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

by Stone, Jillian

  “Pleased to meet you.” Cate nodded to the imposing gentlemen. The much younger man, Zeno Kennedy—she was quite sure she had heard the unusual name before, connected to the arrest of dynamiters.

  Finn grabbed the last chair and offered it to Cate. “I expected to see Fortesque and Crowe here.”

  The man named Kennedy closed the file on his lap. “Their carriage broke down just outside of Epsom Downs, they should be along any moment.”

  Cate held back a snicker. Last night they had made the channel crossing to Portsmouth in a little over three hours—just as darkness fell. Standing beside her luggage, Cate had listened to the gentlemen discuss which route might be faster into town. The morning train would get them to London by no later than ten o’clock. A fast carriage with a change of team midway would certainly get them to London before daybreak. There was great deal of bickering back and forth as to whose department was going to pick up whose travel expenses.

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. “Sergeant MacGregor is not fit enough, as yet, for a long slog at night tied behind a rented coach. She turned to Adrian. “Why don’t you and Mr. Crowe go along by carriage—roust your agents, do . . . whatever it is Scotland Yard men do in these circumstances. Finn and I will meet you in Director Melville’s office in the morning.”

  She was tired. More than anything, she wanted a good night’s sleep spooning against the warm body of the man she loved. She had crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the three of them. “I consider the matter settled, gentlemen.”

  It appeared she and Finn had enjoyed an excellent night’s sleep and had still beaten Adrian Fortesque and Nicolas Crowe into town. She caught Finn’s eye and winked.

  “All right then.” Melville cleared his throat. “Miss Willoughby, you say you can identify the suspected assassin?”

  Finn leaned against the wall of the director’s office. “Before we go volunteering Miss Willoughby for what is likely to be extremely dangerous work, might I ask if you have determined the what and the where of the assassin’s scheme?”

  Kennedy leaned forward. “We believe the sniper, Francisco Guàrdia, will make his attempt tonight—at the Alhambra Theatre. A place you are familiar with, Miss Willoughby.”

  A bit wide-eyed, she nodded.

  The detective continued. “We’ve managed to scrounge up a set of technical drawings from an architect who recently renovated the stage. As Finn is an expert marksman himself and has been trained as a sharpshooter, I’d like you both to take a look at the schematics.”

  Finn reviewed the plans briefly and asked about Alfred, Scotland Yard’s famous bomb-sniffing bloodhound.

  Kennedy shook his head. “I’m afraid Alfred is up in the Port of Dundas—we received intelligence about a ship carrying a load of arms and explosives.”

  Finn stared. “What are we using to sweep the theater with?”

  Melville brightened. “We thought we’d give Sofia a go. The pups can do without their mother for a few hours.”

  Finn stared. “Alfred’s bitch?”

  “I prefer paramour.” Melville stiffened. “She’s had some training—and she’s got the best nose we’ve found, other than Alfred. Our good luck they took to each other.”

  A young man wearing a protective apron poked his head in the door. “Look who I found wandering about Four Whitehall.” She spotted Adrian Fortesque and Nicolas Crowe behind the amiable chap, who waved both men inside.

  “Archie Bruce, head of the crime laboratory.” Finn nodded to Cate. “Please meet Cate Willoughby.”

  “Mr. Bruce.”

  The young man stared at her, quite beyond the appropriate length of time a man might stare at a lady. “Excuse me.” He edged a bit closer. Cate smiled gently. She had an idea of what was coming. “But you are—you dance with—”

  “My theatrical name is Catriona de Dovia, of the Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique.”

  “Yes, I attended the ballet just last week. Your featured dance was so—” The young man seemed at a loss for words.

  “I’m delighted you enjoyed the performance, Mr. Bruce.”

  “Might we get down to business, gentlemen?” Melville moved around the long table, pulled out a chair, and nodded to Cate. “Miss Willoughby?”

  They spent the morning poring over plans of the stage, as well as renderings of the Alhambra’s interior. Finn used a map pointer and traced a number of potential bullet paths, or lines of sight—unobstructed views between shooter and target. “Sagasta and the governor of Puerto Rico will be seated here or here.” Finn turned to Zeno Kennedy. “We’ll need to confirm the exact box.” After some discussion, they settled on one or two of the most likely sniper positions.

  Melville paced around the table. “Next question—shall we allow our foreign dignitaries to attend the ballet as planned, or do we plant our own men?”

  Finn pushed his chair back to stretch out his legs. “Risky either way—we can’t have either man shot, but the use of decoys might risk discovery.”

  Zeno Kennedy agreed. “We lose the opportunity to catch the perpetrators.”

  “Unless we find a couple of ringers,” Archie Bruce piped in.

  Cate considered their dilemma. “What if the assassin doesn’t know the prime minister on sight? What if he has to wait for a signal?” Shocked that she had blurted out her thoughts, she looked at the men, openmouthed. “I mean, I’m not completely sure I could identify Sagasta on sight, not unless I was told what box he was seated in.”

  Melville stopped in his tracks. “Do performers know such things? Which celebrity or notable is sitting in which seat?”

  Finn suddenly tipped his chair forward. “Cate, the night you tossed the silk streamer through the air, the one I caught was meant for—?”

  Cate met his gaze. “Lord Phillips. I was told it was his box, and that he was an enthusiastic patron of the ballet.”

  Archie Bruce beamed. “I say, that would be quite a bold signal to use.”

  Finn nodded. “And rather clever, if a bit theatrical. All eyes on the target, away from the shooter.”

  Bushy brows crashed together above Melville’s frown. “For those of us who have had neither the privilege nor the delight of seeing Miss Willoughby’s performance,” he turned to Cate, “might you please explain?”

  She sucked in a breath. “There is a pas de deux titled Phoenix Unbound. I descend to the stage on a gilded swing. There are streamers attached to my costume, meant to look like burning flames trailing after me.” Cate moistened her lips a bit nervously. “The trapeze swings across the stage and comes up quite close to several balcony boxes on the opposite side of theatre. By request, I often toss a length of silk to a gentleman in one of the boxes.”

  The young lab director bobbed his head. “A spectacular opening, really quite thrilling.”

  Melville’s mouth had dropped open. “You’ve been gone nearly a week. Who takes over in such circumstances?”

  “Miss Millicent Troy, my understudy. I would send someone over straightaway, find out if she’s received any requests for this evening’s performance.”

  “Would you now, Miss Willoughby?” The director’s scowl melted into a cheerful curl. “Well, I happen to agree. It should be easy enough to discover if Sagasta’s box has been requested.”

  “We’ll want to cross-check the request with the prime minister’s people.” Zeno Kennedy narrowed in on Adrian Fortesque. “Might I put you on this?”

  “I shall pay a call on the Spanish embassy this afternoon.” Adrian’s gaze landed on the agent sitting next to him. “As for Mr. Crowe—or is it Chamberlain here at home?”

  “I’ll take the ballet girl.” It seemed Mr. Chamberlain was capable of quite a charming smile—when he wished to be charming. And it was sure to work on Millicent Troy. “And please, I am Gray Chamberlain—for the foreseeable future.”

  Melville grunted. “Be a damned shame if your cover is blown—two years of work down the drain.”

  Zeno c
losed one file folder and opened another. “Only time will tell. We can’t risk putting Gray out there again until we know for sure.” Zeno glanced across the table at Finn. “We might be calling on Hugh Curzon for a while—to fill in on the Continent.”

  Cate’s stomach did a bit of roiling about. These men operated in a strange world filled with dangerous intrigues. Finn called himself a consultant, but there he was, right in the thick of it. He was a thrill seeker, just like her parents. She wondered, frankly, if one could settle down with a man like Phineas Gunn.

  Not that she wanted to settle down, exactly. More than anything in the world she wanted to dance with a ballet company. Tour the world. Perhaps she, too, shared some of the same wanderlust as her parents. And as dedicated as Eduardo was to his causes, Cate was certain the dangers inherent in being an anarchist were a large part of the draw.

  Good God. A flush of heat tinged her cheeks as she realized something she had never wished to admit to herself. Ever.

  She was an adventuress.

  Cate jumped when Melville grunted. “No one leaves this room until we all agree on a plan. You’ve got twenty minutes.” Melville checked his pocket watch. “Then I’m going down to The Rising Sun for a pint and a fish pie.” He glanced up at the table. “You’re welcome to join.”

  * * *

  FINN CLIMBED OUT of the hansom at 19 Chester Square. “Wait for me.”

  He opened the front door and took the stairs two at a time. “Bootes!” Raking through his clothes closet, his found his evening coat and flung it on the bed. He had just enough time to quickly change costume, collect his guns, and get back across town to the theatre. He had identified three likely sniper nests and wanted plenty of time to position operatives close by. Agents fitted in waiters’ jackets—Cate’s idea. Finn tossed off his clothes and yanked the bell pull. “Bootes! I need you up here!”

  “Glad I am to have you home—Oh, sir!” His flustered housekeeper nearly spilled a washbasin full of warm water. Finn lifted the heavy bowl out of her hands while she stared openmouthed.

  “Surely you’ve seen Mr. Doty in his unmentionables.” He ran a wet washcloth across his chest and under his arms. Mrs. Doty turned her back. “Have you seen my butler about—or Hardy, for that matter?”

  “The two of them worry me something terrible, Mr. Gunn. Left the house not more than half an hour ago. On their way to a duel, they said. Mr. Morton—Bootes to you, sir—is standing in as your brother’s second.” The distraught woman actually sobbed. “Oh, Mr. Gunn, we collected your travel bags and guns at the station—your horse as well. Everyone thought you were still off on the Continent. Please, sir, do something to stop them.”

  Finn said a silent prayer, then cursed Hardy, in that order. Toweling off, he yanked his dresser open. “Do you know where they went?”

  Mrs. Doty sniffed. “I’ve a mind they didn’t venture far, sir.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They left on foot.”

  Finn pulled on a fresh shirt. Belgrave Square’s private garden was large and a bit overgrown. Plenty of spots to pace off a duel. Christ, just like old Rufus to get himself gunned down in front of his own town house. “Be a dear, Mrs. Doty, and fetch my white braces and evening trousers.” He raised his chin. “And I shall make a hash out of this tie.”

  Finn dressed and headed downstairs with his housekeeper whimpering behind him. “I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to that young man.” Even though Hardy teased the woman mercilessly, Mrs. Doty had a mighty affection for his brother. She pointed down the hall. “Your things are in the study, sir.”

  He turned at the banister and made his way down the hallway. He stopped at the umbrella stand to pick up his double-barrel rifle, the most reliable gun he owned. Inside his study he pocketed a box of shells and his Webley revolver. Mrs. Doty watched him from the open door. “How is Sergeant MacGregor?” he asked her.

  “Doing well, I believe. The groom called the farrier out, sir.”

  He exited the house and climbed into the waiting hansom. As they pulled away, he caught a glimpse of his overwrought housekeeper standing on the porch. Finn let down the side window. “Try not to worry yourself. Hardy’s been in worse spots.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “What’s going on?” Cate pushed through a crowd of hovering onlookers and leaned over the young dancer. “Millicent, what on earth?”

  Her understudy was lying on the ground gasping for breath. A glance down her body ended in a horrible sight. The young dancer’s foot lay at an odd angle, and the ankle bone jutted from the skin. Cate winced. It hurt just to look at the injury.

  Gray Chamberlain knelt down and wrapped a towel around the bloodied leg. Cate shook her head. “How did this happen?”

  He used a pocket square to secure the cloth bandage. “We were on our way downstairs—she slipped.” He shook his head. “She’s landed in a bad way on her ankle.”

  Cate stared at him. “I can see as much.” He ran a hand through sandy brown hair.

  “Mr. O’Donnell, we need to get Millicent to a doctor,” she called out to the stage manager.

  “Henry’s on his way, Miss de Dovia.” One of the hands pushed his way through the bystanders. The burly lad picked up Millicent as though she were a child’s doll. Cate led the way upstairs and out the backstage door. She squeezed Millicent’s hand. “You’re in good hands, Millie. Henry will stay with you, and I’ll send Francis over as well.”

  Cate gave the driver a Harley Street address for a doctor who treated the dancers’ complaints and injuries. The big lad stuffed himself in beside Millicent and lifted the girl’s leg onto his lap. Millicent rolled her eyes. “Don’t you be getting any ideas, there.” She turned to Cate and managed a wistful smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go on tonight.”

  Her heart leaped in her chest as she stepped away. Millicent grabbed hold and yanked her back. “Be careful.”

  She searched her understudy’s face. “What are you saying, Millie?”

  The girl lowered her voice to a whisper. “I remember being jostled on the stairs, more of a push than any stumble.” The hansom lurched off and Millicent let go of her hand. A confusing panoply of thoughts whirled through her mind as the cab turned the corner.

  “She’s right, you’ll have to go on now.”

  Cate whirled around to face Chamberlain. “I promised Finn I wouldn’t dance under any circumstances.” She found it hard to meet this man’s piercing gaze for long.

  Cate brushed past him and headed into the theatre. What perturbed her most of all was that Chamberlain was right. No matter what she had promised Finn, she would have to go on. The entire operation had been planned around the opening movements of the dance and a silk streamer.

  She could feel Mr. Chamberlain’s eyes on her back as she hurried down the backstage stairs. On the floor below, a janitor mopped up smears of blood. She wondered if Millie would ever dance again. Tears filled her eyes at just the thought of it.

  Cate chanced a glance behind her. Chamberlain also descended the stairs, but at a good distance behind her. The very attractive, disturbing man winked at her. There was only man in the world who was allowed to look at her that way, and he was on his way back to the theatre this very minute—togged up in evening attire and armed with his rifle.

  She ran the rest of the way to her dressing room and slammed the door shut.

  * * *

  FINN STEADIED HIS long gun on the low branch of a small tree and took aim. Hardy stood a head taller than any of the other men gathered on the green, negotiating some finer point of rule. “Get cracking, gentlemen,” Finn hissed under his breath. He needed to be back at the Alhambra, posthaste.

  “Twenty paces is far enough, since the earl has forgotten his spectacles.” Hardy’s voice carried over a rise of grass and through the dense vegetation. Finn gritted his teeth. Lennox House was just across the square. Easy enough to send a man over to collect a pair of eyeglasses. Advantage, Earl of
Lennox.

  Hardy finished rolling up his shirtsleeve. “Shall we, Rufus?” He selected a pistol out of the open case and inspected his weapon.

  He knew his brother well enough to know Hardy planned to aim over the earl’s shoulder. But the fact remained, one could never be sure about these affairs of honor. Rufus might get off a lucky shot, and he’d be damned if his brother would get killed by that nearsighted old bugger—and for a liaison with Lady Lennox, no less. Christ, every gay blade in London had been under her skirts.

  No, Hardy and Gwen were being singled out because they hadn’t followed the protocols of polite adultery, and those rules were very clear. One could have an affair, just keep it discreet. And never let an attachment get out of hand.

  Finn positioned his line of sight parallel to the dueler’s path. It would be a quick adjustment to move his aim from one man to the other. Bootes was calling out the paces. “Seventeen, eighteen . . .” At the stroke of twenty both men turned and lowered their pistols. Finn aimed. A rustle of breeze fluttered the fabric of the earl’s shirtsleeve. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet in barrel one brushed the earl’s shooting arm. Finn swiveled the gun barrel at Hardy and narrowed an eye down the sight. His brother aimed high, over the elder man’s shoulder. A breath ahead of Hardy, Finn pressed the second trigger and winged his brother in the arm.

  Finn shifted his gaze above his gun sight. A streak of red marred each man’s shirtsleeve. He angled his rifle against the tree trunk and dipped under a branch. “Bootes! Hardy!” He called up the green. His manservant appeared pleasantly surprised to see him. “Good news, sir: both gentlemen have incurred only minor injuries.”

  “There you are, Finn. Finally made it, I see.” A bit dazed, Rufus Lennox stared at his bloodied sleeve. “What the hell happened here?”

  Finn stepped between the earl and his butler. He discreetly dropped two large-caliber bullets in Bootes’s palm. “My rifle is up against a tree behind you. Reload it for me, would you?”

  “Very good, sir.” He caught a shifty grin from his butler.