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

by Stone, Jillian

His arms went around her and he kissed her back—possessively. A kiss that said everything he wished to say without words. If he had his way, she would be his alone. Forever. He ended the kiss but did not release her. “When this affair is over . . . When we are back in London—”

  “Will this affair of ours ever be over?” A pink tongue flicked out and moistened a lovely upper lip, and her eyes crinkled at the sides. “I hope not.”

  He studied her a moment, pulled her close, and placed his lips on her forehead. The carriage slowed for traffic at a cross street. Reluctant to break the spell, he nevertheless dipped a look out the window. The wire office was just up the lane. “You must excuse me, darling.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I need to send a cable to London. I’ll meet you back at the hotel. I recommend an early supper—something light. We’ll be too keyed up to eat later on.” He was halfway out the door before he turned back. “You might compose a message to Moreau. Turn his offer down flat, so he will have no choice but to ship your brother off tonight.”

  “But—” A slash of pretty eyebrows crashed together.

  “We need to make him nervous—force his hand.” Finn closed the door of the carriage. “Do you trust me, Cate?”

  She leaned out the window. “Of course I do—you know I do.”

  “You’ll hear the rest of my plan the moment I return to the hotel.”

  He crossed in front of the carriage and entered the telegraph office. Wire encryption was an exacting and tedious business, but he knuckled down and ciphered off several messages to St. Bride Street, Scotland Yard’s covert wire address.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the map coordinates for Saint-Martin-de-Ré?”

  The clerk fished around a drawer and handed Finn a chart. Finn then stood by and watched the operator tap out his messages. Lastly, he wired an urgent cable to the Clouzot brothers.

  NEED AIR COMMANDER STOP 46 DEGREES 167 NORTH 1 DEGREE 326 WEST STOP 9 PM TONIGHT STOP IMMEDIATE REPLY REQUESTED

  Finn hesitated for the blink of an eye and added two words. He stared at the words for a long moment before handing his penciled scrawl to the clerk. The words ran in and out of his brain as he waited for confirmation that the wire had been sent. He stood at the window overlooking the street, but paid little attention to a blur of pedestrians passing by.

  There could be no slipups from here on out. If anything went amiss, he would not hesitate to abort such a high-risk sortie. Finn checked his watch. Nearly one o’clock. They had precious few hours to map out the details and fewer still to round up the necessary equipment and transportation. This wasn’t an everyday operation for an agent of Scotland Yard—carrying out a prison break in a foreign country. His telegrams to Kennedy at Special Branch helped to ease some of his discomfort. At least the agency would be alerted to the operation, and if he happened to make balls of it—

  Christ. This was complete and utter madness. Had he really gone round the bend? The fact that he even considered such a foolish escapade was proof enough he was headed for Bedlam.

  Finn exited the wire office. On the more positive, rational side of the gambol, there were two high-profile men at stake here. One a much-wanted anarchist, the other a high-value mole who might still have his cover intact. He crossed the street and entered the hotel. A zigzag through the lobby found the British chargé d’affaires having a drink with a swarthy-looking chap in the lounge. Finn made the briefest eye contact with Fortesque as he climbed the stairs.

  There was a third possible explanation why he embarked on this foolhardy adventure, and it began and ended with two words. The same ones he had added to the Clouzot brothers’ wire.

  For love.

  Finn put his key to the door and hesitated. Suddenly, he never felt sharper or more full of bollocks. An odd bit of wisdom from Benjamin Tillet, of all people, ran through his brain: God help the man who won’t marry until he finds a perfect woman . . . He entered their suite muttering the rest aloud. “And God help him still more if he finds her.”

  “Still grousing, Finn?” The most perfect woman in the entire world approached him. Cate had changed her clothing and freshened up. She wore a simple little frock they had purchased last minute on their way out of Madame Gagelin’s. She met him at the door with a kiss and he pulled her back for another. “I ordered us a tasty meal. Come—” She tugged on his arm. “Sylvain is here as well.”

  He tossed his hat onto a side table, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. Supper consisted of a platter of local seafood with an assortment of condiments, including chunks of bread and cheese—all of it looked quite delectable. Cate took a seat and nodded to both men. “I believe the idea is we serve ourselves from the platter. The hotel calls it Le déjeuner de l’homme d’huître—an oysterman’s lunch.” Cate demonstrated by forking up a tender piece of fish and dipping it into one of the sauce bowls that surrounded the platter. She closed her eyes and chewed. “M-mm. Delightful.”

  Finn turned to Sylvain. “I don’t know how much Cate has told you, but we have no choice but try for the men tonight. You had mentioned they move the prisoners after dark.” He dipped a forkful of fish into one of the rémoulades. “Since we have only the vaguest idea of where the two prisoners are being housed, a breakout seems more than impossible. But if we wait until dark . . .” Finn swallowed his fish and winked at Cate. “I believe we greatly increase our odds of success.”

  Sylvain nodded. “When they are moving the prisoners to the convict ship.” He leaned forward. “They begin the transfer to the convict ship sometime after the supper bell.”

  “What kind of watercraft will they use?” Finn asked.

  “They’ll use the ship’s dories. Each one carries about twelve men. Three positions, six rowers, if I remember right. The convicts do the rowing—two guards aft, one on the bow.”

  “The kind of action I’m thinking of would involve an ambush of sorts. We wait just outside the canal basin on the east side of the Citadel.” Finn squeezed a bit of lemon over a half shell and swallowed a briny oyster. “As the dory passes by, we take out a few guards and hop aboard. Have the men row us to La Flotte.”

  Cate raised both brows. “And no one will give chase?”

  “I expect they’ll pursue us. What we need is a crew of foolhardy men and more fog. We could use the cover.” Finn looked to Sylvain, who swished a tender piece of steamed eel into a curried aioli. “This time of year, the oystermen begin working round the clock—am I right?”

  “Oui—day and night, depending on the tides.” Sylvain sucked the eel into his mouth like it was a noodle. “They are either harvesting on their little flatboats or hoisting the catch aboard to take to market.”

  Finn broke off a crusty piece of bread, layering on a bit of soft cheese. “We’ll need one of those oystermen’s skiffs, and a bit of gear to look the part.”

  “For a sum, I can get Anton Berthelot’s boat.” When Finn frowned, Sylvain threw his hands up. “The man loses a day of work—what can I do?”

  “I wired the Clouzot brothers about a rendezvous with the Air Commander.”

  Sylvain leaped from his chair with a distinctively French “Hoo-hoo! A ride in an airship—this I must experience!”

  Finn cracked a smile. The hairy-arsed Frenchman was more than growing on him—he was a godsend. “I take it you’re on board with us?”

  “How could I miss such a thing?” Sylvain’s eyes gleamed. “As for more fog tonight—who knows? Humidity remains high; it is possible. If we run into trouble, I know every small inlet between Saint-Martin and La Flotte.”

  “Speaking of which, Cate will take the carriage back to your place and make contact with the airship by signaling from the lighthouse.”

  “A double flash, regularly repeated at ten-second intervals.” Sylvain picked up a champagne bottle and began untwisting wire. “I enjoy a bit of champagne with my oysters.”

  “How sophisticated you are, Sylvain.” Cate sliced into a lemon tart. “You eat your oysters like a Parisian.”
She placed three narrow wedges on plates. “Assuming the prisoners will be packed shoulder to shoulder, might I ask how you to mean to single out my brother and your operative from the other men? Will you be standing on your oyster raft offshore, shouting their names as the boats slip past? I find that rather dangerous, what with three armed guards per boat.”

  “I suppose”—Finn stopped and thought a moment—“we could always . . .” He drained his glass of Pinot Blanc and started on the champagne. “All right, let’s think this through.”

  A sharp rap at the door startled everyone. Finn rose from the table and approached the door, pistol drawn. “Who is it?”

  “Adrian Fortesque.” The answer came through clear as a bell. Apparently, the chargé d’affaires could enunciate through heavy wooden door panels. Finn yanked open the door and looked the man up and down. “Your only friend left on Île de Ré.” Fortesque stepped through the entry and nodded to Sylvain. “With the possible exception of Mr. Robideaux.”

  Cate rose to greet him. “Come join us. May I offer you a glass of champagne and a slice of lemon pastry?”

  Fortesque rounded the table. “Champagne, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Mr. Fortesque.” She offered the back of her hand, which he kissed.

  Finn holstered his gun and offered the man a chair. “What brings you here, Fortesque? Certainly not a social visit?” He poured the chargé d’affaires a glass.

  “I came to find out if Miss Willoughby fared any better than I with Warden Moreau.”

  Cate’s gaze shifted to Finn and he gave her a nod. “He allowed me a few brief moments with my brother. After that, I’m afraid the meeting went abysmally. The warden barely acknowledged the official exchange offer.”

  “I imagine he had no difficulty discussing matters on his own terms?” Fortesque sipped a bit of champagne.

  Cate colored slightly. Finn guessed it had more to do with the way Fortesque stared at her than his actual words. “Moreau made an uncouth proposition to Cate and he wants money. Twenty thousand in British sterling.”

  “Bold of him. He was not quite so forthcoming with a representative of the British Crown. I received no acknowledgment of our man, Chamberlain—aka, Nicolas Crowe. Moreau persisted with the claim that he held no political prisoners.”

  Cate’s smile was lopsided and cynical. “Moreau has his spies around town. He believes we’re rich—when indeed, we are not.”

  Fortesque twisted up a smile of his own. “I suspect you are making . . . alternate plans?” The man’s gaze slid to Finn.

  “We are weighing our options. As you are aware, the warden hasn’t allowed us much time.”

  “Moreau asked me aboard the convict ship tonight.” The chargé d’affaires was offering up important information. “He means to prove to me that no political prisoners are being shipped out of country.”

  Finn shook his head and met her gaze. “He never meant to give up either man. All he has to do is forge a new manifest, add a bit of verification . . .”

  Fortesque’s eyes darted around the table. “He’s making me into his witness. I can testify that no convicts by the name of Nicolas Crowe or Eduardo de Dovia were transferred aboard ship. Clever for a provincial.”

  Finn recognized all the chargé d’affaires’s signals. Fortesque knew the three of them were up to something. He also thought it likely the British attaché would not interfere, and he might even be useful—more so if he knew what they were planning. “There is something you should know about the prisoner transfer this evening.” He checked in briefly with Sylvain and Cate, who both gave him the nod.

  “If this to be a long story full of details, allow me to order up something”—Fortesque picked up the empty champagne bottle and read the label—“less expensive and twice . . . as good.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Cate made a great show of arranging, then rearranging, their luggage in the back of the carriage. Despite the gray weather, Finn ordered the top down on the landau, thus assuring that the residents of Saint-Martin witnessed their departure.

  Once they were past the walls, they traveled until the road dipped into the shelter of a copse, where they stopped the carriage and debarked. Cate hesitated before climbing back inside. “You’re sure you’ll be able to identify the right two men out of all those convicts?”

  “The chargé d’affaires believes he can identify his man and your brother will be somewhere close by.” Finn braced both long guns behind his satchel on the opposite seat bench. “Fortesque’s a clever chap; he’ll find a way to ask your question.”

  He stretched his large frame against the open coach door. The man cut a dashing figure in his greatcoat and slouch hat. “Catriona.” He reached out with one arm and hooked her close. For a few lovely moments he rocked her in his arms. She pressed her hand to his chest and leaned away, searching feral brown eyes—as deep and primal as a stag in the forest. For the next few hours, she would miss him terribly. And she was well aware his lips hovered just above her mouth.

  “Would you mind terribly if I told you I’ve grown quite fond of you?” His words sent a wave of tingles through her body and he smiled at her wide-eyed reaction.

  “Be careful, Finn.” Rising on tiptoes, she pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him softly.

  They separated reluctantly. He untied his horse from the back of the carriage and mounted MacGregor. He tipped his hat. “You be careful, Cate.”

  She sank deeper into the tufted upholstery, rocking to and fro with the sway of the carriage. Once, she had turned around to catch a glimpse of him riding away—galloping over a rise in the road, coattails flying. Finn had taken on her burdens as though they were his own, when they clearly were not. And he no doubt risked future employment by involving himself in such an irregular operation. Unauthorized at best, criminal if they were caught. Even if they were successful their actions would be disavowed, and with good cause. Cate inhaled a sharp breath. What had she gotten him into?

  To take her mind off Finn, she went over a mental checklist of duties. She was to call on Sylvain’s assistants, two ladies of La Flotte, to help her prepare the lens and fuel the lantern. “A double flash, regularly repeated at ten-second intervals,” she whispered aloud. The ladies would also know how to prime and start the steam-powered foghorn. The Clouzot brothers’ return cable had requested a foghorn, no matter the weather conditions. And she would need to procure a small dinghy—something that would transport her, their luggage, and Finn’s prized long guns out to meet the airship.

  Finn’s last duty in Saint-Martin was to arrange with the stable to have Sergeant MacGregor shipped on to Cherbourg. Her smile widened as she remembered his parting smile, how he flicked the brim of his hat and rode off on the big chestnut horse.

  Magnificent man.

  She thought perhaps she loved Phineas Gunn. Minutes ago, face-to-face with him, the words had stuck in her throat. Tongue-tied over his gentle declaration of affection, she now regretted not saying the words.

  What if something happened? The rescue could go badly wrong and he might die without knowing she loved him. Cate swallowed. So many times she had strained the boundaries of her memory to recall the words from her mother and father before they sailed for the Americas. She’d been dancing in Paris when Uncle Arthur passed. Her vision blurred as a few tears welled. She removed a pocket square from her reticule and dabbed her eyes. God help her, she was determined to have both her lover and her brother returned to her alive. And for once in her life there would be a happy ending—or as happy an ending as one could hope for in this life.

  * * *

  FINN CROUCHED IN the shadows of the parapet walk and waited for the guard to finishing cranking open the canal gate. Twenty feet below, pole in hand, Sylvain waited in the flat-bottomed oyster skiff. Finn stole up behind the sentry on the wall and tapped his shoulder. “Une bonne nuit pour une évasion, oui?” The lookout whirled around to a swift punch in the jaw. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head as Fi
nn caught the collapsing guard and dragged him into the deeper shadows of the wall walk.

  He signaled Sylvain to pole the skiff into the fortress canal. From a crouching position, Finn ran along the parapet walk that followed the canal inside the compound. The inlet forked into two waterways. Straight ahead, one channel opened into the prison’s docking basin. To the east side of the main duct, a narrow waterway led to an old dry-dock area, long in disuse. A perfect spot from which to ambush one of the boats. If he and Sylvain pulled this off with enough stealth, they might even get well ahead of the chase.

  Halfway down the canal wall, he found the set of iron rungs that led down to the water’s edge. Exactly where Sylvain said they’d be. From his high perch, he took one last look around. A sliver of moon drifted closer to the horizon, promising an inky black sky. The night air was damp with mist. Finn gazed out to sea and his heart quickened. A thick blanket of fog rolled onshore. He followed the waterway and took a last squint toward the prison’s boat basin. A heavy mist had already begun to obscure the torches lit along the quay. He could barely make out a number of low-slung rowboats tied to the pier. The sounds that carried through the atmosphere told him they were boarding the transfer boats and readying for departure.

  Finn swung over the side of the wall and lowered himself down the iron rungs. He waited on the bottom rung for Sylvain to pull underneath. Once he was aboard they both sculled the oyster skiff into the adjunct canal and hunkered down.

  “Six boats altogether. They travel in pairs.” Sylvain’s harsh whisper brushed the back of his neck. Finn signaled for Sylvain to crawl up beside him.

  The plan was simple. Fortesque would maneuver to ride on the boat with their two men. If, by chance, their prisoners were not on his boat, he would signal a number either with words or fingers. Finn removed a pistol from the short woolen oysterman’s jacket and screwed on the sound suppressor.

  Sylvain eyed the silencer. “You designed this?”

  “A prototype based on a recommendation I made. The device is primarily an American invention. I own stock in the company.”