A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (5 page)

And she also knew something of his connection to her brother’s demise, yet she hadn’t called him a murderer. A technicality perhaps, but a relief nonetheless. And he couldn’t help but wonder, had she played him in Spain?
The very idea that she was a clever operative sent to distract him while he had used her to move in on
Los Tigres
—Good God, he found the idea intensely arousing.

Finn leaned against the open doorjamb of his brother’s room while Hardy attached his braces. He reminded himself that sweetly innocent young ladies did not traipse around Barcelona with strange men nor jump into bed with them.

And yet, he could have sworn she was a virgin. He cringed slightly. What was it about Cate that was so captivating—so rare? He knew full well he was a man of appetites; even so, he remained in control of himself at all times. But this lovely young woman had quickly become utterly . . . irresistible.

The assignment had ended in a hail of bullets, an explosion, and a barn full of dead Spanish insurgents. And still, he had returned to her. Rather odd for him. A highly placed anarchist had been killed, one who also happened to be her flesh and blood. In Barcelona Finn had sent Cate an urgent message, but she had not met him at Café Almirall. Not that evening, nor the evening after that. Thinking back, he remembered waiting many nights.

Finn straightened. “About ready?”

Hardy swung around and looked him up and down. “I believe we’re going to slay the ladies tonight, Brother.”

Finn narrowed his gaze. “With both Lady Gwendolyn Lennox and the bothersome husband in attendance, I’d have to say you’re the more likely candidate to be slain.” He inched over so Bootes might enter and examine Hardy’s tie.

His valet grimaced at the badly done loops and retrieved a fresh cravat from the highboy. His brother lifted his chin. “Rufus is not going to call me out, and if he does I’ll wing the old earl—I won’t kill him.”

His brother’s lack of care for life and limb, propriety or
scandal, was refreshing at times, but not this evening. Finn ignored the band of tension moving across his forehead and replaced a grin with a frown. Hardy was going to get himself killed one day—or tossed into Newgate gaol for murder.

The carriage ride through Mayfair was mercifully brief. Finn could barely listen to his brother go on about Gwen. Hardy was smitten, all right, or was he just taken with the danger of it all? The stolen moments, the surreptitious meetings. The ferocious sex. Heady stuff. Investigative undercover work was likely the perfect career choice for his little brother. In some ways, he and Hardy were cut from the same cloth. They both loved fast horses and, whenever possible, faster women.

So, why did he keep returning to Cate? A twitch played at the edges of his mouth. The very thought of her sparked a fire inside strong enough to trigger a nervous spell. Happily, this evening he just felt pleasantly stimulated. If this sort of lascivious reverie over Cate Willoughby continued, he would require a good long fencing lesson tomorrow.

He and Hardy exited the carriage and entered the Beauforts’ palatial town house on the square. Perfunctorily, they checked coats, hats, and extra gloves with the staff.

One last thought lingered about the fascinating young woman. She had quickly become a deeply affecting and keenly felt distraction in Barcelona. If he had been her assignment, as suspected, then mission accomplished. And this most recent turn of events—what might she be up to in London? He was certainly game to find out.

Finn ignored the heart palpitations.

Hardy broke off his chat with a couple in the concourse and joined him at the top of the stairs. “Out and
about in public two nights in a row, Finn. Some kind of record for you.”

“I’ve reconsidered.” He waited for his younger brother to be announced. “I’ll gladly second you in a duel with the Earl of Lennox.”

Hardy snorted a laugh.

The moment he and his younger sibling entered the hall, Finn was aware of the tilting heads and surreptitious glances. They soon found themselves surrounded by a bevy of young ladies—a sea of pastel gowns and corseted bosoms. Not an entirely unpleasant predicament to find oneself in. With the exception of a few polite greetings and one or two introductions, Finn maintained a cool distance, choosing not to chat for any length of time with the young women. Generally, when he and his brother were on the town, he let Hardy do the lion’s share of the flirting. Until he saw something he wanted.

“Phineas Gunn, my word, this is a rare treat.”

“Anatolia.” He bowed. “I must apologize for missing the reception—I blame it all on him.”

The Duchess of Beaufort turned to his brother, a distinctive arch to her brow. Her cool gaze warmed considerably when Hardy took her hand and kissed it. “Such a handsome rapscallion,” the duchess clucked, adding a wink to Finn. “He deserves his reputation.”

A smile played at the edges of his mouth. “There is a sort of exuberant devilishness about him. At least Mother says so.”

“Phineas, you terrible man!”

He turned toward the high-pitched whine with a haughty lilt. “Ah, Muriel.”

“Why, I would have worn my new blue gown by Madame Mateaux had I known you planned to attend the
Beauforts’ ball.” She settled in beside him with a stomp of delicate foot. Muriel bobbed a curtsy. “Anatolia.”

“An eleventh-hour decision.” Finn wrinkled his brow. “You look lovely in . . .”

“Apricot.” Muriel sniffed and prattled on to the duchess. “A gentleman would inform a young lady he was coming.” She fluttered a breeze with her fan.

Finn edged closer to Hardy. “I’m quite sure I inform a woman when I’m coming.”

“You always were the polite one.” Hardy’s wink interrupted Muriel’s pout; she assumed the twitch in his brother’s eye was intended for her. The blushing chit sighed a tut-tut of disapproval.

There was a time when Finn would have considered Muriel Villers-Talbot’s protrusion of lower lip a charming diversion. He had briefly courted Muriel, but by God’s Grace—or some other stroke of luck—he had come to his senses quickly. Unfortunately, the poor girl had never gotten over it. This past spring, at a soiree, she had maneuvered him into a scandalously intimate situation in the gallery. That he had barely escaped her entrapment served only to goad her onward.

Of late, rumors of their imminent pairing floated about like fall leaves in the wind. Muriel appeared to be campaigning the idea about that Phineas intended marriage as soon as he recovered from his pitiable nervous condition, Soldier’s Heart.

A tilt of chin enhanced her sulk. “Honestly, Finn, I had no idea you were feeling right enough for a ball.”

“Actually . . .” Finn lowered his voice. “I’ve a bit of business to attend to.”

Muriel blinked. “Business?” A blur of pale plum–colored satin brushed past him. “Ah, my new friend.”
Muriel snagged the dark-haired beauty into their circle. “Phineas Gunn, please meet Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. She is a
première danseuse
with the
Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique
.” Muriel leaned in. “She is also one of us—the British half, anyway. Isn’t that right, Cate?”

Instantly, the atmosphere in the hall grew warm and stifling. He knew this because he sucked in a large quantity of the oppressive air. Finn paid no heed to an elevation in heart rate and nodded a bow. “We meet again, Miss . . . de Dovia, or do you prefer Willoughby?”

Confused or distressed or both, Muriel turned to Cate. “You two have met?”

Finn knew for certain he grinned. “Zeno Kennedy invited me to the Alhambra last night.” When Muriel raised a supercilious brow he added, “On a bit of business.”

An amused duchess leaned in. “My dear, I’m afraid a man’s
business
is conducted just about everywhere these days.”

Anatolia’s innuendo breezed by Muriel. “You see how at ease I am with theatrical dancers? Finn says I can be pompous and rigid.” She tapped her fan on his chest. “Don’t deny it. I mean to prove to you I can be just as common and gay as—” Muriel stopped. “Oh dear.” She turned to Cate. “It’s not that I believe you to be common, in the vulgar sense—” With each word, Muriel dug herself in deeper.

Finn cleared his throat. Loudly.

Cate bit back a smile. A side-by-side comparison of the two young ladies proved amusing. Pleasurably plump versus lithe and lovely. Cate was nearly a head taller than Muriel. He angled closer to his brother to mumble, “Ask Muriel to dance.”

Hardy was incredulous. “How will you ever return such a favor?”

Finn was not amused. “You know as well as I that you must make a show of dancing with available young ladies. Afterward, you can take Gwen for a spin around the dance floor without raising too many brows.”

Hardy pivoted with a smile. “Muriel, did I tell you how delightful you are in that ruffled confection of a gown—peach, is it?”

“Apricot.” She sighed.

There wasn’t a woman alive who could resist him—or so Hardy believed. “The very color of your blush, I should think. Is your card open for a dance?”

In fact, Muriel’s cheeks colored the very pastel of her gown. “Why, now that Finn is here—”

“I’m sure he won’t mind sharing.” Hardy stepped up and took her by the arm. “Shall we, dear?”

He assumed his brother steered Muriel off to the dance floor; he wouldn’t know, as he was otherwise occupied staring at Cate. “Does it bother you? The pretension as well as the snide quips?”

She returned his interest for a very long time. “You are resplendent in formal attire, Mr. Gunn.” She leaned in with a grin. “Please don’t read anything into the compliment. It is just . . . what it is.”

“A compliment.” He grinned. “And if I said I had never seen a woman look lovelier in pale plum?”

Her gaze swept the room, a half smile on her face. “Then . . . I’d say I managed to change the subject.” Long dark lashes fluttered above indigo eyes that returned to him. He recalled a night in Barcelona and a look of deep blue ecstasy.

Finn cleared his throat. “I presume the
première danseuse
’s card is full?”

“All the waltzes are reserved.” Those extraordinary eyes sparkled with laughter when he blinked. “You’re not the type of man who would be interested in anything other than a waltz.”

“Here you are, my dear.” Cecil Cavendish, Baron Burleigh, strode up beside Cate. He eyed Finn suspiciously. “I hope I arrived in time?”

“To rescue me from the arms of Mr. Gunn?”

Finn kept his grin stiff. “All the waltzes are taken.”

“With my name.” Cecil beamed as he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

The dazzling brilliance of a half-dozen chandeliers suddenly felt glaring. Finn ran a finger under the stiff points of his collar and moved to a less sparkling side of the ballroom. He reminded himself why he’d attended one of the biggest balls of the season. He was here to take silent inventory of the aristocracy’s jewels. After all, it was those glittering gems and the golden fizz of champagne that put the
beau
in
beau monde.

A quick scan of décolletés told him he was familiar with nearly all of the most extraordinary pieces in the room. At one time or other, he had either been party to the sale of or had appraised the value of the exquisite baubles. He drifted through the crowd, a good length behind Cecil and Cate as they took a turn about the room. At the far side of the hall, he caught sight of Hardy and Muriel on the dance floor. One of the new quick-step polkas—something fast and fancy. Finn marveled at his brother’s ability to look dashing no matter how ridiculous the hops and skips were.

Lady Lennox also watched Hardy dance from a small
circle of friends. Drawing closer, Finn concentrated on Gwen. Dressed in something gossamer, the woman always looked ravishing. Even more breathtaking was the teardrop diamond nestled above deep cleavage. The exquisite gem dangled from several delicate strands of diamonds and pearls.

Finn inhaled a sharp breath. The necklace appeared to be something quite extraordinary, and he had not been consulted. He would have remembered a gem like this one. He needed a closer look.

The three-quarter time of the music ended on a high-spirited up note and Finn zigzagged a path to intercept his brother and Muriel as they left the dance floor.

A breathless Muriel snapped open her fan. “I must freshen up after a polka like that. If you would excuse me, gentlemen?”

Finn stabbed an elbow into his brother’s side.

“Great fun, Muriel—full of vigor. We must do it again.”

Finn watched Muriel until she disappeared into a sea of pastel silks and chiffon. “And how are your toes?”

Hardy remained stoic. “One has to give the young lady credit for trying.”

He grabbed hold of his brother and lowered his voice. “I’d like to get a closer look at the latest bauble Lady Lennox is wearing, as well as have a turn round the floor with Cate Willoughby.” A grin widened. “You, on the other hand, would like nothing more than to steal a dance with Gwen.”

“Brilliant. We’ll have a trade-off—just like the old days at Trinity.” Hardy’s eyes lit up. “Where is Miss Willoughby?”

“On the arm of Baron Burleigh. He’s a bit testy with me, but you might easily cut in.”