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

by Stone, Jillian

  Finn held his hand up for quiet as the first rowboat skimmed past. “We need to scull up a bit . . .” Just as he whispered the words, the second boat’s prow pushed into view. Quite clearly, they could hear Fortesque conversing with the warden. “My sister insisted on keeping all four pups. Can you imagine? Four in a London flat? Quite—unbearable.”

  “Good man,” Finn murmured.

  “I thought you did not like the chargé d’affaires.” Sylvain scrambled to his knees and poled the skiff forward a few feet. As close as they could get to the main canal without being noticed.

  Finn answered under his breath. “I dislike the way he looks at Cate.”

  The moment boat three passed, Sylvain sighed. “Ah, l’amour. Such wonderful torture.”

  The lack of nervous mannerisms from the Frenchman, of late, meant the craziness was either a complete sham, or the wily man thrived on dangerous situations. Finn was inclined to believe the latter. As the fourth boat’s prow glided into view, he readied his pole and waited. When the last set of oars skimmed past they dug in and nearly rammed into the rear of the prisoner boat. Finn reached out and yanked one of rear guards off the boat and onto their skiff. Sylvain raised his pole and rendered the man unconscious, while Finn jumped aboard. He used the remaining guard as a shield, aiming his pistol at the lone guard sitting in the bow, who hesitated. Finn fired. The near silent bullet caught the man’s shoulder and the guard slumped over the bow.

  “You two up front, drag him back in.” He shoved a few men aside and moved forward. The shock of their boarding alone should keep the men rowing—for a while. Sylvain manned the aft position and gave orders to row. “Plus dur! Plus rapidement!”

  He squeezed onto a middle bench and did a quick look about. “We are here for Eduardo de Dovia and Nicolas Crowe.” No one answered from the rear. He looked for any acknowledgment from the front; the two young men hovering over the felled guard looked back. One of them dipped his head, the other cautiously raised a hand. Finn allowed himself an exhale of relief.

  Behind them there was some shouting and a bit of commotion. No doubt the last two boats were blocked by the skiff. Everything was working—almost too well. Finn turned forward and addressed the men. “The rest of you men listen up. Paddle us out of here fast. There’s an airship waiting up the coast ready to fly us out of here. Cold feet? Once we’re in the straight we’ll toss you overboard. You can make your way to shore, or join the others bound for Devil’s Island. Your choice.” Finn eyeballed the convicts in front and behind. “Now, has anyone got keys to the leg irons?”

  * * *

  THE FOG SURROUNDED Cate like a heavy, pale gray coat. She could barely make out the sound of waves breaking softly onshore—maybe she was a hundred yards out? Smothered in thick, cold moisture, she leaned into the strokes of the oars, letting her back do most of the work—just as her grandfather had taught her. She was alone in the small dinghy, weighed down by long guns, luggage, and longing. For Finn. For her brother.

  Sylvain’s female assistants had been marvelously helpful, and they had quickly accomplished all the lighthouse chores. Cate gave herself a pat on the back for figuring out how to prime and start the steam-powered foghorn.

  The straight was nearly as calm as glass, calmer than she had ever experienced the sea, and she had been rowing in circles for some time. Afraid to call out, hoping she would hear from Finn or from the sky. Where were these Clouzot brothers?

  * * *

  FINN PICKED HIS way forward and sat behind the two men in the bow. “Cuál es el nombre de su hermana?”

  The young man with dark hair and blue eyes sat up straight. “Catriona.” Finn turned to the other man. “That makes you Nicolas Crowe.”

  “And what if I am?” The agent spoke with a heavy Irish brogue. It seemed obvious the man wished to remain undercover. Finn leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I know one of you has the gun you took off the guard—use it only on my say-so.” The prow of the rowboat slipped along still waters into a pale haze of fog.

  A loud cannon boom sounded. “What the bloody hell?” Finn stood and turned. The fog was thick now—almost as thick as a London pea souper. Something whooshed through the air, striking the water not twenty feet away. “Christ, they’re firing cannon at us—Sylvain?”

  “The convict ship has a mounted gun on board.” The Frenchman shrugged. “I forgot to mention it.”

  Finn ordered up fresh rowers and relieved one of the men himself. Falling in with the rowers’ cadence, he shouted over his shoulder, “You forgot to mention it?”

  “Lucky shot,” Sylvain scoffed. As if in answer, several bullets whistled past them. Very likely the warden was on the hunt now. “Wild shots, mon ami, they have no idea where we are.”

  A diffused beam of light flashed though the mist, followed quickly by a second flash. The lighthouse signal. The boom and echo of the cannon sounded again; this time the cannon whistle was louder and the splash closer. Finn gritted his teeth and rowed harder. “Get your backs in it, lads!”

  “We are close now!” Sylvain rallied the crew. “Une fois de plus, plus rapidement!”

  Good God, Cate was out here on the water. Somewhere. Finn squinted through the thick blanket of mist. He cupped his mouth and shouted upward, “Ahoy, there.”

  Two more flashes from the lighthouse rippled through dense clouds to eerie effect. Like flashes of lightning, with no comforting rumble to follow after. They drifted in silence, gliding through gently lapping waves.

  “Raise your oars. Steady as she goes.” Sylvain’s harsh whisper carried over the men’s heads. The Frenchman’s words were buried under the low blare of the foghorn and something else, the unmistakable groan of a ship’s rigging. There, just ahead, a clearing in the mist—something moved about in the clouds, something massive loomed overhead, darkening the waters all around. The airship drifted above, and feet away, a hemp ladder descended from the sky.

  The smooth underbelly of the giant hovered overhead. They rowed up alongside and Finn grabbed hold of the rope. “When I give the word, send the rest up.” He climbed onto a rung and hauled himself upward.

  “Gilbert, Aurélien. Where the hell are you?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Accustomed to the heavy stillness surrounding her, Cate swiveled toward the sound of a low moan. A rowboat drifted close by, she could feel it. Another whispered groan drifted through the mist. Her eyes darted from side to side as she strained to see through a thick curtain of gray. There it was again—a creaky whine and a splash of oar. There could only be one reason things were as quiet as they were—Finn and Sylvain were being pursued. Cate turned her small skiff silently and rowed in the direction of the faint noise.

  She jumped as a number of gunshots cracked off and echoed through the atmosphere. Bullets whistled through fog and splashed just ahead of her little boat. A return volley of shots fired from the opposite direction. Cate crouched down and let the boat drift.

  Not sure if she should shout out or stay quiet, she glanced over her shoulder and dipped an oar in the water. A dark shape emerged, and then the bow of a boat cut through the haze. Good God, she was headed for them at a right angle, sure to ram the boat. The figure standing at the rear of the longer crew boat turned enough for her to recognize the profile of the warden. A shiver ran down her spine. She shoved an oar in the water and sculled hard. The dinghy continued to drift forward, yet she managed to turn the small craft around in a stroke or two. In her haste, the oars caused something of a splash, loud enough for the horrid man to follow the noise.

  The warden’s surprised stare quickly shifted to a sly glimmer mixed with genuine glee. She laid her back into both oars. “Turn us about, quickly, Mr. Prior.” Moreau’s orders carried through the pale mist that enveloped her small craft. Her hands burned from the rough-handled oars, but she paid them no mind and steered farther into a drift of heavier fog.

  “Miss Willoughby,” he called out in a singsong voice. “Whore of the brother or the
man who claims to be her cousin—which is it?” The warden continued to hurl insults and threats. She’d called him slithy this morning and she’d been right. The warden hoped to draw Finn out and recapture the escaped men. And it might work.

  “Ahoy, Cate.” It was Finn, yes, she was sure of it.

  “Ahoy, Cate.” The call came again from the west—a faint echo? She was so turned around, she hardly knew in which direction to row. The first call had likely come from Finn, and the second, an answer from Moreau. In the stillness, she was only sure of one thing. The pounding of her heart would carry through the curtain of fog and alert everyone to her presence. She took a deep breath and waited.

  “Come to me, Cate—I’m here.”

  The warden or Finn? Cate dropped the oars in the water and turned toward the voice. “Get those black-and-blue toes over here, this minute!” The voice was husky, insistent, and all Finn. She rowed toward the voice and didn’t stop until she came upon him, hanging from the clouds on a rope.

  He dropped into the dinghy and wasted no time lifting her onto the ladder. He tied his long guns to another line and they were lifted above.

  “Moreau is close, watch your—” she whispered, but was not able to finish her warning. Brawny deckhands hauled her up into the airship’s cabin. Cate peered into the depths of the gondola. In the dim light, she could just make out a number of men hunkered down along the floor, looking plainly terrified. Others hauled luggage and guns up the ladder. She spied her brother crouched in a corner. “Eduardo,” she called out and he lifted his head.

  Cate remained close to the hatchway waiting for Finn. Guns fired below. And another volley. She stuck her head out of the opening. “Get up here this minute!”

  “Drop the ballast.” Those were the last words she heard from below. Two young men—speaking in French—pulled her away from the craft’s door. “No, please!” Cate screamed. “We cannot leave him.” Both young men held on as she struggled against their hold. “It is too dangerous. We cannot stay, mademoiselle.”

  Cate fell to the floor as the great balloon lifted them into the air at such a speed, her stomach felt as though it rose to her throat. As soon as she caught her breath and gathered her wits, she begged the two men in charge for help. “We must go back.”

  She searched the faces of the Frenchmen, who appeared almost as sad as she was herself. “Help me convince them,” she pleaded with Sylvain. “We cannot let Finn be captured by Moreau. You don’t understand, he will not—he cannot tolerate a dark cell.”

  “A prison cell does not sit well with any man.” The last man to climb aboard spoke to her in English—in a thick Irish accent. “He rowed away—tricked the warden into following after him.”

  Dazed and slightly hysterical, she sobbed. “So that we might get away.”

  “It seems so, miss.”

  Cate sank down beside her brother and huddled close. Chilled and numb from the cold, her tears came slowly at first. It wasn’t long, however, before the dam burst and the real sobbing began. Her brother did his best to comfort her. “This man, Cate, you seem very attached to him.”

  “His name is Phineas Gunn—Hugh Curzon on the Continent.” At mention of Finn’s name, the Irishman briefly slid his eyes her way.

  Her brother groaned. “Not the British operative? The same one that got me into this mess—”

  “No lectures, Eduardo. That British operative just risked everything—perhaps his life—to break you out of the Citadel fortress. Besides, Finn says the Deuxième Bureau was at fault at the farmhouse.” She hiccupped. “And I believe him.”

  Blinking back fresh tears, she studied the Irishman. Presumably this was Nicolas Crowe. Good-sized, nice-looking man. He might even be handsome after a haircut and a washup. She lifted her chin. “I shan’t be aboard long. In my absence, might I ask you to watch over my brother?”

  Eduardo protested. “Cate, I’m not a child.”

  “No. But you are ill.”

  “The fever is gone. I am sure to recover, I promise.” He smiled weakly. “Besides, it’s you who needs watching over.”

  Cate shook her head. “I cannot leave Finn behind. I cannot.”

  “Why such loyalty to an agent who would like nothing more than to see me locked up in Newgate gaol?” Eduardo stared. “Do you”—he recoiled slightly—“love this man?”

  “Very much.” Cate sighed. “And if you can’t honor my feelings for him, say nothing at all.” She took in the strange surroundings. The two men piloting the ship—the Clouzot brothers, she reasoned—appeared cheerful enough. They were also wholly taken up with a number of mechanical devices midship. Below the gondola, she could hear the putt-putt of an engine motor and another sound, that of a windmill’s soft whir. Was that the propeller, perhaps? She had seen these fantastic flying machines hovering over Paris, and now she was being swept away in one. She raised her hand to Sylvain. “Help me up?”

  Most of the men had settled in. Some lounged on the deck of the gondola, others peered out the observation windows. All at once, like singers in a choir, some of the men exhaled an “Ahhh!” Cate peeked over a shoulder to have a look. The airship broke through the cloud cover and putted quietly above the silver-white counterpane blanketing the earth. Overhead, a sliver of moon and stars cast enough illumination to light their way. She imagined how it might feel to have Finn’s arms around her as she saw the tops of the clouds. The scratchy affection of his chin stubble at her temple. A single tear defied blinking lashes and ran down her cheek.

  “Mademoiselle—Miss Willoughby?” She found both Clouzot brothers standing behind her. “I am Aurélien, and this my brother, Gilbert.”

  She nodded to each brother. “Finn speaks very highly of you both.”

  “May we speak with you a moment?” They escorted her to the dais in the center of the gondola. Several steps led up to a circular bridge surrounded by a brass railing. A panel filled with glass gauges and brass levers sat in the middle of what looked to be a kind of pilot’s station. Mesmerized, Cate turned a complete circle to appreciate the view from the surrounding glass dome. Sylvain joined them near the helm. As he approached, she couldn’t hold back. “What am I to do? I must return to the Île de Ré. He could be wounded—or captured.” She didn’t mention the other possibility, so much worse she could not bear to think of it.

  Sylvain took her hands in his. “He might also be on his way to Cherbourg.”

  Cate could not hold his gaze for long. She didn’t really believe that and neither did he, she could see it in his eyes. “I will find him, Cate, and wire you immediately. The Clouzots have agreed to drop me off, just as soon as the fog clears.”

  “And when will that be?

  Aurélien smiled at her. “As we travel north and inland, the skies will clear.” Cate nodded demurely. Inside, her heart raced with excitement as well as dread. How long would all this take? And how far north would they have to travel before the airship could set down? She needed to formulate a plan—quickly.

  “Merci, you are all a great a comfort to me.” Her gaze shifted from Sylvain to the aeronauts and froze. “Eduardo!” Cate’s eyes grew wide. “Wha-what are you doing?”

  Her brother pointed the menacing pistol at their pilots. “Sorry to interrupt your plans, gentlemen, but this airship travels to the destination of my choosing.”

  * * *

  FINN LAY IN a small boat drifting at sea. The sound of waves lapped against the sides of the dinghy as the surf washed him ashore. Sand and seashells scraped along the flat-bottomed skiff as it beached itself. He opened his eyes and blinked back a smear of red. A faraway voice yelled, “We’ve got him!” Shadowed figures lifted him out of the small boat and lowered him into another.

  “Quelle vue terrible! He’s covered in blood.”

  More shadowy figures played overhead. One jabbed. Another poked. “This one’s not long for this world, one way or the other.”

  Finn let all of it fade away.

  Chapter Thirty

 
; “She needs to go back.” Eduardo waved his pistol. “No time to lose—rápido.” Both Clouzot brothers jumped to the ship’s control panel. Gilbert called out map coordinates and air speed while Aurélien reset the rudder by cranking the handle of a sizable brass wheel.

  Her eyes watered. “Eduardo, I—”

  Her brother narrowed his eyes. “No crying.”

  “Crying,” she blinked back tears, “eso es para los bebés.” Eduardo should talk. His eyes were sunken and red rimmed, yet they smiled at her.

  “You’re no crybaby, Cate.”

  Under Eduardo’s watchful gaze, the Clouzot brothers turned the ship around. Aurélien eyed them over his shoulder. “We’ll head for the south side of the island—less fog. We’ll set down just long enough to drop you off.”

  Cate turned to Sylvain. “I can’t do this without you.”

  Sylvain’s eyes telegraphed adventure and something else—something more protective. “I am at your service, mademoiselle.”

  She turned to the Clouzot brothers. “You must carry extra clothing with you. I’ll need to borrow some.” She eyed Aurélien. The young man was thicker in build, but only a hair taller. “And a set of braces, if you can spare them.”

  Eduardo leaned against the brass rail and gestured with the gun. “See to her request.” He nodded at Sylvain. “Cate seems to trust you—watch my back, and make sure she gets some privacy.”

  Minutes later, the gondola door opened. She paused at the open hatchway and tucked a few strands of hair under a cap. Her brother emptied the gun of bullets and handed the pistol to Gilbert. She smiled. “I love you, Eduardo.”

  He shot her one of those don’t kiss me brotherly warnings. “Go get him, Cate.”

  She tipped her cap. “Meet you in Cherbourg.” She blew her brother a kiss. “For the loan of your trousers, monsieur.” She winked at Aurélien and descended the ladder. Holding on for dear life, she imagined her gilded swing at the Alhambra Theatre. A number of sand dunes dotted the strand of beach ahead. Timing is everything, she reminded herself, and let go. She landed on the back side of a dune and slid to the bottom. Sylvain came down not far away in patch of salt grass.