A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (11 page)

“B
loody rat bastard. I’ll see both you cuckolders shot dead by dawn tomorrow.” A splash of ice-cold water sat Finn bolt upright in bed. And if he was not mistaken, a raving lunatic stood over him. The worst sort of crushing, skull-splitting, stomach-churning headache forced him back onto his elbows. An entire squadron of drummers beat a throbbing tattoo inside his skull.

“Where is that brother of yours? The bloody rat bastard cuckolder.”

The insult-spewing amorphous shape dipped and swung around the room, presumably in search of another—“Bloody rat bastard cuckolder,” Finn croaked.

Slowly, the gray blur resolved itself into a miserable, muttonchopped, pinched-nosed character. Finn squinted an eye and the two-headed oaf resolved itself into one: Rufus Stewart, Earl of Lennox. “Such a colorful invective bears repeating, wot, Rufus?” Christ, it even hurt to grin.

The master of the house paused with a grunt.

Finn swayed to one side just as the earl’s fist flew past his cheek. “Steady, old boy. I can explain.” Like a ship listing
to and fro in a storm, Finn righted himself. Gingerly, he probed his forehead.

The earl’s second grunt was less skeptical, though puzzled. “Where is my wife?”

“You can’t find Lady Lennox?” Finn blinked. “I suppose that explains your distress. If you had spoken this morning, she would have informed you I spent the night in her room”—he held up a defensive elbow—“after a ring of thieves.”

The earl straightened. “What kind of cock-and-bull story is this?”

“Honestly, Rufus, do I look like I enjoyed your wife last night?” He rubbed his fingers together. Dried blood.

The earl pressed forward.

Finn retreated.

A bony finger poked at the knot on his head. “Looks as though someone got the advantage.” An amused twitch formed at the corners of the earl’s mouth.

“I believe my instincts were correct, though I admit the clever sneak thief got the better of me.” Rufus backed off. Finn grimaced in the direction of Lady Gwendolyn’s jewel case. “Check the fourth tray down. I wager the necklace is gone.”

The earl slid out several drawers. “Why would a thief go to the trouble and not take the rest? This lot is worth tenfold the necklace.” The suspicious look was back. “Damned irregular, wouldn’t you say?”

Finn grunted. The whole scenario was damnably bad. In fact, it was worse than bad; it was nonsensical. “Rather a long story—some of it confidential.” He eased his legs off the bed. “Shall we find Lady Gwen?”

Rufus scratched his chin. “Breakfast room, possibly.”
How long had he and Gwen been married? At least six years. And yet the man barely knew his wife’s daily routine.

“If you would—” Finn grabbed the bedpost to steady himself. “Lead the way.”

The earl escorted him down the grand staircase, through several cavernous reception rooms, into a friendly alcove splashed with daylight and a pleasant flowered wallpaper.

Gwen scraped a bit of conserve over her toast. “You’re home early, Rufus.” She turned to Finn with a smile. “And did you catch a thief—” Her gaze moved to the side of his face. “Oh dear.”

Finn dipped a look at himself in the breakfront mirror. Dark red rivulets stained the side of his face. “Caught the bloody burglar—for a moment.” He swept back a tangle of hair and examined a lump the size of a golf ball. “Might I have my horse readied?”

The earl blinked. “Your horse is in my stable?”

“As I explained earlier, I have nothing to hide. Scotland Yard wants the cat burglar off the streets. Sorry, I can’t be more forthcoming than that.”

Somewhat chastened, the earl ordered a servant to the mews.

Finn examined the knot at his hairline. “Besides, I have an appointment.”

“At this hour?” Gwen rose from the table and moved to the buffet. She dipped a lap-cloth into a pitcher of water and rang it out. “This should help.” She patted the damp cloth over his beard stubble and up the side of his cheek.

“I’m going to bloody your napkin.”

She smiled. “Now, why would I give a fig about a bloody napkin?” There had always been a kindness in Gwen underlying her outrageous behavior. When she pressed the
cloth against the bump, he sucked air though his teeth. “Sorry.” She smirked and dabbed more lightly.

“And what hour is it, exactly?” He reached in his pocket for his timepiece. “My watch has stopped.”

She read the clock on the wall behind him. “Half past seven. And who wants disturbing at this hour?”

He reset his watch. “A Miss Catriona de Dovia Willoughby needs plenty of disturbing.”

“Really, Finn, the ballet girl?”

The earl peered over his wife’s shoulder. “Courting? With that egg on your noggin?” Rufus raised his quizzing glass for a better look. “Shall I send for Dr. Murphy? I want him fit enough to second for his brother.”

Gwen faded back, her liquid silver eyes clouded over.

“A physician will not be necessary.” Finn’s gaze met the earl’s. “Do have your man contact me.”

Lady Lennox returned to her chair. “Have a piece of toast, Finn. You need your strength.”

He leaned over the table, poured himself a splash of tea, and gulped it down. The very thought of Miss Cate Willoughby worsened the pounding in his skull. Everything about the young woman made him throb, either from pleasure or pain.

Had she actually outwitted and overpowered him? Frankly, he couldn’t quite believe it. Rather a sly move for a ballet girl—and what a clever cover at that. If she was a foreign operative or anarchist sympathizer, what better way to move around greater Europe undetected? And what a noddy-fool she had made of him. Thieving, irritating virago.

  *  *  *  

A FLASH OF rare morning sunlight flared between the stately homes of Belgrave Square. Finn blinked from
the glare. The dull throb in his head had returned. He searched his upper coat pocket and withdrew a pair of blue-tinted spectacles. Originally designed to cure certain forms of eye disease, the glasses were used by many soldiers to shade their eyes from the unrelenting sun of Egypt and India.

He hooked an armature over each ear and exhaled. Better.

The impressive facade of a nearby mansion set off thoughts of Cate scaling walls and jimmying windows. He recalled her daring high-wire act in the theatre. And it was clear she had decided to operate by her own set rules when it came to the recovery of her uncle’s estate jewels. If, indeed, the list was authentic and not designed by a clever ring of thieving anarchists.

Asking for nothing more than a fast trot from his chestnut hunter, the two-block jaunt across Belgravia did nothing to clear his head. He turned his horse down a row of terrace homes on Eaton Square. If Cate Willoughby thought she was going to get away with this sort of outrageous behavior, she’d best think again.

“Nine Upper Belgravia, if I remember correctly, Sergeant MacGregor.” The horse snorted and tucked his head into his chest. Smart as a whip and twice as brave, his fiery-coated steed was as sturdy as a plow horse with the added speed and stamina of the Thoroughbred. A special breed of equine. Finn tied him to a hitching post and climbed the portico steps of 9 Upper Belgravia.

A young servant opened the door, holding a pail of sudsy gray water. “Phineas Gunn.” He presented his card. “I’m here to pay a call on Miss Willoughby.”

She wiped her hand on a dingy apron and took his
card. “A bit early for callers, sir. The mistress has asked that you return in a few hours.”

Finn pushed the dark spectacles down his nose. “Has she?” He entered the foyer. “I insist you show me to her this minute or I shall find Miss Willoughby myself.”

When the maid hesitated, he pushed open every door along the hallway until he found a comfortable parlor, more of a conservatory, with a view to a garden beyond. The girl tugged on his sleeve. “Please, sir, let me take you to her. I believe Miss Willoughby is in the baron’s study.”

He gestured ahead, but the young servant turned down an intersecting passageway. She tapped on a door and rushed inside. “Pardon, miss, but I couldn’t stop him—”

Finn stood in the door. The furnishings were a bit faded and frayed, but comfortable-looking, like the rest of the house. In fact, he found the residence rather charming after the luxury of Lennox House. “Bullyragged my way in. Don’t blame the girl.”

Cate sat behind a grand desk, a silver breakfast tray in front of her. “Do come in, Phin-e-ass.” She emphasized the last syllable with a smile.

He ignored the inflection and handed the servant girl a few coppers. “Find a groom, and have him mind my horse.” He strode into the study and headed straight for the backside of the desk. As he rounded the desk corner, Cate leaped from her chair and circled, keeping a polished expanse of mahogany between them.

“After a search of this fine-looking desk, I believe I shall arrest you on several counts of burglary.” He flung open cupboards and slid out drawers as he chased her around the room.

She paused at the opposite end of the table. “I thought we had an agreement. Eighty, twenty.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Seventy-five, twenty-five, and my assumption was we would locate the jewels, state your claim, and let the courts settle the matter.”

“Who has time for such nonsense?” she scoffed. “I have estate taxes to pay—the overhead of two houses . . .” Cautiously, they continued around the writing table, matching each other step for step, eyes fixed. “Hardly manageable on a dancer’s wages.”

“Yes, I suppose
stealing
does solve your dilemma.” Finn vaulted onto the desktop and Cate made a mad dash for the door. Bounding over tea trays and paperwork, he jumped to the seat of a wing chair and over the arm.

He caught her by the train of her skirt and yanked her into his arms. “There now, pretty Cate. That was a right flash-heist you pulled last night, but I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

She pulled her fist from his grip and pressed her hand against his chest. “On what charges?”

He wrapped both hands around her waist. “Burglary, possession of stolen property, handling of stolen property, criminal conversion, and any other offenses I have yet to think of.”

Cate ceased her wriggling and writhing, and stared at his temple. “Nasty knot. How are you feeling?”

He flicked his eyes upward. “Wicked headache, but otherwise fit enough.”

She sighed. “I don’t believe you’re going to arrest me.”

Finn peered at her over wire-framed glasses. “Just because a dear departed relation—touched by senility—concocted a list of valuable trinkets . . .” She pushed away and he pulled her against his groin.

On tiptoes, she pressed her lips to the swollen bump.

“Does not entitle you . . . to steal from every noble house in Belgravia and Mayfair.”

Her brows lifted. “But the jewels have been restored to their rightful owner.”

He frowned. “You mean stolen.”

Cate smiled patiently. “Restored.” She brushed a shock of hair off his forehead and touched the swelling. “And the list was not concocted, as you say. Uncle would never invent such a thing.”

Finn swallowed. “All right then. Prove it.”

Her gaze dropped to meet his. Sapphire eyes shaded with desire. Yes, he was quite sure of it. His heart quivered in his chest. Monty Twombly, quacksalver and doctor of phrenology, would call this episode of erratic beats an arrhythmia.

Finn studied her upper lip. Hard to resist the somewhat plump, well-defined peak. He dipped his head for a kiss, which she quickly broke off and wriggled out of his grasp. It pained him to let her go. All that rubbing and kissing had caused a pleasant, burgeoning effect.

Cate retreated to her chair behind the desk and dipped a spoon into blackberry preserve. “Piece of toast?”

“Nothing for me.” Finn strolled around the room. “Robbery is a serious crime with a nasty change of address if you’re caught.” He stopped to admire a bound set of sonnets. “Have you ever paid a visit to Newgate gaol, Cate?”

Her gaze shot up from the breakfast tray. “My uncle was robbed of a number of valuable pieces of jewelry. I sometimes wonder if those thieves will ever see the inside of a prison.”

Finn looked up from a small volume of Keats. “Why didn’t you report the theft?”

She dropped the silver spoon in the preserve. “I most certainly did. An inspector came out from Scotland Yard and took a report.”

He settled into a chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Simple enough to corroborate.” He removed his spectacles and tucked them away.

A brief tap at the door brought a gray-haired woman into the room—a housekeeper of some sort. “Might you be needing anything, Miss Willoughby?” The woman eyed him with a good deal of suspicion. Word traveled fast among house servants.

“Another cup, Mrs. Mettle. And perhaps one of your powders for that knot on Mr. Gunn’s head?”

The elder women squinted at his injury.

Though his gaze remained on Cate, he eased his head back to let the woman prod. “Rather touching, your sudden concern—ouch!”

Clucks and tsks accompanied more of the woman’s poking. “He’ll be needing a compress, as well.” The elder servant backed away. “Bring him downstairs, if you would, miss.”