A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (2 page)

To escape the relentless commerce of vice, he took a shortcut between buildings. He concentrated on the glow that hovered above jagged rooftops and nearly tripped over a drunk. The electric lights of Leicester Square’s theatres illuminated the sky for blocks around, but not in this passage filled with dark niches for even darker deeds.

Finn pressed past a harlot being groped by a customer. “No money, no cunny, you old sot!”

“Pardon.” He jumped a puddle of unspeakable sludge. The clamor of wicked commerce gradually gave way to the echo of his footsteps on wet pavers. A wraith in the night stepped up behind and pressed a knife to his throat. “I say, Gov’nor, what’s in those pockets?” For a moment, Finn imagined stepping forward into the cruel cut of the blade. The slice across his carotid artery. A steaming spray of crimson. The metallic scent of blood. This keen sense of life on the edge stirred his heart into a gallop of frenetic beats.

Bugger all, something more primal took over. Finn backed into the man with such force the surly robber staggered. Ripping the knife away, he turned it against the thug’s throat and pressed the foolhardy bloke against the bricks.

Terrified, the young man’s eyes darted up and down the alley. “Please, sir, I would not have hurt ye. I swear it.”

Disappointed, Finn eased back. “No, I think not.”

He slipped the blade inside his coat pocket. London
was chockablock with amateur thieves. Rural lads, displaced by farm machinery, continued to pour into London. Once their meager savings disappeared, they turned desperate. “I’ve no time for a mugger’s game. Running a bit late—meeting friends at the music hall.”

No doubt the young man was down on his luck and had turned to thievery. “Get yourself an honest job.” Phineas pulled out his card. “Millwall docks, Isle of Dogs. Ask around for a man by the name of Tully. Tell him . . .” He studied the burly young thief in the dark. “Tell him you’re no good at crime.”

The stunned lad stared blankly at the card. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Exiting the alley, Finn jogged across a corner of the square. The garish lights of the Alhambra reflected off streets still wet from an earlier cloudburst. He wound his way past clusters of gentlemen assembled in front of the entertainment palace. The siren call this evening? A widely extolled troupe of ballet girls direct from Paris.

“Phineas Gunn.” Hand on his hip, Dudley Chilcott’s elbow swung dangerously close to skewering a passerby. “A rare sighting, indeed. I see the Ballet Royale de Musique has enticed you out of the house this evening.” Chilcott took a draw on his cigar. “These ballet girls have a bad reputation, which is in most cases well deserved.”

Finn did his best to ignore the dig at the rarity of his presence by acknowledging the gentlemen in Chilcott’s circle. Adopting an equally disdainful pose, he arched a brow. “Then, I can only assume, Dudley, you are here hoping for a backstage introduction.”

A guffaw of laughter from the circle of men prompted a grin. Trapped between Dudley Chilcott and James Oldham-Talbot, Earl of Harrow, Finn shifted uncomfortably
and scanned the crowd assembled in the entryway. All of London, it would seem, was aware of his humiliating malady. The ever inebriated and opinionated earl snorted something between a laugh and a grunt. “Yes, I can’t imagine Dudley lamenting the ballet corps’ lack of morals.” The man exhaled a puff of tobacco smoke.

“More like hallelujah,” Dudley remarked dryly.

Finn’s gaze rolled up and over to make note of the time, then he glanced at the earl. The Earl of Harrow reportedly enjoyed having his eyelids licked by two naked whores. An eyelid apiece, one supposed. He returned his attention to the second hand of the brass-trimmed clock above the lobby doors.

Fifteen seconds. Thirty-five heartbeats,
Finn did the math.
Thirty-five times four equals one hundred forty beats per minute. Tolerable.
Finn released his thumb from his wrist and kept his breath slow and regular.

In actuality, he had an appointment with Scotland Yard, in the person of Zeno Kennedy, chief inspector of Special Branch. Damned intriguing to call a meeting at a music hall.

A sweep of the square through open doors brought a tall, strapping lad into view. Somewhat cheered by the sight of his brother, Finn exhaled. Dressed in frock coat and silk hat, his younger sibling wove a path through the tangled throng. Rare, to see him out of his regimentals. Rarer still, to run into each other at the Alhambra. If Finn recalled correctly, his brother’s tastes ran toward table dancers in the East End. “Hardy!”

His handsome sibling waved and made his way over. “Good to see you out, Finn.”

He ignored the remark. “Ballet girls? Rather tame by your standards.”

“And what might those be?” Hardy grinned.

Finn stared. “Low.” He turned to his circle. “I believe most of you know my brother, Cole Harding Gunn?”

“Gentlemen.” Hardy nodded.

“Sans the
lady
this evening?” The Earl of Harrow quite directly referenced his brother’s affair with Lady Gwendolyn Lennox, married to the very powerful Rufus Stewart, Earl of Lennox.

Hardy’s gaze quickly narrowed on the earl.

“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I spy our host exiting his carriage.” Finn whisked Hardy away before he did something rash with his fists. A quick jostle through the crowd and they were out of the hall and on the pavement. He hailed Kennedy.

Hardy shrugged off his grip. “You’re meeting Zak here as well?”

Finn stared. “What manner of business could you possibly have with Scotland Yard?”

Zeno Kennedy—Zak, to his friends—greeted them both with an affable smile. “Hardy has applied to the Home Office.”

His brother added another grin. “I hope to resign my commission in the Blues and join Special Branch.”

Hardy often withheld information from him. A younger sibling’s reaction to an overprotective, nosy brother. Still, Finn raised both brows. “And when did all this come about?”

“I didn’t realize I had to ask for permission, Finn.”

He studied his sibling’s uncomfortable fidgeting about. A much-decorated major in the Royal Horse Guards, Hardy had been somewhat adrift since his regiment’s return from Egypt. A restless type and a thrill seeker even as a small child, Hardy could ride faster and fight harder
than any man he knew. So why did Finn worry so much about his little brother?

Kennedy cleared his throat. “I managed to score us a box—on loan from Lord Phillips. Shall we?” Several heads nodded their way as the famous chief inspector led them upstairs. Finn spoke quietly. “We shall see how Lady Lennox enjoys the high life on a detective’s salary.”

“Couldn’t be worse than a soldier’s pay.” Hardy shrugged. “I’m under no illusion she’ll leave old Rufus and his four hundred thousand for a Yard man.”

Zak held back curtains and ushered them into their seats. A very attentive waiter entered the box behind them. “Shall it be supper or libations, gentlemen? Perhaps a bit of both?”

They ordered three pints and a bottle of Talisker’s finest, and settled in for the evening. In the privacy of their box, amongst men he knew and trusted, Finn’s nervous condition eased. “Give it up, Kennedy. What has Special Branch got in mind for me? Something interesting, I hope. I could use the diversion.”

Glancing at the stage below, Zak sipped from his glass. “A couple of things, actually.” The Yard man kept his voice just above the strains of music. Finn and Hardy leaned in. “A year ago, Finn, you were involved in an operation for the Naval Intelligence Department, the breakup of a ring of Spanish anarchists—
Los Tigres Solitarios.
”

“My involvement was limited to tracking a delivery of dynamite in transit from Portsmouth to France via Spain. As operations go, this one blew up, quite literally. The Deuxième Bureau—” Finn clarified for Hardy, “French intelligence—made a mess of it and then pushed the blame off on us. No lasting political ramifications, at least not from our side of the channel.”

“We have reason to believe former members of
Los Tigres
are here in London, regrouping.” Zak reached inside his coat pocket and dropped a slim pointed object in Finn’s palm. “Have a look at this.”

Finn rotated the stickpin between fingers. The facets of a large diamond caught whatever dim light was available. “Impressive. I’d like to take this bauble home for a better look.”

Zak nodded. “Recently confiscated off a dead body washed up downriver. We believe the corpse to be the conspirator known as Carlos Jorge Rivera. Likely this chap decided to enrich himself and the brotherhood didn’t take kindly to it.” The detective swiveled toward Hardy. “I thought you might like to shadow this case with your brother. Get a taste for the work, find out if it suits.” Zak caught Finn’s sour expression. “Of course, if you’d rather not . . .”

“I can manage a group of surly anarchists and my little brother at the same time.”

The Yard man leaned closer. “Good. And how goes the gemology consulting?”

“Brisk of late. I’ve been asked for a number of appraisals—all private sales.”

Zak appeared to consider his statement. “Not sure you’ve heard, but there’s a second-story man about. We suspect whoever that person is, may be connected to the anarchists.” Kennedy nodded at the tiepin. “That bit of flash was purchased recently through private sale and pinched little more than a week later.”

Finn twirled the gem. “Ends up on the person of an anarchist floating facedown in the Thames. It’s possible whoever is selling the jewels is stealing them back for a future sale—on the Continent, perhaps.” He pocketed
the tiepin. “It’s been done before, an old jewel thief’s ploy.”

Zak grimaced. “Nearly every scenario we’ve considered doesn’t add up.”

“And why is that?” Hardy asked.

“The burglar appears to be rather selective. Takes one piece and leaves piles of other valuables behind.”

Finn tilted his gilded chair onto its rear legs. He gazed at the stage, which had dimmed briefly before the featured act. “I thought you were more of an opera aficionado, Kennedy. Why are we here?”

A wry grin spread across the Yard man’s face. “To reconnoiter with a particular featured dancer.”

From high above the stage a pale glow poured down upon the master of ceremonies. “Ladies and gentlemen,
mesdames et messieurs.
Direct from Paris, the Royal Alhambra proudly presents
Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique
’s
Phoenix Unbound
.” The man in formal tails and opera hat tilted his head toward the balcony. “And where in the heavens might we find such a lovely mythical bird?”

All eyes followed as the haunting strains of harps, violins, and cellos swelled into something whimsical and evocative—Debussy, Finn thought.

A lone spotlight halted on the lithe figure of a young woman sitting on the ledge of a balcony. She wore a tightly fitted bodice and a dancer’s skirt of filmy, translucent layers, which parted as she rose from her perch and raised a jaw-dropping length of leg slowly into the air—in arabesque. The very term caused a sudden shiver of uncanny intuition. Finn had dredged up the word—
arabesque
—from distant memory.

The ballerina tilted her head and opened gently wavering arms, a preening bird preparing for flight. With each
flutter she loosed ribbons of red and gold silk. Her pointe slippers pawed the ledge as she traversed the upper tier, unfurling wing and tail streamers along the way.

Strains of music built quickly to a crescendo and she plunged off the balcony. The audience gasped as the diving bird swooped down over the audience attached to a delicate golden perch and gilded wire.

Hardy leaned forward. “Nice set of gams, wot?” As if in answer to his brother’s crude observation, every man in the theatre lifted his opera glasses to inspect those lovely limbs. She floated across the stage, heading straight for their box. With arms outstretched, she unfurled yet another length of delicate fabric, gaily tossing it ahead of her as she reached the end of her arc.

Before he could stop himself, Finn reached out over the edge of the balcony and caught the ribbon of silk. Their eyes met in shock and surprise. Every fiber of his being came alive.

Catriona.

The roar of cheers from the male audience below barely registered. The trapeze swung the ethereal bird back over the heads of the audience and lowered her gracefully to the floor of the stage. The ballerina leaped to earth amongst an eruption of applause, and danced a series of precision pirouettes across the stage into the arms of a male dancer who lifted her high above his shoulders and rotated her slowly in the air.

Zak and Hardy joined in the applause. Without taking his eyes off her, Finn gathered the firebird’s fluttering silk ribbon. She was everything he remembered, only more so. Finn sank into his chair. He had never seen Catriona dance in Spain, or France for that matter. In fact, he had hardly gotten to know her at all. Tall and willowy with large sapphire
eyes and raven hair, she was so . . . achingly beautiful. Mesmerized by her every move, his mind returned to a night of unforgettable passion they had shared—Christ, how long was it now? Well over a year, at least.

Most provocatively, she slipped back down to earth in the arms of her partner. Finn was quite sure every man in the audience was aroused by her slide down the male dancer’s torso. Twirling and leaping across a stage flooded with moonlight, her body moved with a light, ethereal quality—a sensuous grace—as if her feet had no real need to touch ground. Fields of gravity did not apply to this lovely creature.