A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce (14 page)

Cate followed his line of sight to a teetering pony cart, driven by a chubby-faced, curly-haired child, that was traveling at a dangerously fast pace down the broad street. Wide eyes accompanied the girl’s panicked expression and whimpering cries. Cate’s heart accelerated even as the Englishman pressed his mount into action and overtook the out-of-control pony. Leaning far over his seat, he grabbed hold of the reins and slowed the animal.

Cate dropped her hatboxes and ran onto the boulevard. She positioned herself alongside the cart just as the flushed child burst into tears. A tired old groom trotted up to join them.
“Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios. Gracias, señor.”

“If the child cannot control the animal, you’d best take hold of these.” With quite a singular glare, the gentleman on horseback handed the reins to the groom.

Cate replaced the Brit’s glare with a smile and translated. She added an eye roll and shrug.
“Inglés.”

The groom tugged on the pony’s head.
“¡Adelante!”
The elder man admonished the child gently, and led the pony and cart away. The little girl wiped off a tear and stuck her tongue out at them.

“Well done, sir,” she murmured. “Even if your damsel in distress thinks you a spoilsport.”

He had studied her a moment before dismounting. “You speak in a decidedly British vernacular. Are you a native of Spain?”

“A Spanish mother—and my father was an Englishman like yourself.”

“Was?”

“Both my parents were killed adventuring in South America.”

“Sorry to bring up a sad subject.”

“It happened quite some time ago.” She reached to scratch the muzzle of his horse. “You have a magnificent mount, sir.”

“So I’ve been told.” Amusement flashed in his eyes, and something else. Something much more unsettling. There was a kind of intimacy in those liquid brown orbs—as if he understood her secrets, her most personal desires.

“His name is Bhai Singh, but he answers to Sergeant MacGregor.” The burr in his
r
and the soft
g
in
MacGregor
instantly brought out the Scot in the man.

He tipped his hat. “Hugh Curzon, here in Barcelona on business.”

“Catriona Elíse de Dovia Willoughby.” She smiled at his reaction. “It seems your horse and I answer to a mélange of names.”

“And which do you prefer?”

Actually, she preferred to change the subject. “You asked about Palau Guëll, designed by Gaudí. You are an architect?”

“I studied architecture at university. Love to have a look at those parabolic arches and hyperbolic capitals . . . under construction.” His eyes traveled over her gently. Not in a lascivious way by any means, but with definite interest. “I am fascinated by curves.”

She half-smiled when she shouldn’t have. She should have said
buenos días
and pivoted on her heel. Instead, she offered her escort. “I live quite near Carrer Nou de la Rambla. Why don’t I show you the way?”

A sharp rap at the dressing room door snapped Cate out of her reverie. “So sorry, mademoiselle, but I had to repair a torn skirt.” Lucy, her dresser, swept into the room and finished unhooking her costume.

With her face cleansed of its theatrical mask, Cate dusted a bit of powder over her nose. Lucy added a pale brush of peach to each cheek and a tint of rose to her lips. “Just enough, not too much,” Lucy said. Cate undressed and slipped into a simple gown. Her dresser dug in the costume chest and added a smart velvet riding jacket and silk evening hat.

“You have a flair for styling, Lucy.”

The girl beamed. “Dancers can’t afford much finery. I do what I can to help the corps dress for their engagements with gentlemen.”

“If you can call them that.” She kissed the girl’s cheek and winked.

Hugh Curzon had acted the perfect gentleman that first afternoon in Barcelona. After rescuing the ungrateful child in the runaway pony cart, he’d gently prodded both packages out of her hands. She’d watched him juggle reins and hatboxes. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “Lead the way, Miss Willoughby.”

His large hunter ambled along behind as they spoke of the weather and points of interest. All the things people talk about when they don’t know each other well but might wish to know the other person . . . better.

When they reached her aunt and uncle’s residence, he handed her one hatbox at a time. “The Güell palace is just around the corner.” She pointed down the lane.

He tipped his hat, turned away, then swiveled back. “Would you . . . have dinner with me tonight?”

She clearly remembered the flush of heat on her cheeks. “Regretfully, I have a dance lesson this evening. Besides, my aunt and uncle are very old-fashioned. I’m afraid they would insist on a chaperone.”

He arched a brow. “Dance lesson?”

“While I am here in Barcelona, I wish to study the Catalan dances—the zambra mora, bolero, fandango.” She remembered smiling up at him. “You are interested in the old gypsy dances, Mr. Curzon?”

“I am interested in you, Miss Willoughby.” He appeared to consider what she had just revealed to him. “And if you were not here in Barcelona, where might you be?”

She smiled. “Paris. I dance with the
Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique, monsieur
.”

He stepped closer, his resonant voice huskier. “And if your aunt or uncle were by chance . . .
out
of town?”

“Then . . . I would ask you to meet me at nine o’clock in the square—the Plaça Reial.” She dipped a brief curtsy and slipped inside the courtyard. But she hadn’t missed the flash of light in his eyes. “I must go.
Talué, señor.
”

THAT EVENING, AT dance class, she could not get his unsettling, deep brown gaze out of her mind, especially when she emulated Doña Margarita’s sway and roll of the hips.

Cate opened her dressing room door and shut down the memories. All that lovely romance wasted on a professional liar. And the discovery came just days after she had given herself to him. Hugh Curzon, or rather, Phineas Gunn was a British spy. A man who could not be trusted.

T
HE
G
ENTLEMEN
OF
S
COTLAND
Y
ARD
S
ERIES
BY
J
ILLIAN
S
TONE

An Affair with Mr. Kennedy

A Dangerous Liaison with Detective Lewis

A Private Duel with Agent Gunn

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
©
2012 by Jillian Stone

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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition November 2012

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ISBN 978-1-4516-9832-9