A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (10 page)

Finn had always enjoyed Gwen’s pluck and he knew exactly what his brother saw in her. But this amourette with Hardy was different somehow. Gwen had encouraged
gossip and flaunted the affair. Worse than that, she allowed herself to be seen in public with her lover. And his devil-may-care brother had indulged her. The fact that Gwen enjoyed a tryst now and then was entirely her own business. But she was dragging his brother into something that could end badly.

Shortly after midnight, Gwen had escorted him up to her room and unlocked her jewel safe—if one could call it that. The lady’s jewelry case was more akin to a heavy, cumbersome cabinet. She leaned against the dresser as he dropped the necklace into one of the flat drawers.

“Are you planning to sleep over, Finn?”

He closed the cabinet door and met her gaze. “Sleep is not advisable when in pursuit of a burglar.”

Her eyes smoldered with interest. “Mmm-hmm.” More of a purr than an acknowledgment. She sidled close, like a cat looking to do a bit of rubbing against him.

He reached for the key on the crystal oil lamp in her hand. “And I’m afraid company is out of the question.” He turned down the wick.

Her pout was adorable. Christ. What man with a cock between his legs wouldn’t want the lovely Lady Lennox? He escorted her to the door of her bedchamber. “You’ll have to sleep in the earl’s bed tonight.”

“First, I’d have to remember where to find it.” She sighed. “I shan’t be sleeping in that musty old museum piece. Too many degrading and distasteful memories.” The lady wrinkled her nose. “I shall retire to a guest room.”

Finn leaned against the door frame. “Good night, Gwen.”

“If you happen to catch the man, please do wake me. I’ve never met a jewel thief.” There was a tease in her smile as she backed away. “Just down the way, first door on the left.”

Finn pulled up a footstool and stretched out his legs. Hooking a finger into his fob pocket, he withdrew his watch. He squinted at the hands. Half past one in the morning and not the barest stir in the air. Not since that meager bit of scratching at the window over an hour ago. The disturbance had turned out to be an ivy branch pushed about by a breeze drifting through the square.

Things were calm. Perhaps too calm. Even his pulse remained steady at seventy beats. He yawned. It was possible he was losing his edge. No doubt Monty, his unorthodox physician, would surmise it a good thing.

The hypervigilance that served him well in combat had only alienated him from civilian life. But on a night like tonight, all of his history in the northern frontier came hurtling back to mind. His body craved the tension in the same way a lotus-eater must have his opium. All of the nervous symptoms he suffered in civilian life could be traced to those bleak mountain passes northwest of Kandahar. The raids, the constant skirmishes. The only way a soldier survived was to remain yary—soldier-speak for sharp and alert.

In the fortress, on watch, he had used recitation to stave off sleep. Back then he’d favored Shakespeare, but not tonight. This evening called for something eerie, with a touch of whimsy.
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. Over . . .”
He whispered a cadence of nonsense in place of forgotten words.
“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping . . .”

The hair on the back of his neck sensed the movement before he saw it. A trace of shadow on the wall. He lowered his speech to inaudible, even though he continued to mouth the words.
“Tapping at Lady Gwendolyn’s chamber
door. ‘’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at her chamber door. Only this, and nothing more.’ ”

Finn swept his gaze to the set of Palladian windows. A figure crouched on the ledge of the open windowsill, wearing a peaked cap and a rucksack over one shoulder.

Lennox House overlooked the north end of Belgrave Square. The flickering from streetlamps provided just enough illumination to observe the second-story man at work. The thief pushed up the sash and slipped through the opening in silence. From his chair set deep in the shadows of the draped poster bed, Finn admired every stealthy move.

Slight of build, with a youthful spring to his movements—possibly a chimney sweep. Used to heights and being tethered to a rope, the lads were often conscripted as parlor-jumps by master thieves.

There was a kind of fluid manner to each movement that smacked of experience. The intruder dropped into a crouched position, ready to spring to the window and escape at the first sign of discovery. Not an exhale of breath could be heard. The prowler’s head turned to observe the silent lump Finn had arranged under the coverlet. A demi-mask covered the thief’s upper face; all else was lost in a fog of shadow.

The trespasser’s methodical scan stopped at his corner of the room. Cloaked in blackness, Finn returned the stare for an eternity of seconds. Silently, he slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out his revolver.

The silhouetted figure rose and moved toward Gwen’s dressing table. The strides were youthful, swift. Nothing more than a flicker of contour, a flash of profile. And there was a gracefulness to the motion, almost like . . . A corner of Finn’s mouth edged upward.

The burglar shrugged off his rucksack and removed a tool. The lock on the jewel safe could be jimmied with a pocketknife and proved short work for the experienced thief. Drawers of exquisite jewels were pushed and pulled until, at last, the glimmering necklace was plucked from its velvet-lined tray and dropped into the bag.

Finn cocked the trigger.

The metallic click pierced the air as though it were a blast of dynamite. The robber jumped, then froze.

“Wise choice, not to run. If you had made a dash for it, I would have been forced to shoot.” He remained in shadow and spoke in a raspy soft whisper. “Now then, mind telling me exactly what you’re up to and who you work for?”

Finn settled back into the plush tufts of the side chair. “I advise you to start talking. Otherwise, it’s off to Scotland Yard. I will likely have to wake the jailor at the CID headquarters. He can be irritable in the wee hours of the morning, woken up from a—”

“There’s nothing to tell, sir.” The young thief sidled toward the window.

“One more move, and I will put a bullet in your head.” Truth be told, he was no fool; he’d aim for the body—if he was so inclined to shoot anyone. “Perhaps you might identify yourself?”

Rather than remove his cap, the lad pulled it lower. “Jack Pixley, sir.”

Finn scratched the stubble of beard along his jawline. “No, the name doesn’t feel right. Are you quite sure?”

“I think I know my own name, sir.”

“Well then, just to make sure . . .” He could almost feel the nervous twitch under the demi-mask. “You will remove your cap, jacket, shirt, and trousers . . . Jack.”

“Let me go, and I promise never to do it again. Give us a chance, sir.”

Finn leaned forward. A pale moonbeam illuminated the barrel of his pistol. “You may leave the mask on—for privacy, if you wish.”

After a few seconds of near suffocating silence, his quarry removed the cap. His brown hair was slicked back neatly. Finn motioned with the revolver and the next piece of clothing—the jacket—came off.

There was a lengthy hesitation regarding the trousers. “Must I, sir?”

“I will have your real name and who you work for.”

“I work for no one—except myself.”

“Drop them.”

Braces loosed, the falling pants revealed long smooth thighs, delicate kneecaps, perfectly muscled calves, and nicely turned ankles he’d recognize anywhere, even in shabby work boots.

“Now then, Jack.” Finn smiled. “Or might it be Jill I’m speaking with?” His pistol followed trembling fingers down the buttons of the shirt. “There really is only one way to be sure.”

His subject turned away as the thin work shirt floated to the floor. Finn’s gaze followed a sensuous curve of bare spine down to the firm rounded buttocks. She wore the briefest of pantalets, the kind of delicate underthing that might be worn by a courtesan.

Or a dancer.

Or a jewel thief.

The curve of each cheek bottom peeked out from under French lace. He found the sight more arousing than if she had been standing there entirely naked.

Erect to the point of pain, he rose from his chair and
approached her. “There is a line from Shakespeare: ‘Our wooing doth not end like an old play; for Jack hath not Jill.’ ” She remained with her back to him and he could not resist. He kissed her shoulder.

“Phineas Gunn.” Her voice was a husky whisper. The kind of voice a man enjoyed hearing in the dark.

“Careful, Cate. As you well know, I am able to exert a great deal of control—until I don’t.”

  *  *  *  

SHE MIGHT HAVE known it would be him. Cate squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed a gasp. “Mm-mm?” The hum from his lips vibrated softly against her skin. Her entire body shuddered from a sudden release of dread, fear, and the most humiliating sensation of all—desire. She arched her neck and offered him even more entrée. His lips grazed the curve of her nape and continued upward.

A shiver tingled through her, and he’d only touched her with his mouth. It was as if he deliberately goaded—teased her. He wanted her to ask for more. To admit she wanted him. And if that was what he desired, far be it from her to deny him.

She turned around, arms crossed over her chest, hands cupping her breasts. “Might I bargain for my release, sir?”

He stared at various details of her face before his gaze moved to her bosom. “A crime suspect must first be restrained before there can be any form of negotiation.” Gently, he removed her hands.

Her nipples peaked, more from the heat in his gaze than the chill in the air. She raised a brow. “No handcuffs?”

“Disappointed?” His eyes continued to peruse her body. “Hands behind your back. And don’t release them until I give you permission.”

She clasped her hands behind her and nearly jumped out of her skin when he took a nipple in his mouth and fluttered his tongue. He lifted her off the ground and ravaged one tip then the other until she moaned from his pleasuring.

A plump nipple popped from between masterful lips. “How many men have you bedded since Barcelona?” His breath was harsh and his speech husky.

“Rather an irregular line of questioning.”

He righted himself and stared. “The jailor’s name is Mr. Slyce.”

“Many.”

He raised a brow. “How many?” His hands cupped her breasts and he rolled the sensitive, silken flesh between thumb and forefinger. A shot of something hot and wicked coursed through her. Standing in the center of the bedchamber, her trembling knees betrayed her lack of experience. Heat singed her cheeks, and she averted his piercing gaze. “None,” she confessed.

His eyes lowered to her ravaged nipples and she felt his body quake. So, it wasn’t just her. She suspected he was every bit as aroused as she. He dipped his head and lightly scraped his teeth over a tip of breast. She arched and gasped.
“Dios, salvame de este hombre.”

“I wonder . . .” Finn brushed his lips over the other beige rosebud. “Who needs saving from whom?” He lifted her up, using the wall to steady her back. “Straddle me with your legs.” Bracing one hand against the wall of the bedchamber, he pressed his fingers into the flesh and muscle of her buttocks.

He held her at eye level. “I should impale you, right here, on my cock.” He growled and carried her across the room.

“Is this the price you ask for my freedom?” She kept her legs wrapped tightly around him as he laid her down on the bed. She arched her hips to signal her willingness to receive him.

Only the glint in his eyes pierced the darkness. “And would you enjoy the gentleman’s sword, as much as I would delight in the lady’s sheath?” Poised above her, Finn stroked the inside of her trembling thighs. The blackguard was asking for permission.

She needed him closer. More vulnerable. Cate pressed her hand against his hard bulge. “And what do you call this great saber?”

He smiled.
“Phallus erectus.”
Her fingers worked to release the impressive shaft from his trousers. Capturing his gaze, she opened her mouth and curled a moist tongue along the bottom edge of her upper lip.

As he leaned closer, she eased back onto the coverlet. “Come.”

He crawled over her body like a great jungle cat ready for mating. She wove fingers into his hair and drew his head down. Her other hand dipped into his coat pocket. “Kiss me, Finn.”

She withdrew the revolver.

As his lips touched hers, she swung with all her might. The butt of the pistol struck the side of his forehead. The violent crack to his skull passed though his lips and reverberated throughout her body. Suddenly, she was fearful. A ghastly grunt and a puff of air fanned across her cheek. His eyes rolled back in his head.

What if she had killed him? Dear God, she had never killed anyone before. And not Finn, please not him. He slumped on top of her—thirteen stone of dead weight.

A warm trickle of blood ran across her cheek.

Chapter Seven