A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (9 page)

Her knees wobbled and she lost her concentration at the ballet barre. Cate took a deep breath and shook off heated memories of sensuous lovemaking. She concentrated on the dance master’s words. Moving off the barre, they worked on
port de bras
.

Last night at the ball, after the gentlemen had taken their argument outside, she had stayed behind and discovered something wonderfully intriguing about Phineas Gunn. According to Lady Lennox, no one knew the jewelry of the noblesse better than Finn. The truth of it was,
Los Tigres
had disappeared overnight. She supposed they were back on the Continent, somewhere. The anarchists had left her with no help. No names of the current gem owners, or where she might go to fence the pretty baubles. She had tried several of the gem dealers of Hatton Garden, but they weren’t privy to private sales. No, if she was to recover the estate’s jewelry, she needed Finn.

Only this time, her encounter with Agent Gunn would remain all business. She needed his knowledge of gems and his entrée to the beau monde. Cate suspected she didn’t have much time left. Very soon,
Los Tigres
would expect their share of the profits.

Abruptly, Didelot tapped his baton on the piano and
the corps executed
le révérence,
a dancer’s curtsy to show respect to the teacher and pianist.

Class dismissed.

While Cate waited for Mérante, she practiced solo parts of the
pas de deux
. Eight hops backward
en pointe,
into an arabesque with a drawn-out balance. Then on to a series of
piqués, fouettés,
and
grand jeté.

She landed with all the grace of an elephant. Badly done.

“Again—from the beginning of the movement, if you would, Mr. Skym?” Cate took up a position to side of the stage and waited for the piano’s cue. She repeated the same combination of steps. This time she landed the
jeté
perfectly.

The hollow sound of one person clapping came from the seats in the front of the theatre. “Bravo, Catriona.”

She stepped closer to the footlights. Of course it would be him. A flutter of beats leaped in her chest. She placed both hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his frock coat and loosened his cravat. Nervously, she adjusted her cramped toes by waggling her pointe shoe back and forth on the stage floor. He was up the steps and onto the stage before she could utter much of a protest.

“It appears you are in need of a partner.” He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

Unsure if she should smile or frown, Cate pressed her lips together. “You realize lifts require a great deal of strength.”

He raised one of those supercilious eyebrows of his.

Over six feet of pulsing sinewy muscle stood in front of her with his arms open. She sighed or huffed. “Dancers
study for years to execute the lifts in this adagio. It would not be safe—” Her eyes darted about. “Male dancers touch very intimate places.”

The bare semblance of a smile played at the edges of his mouth. She cringed, waiting for a crude reference to the private places he’d so expertly stroked and caressed.

“I shall do my best to control myself.” His voice was huskier than usual.

She studied him a moment. “Yes, you are always very much in control.”

“Until I’m not.” He moved closer. “We’ll work until your partner arrives. Start with something basic—elementary.” He tilted his head and taunted her. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Cate?”

She bit her lip and edged closer. “Very well. Perhaps the simplest way to move into the lift is for the ballerina to step into arabesque in front of her partner.”

Cate assumed the position and lifted her leg behind her, waist high. “Place one hand on my waist and the other beneath the thigh of my working leg.”

Finn slipped his hand around her waist and then hesitated. “Where exactly would you like the other?”

“Reach under my skirt.” Cate bit her lip to hide her amusement. “This way you will have a better grip and you won’t ruin the drape of skirt.”

His hand traveled gently up the inside of her thigh. A tingle shot up her leg and rippled through her body. “That’s high enough.” Cate shifted her weight to remain in balance. Instinctively, he steadied her.

“We shall try a
piqué de poissons
—fish dive. Lift me off the ground—not too high. Once my head is above yours, dip me quickly toward the ground and hold.”

Their first attempt was far from graceful.

Hands on her hips, Cate walked off a muscle twinge. “From the lower position, you lift me up—as if you snatch me from the arms of death. Then you must dip me as though I am falling from your grasp—in a graceful swoop.”

“Graceful swoop.” Finn nodded. “Is there a French term for that?” His grin caused her to shift her eyes away.

Cate stepped closer. “I must keep all my muscles strong and engaged throughout the lift. If I don’t press my arabesque leg against your hold, I’ll fold in half and lose all stability.” She cleared her throat and swallowed. “Let me feel your hands.”

“Like this?” His hand slipped under her thigh and his grip tightened.

She flexed her thigh against his hold. “Do you feel me answer you?” The words were spoken in a raspy voice, one she didn’t recognize as her own.

“Mm-hmm.” His breath brushed against the soft hairs of her temple.

Her heart fluttered inside her chest.
“Élevé.”

He lifted on counts one and two. Dipped her on three and four. Cate swept her leg into
passé
position. He brought her upright on five, six, and returned her to earth—seven, eight.

“
Sans volume, monseiur
—quietly.” He lowered her gently onto her pointe leg. Back on the ground, she turned to him. “You are better at this than I imagined.”

She never knew men could grin with their eyes. At least, this one did.

“All right then, something more challenging. Nothing too high—yet.” Cate tilted her head. “Perhaps you could lift me onto your shoulder?” Within one or two tries, Finn lifted her with ease—and he was both powerful and
graceful. He lowered her gently to earth. Cate completed the lift with an arabesque. Standing in his arms, she arched back. “Bravo, Finn.”

As a student, she had developed crushes on one or two male dancers. All that touching in places no man was allowed. And there was something deliciously wicked about engaging in such an intimacy with a man who was not a dancer. A year had passed and still the heat of her attraction to him shook her to the core. She had never been held by a dancer who moved her like this. She had trembled when his hand moved up the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

Without a word, he lifted her again. “If I remember correctly, your partner held you like this.” He pressed her against his body and lowered her slowly.

The delicate, sensuous notes of Debussy accompanied a brief nuzzle of his nose to her bodice. A warm exhale drifted across the curve of her breast, and the rough stubble of his chin brushed the hollow of her throat.

Her toe shoes dangled inches off the ground.

Face-to-face, his half-lidded scorching gaze lowered to her mouth. The memory of his words in Barcelona taunted her.
Say yes, Cate, say yes.
Her body strained against the corset of her costume, and her stomach muscles trembled. The tingle was back. The one that aroused nipples, clenched her womb, and curled her toes.

Descending an inch at a time, her thigh pressed against his lower anatomy. A strong shiver racked his body, causing him to drop her with a thud. “Bollocks.” His apology was worse, barely more than a harsh whisper. “Sorry.”

She could not help but notice the bulge. “Male dancers wear a dancer’s belt.”

“A what?”

“I have no idea why I blurted that out.” Cate shook
her head and laughed uncomfortably. “It’s a kind of . . . codpiece to protect your privates.”

A smile crept over his face. “Now, why would I—?”

“This is not about r-rubbing,” she stammered, as a rush of heat singed her cheeks. “I could kick you by accident.”

“Yes, I’ve experienced those toe slippers firsthand—painful to the shinbones, as well as a man’s testicles, I imagine.”

She really must change the subject. “The lifts look simple and elegant, almost weightless. But as you can see, they require hours of practice.”

He exhaled a long loud breath. “I was better at the bolero.”

She tilted her head. “Yes, I believe you were.” She turned to the pianist. “Something by Strauss, Mr. Skym—adagio, please.” She returned to Finn with a blush of heat to her cheeks.

“Like the waltz, the bolero is danced in three-quarter time.” Finn used a mock instructor’s voice. Drawing her to him, they practiced the basic pattern of the dance.

She danced a circle—more of a strut—around him. “Quick, quick—slow. Draw me to you.” Finn swept her close. “Place your right leg between mine and pause.” The moves returned to him quickly as they whirled around the stage. Soon they were extending the glide of their steps together.

For a large man he was graceful and very much in charge of his partner. He swiveled his body with hers—inserting his leg between hers. “Press your thigh against mine, and hold.” At times, in the turns, she felt as though their bodies moved as one.
Perfecto, sensual, glorioso.
Hips swaying, legs interweaving—coming together, drawing apart.

Cate smiled. “You remembered.”

He pulled her back and held her against his body. “How could I possibly forget?” The last strains of the waltz ended on a quiet note. His gaze lowered to her lips. “Lovely piece of music. ‘The Kiss Waltz,’ is it not?”

Her eyes fell to his mouth. She allowed herself a brief fantasy then stepped back, breaking the spell. “You never answered my question. Why are you here?”

His gaze tracked her every move. “I’ve had a chance to study your uncle’s list and have a number of questions. If you have time before the—?”

She shook her head. “I go straight from rehearsal to the bathhouse and return in time to ready myself for evening performance.” Cate ducked her head to peer through the raised piano lid. “It appears Mérante has missed rehersal. Thank you, Mr. Skym.”

“Tomorrow morning then, say ten o’clock, at your uncle’s residence?” Finn asked.

“Ten is fine.” She picked up a Turkish towel and patted her forehead. “You might have offered to take me to supper.”

“I’ve a rather a busy evening ahead of me. A few errands and obligations to attend to.” There was something deliberately evasive in the way he avoided her gaze. “And there is a necklace to return.”

She draped the towel around her neck. “I take it Lady Lennox is recovered?”

Finn shrugged. “Hardy claims all is well. The earl has left town—cooling off in the country.”

She stopped a slow pivot midturn. “You mentioned obligations?”

He stared for a moment before clearing his throat. “I think it best I settle affairs with Miss Hebert.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It would seem this
pas de deux
with Phineas Gunn was far from over.

Chapter Six

F
inn sat in the darkest corner of the lady’s bedchamber and listened to the padding footsteps and soft murmurs of the servants as they closed up the house for the night. A rustle of leaves whipped up by a gust of wind carried the chill of evening across Lady Lennox’s sumptuously appointed four-poster bed.

He had purposely left the window ajar.

This surveillance would likely go nowhere this evening. Then again, he might catch a jewel thief.

Gwen had been a good sport about the whole thing. “Something devilishly romantic about a night visitor to my bedroom.” Her reaction to the idea of a second-story man had gone from amused to angry in so many seconds. “Let the burglar have it. I shall never wear the bloody thing again.”

“Yes, why not? Collect the insurance and be done with it,” Finn had replied. After a good deal of flirtation and cajoling, Gwen had allowed him access to her room.