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

by Stone, Jillian

  Finn had a closer look at the earl’s arm while Rufus growled. “I don’t believe my honor has been satisfied.”

  “Feeling well enough to grouse, Rufus?” Finn inspected the man’s arm. “I’d have that wound looked at.”

  Hardy made his way over wearing a “you don’t fool me, brother” look on his face, and a shirtsleeve as red as the earl’s. “Nice shooting . . .” At the last minute Hardy turned to the earl. “Rufus.”

  Taken aback, the earl sputtered out a return compliment.

  “Excellent.” Finn smiled at both men. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I am expected elsewhere. I’m afraid London is awash in anarchist plots this evening.” He took a moment to eyeball the earl before turning to his brother. “Scotland Yard could always use an extra hand. Interested?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” One of the earl’s footmen handed Hardy his coat.

  “As my brother’s official second,” Finn backed away, “I declare the match satisfied.” They were outside the garden before his brother looked at his wound. “Barely nicked the flesh.” Finn tied a pocket square around Hardy’s arm.

  “I didn’t know you were a trick shooter.”

  Finn ignored Hardy’s jibe and climbed into the waiting hansom.

  Hardy squeezed in beside him. “You might challenge Annie Oakley in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.”

  Finn stared at his brother. “How many times have we come to blows?”

  Hardy leaned away. Finn leaned closer.

  Hardy retreated farther—as far as one could when wedged into a narrow cab seat. “I take back the Annie Oakley remark.”

  “This is very important, Hardy, so listen carefully. There is going to be an assassination attempt tonight at the Alhambra—two Spanish dignitaries, or so we would like the perpetrator to believe. We’ve supplanted two of our own men in their place.”

  A rush of heartbeats forced him to inhale a breath. “Against my better judgment, Cate has volunteered to be a part of this scheme. It seems she is the only one who can reliably identify the marksman. If anything happens to me, I want you to promise me you’ll take care of her. See to it she’s well provided for.”

  “Christ, you sound like you want to marry her.” Now it was Hardy’s turn to stare, openmouthed. “Dog’s bollocks, Finn, you want to marry her.”

  * * *

  CATE STARED IN the dressing room mirror. “He’s been gone nearly three hours,” she mumbled under her breath. Lucy, her dresser, placed the feather tiara on her head.

  “Did you say something, mademoiselle?” Lucy looked up from her pinning.

  Feeling more than prickly, she inhaled a deep breath and moistened her lips. “Just wondering where a certain gentleman is.”

  “Hold still now.” Lucy tilted her head to make eye contact in the mirror. “That fine looker I saw you with in the boxes?” She winked.

  Cate grinned. “That would be him.”

  Lucy dusted her nose with powder. “A lot of good-looking toffs about this afternoon—official-looking. Nosing around asking questions, like they were from Scotland Yard.”

  Cate rolled her eyes. “That was because they were, Lucy.” She turned toward her capable young dresser. “Stay away from the stage tonight.”

  Her dresser lowered her voice, eyes like saucers. “Are there dynamiters about?”

  Cate frowned. “Just—stay far back in the wings.”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Ten minutes, Miss de Dovia.”

  * * *

  DOOR GLASS SHATTERED on both sides of the cab as the hansom turned onto Leicester Square. Caught in a hail of bullets, the horse screamed in panic and reared up on hind legs, raising the cab and nearly flipping it over. Finn fired his pistol over the heads of innocent bystanders. “We’ve lost our driver.” He glanced at Hardy. “Are you hit?”

  “Just the nick you gave me—” Using the butt end of Finn’s rifle, Hardy cleared his window of broken glass. “We’re sitting ducks here.” His brother took aim. “Who am I shooting at?”

  “You can’t—not unless you see a target.”

  The blazing electric lights of the theaters brightened the square, but the glare made it hard to see where the bullets came from. Terrified theatergoers scattered in all directions as the reins fell slack and the horse charged off through the garden, taking them directly into a throng of pedestrians.

  Finn reached through the shattered side window to the top of the hansom, but couldn’t reach the reins. “Break out the front window,” he yelled to Hardy, who used the butt end of the rifle to shatter the windshield. The hansom jerked, and they were both tossed back inside the cab as the horse bolted into the crowd. They careened through the square, and another barrage of shots hit the rear of the cab.

  Bystanders flung themselves out of the path of the runaway carriage. Any moment now, the hansom would topple over in the thick of the crowd. They were well past the fountain, and rolling wildly down a side street. Finn guessed they were somewhere behind the National Gallery. Leaning out his side window, he fired behind them. Even if he didn’t get close to whoever was shooting, it might serve as a bit of cover.

  Ignoring his labored breath and accelerated heart, Finn reached through the cleared window and grabbed hold of the reins. Before he was able to fully collect the animal, the cab took a hard bump and lurched to one side. “Christ, we’ve got a broken wheel.” The buzzing clatter of the spokes being sheared off the hub made one thing a certainty. Finn hit the latch and shoved Hardy out the door. The hansom screeched like a banshee in the night, then began its groaning tip over. Finn lifted himself from the opening and jumped out after his brother.

  He hit the ground and rolled to a hard stop against the door of a shop front. A squint at blurred lettering read Rare Coins and First Editions. He craned his neck to peer down the lane. The broken wheel hub ground over street pavers, creating a swath of sparks as the toppled cab rounded a corner and disappeared.

  The bones in his neck complained, loudly, when he shifted his line of sight up the lane. A dark shape climbed out from under an overturned dustbin. A single round tin rolled down the sidewalk past Finn’s head. “Is that you, Hardy?”

  His brother staggered to his feet and brushed off a bit of refuse.

  “Where’s the rifle?” Finn asked.

  Hardy stared at him. “That’s it? ‘Where’s my gun?’ ” His brother kicked through a pile of rubbish, foraging for the gun. “No, ‘Any broken bones, Hardy?’ ‘Is your brain rattled?’ ‘Can you see straight?’ ”

  Finn tweaked his head from side to side to pop his neck bones. Hardy pulled the rare double-barrel rifle out of the dustbin. “Look here, barely a scratch on her.”

  “Let’s get moving.” Using backstreets to reach the theatre’s side entrance, they tucked into a door niche, and observed the comings and goings at the stage door. It was obvious to Finn someone didn’t want him back inside the theatre. But why had he been singled out? His instincts told him that Cate somehow factored into this.

  Finn glanced at his rifle. “Since I failed to ask if you had broken any bones”—he grinned at his brother—“can you see clearly? No double vision?”

  Hardy shrugged. “I can shoot straight, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Under pressure, how good a shot are you?”

  Hardy stared. “Very good. But after those aces of yours today? Not nearly as good as you, Finn.”

  * * *

  HEAD DOWN, MAKING no eye contact, Cate flew out of her dressing room. She swept through the green room and climbed stairs crowded with up and down traffic. Slipping behind the backdrop, she wound her way through a number of set pieces on wheels. At the far wing of the stage, she paused at a second set of steps. A rickety stair crawled up the brick wall, ending at the catwalk. High above flying backdrops, a narrow platform led to a small trapdoor, which opened onto the balcony.

  “Miss de Dovia,” a voice called from behind. She turned and waited, her eyes flashing daggers.r />
  Chamberlain ignored her look and nodded upward. “Who’s that?”

  A stagehand perched on the catwalk above waited for her. Cate sighed. “His name is Ricky Day. He makes sure I get safely into position near the trapeze.”

  She elevated up onto her toes, stretching her calves. “I must go.”

  Chamberlain saw her up a set of stairs so narrow they had to ascend in single file. Halfway up, Cate swiveled back to him. “Just as she was taken to hospital, Millie grabbed hold of my arm. ‘Watch yourself,’ she said. When I asked her to clarify, she told me she hadn’t tripped. She said she’d been jostled on the stairs—implying she’d been pushed.”

  “And so, Catriona de Dovia resumes her role.” Chamberlain’s jaw clenched. He stared at her. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Let’s get this over with, Gray.”

  Cate turned and ran up the stairs, a glance backward caught him nodding to the stagehand. “Take care of her. See that she doesn’t fall.”

  The young man tipped his cap. “Not this pretty bird, sir.”

  * * *

  “YOU CAN’T MEAN it.” Finn stared at Detective Kennedy and thought he might have an apoplexy. “Cate is dancing? Who the hell authorized such a thing?”

  Zeno Kennedy stared. “I did, Finn. We didn’t have much of a choice.” The normally stoic Yard man appeared troubled, which did nothing to alleviate Finn’s pain.

  “Little more than an hour ago the understudy sustained an injury,” Kennedy explained. “A fall down the back stairs—”

  He thought his eyes might bulge out of his head. “And you don’t find that suspicious?” Harp, violins, and cellos swelled through the theatre, and the refrain was hauntingly familiar. “Debussy—that’s Cate’s music.”

  “The time for discussion is over,” Kennedy shouted over the orchestra.

  “Slight change in plans.” Finn shoved Hardy forward. “Here’s our marksman—get him in position.” Finn caught Hardy by the arm. “Remember, Cate’s first cue is to identify the shooter. If we’re on the beam, we jump our man. If not . . .”

  Hardy held his gaze. “I take him out before he can fire.”

  “I’m going over. If anything goes wrong in the crossfire, I want to be close enough to—” Finn turned away.

  “To do what, Finn?” Kennedy called after him.

  He raced up the main aisle in orchestra seating. Vaguely, Finn was aware of the master of ceremonies’ crooning, “And where in the heavens might we find such a lovely mythical bird?” Finn pushed past a crowd of gentlemen taking their seats and launched himself up a set of carpeted stairs.

  The balcony seating at the Alhambra consisted of exposed boxes at the railing, a narrow corridor for traffic with additional rows of seating behind the boxes. From behind a velvet drape Finn watched Cate’s arabesque. He was as enthralled as the gentlemen sitting in the front boxes. Halfway down the aisle, he spied Gray Chamberlain stationed in a dark corner, dressed in a waiter’s jacket.

  Finn caught the agent’s attention and waved him over. “Seen anything?” Finn spun the chamber of his revolver.

  “There’s a gentlemen with a peculiar-looking cane—might be a device of some kind.” Gray nodded to a man sitting alone.

  Finn confronted the man directly. “What goes on here, Chamberlain?”

  The agent scanned the audience before he answered. “Someone either wants Cate taken out—not sure why—or they’re going to try to pin the assassination on her, implicate her in some way.”

  He stared at Gray. “You don’t believe she could be involved?” Finn’s gaze shot across the room. As Cate approached the gilded swing, a graceful, outstretched leg parted a sea of pale rose tulle. He nodded across the theatre. “The moment she releases the swing, we move down to the boxes.” She placed a toe slipper on the bar.

  Tilting her head, she opened gently wavering arms—a preening bird preparing for flight. With each flutter she loosed ribbons of red and gold silk. Strains of music built to a crescendo as she stepped onto the gilded trapeze and plunged off the balcony.

  While the audience oohed and gasped, Finn moved down to the aisle that serviced the boxes. The soaring bird swooped over the orchestra seats, heading straight for their box. Finn paid careful attention to Cate’s expression. They had arranged to give her as many swings as she needed to make an identification—within reason. Arms outstretched, she did not unfurl a length of silk fabric as she reached the end of her arc.

  Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds. She shook her head.

  Was that no, he’s not here or no—Finn made a quick appraisal of the audience on his side. Nothing. Not a single man had even moved forward in his seat. He quickly checked with Gray, who shook his head.

  He swiveled back to Cate as her arc neared the opposite balcony. Good God—she tossed the silk in the direction of their decoys. The assassin’s bullet would come from behind at close range.

  A barrage of shots rang out. Finn stared in horror as Cate’s leg buckled and she slipped off her swing. A stream of red ran down her pale stocking. Momentarily stunned, a panicked audience deserted their seats and crowded into the aisles.

  As if in a dream—where seconds move like minutes—he watched Cate catch hold of the bar. Finn moved toward the railing as the trapeze swung the injured bird back to him. She dangled precariously off the swing as it headed straight for him.

  Without a great deal of forethought, Finn timed his leap over the balcony edge to the arc of the trapeze, and grabbed hold of the rope. Far below, theatergoers trampled over each other to reach the exits. The added weight and the force of his landing caused the aerial equipment to buck and swing erratically. He lowered himself down to the bar and grabbed hold of her with his free arm. “I’ve got you, Cate.”

  The swing gradually lowered over the heads of the few remaining spectators and dropped Cate and Finn down to the floor of the stage. A crowd of concerned dancers instantly gathered around them. Finn pulled Cate into his arms and inspected the bullet wound. Despite the pain there was a spark in her eye. “Did we get him?”

  Christ, he hadn’t even gotten a decent look at the suspect. Finn looked up into a deserted balcony. “Not sure. There are some bloody good agents after him, though, I can promise you that.” Finn ripped open her hose to have a look. Blood oozed, but no spurting—a good sign. He looked up. “Do you hurt badly?”

  She shook her head. “A terrible sting at first. Most of my weight was on the leg and it slipped out from under me.” He searched the pocket of his dress coat and pulled out the red streamer he had caught over a week ago, here at the Alhambra. “A fitting bandage, for such a beautiful injured bird.”

  While concerned dancers and stagehands hovered, he wrapped the silk around her thigh and tied it off. One of the ballet girls leaned in. “You gave us such a fright, Miss de Dovia, you could have been killed.”

  Finn picked her up in his arms and headed offstage. She called out over his shoulder, “Hard to kill a moving target.”

  He carried her out of the theatre and to the end of the alley before he spoke. “You disobeyed me.” Leicester Square was still in utter chaos, teeming with police. “Not a cab to be found,” he muttered, and turned down a side street, picking up his pace.

  “Are you going to carry me all the way to Harley Street?”

  “If I have to.” Finn hugged her closer. “Cate, my love, when were you going to tell me you are a double agent?”

  All the mystery and beauty of her sea-blue gaze confronted him. “When did you figure it out, Finn?”

  He hoisted her up to adjust his grip and continued on to Piccadilly Circus, where they would surely find a ride. “My suspicions have waxed and waned for some time—until this evening.” A drift of fog crept over the street, and Cate shivered in his arms.

  “All I ask of you, until we have this leg tended, is that you answer the query, darling.”

  Cate sighed. “I suppose I was being cautious. What if you and I had a lovely amourette, as w
ell as a spot of adventure, and went our separate ways?” Her bottom lip protruded and her eyes narrowed, an unsettling combination. “Was it really advisable to reveal anything more to you than necessary?”

  Finn grimaced. “First rule of an intelligence agent: protect your identity and your allegiance at all costs.”

  She nodded. “And twice as true for a double agent.” He observed a wince of pain, but she covered it well with a flirty grin. He paused before crossing Shaftesbury just to look at her. She was alive. And she was as lovely as she was dangerous. Finn lifted her close and kissed her. He made it long and sensuous—a very unpublic kind of kiss. And when it was over, he didn’t let go.

  Epilogue

  Finn set her down, smoothing layers of pale rose tulle over tawny flesh. “Doctor’s orders.” He lifted her foot off the ottoman and tucked a pillow under her ankle. But for the hint of crisp white bandage around her thigh, both limbs were bare. “A few days off that leggy leg and you’ll be back at your ballet barre, Miss de Dovia.”

  His manservant entered the study and placed a tea tray on a side table. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Thank you, Bootes,” Finn answered without taking his eyes off her.

  Cate had scrubbed off the theatrical mask in hospital. She was fresh faced, a bit disheveled, and so lovely she made his loins ache. She leaned over the side of her chair and inhaled. “I love a good steep of Earl Grey.”

  “I’ve sent for a few of your things—some proper clothing, a few unmentionables. I hope you don’t mind.” Finn settled into a nearby chair. “I’d like you to stay on here, for a few days. Humor me—let me watch over you.”

  Thick dark lashes shaded her gaze. She lifted her skirt and examined the bandage. “So you believe this bullet was meant for me?”

  “Our escapade in France, in particular La Rochelle harbor, was more than enough to blow your cover.” Finn dropped his head to one side and pushed a long lock of hair behind his ear. “Incredibly brave—as well as reckless—of you to go onstage last night.” His gaze darkened. “The moment your understudy took the fall, you must have known you were a target. Why, Cate?”