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

by Stone, Jillian

  Finn returned to the carriage and sat on the edge of the tufted bench seat. His driver took the long way around the block to the backside of St. Peter’s grounds. Absently he translated the spate of Spanish expletives. Horrid man. Deceiver. You pretend to be my friend. If you do not trust me, why must I trust you, Phin-e-ass—emphasis on the last syllable—Gunn?

  She needed to be watched. Closely.

  * * *

  FINN COUNTED THE chimes in a groggy haze. Nine o’clock. He sat straight up in bed. A squint at the mantel clock confirmed it was true. He took a moment to gather his wits. Astonishingly, he had not been ripped from a warm bed in the middle of the night. No urgent message. No fleeing anarchist sympathizer to chase after. Finn eased out of bed and swept the window curtains back. Blinding sunshine.

  So what was the matter?

  After a quick washup and shave, he pulled on boots and picked up his coat. On his way downstairs, he tucked his shirt into his breeches and slipped a cravat in place as he entered the breakfast room. “Bootes.”

  His manservant broke a raw egg into a glass of tomato juice. “May I fix you a cure as well, sir?”

  Necktie askew, his brother was down to shirtsleeves and kilt. Finn skirted the end the table and raised his sibling’s eyelid. Bloodshot.

  “Still alive.” Hardy sputtered.

  His butler, on the other hand, seemed chipper enough. Bootes moved in to examine his attire. “Bad night—or too good a night, Hardy?” Finn buttoned his waistcoat, while his manservant smoothed the knot in his tie. “Have Sergeant MacGregor saddled.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Hardy?” Something was wrong. His brother could suffer an elephant’s hangover and still ride like the devil and shoot straighter.

  “I’m not sure what came over me last night.” Hardy pushed a shock of hair from his eyes and slumped back in his chair. “After you and Cate disappeared from the hall, Gwen made a brief appearance on the arm of Victor Somerset.”

  Finn stirred a drop of cream into his coffee and gulped. “And?”

  “Had a romping good visit with Lucinda after that.” Hardy tossed back the juice and egg with a grimace. “Am I a whore, Finn?”

  He sampled a crisp rasher of bacon from a plate on the breakfront. “You’re not lamenting your deplorable lack of morals . . .” He dipped his head to make eye contact with his brother. “Are you?”

  “Of course I am.” Hardy listed to one side of his chair. “Shouldn’t I be?”

  Finn broached the subject carefully. “Must I remind you, Lady Lennox, as dazzling as her charms are, is often all too available to young bachelors.”

  Hardy grunted. “Nearly every man on British soil. It’s a wonder you haven’t had her.”

  Finn made light of the implied question. “I thought I recommended her.”

  Hardy’s groan sputtered into laughter just as his elbow slipped off the table. Bootes whisked a plate full of kipper and egg away before Hardy’s face hit the table.

  “I’m afraid Master Harding finished off the Talisker last night. Might you suggest a respite, sir?” The butler’s eyes rolled upward.

  “Come on, old sport.” Finn helped his brother up and shouldered him out of the breakfast room. Upstairs, Bootes helped undress Hardy and tuck him into bed.

  Even stupid from drink, Hardy’s smile was charming. “Did you sleep with Gwen? God’s honest truth—on pain of blood penalty by the clan.”

  Finn stood above his brother and sighed. “I seem to remember a pretty little mole above her right buttock cheek.”

  Hardy groaned. “Aut pax aut bellum.”

  Finn returned his brother’s use of the clan motto. “In peace or war, brother.”

  They’d duke it out later, just as they had since childhood.

  Hardy reached up and grabbed his arm. “A wire came early this morning. Didn’t want to wake you.”

  Heat rose up his neck and flamed over his cheeks. “What?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Cate stared into the eyes of a strange man, a dark, swarthy type with a pronounced Eastern European accent.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The man reached out and prodded her shoulder. She pulled out her pistol. “Don’t touch me.” She rose slowly.

  The shopkeeper backed down the steps, hands in the air. “Please, don’t hurt me.” The man’s wire-framed spectacles fogged slightly. “I came to . . . to . . . sweep.” He took up the broom in the corner. “I did not expect to find anyone at my door.”

  Cate blinked at the shopkeeper. She must have fallen asleep on the stairs of the basement jewelry shop. “And who might you be, sir?”

  “Nandor Fabian.” The wiry man dipped a stilted bow. “At your service, mademoiselle.” He backed through his shop door.

  The numbered street sign on the building read 2 Bleeding Heart Yard. The gilded name on the door, N. Fabian, Diamonds & Gemstones. “Oh.” Cate bit her lip and tucked the gun back in her coat pocket. “So sorry. You’re exactly the man I wish to see.”

  She had stumbled upon Fabian’s shop quite by accident and tucked herself into the stairwell. Dressed in traveling clothes and lugging a leather and tapestry travel bag, she had traipsed round and round Hatton Garden in search of Fabian’s shop. She had finally found the small basement storefront off Greville Street, and just in time, too. In the wee hours of the morning the diamond district crawled with Metropolitan police on patrol. A young woman wandering these streets in the dead of night was suspicious enough. If they had searched her portmanteau and found the jewels, she would have been carted off to jail.

  Fabian gestured to her. “Please, come inside.” Cate followed, cautiously.

  The jeweler lifted a sputtering kettle off an iron stove and poured steaming water into a teapot. “How do you take your tea, miss?”

  All eyes, Cate took in the curious shop. “Half a lump with a spot of cream, please.” The wiry man bustled about the small space dominated by two glass-fronted display cases and a workbench. Fabian added cups and saucers to the delicate tools scattered about his worktable.

  Cate peered through a glass-topped cabinet to examine a display of engagement rings.

  Opening her bag, she rolled out the jewelry pouch. “Might you be able to tell me something about these, Mr. Fabian?”

  The jeweler appeared stunned. He even stammered. “M-May I?” He attached a brass-framed magnifying glass to his spectacles and picked up the diamond stickpin. “After being stolen from the Crown Jewels during the French Revolution, the Tavernier Blue was cut into several smaller diamonds in an attempt to prevent its proper identification.”

  Fabian looked up at her. The odd lens he wore had the strange effect of enlarging one eye and not the other. “May I ask how you came by such treasure, miss?”

  “A family heirloom. Tucked away for many years.”

  The magnified eye was quite piercing. “Have you ever heard of the great diamond of Lord Francis Hope?”

  Cate set down her teacup. “Yes of course, the Hope Diamond.”

  “Believed to be cut from the Tavernier, along with another stone, which was set as a ring for Empress Maria Feodorovna, wife of Emperor Paul I. It was subsequently given to her daughter-in-law, Alexandra. Later, it was said to have been mounted into a stickpin.” He twirled the blue diamond in the gaslight.

  “For months now I have heard rumors these pieces were back in circulation—all private sales.” Fabian set down the pin and examined each piece in succession. With each passing second, the clock on the wall ticked louder, and Cate grew more uneasy. The mesmerized jeweler seemed to know something about each piece—what artisan crafted the jewelry, who it was made for, even the mine in India where the gems originated.

  She would have enjoyed knowing something of the provenance of each piece, but she could not escape the niggling worry that she was running out of time. Cate glanced at the clock. Even if she had lost the tail placed on her by Scotland Yard, Phineas Gunn would soon arrive at her residence, find her gone, and
start looking. “Mr. Fabian, have you—any idea of their worth?”

  “Dare I ask . . .” Fabian tore his eyes off the gems. “Are any of these for sale?”

  She nodded. “Any or all, monsieur.”

  He thrust himself forward. “You would sell—to me—one of these pieces?”

  She blinked. “Why ever do you think I’m here?”

  He shrugged. “An appraisal, perhaps. A repair?”

  “A family crisis—a financial upset—forces me to part with them.” Cate bit her lip. “I’m afraid only a great deal of money will solve the problem.”

  Fabian stood up and grabbed his hat from a hook on the wall. “I must make arrangements with my banker. How soon will you need the money, Miss Willoughby?”

  “Immediately.”

  The jeweler studied her. “Then, I must ask for proof of ownership. A bill of sale will do.”

  She swallowed. “I have no documentation, per se.”

  He slumped onto his workbench stool. “I must have assurance these gems are not stolen.”

  “But—they are stolen. In a manner of speaking.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a rather long story.” Cate tucked the jewels back inside the velvet pouch. “Perhaps we can do business another time.”

  Finn had intimated this man was discreet, and implied he was the kind of dealer who might be eager to do business. Nandor Fabian tugged at the narrow tuft of goatee on his chin. “Alas, I have only limited funds in my safe.”

  She stopped rolling. “How much?”

  * * *

  URGENT: FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY

  BLEEDING HEART YARD STOP

  HATTON GARDEN

  Charlie’s wire was brief and to the point. A time of 6:10 a.m. had been penciled under the telegram’s masthead. Finn steered his horse through the light morning traffic of the diamond district and considered the situation. He’d spun a web of half-truths and outright lies last night, enough to prod Cate into action. And even though his jaw ached from the constant clenching, he felt little or no disappointment, only curiosity. And one other, unexpected reaction to Miss Willoughby’s treachery. He was aroused beyond belief.

  He turned into the small yard off Greville, and dismounted. Just across the quaint old courtyard Finn made out Fabian’s signage, hidden partially below street level.

  Sergeant MacGregor swiped a mouthful of feed from a nearby hay wagon parked in the alley. “Always on the lookout for a tasty bit.”

  “Ps-s-s-st.”

  Finn peered over the far side of the cart.

  Crouching behind the wheel, Charlie Doyle tipped his hat. “Hello, Mr. Gunn.”

  “Sorry I was delayed.” It appeared the lad had stuck by his post through the night. “Good work, Charlie.” Finn nodded to the shop across the yard. “Is she still with Fabian?”

  Charlie nodded. “You’ve arrived in the nick of time, I’d say, sir.”

  Finn handed the reins over. “Keep an eye out while I inquire within.”

  As he crossed the paved yard, his pulse leaped in his chest. She had taken the bait. She was either an anarchist operator, or she was trying to sell the jewels before he could confiscate them. Either way, he was about to arrest a woman he was infatuated with, perhaps more than infatuated. The concept so disturbed him, for a fleeting moment he considered turning away.

  Finn clenched his jaw. A bell tinkled as he pushed the door open. Nandor Fabian looked up from his workbench. The jeweler’s hooded eyes couldn’t quite hide a dash of fear. “Where is she?”

  “Mr. Gunn. It has been some time. You are looking for someone?” The jeweler returned to his work.

  Finn rounded the display case. “Where is Miss Willoughby? I’ll not ask again.” He ripped the magnifying lens off his wireframes.

  The jeweler sighed. “The young lady left some time ago.”

  He intruded into the space between Fabian and his workbench. “You’re sure of that?”

  The man straightened his spectacles. “The lady claimed to have some jewelry for sale, but—”

  “Open the safe. Let’s see the money.”

  “What money?”

  Had he or Nandor suddenly gone thickheaded? “The Scotland Yard money. You were given a sum of cash by Detective Inspector Kennedy.”

  “I was?” the jeweler squeaked.

  “What are we doing here, Nandor?” Finn growled. “Inventing a new parlor game?”

  The jeweler made a sudden move to a drawer in his workbench. Finn beat him there and removed a pistol, then flipped open the chamber.

  “You see?” Fabian tried to make light of his last maneuver. “No bullets.”

  Finn pointed the gun up and fired. The jeweler lunged under his workbench to escape a spray of falling plaster. Finn brushed white dust off his shoulder. “It seems one bullet remained in the chamber. A common enough mistake.” He fixed his glare on Fabian and fished in his coat pocket. “Good thing I can fix that.” He withdrew a handful of bullets.

  The jeweler righted himself. “I’m telling you she left some time ago.”

  “How long ago?” Finn inserted six bullets, spun the chamber, and cocked the trigger.

  “Perhaps an hour or so.”

  Enough of this. Finn pushed the jeweler against the bench and pressed the gun to his head. “I swear to God, Nandor, I’ll shoot you dead. Think carefully about your next answer.”

  The man dripped with perspiration. Fogged spectacles slipped down his nose. “Several minutes ago.”

  “Liar. No one saw her leave.”

  He pointed frantically toward the back of the shop. “There is a backstairs.”

  “What did you purchase?”

  Fabian’s eyes shifted. Finn kept the gun barrel at Fabian’s temple.

  “The stickpin.”

  Finn waved the revolver in the direction of the back room. “Let’s pay your safe a visit, shall we?” He grabbed the jeweler by the collar and pushed him into the next room.

  “She drives a hard bargain, that woman. No proof of ownership. Not even false papers.” Nandor bent over the floor safe. “I’ll return the gem to Scotland Yard. I swear it.”

  “Like hell you will. With the profit you could make from that diamond, you could live like a sultan—never mind Lithuania, right here in London.” Finn smiled. “I’ll have the gem back.”

  “Hungary.” Fabian twirled the dial left and the tumblers clicked. Reluctantly, he handed over the stickpin.

  “Did the young lady say where she was headed?” Finn pocketed the diamond. “Good information at this juncture could save you from deportation . . .” The stone’s rarity, size, and legend had obviously proved to be too big a temptation for Fabian. “Again.”

  Scotland Yard had enjoyed a reasonably cooperative relationship with the part-time fence, as long as Fabian kept his dealings discreet. “In fact, I am prepared to be more than reasonable. I will forget your willful attempt to impede a law enforcement officer in pursuit of a crime.” Finn leaned into the man. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  The sneaky-eyed jeweler nodded toward the back steps. “I told her to take Greville to Farringdon Road. She asked for directions to the telegraph office.”

  Finn turned back. “How much cash does she have on her?”

  “All twenty thousand.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Cate handed the clerk a shilling.

  “Off in a jiff, miss.” The wire office clerk tapped a bell and put her message in a tray marked OVERSEAS. She pocketed a receipt and tuppence, picked up her portmanteau, and exited the telegraph office. Keeping to the busy side of the street, she did not walk, but trotted the two blocks to Farringdon station.

  Once she paid her fare and descended the stairs, she inhaled a deep breath. The Central Line platform had begun to fill up with passengers. Hopefully, there would not be a long wait for the next train. Farringdon to King’s Cross was a brief ride. She’d have another short walk to the rail station and finally, the train to Dover.

  Cate grabbed her
lower lip with her teeth and scraped. A four-sided clock hung from the intricate steel and glass framework of the train shed. Ten twenty-five. She was behind schedule. She had planned to slip out of London before Finn awoke. Not very likely at this point.

  She peered up and down the track.

  Assuming Finn rose early, he would likely make his way to her uncle’s home to collect the jewels. She had left a message with Mrs. Mettle. Hopefully that would stall him long enough to give her an excellent head start. But if that little street urchin spy of his had managed to contact him last night, he could be closer.

  In fact, he might be breathing down her neck.

  A blast of chilly air caused Cate to jump. The stir in atmosphere signaled a train neared the station. Cautiously, she worked her way into the middle of the crowd moving forward as the car doors opened.

  * * *

  “SHE’S HEADED FOR the rail station at Cowcross Street and Farringdon Road.” Finn lifted himself onto his horse and offered Charlie a hand up. “Up behind me.”

  Since Cate had likely finished her business at the wire office, he thought it best to try and catch her at the Underground station. The street traffic was light and they quickly covered several long blocks to the Underground. Charlie tapped his shoulder. “If you drop me at the Parcel Office, I can sniggle my way inside from there. If I spot her I’ll give a yell: ‘Hot eels here.’ ”

  He winked at the sharp-witted young street hawker. “Eel jelly it is.”

  Finn parked his horse with a paper boy outside the station front and dashed inside. He descended onto the platform just as the train pulled into the station. “Bollocks.” He was on the wrong side of the tracks.

  Two steps at a time, he dashed back up the stairs, through a short connecting passage, and pressed through a horde of arriving commuters as he descended the stairs.

  “Hot eels here.” Charlie’s head bobbed above the crowd.

  Finn sprinted across the platform as the doors cranked shut. “Bollocks.” He punched the side of the car as the train chugged off in a hiss of steam.