A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (15 page)

“Mmmm.” The vibration of her murmur passed into him as her lips closed around his tongue. She licked the underside of his lip for good measure. “Not terribly clever of you and Hardy—to pay for kissing lessons.”

His eyes crinkled. “Perhaps not.”

“I’ve a mind the young ladies would have schooled you both properly—without the sweets.”

He held the last bite of chocolate truffle to her mouth.
“Open.” Cate closed her eyes and savored. “Lady Sutherland calls you divine.”

She peeked up at him. Pale moonlight edged a high cheekbone and pert nose. He tucked her into the crook of his arm. “And what is your mind?”

Her grin was visible, and it taunted him. “I say you are . . . delicious.”

“Then the accolade rests squarely on the chocolate.” The cabin swayed again as they rounded the park. “You are a puzzlement, Cate.”

She snorted a scoff. “Not so puzzling. I haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast.” As if to underscore the remark, her stomach growled.

He grinned. “Very glad that didn’t happen in the lady’s closet. You might have given us away.”

Her eyes narrowed. “My little gurgle would have gone unnoticed over the bellowing grunts of Lucinda Sutherland.”

Cate Willoughby made him smile. And not just because her acerbic wit matched her ethereal looks. He just
liked
her. Odd notion. Odder still to be so damned aroused by a woman he could so easily befriend.

Finn knocked on the roof of the carriage as they passed though Mayfair and his driver stopped at The Punch Bowl. “Be right back.” He returned carrying a newspaper packet tied with string. The carriage lurched off and he fell in beside her. “An order of fish and chip for a hungry young lady.”

Cate pulled off a glove and fingered the string. “Join me?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” For the next several minutes they devoured steaming hot fish and potatoes, splashed with malt vinegar.

She licked her fingers and exhaled a deep sigh. “For such a dour, infuriating man, how is it you always manage to make me want to kiss you?”

Finn popped a last chip in his mouth. “Feel free to abuse my lips whenever I get too sullen.”

Her gaze shifted briefly to his mouth, before she folded the newsprint. “Lady Sutherland mentioned your family. It seems Clan Gunn has quite the reputation.”

“So you heard what troublemakers we are.” He grinned. “Four hundred years ago, the Gunns managed to cause enough mayhem that they were appeased with a nice bit of land north of Sutherland. There was even a baronship at one time, long since forfeited. The relatives managed to hold on to the land and the estate in Helmsdale. Nothing closely resembling a castle, mind; more of a rambling pile of stones.”

“Do you visit your family often?”

Finn settled in beside her. “I haven’t been home in years. Mother comes down once a year to nose around a bit—check on Hardy and me, do a bit of shopping.”

“Neither you nor your brother speak with much of a brogue.”

“Mother’s a Lowlander—insisted on the Queen’s English. College and university finished off the rest of the Scot in our speech. More o’ the burr comes back with a dram or two.” His eyes fell to her mouth. “You’ve a sweet dimple when you smile, lass.”

Finn dipped his head to see out the window. The carriage rounded Eaton Square, blocks from Baron Brooke’s residence. He eyed his new partner in crime and reluctantly returned to the task at hand. He removed the Panther Brooch from his sporran and placed it in Cate’s reticule. “We’re going to need several proofs of ownership. And a provenance would help, as well.”

“Provenance?”

“Rare gems have a pedigree, as does any jewelry of this caliber. I suspect the pieces on your list have a royal legacy. But whatever their history, a provenance is necessary to assure you the best possible price either by private sale or auction.

“There is a jeweler in Hatton Garden, a Hungarian chap by the name of Fabian. It’s possible he might know something about your uncle’s jewelry collection. He is also discreet, if you take my meaning. If we are able to locate the original thief and obtain a confession, that, and an appraisal from Adophe Picard, should give you the proof you need to resolve your claim in the courts.”

“I must thank you for helping me.” Deep sapphire eyes glistened in the dark. “You really didn’t have to get involved in any of my difficulties.”

Finn exhaled. It had been simple enough to lay the bait. So why was he feeling so miserable? No, he knew why. He wanted to believe her story. Silently he ticked off the reasons why Cate’s story was viable. The jewels were very likely a legitimate legacy of Baron Brooke’s estate. And why would she recover—her word—only those jewels on the list? She was either rollicking mad, or a sly little anarchist sympathizer.

Obviously, he needed some convincing. “I will continue to help you locate and identify the baron’s jewels as long as we also search for proof of ownership.”

Cate sighed. “I am tempted to kiss you again, but I’m rather irritated by the notion.”

“Too enticing?”

“No, that isn’t the word.” She bit her lower lip. “You are a distraction.”

Finn nearly hooted aloud.
He
was a distraction? A
pleasant tension lingered in the air between them. In the past, Finn had experienced sexual attraction with other women, but nothing quite as arousing as this lovely ballet girl. A tightness in his throat made it hard to swallow. Christ, the precocious Miss Willoughby was actually making it hard to breathe. Earlier this evening, he had experienced an enchanting intuition about her. A feeling of inevitability, which was both familiar and pleasing. He also knew, without having to ask, that she had felt it, too.

The carriage reached the end of the stately block of terrace homes and slowed. Cate peered out the window, taking particular interest in a stand of shrubbery at the corner churchyard. “Why are you having me followed?”

He didn’t hesitate to lie. “Scotland Yard is having you followed, for your own protection.” Honesty was impossible at this juncture, and her curiosity played neatly into his scheme.

“I thought we agreed—no Scotland Yard.” She glared at him. “You told them about me? About the jewel thefts? How could you?”

“Ha!” Finn tossed his head back. “You admit you engage in thievery.”

Cate looked as though she might blink back tears. “I find this most disloyal of you, Finn.”

He hated himself. “Actually, it was Scotland Yard who informed on you.”

Her gaze stretched into the dark corners of the coach and narrowed. “This has something to do with Eduardo.”

“They believe you may be a
Los Tigres
sympathizer, involved in the recapture of your uncle’s estate jewelry for resale on the Continent.”

“Me?” A furrowed brow deepened, but he quite liked
her angry pout. “Any sympathy I might have had for my brother’s politics died with him, Mr. Gunn.”

Mr. Gunn. This was grim.

She uttered a frustrated growl. “Did you tell them about the ruin my uncle’s estate is in?”

He exhaled. “Yes, of course. If everything checks out, you’ll have your jewelry returned to you.” His grimace tightened into a thin line. “I’m afraid I’ve been ordered to confiscate the items in question.”

He endured a quiet sulk punctuated by a sigh. “Very well, I suppose the jewels will be safe enough at Scotland Yard.” When her gaze met his again, something had changed. “Mind the jewels are returned before I am forced into receivership.” Her expression was shuttered. There was a distance between them now.

“Cate, I make an excellent income from my book royalties and consultations. If you would allow me to help—”

She turned the latch and sprang from the coach.

He followed her out of the carriage and caught her arm at the door. “Cate.”

“Come back in the morning.” She turned to face him. “I’m tired and brokenhearted. You don’t trust me.”

Gently, he took the key from her hand and pushed it into the lock. “I do trust you . . . a little.”

The moment the latch clicked open she slipped inside and slammed the door in his face.
“¡Hombre odioso! Usted me engañó. Usted finge ser mi amigo. ¿Si no confía en mi, por qué debo confiarme en usted, Phin-e-ass Gunn?”

Finn returned to the carriage and sat on the edge of the tufted bench seat. His driver took the long way around the block to the backside of St. Peter’s grounds. Absently he translated the spate of Spanish expletives.
Horrid man. Deceiver. You pretend to be my friend. If you do
not trust me, why must I trust you, Phin-e-ass
—emphasis on the last syllable—
Gunn?

She needed to be watched. Closely.

  *  *  *  

FINN COUNTED THE chimes in a groggy haze. Nine o’clock. He sat straight up in bed. A squint at the mantel clock confirmed it was true. He took a moment to gather his wits. Astonishingly, he had not been ripped from a warm bed in the middle of the night. No urgent message. No fleeing anarchist sympathizer to chase after. Finn eased out of bed and swept the window curtains back. Blinding sunshine.

So what was the matter?

After a quick washup and shave, he pulled on boots and picked up his coat. On his way downstairs, he tucked his shirt into his breeches and slipped a cravat in place as he entered the breakfast room. “Bootes.”

His manservant broke a raw egg into a glass of tomato juice. “May I fix you a cure as well, sir?”

Necktie askew, his brother was down to shirtsleeves and kilt. Finn skirted the end the table and raised his sibling’s eyelid. Bloodshot.

“Still alive.” Hardy sputtered.

His butler, on the other hand, seemed chipper enough. Bootes moved in to examine his attire. “Bad night—or too good a night, Hardy?” Finn buttoned his waistcoat, while his manservant smoothed the knot in his tie. “Have Sergeant MacGregor saddled.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Hardy?” Something was wrong. His brother could suffer an elephant’s hangover and still ride like the devil and shoot straighter.

“I’m not sure what came over me last night.” Hardy pushed a shock of hair from his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “After you and Cate disappeared from the hall, Gwen made a brief appearance on the arm of Victor Somerset.”

Finn stirred a drop of cream into his coffee and gulped. “And?”

“Had a romping good visit with Lucinda after that.” Hardy tossed back the juice and egg with a grimace. “Am I a whore, Finn?”

He sampled a crisp rasher of bacon from a plate on the breakfront. “You’re not lamenting your deplorable lack of morals . . .” He dipped his head to make eye contact with his brother. “Are you?”

“Of course I am.” Hardy listed to one side of his chair. “Shouldn’t I be?”

Finn broached the subject carefully. “Must I remind you, Lady Lennox, as dazzling as her charms are, is often all too available to young bachelors.”

Hardy grunted. “Nearly every man on British soil. It’s a wonder you haven’t had her.”

Finn made light of the implied question. “I thought I recommended her.”

Hardy’s groan sputtered into laughter just as his elbow slipped off the table. Bootes whisked a plate full of kipper and egg away before Hardy’s face hit the table.

“I’m afraid Master Harding finished off the Talisker last night. Might you suggest a respite, sir?” The butler’s eyes rolled upward.

“Come on, old sport.” Finn helped his brother up and shouldered him out of the breakfast room. Upstairs, Bootes helped undress Hardy and tuck him into bed.

Even stupid from drink, Hardy’s smile was charming.
“Did you sleep with Gwen? God’s honest truth—on pain of blood penalty by the clan.”

Finn stood above his brother and sighed. “I seem to remember a pretty little mole above her right buttock cheek.”

Hardy groaned.
“Aut pax aut bellum.”

Finn returned his brother’s use of the clan motto. “In peace or war, brother.”

They’d duke it out later, just as they had since childhood.

Hardy reached up and grabbed his arm. “A wire came early this morning. Didn’t want to wake you.”

Heat rose up his neck and flamed over his cheeks. “What?”

Chapter Eleven