was its almost certain inevitability. Finn gritted his teeth. From the moment he and Sylvain had stepped onto the terrace of the hotel suite he had considered the idea as a backup plan. Under the guise of intellectual curiosity, they had quite deliberately gone over escape routes. The Frenchman had carefully kept his instruction in the realm of possible scenarios. At one point, he had asked Sylvain for detailed information about the transport of convicts to the ship. So why was he so unnerved by Cate’s suggestion of a prison break?

  The answer sat next to him, squirming with excitement in her seat. Instinctively his arm went around her. “All right, Cate. Suppose I told you I have a scheme—something that would be relatively easy to plan and execute on short notice, but I must insist that you stay out of it until I have your brother and the other man, Chamberlain, well out of danger.”

  “But I could be of use—”

  “Deal or no deal, Cate?”

  “Fine.” She folded her arms over her chest. “No, it’s not fine, but it will have to do, for now.”

  “And what are my thanks for going along with this madcap conspiracy of yours?”

  “I suppose a kiss is in order,” she huffed. “Even though I’m devil-take-it peevish about being left out.” She leaned close, until her lips brushed over his in the most delicate way—a lovely nuzzle that caused an upsurge of desire to course through his body. He remained passive, and let her cover his lips with soft, openmouthed kisses. When she stayed for something deeper, with a bit of tongue, he smiled.