A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard)
Page 5
A glance at d’Artaine revealed the man had hardly broken a sweat. Finn turned toward a creak and click of the door. His manservant entered the room. “You have a caller, sir.”
He picked up a Turkish cloth and wiped beads of perspiration off his brow. “At this hour of the morning?”
The butler’s eyes rolled upward. “It’s nearly half past ten.”
Finn tossed the towel onto the bench. “Who, then?”
Bootes cleared his throat. “Miss Hebert is waiting in the parlor, sir.”
“Evelyn?” Finn wasn’t dressed to receive visitors, not that Evelyn Hebert would mind. His mistress serviced him in various stages of dishabille. They had a standing appointment here at the house. Every Tuesday—usually in the afternoon. This was Friday.
He nodded to Bootes. “I’ll be down shortly.”
Finn paid close attention to the sword master’s critique of his footwork, then made his way downstairs. He entered the parlor and shut the door quietly. Evelyn stood at the window with her back to him. The clip-clop of horse hooves on wet streets echoed softly through the room. “Is everything all right, Evie?”
“I could ask the same question of you—Finn.” She turned slowly, wearing an expression he had never seen before. Those luscious lips were set in a grim line, and her eyes almost . . . watery. Hard to read, but unsettling, nevertheless.
“Ah, the mystery that is woman.” Something in his gut told him to proceed cautiously. Finn stationed himself by the arm of the settee. “Besides an impending duel or two, everything is fine, I suppose. And you?” If these vagaries went on for long, things were going to get tedious. In fact, they were already awkward.
She gnawed a bit on her lower lip. “When did you plan to tell me? I should think a gentleman would have the courtesy to tell his mistress well in advance if he planned to make a change.” She approached him, eyeing his chest. He had left his shirt unbuttoned.
Incredulous, Finn stared. “And who . . . might you believe I have in mind?”
“Why, you plan to take the première danseuse, Catriona de Dovia, as your lover.” Her lower lip jutted out. “And don’t deny it, Phineas. The morning gossip is all about you and Hardy.” Delicate fingers slipped into the opening of his shirt and stroked his lower torso.
Ordinarily, Evie’s petting would cause a sudden surge of blood to his lower extremity. But not this time.
Gingerly, he moved her hand away. There were times it behooved one to stay abreast of the rumors. “Other than the morning tittle-tattle, what would cause you to leap to such a conclusion? I danced a single waltz with the young—”
A sharp rap from the parlor entrance seemed more frantic than usual. The door opened a crack and his butler slipped through the narrow gap. Odd behavior, even for Bootes.
Finn’s gaze narrowed. “Now what?”
The butler’s eyes darted back toward the door. “A word, sir?”
Finn stepped away from Evie. “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”
Out in the passageway, Bootes turned to him. “Another visitor, sir—quite insistent, I’m afraid.”
“Tell whoever it is to return this afternoon.” Finn began a pivot but hesitated. “What is the nature of the call?”
“A consultation, I believe. The young lady says she might be willing to consider . . . your apology.” The man’s eye twitched nervously. “Quite an irregular morning, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
Finn turned slowly. “You have no idea.” A surge of agitation throbbed through his body. He took a step, then another—before he swung around. “Might I ask you to offer Miss Hebert some refreshment? Tell her I shall only be a moment.”
“Very good, sir.” His manservant nodded in the direction of his study.
Finn backed down the passage and entered his private sanctuary. The young miss inside leaned over his desk for a better look through his magnifying-glass apparatus. Deep in concentration, she turned the brass-handled armature to adjust the lens.
“You can alter the height as well as the angle of the glass.” He slipped in behind her. “Allow me a brief demonstration.” He turned a small key on the pedestal and moved the glass up and down. “What is it you wish to focus on, Miss Willoughby?
She straightened. “A spider. Vanished under your papers.” After looking him up and down her gaze settled on his chest. “Rather furry creatures up close.”
This time he made an effort to button his shirt. “I’m afraid you caught me in the middle of a fencing lesson.” Finn pulled his smoking jacket off a coat tree and slipped it on.
“Lady Lennox informs me you are a gemologist of sorts, Mr. Gunn. And that you often consult on private sales—appraisals—that sort of undertaking.” Even in the dimly lit study her eyes shimmered like the folds of a blue satin gown.
He moved a chair closer to his desk. “Have a seat, Cate. Do you mind if I call you Cate? And you must call me Phineas or Finn.”
She was simply dressed this morning. A high-collar, pleated blouse peeked out from under a velvet jacket and pinstripe gabardine skirt. Practical, with a dash of comme des garçon style. The way she moved in those garments made all the difference. He could barely take his eyes off a sweep of bow that settled above her bustle.
“Very well, Phin-e-ass.” With an emphasis on the last syllable, she took a seat. “Rather rigid and pompous sounding. Nothing like the Hugh Curzon I knew in Barcelona.”
“No, I suppose not. That man used you to get close to your brother. And for sex.”
Those beautiful eyes narrowed sharply.
Rather than retreat behind his desk, he took the other wing chair beside her. “Your words, not mine.” He crossed his boots at the ankle and stretched out tired leg muscles.
“Impossible. I would never use such coarse language.”
He took a moment to admire the upward turn of her chin and straight backbone. Perfectly British and yet, there was something so very un-English about her. The porcelain skin of a northern lass, but with a glow of color—fawn, perhaps. The welcome addition of a rose blush crept over her cheek.
“No, I suppose not.” He rubbed a bristle of beard on his jaw. “I take it you have a precious gem or piece of jewelry you wish me to look at?”
Her glare softened. “Actually, there are a number of pieces, if I read my uncle’s inventory correctly. The jewels are part of his estate.” She stopped to moisten her lips. “He is recently passed from this life. And I am his only living relation.”
“Sorry for your loss.” Finn reached across his desk for a journal and pencil. “Your uncle’s name?”
“Arthur George Willoughby, Baron Brooke.”
“Address?”
She hesitated. “Number Nine Upper Belgravia.”
“We’re practically neighbors.” Leafing through a volume of notes, he found a blank page to scribble on. “You were his ward for a time, if I recall correctly.”
“Why yes.” Eyes wider, she cocked her head. “Do you always remember odd and sundry details?”
“My memory lacks a filter. Rather helpful in my line of work.” He continued to scratch a few notes to himself. “The fact that you are his sole survivor means you inherit—”
“Everything, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “He left a mountain of debt.”
“And what of his treasure?” He found Cate’s dilemma intriguing. “Might I ask where the jewels are at this moment?”
“Scattered about London—”
A great clatter caused his interviewee to start. There was also a wail or cry. Finn sat up straight in his chair. Good God. He’d left Evie in the parlor. He set his journal on the desk and smiled somewhat stiffly.
“If you’ll excuse me . . . I’ll just be a moment.” Finn closed the study door quietly before charging down the hallway.
A silver tray backed out of the parlor door, followed by his butler. Bootes looked up helplessly. “The lady has decided against tea, sir.” The broken remnants of a cup and saucer lay scattered across the serving platter.
“Good luck, sir.” Bootes nodded a bow.
Finn circled Evie as he might gentle a frightened horse. “Evie . . . can we take this up another day? You are distraught and something’s come up—”
She whirled around. “I know a dozen gentlemen who would gladly take your place. Handsome, rich men who send me notes and flowers—they beg for me, mon coeur.”
“Lower your voice, Evie, the whole house can hear—”
“Since when do you care who hears?” She lifted her chin. “You groan like a bear when you take your pleasure—in this very room.” The muffled sound of a door opening and closing echoed through the house. Evie peered at the parlor door suspiciously. “Ha! She is here, is she not?”
“Miss Willoughby”—Finn hesitated—“is here on business.”
“How much? How many times a week?” She spat and flew past him.
He caught hold of her skirt in the hallway. His mistress had always been passionate in bed. The sex had been heated—experimental—but he had no idea she could transmogrify into the virago before him. He dodged a slap to the face as well as her flying fists. “Evie, you will either return to the parlor or I will have to ask you to leave.”
“Et vous l’invitez dans votre maison? Bâtard! Where are you hiding her?” Evie pulled on her skirt to break his hold. “I know she is here, la petite putain Espagnole!”
“I am proud of my Spanish blood, and I am no whore, madame.” Cate stood in the study doorway, a defiant tilt to her chin.
Evie’s up-and-down glance preceded an ear-piercing screech and a lunge. She took a swipe at Cate with her claws. With his heart thundering in his chest, Finn leaped between them. Short of breath, he managed to grab hold of each woman and hold them at a distance. Cate struck back at Evie with her free hand. “¡Puta! ¡Usted piensa que usted es su puta Francesa!”
Forced to shout over the snarling females, Finn shoved them further apart. “¡Alto! Cease fire!”
Evie’s talons swept past Finn’s nose, missing her feline opponent by inches. Cate batted the outstretched hand away. “Desgraciada cretina—daughter of a whore—maldita bastarda.”
A rumble of footsteps on the stairs brought Hardy into the corridor. Taking in the scene, his brother folded his arms over a shirt soaked in sweat. “I wouldn’t wish to intrude on a man’s pleasure—”
“Don’t just stand there.” Finn shoved Cate behind him and scowled at his brother. “Grab her.”
Hardy lifted Miss Hebert in the air as she continued to scream and kick. “Ouch! You little—” He tossed the wailing shrew over his shoulder and headed for the door.
D’Artaine descended the stairs and met the butler recently returned from the kitchen. Both men watched the tussle with interest. “Two beauties fighting over one man.” D’Artaine dipped a sweeping bow. “You have my undying admiration.”
Finn glared pointedly at his butler. “Would you be kind enough to wipe that grin off your face and get the door for Hardy?”
“Toqúeme otra vez—usted es muerto. ¡Sí, sí, usted es muerto!” Cate yelled over his shoulder as he backed her down the passageway. She had always been ravishing when riled—especially when teased and held at the edge of pleasure. Savoring the memory, he shoved her into his study. “Stay!”
“I am not your dog, Finn. Do not think you can—”
He slammed his study door and followed a trail of French expletives down the corridor. He arrived in the foyer just as Bootes opened the front door. A familiar young woman stood on the porch looking a bit . . . huffish. “Phineas?”
Finn blinked. “Muriel?”
Chapter Five
Cate swept up and down the room. She had unleashed the Spanish fire inside. A rarity—and she wondered how much of it had to do with this man. “She accuses me of being a whore? ¡Ella es la puta! ¡Ella es la puta!”
Finn leaned back against the study door and pressed it shut. “Glad to know you don’t use coarse language.” His gaze never left her. After a lengthy silence between them he cleared his throat. “I dare not think how you might appraise Muriel.”
Cate whirled around. “Why do you ask? She’s not . . . here?”
“I sent her away in a hansom with Evelyn.”
She stared for a moment, then snorted a laugh. “My word, as busy as a brothel in Brugge. Is it always like this?”
He approached her slowly and leaned close. “It is never like this.” She felt his breath on her cheek.
He straightened. “As it turns out, Miss Hebert—a delightful person most of the time—can be a little . . .” He tapped a finger on the side of his head. “Loco.”
Cate studied him. Hot blood still thrummed through every passage of her body. “She is your French whore?”
He paused long enough to be considering a lie. “On Tuesday afternoons.”
Her gaze faltered, slightly. “This is Friday.”
“She heard the morning gossip about you and me. It seems Miss Hebert has grown an attachment these past few months.”
She huffed a quiet snort. “Do not flatter yourself. She wants something.” Cate approached him slowly. “I know of these high-priced French putas. They are greedy and dishonest. I do not like her for you.” She enjoyed taunting him with a cynical grin. “You must trust me on this.”
He stared as if he could not quite believe—her advice or her interest? She wasn’t sure herself. Slowly, his liquid brown eyes narrowed. “And this counsel of yours is based on . . .?”
She shrugged. “As you know, I did my dance study in Paris—one of the petite rats of the ballet school. I learned more than a fouetté jeté while I was there.” She turned away and meandered through a study piled with books and odd scientific devices. The private retreat of an intellectually curious man. She noted the exotic-looking sidearms. He was also an adventurer. The stacks of technical tomes and apparatus just made him all the more attractive. “It is no surprise your French whore feels threatened. Most everyone comprehends women in theater—dancers in particular—want for nothing more than a rich protector.”
Finn shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”
She turned back to him. “Why not?”
“Because I know you.” He smiled with such sincerity her gaze faltered slightly.
She stepped away. “Shall we . . . Might we return . . .”
He motioned her to a chair and watched her take a seat. “Before the interruption, you mentioned jewels scattered about London.”
“I came here to ask if you could help me find them. I would gladly pay you a share of their worth.” She retrieved a folded note from her reticule. “I found this amongst Uncle’s papers.”
Finn opened the letter and perused the list. “One diamond bracelet consisting of four strands of half-carat diamonds set in gold; two hundred and thirteen diamonds in toto fastened by a gold filigree heart-shaped clasp.” He looked up. “These descriptions are quite complete.”
“Uncle suffered from dementia in his last years. At first I thought he misplaced the jewelry. Then, at the gala opening night, I was introduced to a woman wearing a bracelet of rubies set in the shape of flowers.” Her gaze swept to the list in his hand. “Number eleven.”
“Could he have sold them?”
“And not keep a record of the sale? Uncle was a chronic list maker. To help himself remember, he wrote everything down—often several times. It has taken me weeks to sift through a mountain of reminders he left to himself.”
She edged forward on her seat. “I believe the jewels were taken from the safe before he died.”
Phineas folded the list. “You don’t think someone might have—”
“Murdered him?” She tucked her lower lip under her teeth and scraped. “He was a dying man, with few servants. The most heartless thief would not have seen the need for it.”
The mantel cloc
k struck the half hour.
“I have afternoon class and rehearsal. I must go.” She looped her reticule over a wrist. “Twenty percent of whatever we recover. Are you interested?”
A lopsided grin tugged at a corner of his mouth. “I rarely ask more than five percent for an appraisal. But then, this is so much more than a consult.” He lifted a skeptical brow. “In fact, your quest falls somewhere between a heist, a treasure hunt, and a crime investigation, wouldn’t you say?”
She found his scrutiny unsettling. “I’d rather not involve Scotland Yard.”
“Then . . .” His eyes narrowed. “I shall require thirty percent.”
“Seventy-five, twenty-five.” She tugged on her gloves. “Do we have an understanding?”
* * *
FINN READ THE list again. He recognized several of the pieces, had even appraised one or two of the items. He returned to item number eight. “Rare blue diamond cravat pin, twelve and a quarter carats set in gold filigree.”
He removed a hinged jewel box from his desk drawer and opened the case. Empty. He turned the container upside down hoping the pin would drop onto the desktop. Not a bloody thing. There was a chance he had misplaced the item. But no, that was impossible. Perhaps it had fallen out of the box and was lost—under the desk, hidden in the carpet? Finn pushed back his chair and checked a few likely spots.
He grimaced. Stolen. Right from under his nose.
And if the missing stickpin wasn’t disturbing enough, he reread item fourteen. Even though the description was scrawled across the bottom of the page, it was quite the list topper. How could one forget the five strands of pearls and diamonds dripping from the throat of Lady Lennox? The infamous necklace of last evening certainly gave new meaning to the word choker.
Finn picked up the note and sniffed lampblack and shellac. He placed the paper under his magnifier and adjusted focus. The darker-colored script suggested the ink was fresh. No doubt a forgery and done recently. The cursive was really quite good. The words teardrop diamond had been crossed out and replaced with star sapphire. A deliberate obfuscation fashioned to look like an error.