A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (30 page)

“Information often flows with the champagne.” Finn uncrossed a booted leg and leaned across the table for the documents.

Fortesque rose from the desk and tugged on the bell pull. “Mr. Guyot will see you out. My secretary will also see that an invitation is”—he took another long look at Cate as he extended his hand toward Finn—“hand delivered.”

The moment the British chargé d’affaires left the room, she leaned across the arm of her chair. “He imagines himself a bit splendid. I do hope he means to help us.”

“Condescending, stiff-arsed bureaucrat.” Finn grunted.
“Believe what you wish, Cate, but I’ve learned never to trust a chargé d’affaires—especially an
en interim.
They’re temporary. They’ve got nothing at stake.” He offered her a hand up. “He’d also enjoy a bit of alone time with you.”

A sharp knock preceded the gaunt-looking secretary. “Allow me to escort you.” He waved them through the door.

Cate tugged on Finn’s arm. “I cannot attend a soiree this evening.”

“Why ever not?”

“I’ve got nothing to wear.”

Sylvain Robideaux sprang from behind a large potted palm, beaming. “There is to be a gala event this evening. You are invited to attend, yes?”

“It would seem so.” Finn checked his pocket watch. “My lovely companion has just pointed out the obvious fact that we are woefully underdressed for a such an occasion.”

“Ah, not to worry.” Their ever-jubilant companion opened the carriage door. “Sylvain knows the best tailor and seamstress in all Saint-Martin.”

There were times, Cate thought, when the clever Frenchman could be a great deal more than companionable; in fact, he appeared to be connected to everyone in town. “How fortunate we are to travel in your company!” She patted the comfortable upholstered seat and the Frenchman scrambled in beside her. He shouted directions to the driver. “Rue Gaspard.”

A cloud bank partially blocked out the sun as they exited the long drive. Finn’s expression darkened along with the sky. Obviously disgruntled with the seating arrangement, Finn slouched into the opposite bench and glowered. “We will likely have opportunity to speak with the
prison warden this evening. What can you tell us about him?”

The wiry Frenchman sobered, somewhat. “Moreau’s nickname is
Vipère.
“Several years ago, he was taking his evening constitutional around the fortress grounds. At one point, he stepped off the path and into one of the gardens. He emerged holding a garter snake in his hand, blood dripping down his arm. On closer inspection, it was observed that the snake’s head was missing. The new warden swallowed and smiled triumphantly—teeth stained with red. It is said one of his guards fainted at the realization.”

“You can’t mean . . .” Cate looked from one man to the other.

Finn stared. “Jesus.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“S
o we’re dealing with someone who will go to great lengths to make an impression.” Finn loosed his collar. “Ferocious theater, at any rate.”

“He’s a mild-mannered character—almost meek in some ways. A former priest. Defrocked, rumor has it. He finds me amusing.” Their fidgeting friend seemed less restless of late. “But there is often a predatory look in his eye, as though he challenges me to try another breakout. He ends conversations by saying, ‘You must visit us again, Sylvain. Stay a little longer next time.’ ”

Cate stared. “He openly taunts you?”

Sylvain shrugged. “Moreau prides himself on strict discipline and, of course, no successful escapes.” The Frenchman patted her gloved hand. “Something I know not to be true, by the way.”

One side of Finn’s mouth twitched. “I thought you retired.”

Sylvain held a finger to his lips and grinned. “What more can I tell you about
Vipére
? The warden walks with a slight limp. The knob of his cane is embellished with—”

“Let me guess, the head of snake,” Finn interjected.

“Ah, we are here.” The carriage turned onto a charming lane lined by topiary trees, a few fashionable shops, and a café. Sylvain leaped out of the carriage and swept them both inside the dressmaker’s salon.

“Our Parisian couturier, Madame Gagelin.” Sylvain kissed the outstretched hand of a handsome woman dressed in a stylish gown. As if in a reverie, their odd companion bounced around the showroom without bothering with much of an introduction. “Friends of mine, madame, in dire need of your services.”

Finn had observed the lines of a dress in the window. A lovely evening frock in shades of violet. Sumptuous fabrics with tonal designs draped over a narrow skirt. No lace. No bows. No need for the added frippery that British dressmakers were so fond of. The sleek bodice featured a plunging neckline with a draped diaphanous modesty panel. A man would still be entranced by a hint of cleavage, perhaps more so.

The modiste wore a measuring tape around her neck as if it were the strands of a necklace. Her gaze swept from Sylvain to Cate and landed on Finn.

He stepped forward and turned up the charm.
“Enchanté, madame.”
He brushed the woman’s hand with his lips—when in France, do as the Frenchmen do. Besides, he had a mind to cajole the woman into selling him the sample gown in the window. The dress would look ravishing on Cate. There were times when her brilliant blue eyes turned violet, and this gown would enhance the effect.

Finn continued, “I’m afraid we have arrived in Saint-Martin ahead of our luggage. Quite unannounced, it seems Miss Willoughby and I are expected to attend a reception this evening at the Palais des Gouverneurs.”

“Of course, the soiree for the chargé d’affaires.” Madame
Gagelin flashed him a sultry look. “You have come to the right salon, messieurs; several of my gowns will be in attendance—a ginger and apricot confection,
très magnifique,
for Anny Ahlers. And the cut rose velvet with the raspberry satin apron—superb on—”

“Mistress of the Belgian diplomat, Chapuys.” Sylvain lounged against a counter heaped with bolts of fabric. He gathered his fingers to his mouth and blew a kiss to the gods.
“Une belle poitrine.”

Madame picked up a yardstick and threatened. “Behave yourself, Sylvain.”

The restless man danced away from the waving baton. “I can do better than that—I shall make myself comfortable in the lobby of the Richelieu with a bottle of cognac.” Sylvain tipped his cap and exited the shop.

“The man is a nuisance—but also charming, no?” Madame swept a professional eye over Cate. “Statuesque and willowy. Any of my gowns will be exquisite on Miss Willoughby—perhaps a nip taken in here and there, and we will lower the hem.” The woman took another up and down look at Cate. “Evening slippers and gloves can be dyed to match. She swept her gaze around the salon’s displays. “Something in a pale buttercream . . .” Madame’s gaze lingered on a yellow gown.

Finn could not hold back a tease, “Madame, it seems you name your gowns after sweets in a confectioner’s shop.”

“Exactement.”
The brazen women winked at him.

He nodded toward the front of the salon. “I very much admire the dress in the window.”

“It will cost you, monsieur; it is the loveliest in the shop.”

Finn turned to Cate. “Rather rude of me to not ask if
you had a preference, Miss Willoughby. There are several others—”

“The violet gown is lovely,” Cate interrupted with a smile. When he lifted a brow, she answered with soft laughter. “Honestly, it is my favorite.” The look he received took his breath away. There was something in those twinkling eyes he had not seen from her in . . . a very long time.

As an established bachelor, he had been the recipient of these kinds of stolen looks before. They invariably caused him to run in the opposite direction, as they generally included feminine designs, most often involving expectations of promise. So, why was it different with Cate? Now that he had caught a glimpse of affection in her eye, he was certain he would long for another, even chase after it.

Madame turned her attentions to him. “So tall and well muscled, I do not expect any of the tailors in town will have a sample large enough to fit a man of”—the brazen woman took the opportunity to shift her gaze from his chest to his crotch—“your measurements.” The woman shot him a look seldom seen outside of bawdy houses. She swept a curtain back, revealing two young women bent over sewing machines in a dim, stuffy workroom. “This is our busiest season. From now through the end of the year, there are many gala social events. I hope you are prepared to pay, monsieur.”

  *  *  *  

CATE HUDDLED AGAINST Finn under the door awning as rain pelted the sidewalk outside Madame Gagelin’s shop. The landau waited in the street with its top up. Their driver, an Indian chap named Kieran, held an umbrella overhead, and they made a dash for the vehicle. Finn spoke to the driver as he steadied her climb into the
carriage. “Le Richelieu,
s’il vous plaît.”
He ducked inside and sat across the aisle, stretching his legs, as best he could. His gaze darted here and there before settling squarely on her face. He cleared his throat. “Well, that was . . . harrowing.”

“More for you, I expect.” Cate was in the mood to do a bit of goading. “I had no idea a fitting could be such a titillating adventure.” She tilted her chin. “In fact, I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone quite so—”

“Groped about, publicly?” Finn snorted. His sense of humor had certainly returned.

“You were blushing, Monsieur Curzon.” Cate purred in a French accent, “Thirty-five and a half inches!” She fell back onto the carriage seat as if in a faint. She peeked at him and exhaled an exaggerated sigh.

“I believe it was that last inside seam measurement of Madame’s that raised all the trouble.” He added a charming boyish grin. “Saucy minx.”

Awkward moments were rare for this man, and yet Finn had never seemed more adorable to her. Still, it wouldn’t do to let him off too easily. She righted herself, tucked her arms under her chest and slowly narrowed her eyes. “French women are sluts.”

“Ah, you know this for a fact.” Amused by her remark, his grin widened. “Am I to understand you are a possessive woman?”

Cate shrugged a shoulder. “You imply that I’m the jealous sort, which might have some basis in truth,
if
I were spoken for, which I am not.”

“I’m quite sure you could be
spoken for
if you wished it so.”

She returned his gaze rather intently. “Mercifully, I do not aspire to home and hearth.” Finn’s eyes darkened and
intensified. The carriage slowed as they arrived in front of the hotel. She had expected him to say, “What a relief, nor do I.” But there were no such words forthcoming.

Exiting the coach, Finn whisked her up the hotel stairs and behind one of the pillars holding up the portico. He yanked her close. “Perhaps you just haven’t been asked by the right man,” he practically growled. A lock of wet hair fell over his forehead and a drop of rain landed on her cheek. His gaze moved from her lips to the wet spot below her eye. He kissed the raindrop away, then moved to her mouth. She was expecting a long, sensuous, openmouthed kiss that would leave her all tingly and breathless, except that she was already tingly and breathless.

No kiss. No words. He found her hand and twined his fingers with hers. Easing back, he tugged gently and walked her inside the hotel.

“Mes amis!”
Sylvain leaped up from the wing chair in the lobby and waved them over to a comfortable corner. “I have already reserved a room.” The Frenchman dangled a brass key.

“Since I no doubt I paid for this bottle,” Finn whisked the cognac off the side table, “which way to the room?”

“With a view—
fantastique!
” The man swept both arms to one side, inviting them to walk ahead.

Sylvain escorted them up several flights of stairs and opened the door to a grand suite. Cate’s mouth dropped open. “My word, this is divine.”

After a look around the spacious suite, Cate opened a door in an alcove off the bedchamber. “A private water closet.”

Finn tipped the bellboy who brought up their luggage, and Cate saw the young man out. At the door she asked for a lady’s maid to be sent up.

“I see that as long as we’re on Her Majesty’s tanner, you spared no expense, Sylvain.” Finn pivoted in place as he surveyed the comfortable parlor area.