He twisted the key and the door swung open silently.
She returned a few tools to her rucksack and stuffed a bed pillow under the thin blanket on the cot. Finn reached back and she grabbed hold of his hand. They headed down the corridor, hugging the shadows. At the end of the passage he peered around the corner. Yet another corridor with a set of doors at the end, and a stairwell. He nodded her forward and they made their way downstairs. At the landing, he peered over the rail. A door swung open and a worker, kitchen help possibly, descended the stairs to the basement.
Sylvain had indicated the infirmary was in a building that housed both the dining hall and the kitchen. If he remembered rightly, the kitchen was in the basement, which had yet another subterranean level below that. From there, they would need to find the entrance to the underground escape route. “Even if we find this secret passage, we may have to turn back. Sylvain believes they’ve sealed the exit off at the wall.”
“Not to worry.” Cate raised a brow. “I have an anarchist for a brother, don’t I?”
He stared at her. “You’re carrying explosives?”
Her hand cupped his jawline. “I came prepared for anything.” She tilted his chin toward the gaslight flickering above. “They beat you.”
“Guards don’t take kindly to surly prisoners.”
“How are you?”
“A few cuts and bruises—
“I’m talking about your state of mind.”
He stared at her. “A great deal better, now that the shackles are off.”
“Finn, I need to tell you something.”
He glanced ahead. “If you’re going to tell me you love me—don’t.”
She nearly choked on her response. “Why?”
“Because I already know you do.” He grabbed her hand, and they descended the stairs, staying well behind a kitchen worker.
The bustle and clamor of a prison kitchen at full tilt reminded Finn that dawn was something less than an hour away. “Let’s try this way.” He led them down a narrow passage, dodging a line of carts that would carry great pots of breakfast gruel and gallons of tea into the hall. “Someone’s coming.” They ducked under one of the carts as a worker balancing a tall stack of soup bowls swept by.
Finn held her close. “You realize your safety means more to me than—”
“Than what? Your own life?” Cate whispered. “Why is my safety more important than yours?”
“It just is, damn it.” He dipped his chin to peer out from under the cart.
“You’re so stubborn.” She sniffed.
Another pair of trousers scurried past the cart. Finn waited a moment, then pulled Cate out from under the cart. He hit the swinging doors running and they found themselves in a great storeroom. A few wall sconces hissed and sputtered enough light to reveal that the warden kept a well-stocked pantry, chockablock full of large bags of milled grains—flour mostly. A giant cold closet took up a good section of space, along with rows of open shelves laden down with dishware and foodstuffs. The room smelled of pickler’s brine and salted fish.
“It appears we have reached the end of the building.” Finn’s gaze swept the room and came to rest on an angled skylight. It was still dark out. “Now, if we can just find a rabbit hole in the pantry. . . .”
They split up and searched the room. Finn wandered up and down row after row of pantry shelves. “Would a trapdoor do?” Cate’s harsh whisper carried across the room. He found her between stacks of barrels, and helped her roll a few out of the way. Finn yanked on the heavy cast-iron ring, and lifted the door.
Pitch-black.
“Hold on, I just passed a shelf full of lamps.” He returned with one for each. The light from both lanterns revealed a set of wooden steps descending into—blackness.
Her eyes were large and round, and glowed midnight blue. “You don’t suppose there will be rats down there?”
He tilted his chin down. “As large as the ones in the London Underground, I’m afraid.”
Cate pushed him forward. “You first.”
The moan of several horns—all cranking up at once—sounded about the room. Someone had set off the alarm sirens.
He descended the stairs with Cate right behind him. “We’re going to take this passage as fast as we possibly can.” The moment she was down, he climbed back up and closed the heavy door. They were surrounded by rough stone walls and suffocating blackness. Finn held his lantern high and led them down the centuries-old passage. They ran through long dry sections and picked their way through pools of sludge. It felt as though they ran for miles—when in fact, the wall was less than fifty yards away. Finn slowed their pace. “We make a right turn and then come upon . . .” He lifted his lantern. Cate added hers, stepping up beside him. “Bricked in, just as Sylvain suspected.”
Cate removed a small metal pick from her jacket pocket and tapped on the wall. Holding her finger to her lips, she invited him to listen. Sure enough, three taps answered hers. Finn stared at her. “Sylvain?”
Cate nodded. “Sylvain and Mr. Périgot—a clockmaker in town, and an expert in breaking and entering. He knew my grandfather.”
Finn stared at her. “Your grandfather. No doubt the man who taught you your trade?” He’d be damned if he didn’t catch himself smiling at her.
“I will explain everything—later.” She tapped three times again. “Right now, we must retreat many feet away.”
They backed around the corner. “Plug your ears and close your eyes.” Finn covered her with his body. The blast showered them with brick and mortar dust—but they were otherwise unharmed.
Coughing, Finn helped her up from the ground. “Follow my voice. Don’t wait for the air to clear,” a hoarse whisper echoed through the darkness. They made their way toward Sylvain’s familiar voice, guiding them through the heavy haze. “This way, mes amis.” There was light above the passage. Dawn was breaking. Sylvain’s head peered down at them from above.
Finn pushed Cate up the ladder and followed on behind. “Come, quickly—the pasha’s yacht departs any moment.”
They were sheltered by a small stand of trees, but not for long. Finn turned toward a man he did not recognize, an older gentleman who held the reins to Sergeant MacGregor. “You must be Périgot.”
“At your service, monsieur—you and the beautiful voleur de bijoux.”
Finn lifted Cate onto MacGregor and tucked himself behind her. “Take care of yourselves.” He nodded to both men on the ground. “Ce n’est qu’un au revoir, pas un adieu.”
“ ‘Good-bye doesn’t mean forever.’ ” Cate laid her head back. “A rather romantic notion, Finn.” He wrapped an arm around her as he headed MacGregor out of the copse. “Just a few more minutes, Cate, and we’ll be safely away.”
The moment they broke from the cover of trees, shots rang out.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Arrêtez! Prisonnier échappé!” Two guards on horseback chased them through the narrow lanes and backstreets of Saint-Martin. Finn turned down a blind alley, guiding MacGregor through laundry lines, around dustbins, and right into a dead end.
“I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse.” Finn rolled the horse back and headed them directly toward their pursuers.
“Finn!” Cate pointed to a pedestrian walkway between houses—barely room for them to push through. The next lane over was a crowded marketplace. Finn merged them into a throng of shoppers, vegetable carts, and open-air stalls. “Where are we?”
Cate leaned to one side of the horse. “Excusez-moi, le pilier avec le grand yacht?” A woman examining an apple pointed the fruit in a northwest direction, over the rooftops of the shops behind them. Several other shoppers pointed in the same direction. “Merci.”
Finn steered through the open market and as soon the way cleared, he dug his heels in. MacGregor swiftly carried them into a fishpacking district, where they wound their way through eight-foot piles of sea salt along the quay. They had to be close now, and the yacht moored dockside would be
an impressive-sized ship. In a break between warehouses, they caught sight of the steam yacht, along with several of their pursuers following dangerously close behind.
Cate removed Finn’s pistol and handed it back to him. “You might have mentioned we were armed, darling,” he said. He steered them down the alley between storehouses and came up behind their pursuers. “Drop your guns and spur your horses out of here. Otherwise I will not hesitate to shoot you.”
The men rode off, but they did not drop their weapons. “Bollocks.” Finn aimed his pistol and winged a man; the other two turned and fired wild shots. Finn returned fire and took off after the guards. “Let’s put a bit of a scare into them.” He pursued the men, hell-bent for leather, but at the last minute he turned MacGregor and headed straight for the yacht. Finn pressed his heels into MacGregor’s sides and the horse flew out from the shadow of the warehouse and alongside the pier.
Cate stared in horror at the sight of the ship’s gangway being retracted.
“Hold the gangway!”
“Finn, what are you doing?” She gulped.
“He can jump this, Cate. Hold on to his mane. Let him know you’re with him.”
She could see the men on board the yacht, particularly the gangway staff, were scrambling to get the bridge back in place. And there was a tall man shouting orders who looked a great deal like the chargé d’affaires.
Beneath her legs she could feel the powerful muscles of the great horse tense and flex. Finn lifted the reins to give MacGregor his head and urged him onward. The gangway was nearly back in place, but it was still too late. Cate grabbed hold of his mane and shut her eyes. She felt them leave the ground, milliseconds passed, and then there was a great clatter and thud as front hooves and rear legs pumped to keep them climbing up the rest of the gangway. Cate opened an eye. They had landed surprisingly far up the bridge, but the metal and wood platform rocked and swayed from the sheer force of their landing and nearly gave way. “Good boy, keep up the scramble.” Cate urged the animal on, as did Finn, with calm, firm words. With only a slight hesitation, the horse pushed off the collapsing gangway using powerful rear legs and with a second, remarkable leap, MacGregor made the lower deck of the ship. Cheers went up from a crowd dockside and as well as on board.
Cate leaned over and hugged the magnificent horse around his neck. Then she hugged Finn with all her might. This brave horse and rider were meant for each other. She wondered if the two of them could make room for a third. She collapsed into Finn’s arms and held on while he maneuvered the horse along the deck and away from the crowd.
Finn helped her down and they both gave the snorting, prancing equine a good rub, soothing his frayed nerves. Cate smiled at Finn. “If you weren’t different species, I’d say you were both cut from same plaid.” She scratched MacGregor’s nose. “He has the heart of soldier.”
Adrian Fortesque greeted them. “On behalf of the Egyptian and British government, welcome aboard.”
“I look forward to a good tumbler full of scotch—later on.” Finn trailed after the viceroy’s grooms, who led the red horse away. Somewhat bewildered, Cate turned to the chargé d’affaires. “Where are they taking the horse?”
“There’s a compartment belowdecks, stores the royal carriages and several of Khedive Tewfik Pasha’s Arabians.” Fortesque grinned. “We arrange match races for the pasha whenever he’s in London. His nags win quite handily.” Fortesque offered his arm. “Shall we find you a sumptuous berth, scare up a bit of ladies’ wardrobe, perhaps?”
Her room was incredibly small but very well appointed. A vase of fresh flowers had been placed on a small writing desk. And there was a bed, neatly made up and built into the wall. “Drinks at eleven in the stateroom—the earliest hour they serve liquor.” Fortesque turned toward the bell pull. “Tug on that and a servant will—materialize. I honestly don’t know where they come from.”
Amused, Cate tilted her head to peek behind the bell pull. “Might there be a pasha’s magic lamp to rub back there?”
Fortesque hesitated at the door. “Sorry to have been such an . . . ass.”
She met a different man’s gaze. His usual callous expression had softened. “There were times when you might have been more . . . helpful.” Her eyes narrowed before she smiled. “You did manage to redeem yourself—in the end.”
Adrian stared at her the way men do when they want something badly. “You are very lovely.” Steel gray eyes darted away, then returned to her. “I suppose you’re mad about him?”
She nodded. “Completely, utterly mad about him.”
“That will be enough, Miss Willoughby.” Adrian tilted his head for one last, wistful look. “Shall I make a few discreet inquiries about wardrobe for you?”
Her cheeks warmed. “Very kind of you, Mr. Fortesque.”
He caught the door on his way out. “Call me Adrian.”
She grinned. “If you call me Cate.”
The moment the door closed, she gave the bell pull a yank and a genie arrived.
She ordered a pot of tea and a bath, in that order. The tub turned out to be slightly larger than a washbasin, but the tea was divine. Miraculously, the genies on board appeared at her door with a simple frock and a pair of silk stockings and dancing slippers that pinched her toes. Nothing new there. Rather a hodgepodge affair, but when patched together with a blue velvet riding jacket, she looked almost—presentable.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and pinched her cheeks. Off to find her man, Cate lifted the latch on the cabin door and ventured onto the deck. She stopped several servants before she found one who spoke a smattering French. “Monsieur Curzon’s cabin—le grand Anglais, s’il vous plaît.” From what she could piece together, Finn was still below with MacGregor; there had been an injury.
“Will you show me the way?”
The cabin boy nodded and she followed him belowdecks to a spacious indoor paddock. The compartment smelled of hay and horse dung, exactly like a barn—or in this case, a floating stable. A line of carriages were secured to one side of the space, while a row of stalls, the other. She crossed an indoor paddock covered in wood shavings. One of the stall doors was open. A stable hand held Sergeant MacGregor’s head while Finn knelt on the floor, beside the horse. The horse nickered as she approached. “What happened?” Cate stroked MacGregor’s nose.
Finn looked up from wrapping a rear hoof. “He ripped a shoe off—that last scramble up the gangway did it.” Finn wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “The shoe took a piece of hoof with it. We’ve built the outer wall up with a plaster cloth. He’ll be hobbling around for a bit.” He tossed an unused bandage into a nearby kit.
“Poor boy.” She stroked the horse’s nose.
“I can’t say he minds the attention.” Finn took a moment to examine her head to toe. “I miss the trousers—that lovely view of your bum.” He clapped the plaster dust off his hands and placed his hands on his hips. “Where did you find the dress?”
“Adrian was kind enough to arrange it.”
“Adrian, now, is it?” He reached out with his hand. “Have you had breakfast? What hour of morning is it?”
The stable hand moved around the large animal. “I’ll stay with him, sir—see that he has his water and hay.”
Finn nodded to the young man. “No oats—let’s keep him as quiet as possible.”
He led her up onto the main deck. Momentarily, the sun burst from behind the cloud cover and the sea sparkled. Standing at the ship’s rail, he inhaled deeply. “Ah, fresh air, open seas—no prison cell.” His eyes crinkled from the sun and the wind ruffled his hair.
“You’ve removed the bandage.” Cate stood on tiptoe and he leaned over so she might inspect his wound. A dark red streak ran from his hairline through his scalp. “Clean wound and healing over.” The fast steamer cut through a swell of waves and her stomach roiled a bit. “Haven’t got my sea legs, as yet. Am I a bit green?” She turned her back to the ocean.
He
placed his hands on the guardrail on each side of her. “Your eyes match the blue of the sea.” He leaned close, as if to kiss her, but did not. “And a tinge of green becomes you.”
She snorted a soft laugh. “I haven’t heard a word of appreciation, sir. Quite a prize I rescued, one of Her Majesty’s most valuable men—”
“You’re not far off, Cate.” Adrian Fortesque ducked through a hatch, waving a stack of telegrams. “I have here urgent messages from every intelligence organization in Britain, all of them demanding answers or shouting directives regarding an operative by the name of Phineas Gunn, alias Hugh Curzon.” He drew up beside them. “They require answers.” He pointed the missives toward midship. “I recommend the lounge. There, Mr. Curzon or Mr. Gunn—whichever you prefer—you will find an assortment of telegraph pads, writing instruments, and an eighty-year-old scotch.” Adrian raised a brow and a grin. “Shall we?”
After a pour of Talisker’s finest, they settled in to read messages and compose answers. “Ah, here’s one from Scotland Yard.” Adrian picked up the wire. “Pertaining to the matter of a sloop, chartered by Spanish insurrectionists in La Rochelle harbor. There was an explosion.” Adrian’s cool, appraising gaze moved from Finn to Cate. “Would either of you . . . care to explain? Special Branch would love to hear about it.”
Rocking his head side to side, Finn contemplated his answer. This silent evaluation of his had always intrigued her; she could almost see the clockworks turn in his head. Finally, he exhaled. “I’m not convinced the Spaniards were Los Tigres.”
“Were being the operative word.” Adrian shuffled down a few missives. “It would appear the Admiralty agrees, Mr. Gunn.”
Finn poured them all another swallow. “Just call me Finn—that puts us all on a first-name basis.”
Adrian flashed a look over his reading spectacles. “There may be a shadow organization within Los Tigres—bent more toward violence and disruption than reform.” He crumpled the missive and placed it in an ashtray. Rummaging in a side pocket, he removed a box of safety matches. “Would you be interested to know, I received several messages with the clear directive: bring in Agent-of-influence Crowe as well as El Tigre Solitario—by any means necessary.”
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 28
