A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 2

“Brisk of late. I’ve been asked for a number of appraisals—all private sales.”

  Zak appeared to consider his statement. “Not sure you’ve heard, but there’s a second-story man about. We suspect whoever that person is, may be connected to the anarchists.” Kennedy nodded at the tiepin. “That bit of flash was purchased recently through private sale and pinched little more than a week later.”

  Finn twirled the gem. “Ends up on the person of an anarchist floating facedown in the Thames. It’s possible whoever is selling the jewels is stealing them back for a future sale—on the Continent, perhaps.” He pocketed the tiepin. “It’s been done before, an old jewel thief’s ploy.”

  Zak grimaced. “Nearly every scenario we’ve considered doesn’t add up.”

  “And why is that?” Hardy asked.

  “The burglar appears to be rather selective. Takes one piece and leaves piles of other valuables behind.”

  Finn tilted his gilded chair onto its rear legs. He gazed at the stage, which had dimmed briefly before the featured act. “I thought you were more of an opera aficionado, Kennedy. Why are we here?”

  A wry grin spread across the Yard man’s face. “To reconnoiter with a particular featured dancer.”

  From high above the stage a pale glow poured down upon the master of ceremonies. “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs. Direct from Paris, the Royal Alhambra proudly presents Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique’s Phoenix Unbound.” The man in formal tails and opera hat tilted his head toward the balcony. “And where in the heavens might we find such a lovely mythical bird?”

  All eyes followed as the haunting strains of harps, violins, and cellos swelled into something whimsical and evocative—Debussy, Finn thought.

  A lone spotlight halted on the lithe figure of a young woman sitting on the ledge of a balcony. She wore a tightly fitted bodice and a dancer’s skirt of filmy, translucent layers, which parted as she rose from her perch and raised a jaw-dropping length of leg slowly into the air—in arabesque. The very term caused a sudden shiver of uncanny intuition. Finn had dredged up the word—arabesque—from distant memory.

  The ballerina tilted her head and opened gently wavering arms, a preening bird preparing for flight. With each flutter she loosed ribbons of red and gold silk. Her pointe slippers pawed the ledge as she traversed the upper tier, unfurling wing and tail streamers along the way.

  Strains of music built quickly to a crescendo and she plunged off the balcony. The audience gasped as the diving bird swooped down over the audience attached to a delicate golden perch and gilded wire.

  Hardy leaned forward. “Nice set of gams, wot?” As if in answer to his brother’s crude observation, every man in the theatre lifted his opera glasses to inspect those lovely limbs. She floated across the stage, heading straight for their box. With arms outstretched, she unfurled yet another length of delicate fabric, gaily tossing it ahead of her as she reached the end of her arc.

  Before he could stop himself, Finn reached out over the edge of the balcony and caught the ribbon of silk. Their eyes met in shock and surprise. Every fiber of his being came alive.

  Catriona.

  The roar of cheers from the male audience below barely registered. The trapeze swung the ethereal bird back over the heads of the audience and lowered her gracefully to the floor of the stage. The ballerina leaped to earth amongst an eruption of applause, and danced a series of precision pirouettes across the stage into the arms of a male dancer who lifted her high above his shoulders and rotated her slowly in the air.

  Zak and Hardy joined in the applause. Without taking his eyes off her, Finn gathered the firebird’s fluttering silk ribbon. She was everything he remembered, only more so. Finn sank into his chair. He had never seen Catriona dance in Spain, or France for that matter. In fact, he had hardly gotten to know her at all. Tall and willowy with large sapphire eyes and raven hair, she was so . . . achingly beautiful. Mesmerized by her every move, his mind returned to a night of unforgettable passion they had shared—Christ, how long was it now? Well over a year, at least.

  Most provocatively, she slipped back down to earth in the arms of her partner. Finn was quite sure every man in the audience was aroused by her slide down the male dancer’s torso. Twirling and leaping across a stage flooded with moonlight, her body moved with a light, ethereal quality—a sensuous grace—as if her feet had no real need to touch ground. Fields of gravity did not apply to this lovely creature.

  She arched her back and swept an arm in the air, signaling farewell. One could feel the enchantment as everyone gasped a collective sigh. Waves of energy rippled through the room as the audience stood in ovation. She took her bows amongst a host of bravos and applause.

  Zak leaned forward. “Though she dances with the Paris ballet company and has taken a French stage name, she is actually—”

  “Catriona Elíse de Dovia Willoughby.” Finn worked at holding himself together as he met Zak’s gaze. “Born to a Spanish mother and British father, raised in both countries, attended finishing school in France. Much to the family’s dismay on both sides of the channel, she auditioned for the Paris Opera Ballet and was accepted.”

  Hardy raised both brows. “I say, Finn, you know her?”

  Zeno poured them each another dram. “According to the dossier your brother compiled on Miss Willoughby, I’d say he knows her rather well.”

  Finn shot Zak a cautionary glower. “Never thought you were the type to read between the lines, Kennedy.”

  “Quite a stunning young woman, Finn. Hardly surprising there was an affair.” The Yard man gazed from one brother to the other. “My wife informs me the ladies quite often throw themselves at both of you.”

  Finn’s gaze flicked over to his brother. “To my never-ending relief, Hardy gets most of the attention.”

  Zak pressed on. “As you well know, Catriona is the only sister of Eduardo Tomás de Dovia, better known by his nom de guerre: Tigre Solitario, Lone Tiger, the most recent and celebrated martyr of the anarchists. Killed in Béziers, a casualty of your operation, Finn, from a dynamite explosion.”

  Invisible bands tightened around Finn’s chest, but he otherwise remained in control of his affliction. He stared at Zak. “You suspect she’s working with the anarchists.”

  “A tool perhaps, or she could be a cunning operative. We need you to find out.” Kennedy tossed back his whiskey and set the glass down.

  “And what would you have me do with her?” Finn stuffed the silk ribbon in his coat pocket. “Once I find out?”

  “Befriend her. Gain her trust. Turn her if you can. Both the Admiralty and Home Office would like nothing more than to have a mole on the Continent.”

  Hardy sat back, nearly agog. “This Scotland Yard business beats the Horse Guards by a length and half.”

  Zak grinned. “Most of our cases aren’t nearly this—”

  “Ravishing.” Finn rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I believe I have a stage door to knock on.”

  Chapter Two

  By the thunderous applause Cate knew she had done well tonight, though she couldn’t remember much about the performance. One of the girls in the wings handed her a towel. “Merci, chouchou.” Cate dabbed at perspiration and wove a path through a blur of diaphanous pastel skirts. The corps de ballet awaited the strains of music that cued their entrance.

  A rapid pulse and labored breath were normal after such a strenuous dance, but she did not recall ever being this . . . stirred up. Her mind continued to whirl a continuous fouetté rond de jambe en tournant. And her stomach flutters were—dear God, her body purred inside.

  He had reached out and nearly touched her. A tremble vibrated from the tips of her breasts to the depths of her womb. He had caught one of her streaming ribbons, much to the elation of an audience brimming with men. The front rows were always full of randy toffs who pursued the dancers—les abonnés, they were called in Paris.

  How dare Hugh Curzon.

  And ye
t, how like him.

  She slipped down the backstage stairs crowded with up and down traffic, and made her way into the green room. The featured dancer’s dressing rooms surrounded a wide corridor that served as kind of gentleman’s salon, where admirers could approach a dancer after her performance. Some came with flowers, others with offers of a late supper.

  She collected several bouquets, conversing pleasantly with her followers, men who were often nearly speechless on first acquaintance. Tonight, Cecil Cavendish, eleventh Baron Burleigh, stationed himself near her door.

  “Good evening, Miss de Dovia.” His bow brought him close enough to whisper. “Or may I call you Cate?”

  “Of course you may. We are friends, are we not?” She offered her hand, which he kissed in European fashion. She had allowed him to take her to dinner once and to “show her off” to prominent acquaintances at a few elegant soirees. When she had confessed her real name and revealed her dual heritage, his interest had moved from mildly amused acquaintance to something more ardent and worrisome.

  “Join me for supper, my dove.”

  She raised a brow. “Should I allow you to occupy so much of my time, monsieur? Are we not to attend the Beauforts’ ball tomorrow night?”

  With a plea in his eyes, Cecil’s mouth formed the male version of a pout. “A quiet dinner—just the two of us?”

  Cate hesitated. In actuality, she was famished. But she was also running out of expensive gowns to wear to fancy restaurants and balls. “Not Verreys. Perhaps something less public—Bertolini’s?

  “Molto buono, mia bella ballerina.”

  “Give me a moment.” She flashed a smile and pivoted toward her dressing room. Cate took one last glance around the corridor. A wave of melancholy washed over her. If truth be told, she felt a bit deflated. Hugh was nowhere to be seen.

  Cecil prowled after. “I would be honored to wait for you inside, listen to the rustle of your clothes—imagine what you look like behind your dressing screen.”

  “I’m afraid my dressing room would disappoint—terribly cramped.” Cate deftly opened her door and winked. “Not nearly as provocative as one might imagine.”

  Once inside she threw the latch and rested her forehead against the door. She waited for her breathing to shift from gulps of air to something steadier.

  “Must be tiring—fending off such persistent admirers.”

  She whirled around. The tall figure stood in the doorway to the adjoining storage room. He leaned that impressive physique of his along the frame molding and stretched. Sculpted muscle flexed under perfectly tailored clothes. Her small dressing room was suddenly airless. This man had an essence about him—something wild and fierce beneath the gentlemanly facade.

  With his knee bent and his hand on a raised hip, there was an unsettling intimacy in his relaxed pose. It was as though it had been hours, not months, since they last saw each other. Yes, everything was familiar about him. Even those smoldering dark eyes that made her tingle all over.

  Cate looked him up and down. “One gets used to it.” A bit wobbly, she sidestepped over to the vanity bench and unpinned a crown of silver and white feathers. She met his gaze in the looking glass as her heart beat a series of petit jetés in her chest.

  He pushed off the wall and moved in behind her. “You are even lovelier than I remember.” His fingers moved down the row of hooks and eyes that fastened her costume.

  She shifted away. “My dresser will be here any minute, she will—” Persistent fingers gently loosed the back of her bodice. Even as her cheeks flushed with heat, cool air wafted over skin moist with perspiration. His knuckles brushed against the flesh of her back, causing a shiver she failed to conceal.

  He looked up from his unfastening duties. Deep brown eyes, the color of steaming French coffee, met her gaze in the mirror. How could she possibly have forgotten the lightness of his touch? She reacquainted herself with his strong chin and jawline, a bit swarthy perhaps, but wonderfully dangerous—or wicked. Which one was it? Did it really matter?

  Reverently, he bent and kissed her shoulder. “Tell me, Cate, do you respond to lines like: ‘ . . . listen to the rustle of your costume and imagine what you look like . . . ’ ”—his breath drifted over her ear—“naked in my bed with those long, shapely legs wrapped around my waist—”

  She whirled around and slapped him hard across the face. “Get out.”

  He straightened but made no move to leave.

  Cate strode across the small room and pulled back the latch. He slammed his hand against the door. The man was a predator. So why didn’t she scream for help? He had always thrilled, down to her raw, disfigured ballerina toes. Even now, he was the most masculine, feral creature she had ever encountered. And inglés to boot.

  He leaned in close. A gentle nuzzle, just to take in her essence. And she could not help but return his interest. Hesitant at first, like two wild creatures meeting in the forest. She inhaled whiskey and bitters, hints of soap and—his scent. She looked up into heavy-lidded eyes that were far from languorous. He examined her carefully. “When I returned to Barcelona, why didn’t you meet me at Café Almirall?”

  She was almost grateful when anger bubbled up inside. “You used me to get close to my brother. Then you followed him to France, where he and his compadres were murdered in—asesinado en sangre fría, sangre fría, monstruo—by you and those bloody French!”

  “I do not deny we used gunfire . . .” He leaned an elbow on the door behind her and rubbed his temple. “But they were blown up by their own explosives.”

  “They were surrounded by British and the French agents. You knew there was dynamite in that farmhouse. And still the bullets flew.” Her fists pummeled his chest.

  “Slow down, Cate. Lento, retraso, por favor.” Firmly but gently, he grasped both of her hands and held them to her sides. Crushed between her brutish intruder and the door, she used the most insulting words she could think of. “Hijo del perro de una puta.”

  His eyes crinkled. “I’d nearly forgotten about that Catalan temper of yours.”

  A heavy pounding rattled the wood panel under her back. “I say, what goes on there? Miss de Dovia, are you all right?”

  He pressed against her. “Sorry to see me, Cate? Worried I might interfere with your duties outside of the corps de ballet?”

  She stopped writhing and blinked. “What nonsense you’re talking—” She exhaled. “Please leave me alone, Hugh.”

  “Actually, Hugh Curzon is a name I use on the Continent—”

  She angled her toe shoe and kicked him in the shin. “Ouch,” he yowled.

  Cate tossed her head back. “Pointe slippers can torture more than my toes, señor.” She turned the knob. He slammed the door shut and threw the latch. She thought her heart might find a way to leap from her chest. He pushed her back against the door, and placed a hand on each shoulder.

  “What do you want?” She swallowed, looking up at him.

  “One kiss.” His demand knocked the breath from her. She pushed away, but the more she wiggled, the more they rubbed against each other.

  She had forgotten, no, she had pushed him out of her mind—what a wild and woolly creature! His hair a leonine mass of thick brown waves, his body hard and unyielding. Her gaze fell to his mouth, possibly his most intriguing feature. Well-defined lips that were full and sensuous, and when they touched hers . . .

  His mouth closed in, causing a flutter of anticipation. In fact, she very much wanted his kiss. She tilted her head to give him access, but he did not take her greedily. He brushed gently, capturing her mouth in a grazing caress of soft, sensuous bites—then he licked. She shivered in his arms. Glorioso.

  “I give you pleasure, señorita?”

  She opened her eyes. “Cerdo asqueroso.”

  His languid gaze traced over her features. The corners of his mouth turned up a hint of smile. “Disgusting pig . . .” The words buffeted against her cheek. “Rather enchanting in Spanish.” He remained close, nuzzling, tau
nting, until her lips opened again for him.

  This time he slid his tongue into her mouth and boldly took what he wanted. Cate closed her eyes and let him do as he pleased. In no time, he was groaning and kissing her tenderly, passionately, and, God help her, she returned his ardor with a surprising amount of intensity. Her tongue tangled with his in a thrilling chase that was . . . muy delicioso.

  The tingle turned into a surge of desire that coursed through her body. Her knees would have buckled if he hadn’t kept her pressed firmly to the door. Slowly, he released her and fell back an inch or two. Glassy-eyed, they shared each other’s breath, neither able to find words.

  “Madre de Dios.” Blindly, Cate flailed about and threw the latch. To his credit, he stepped back and she opened the door. He exited the dressing room quietly—this man whose tongue had just ravaged her mouth in the most sinful way possible.

  She eyed him cautiously. “By what name do you call yourself in London?”

  It appeared their brief argument had captivated everyone in the salon. Cecil blurted out her answer. “Phineas Gunn?”

  Her dressing room intruder approached her openmouthed dinner date. “Rather daring of you to carry on with a ballet girl, Burleigh. Hoping for a prenuptial fling?”

  Cecil poked his chin out. “I am no more engaged to Daphne than you are to Muriel Villers-Talbot.”

  “And according to Muriel, who so dutifully keeps me informed, your fiancée is in Paris, is she not? Purchasing her trousseau.” This man with a new name towered over Cecil. “At least my so-called fiancée hasn’t sent out the wedding invitations.”

  Cecil glowered.

  Torn between raising a brow or bursting into laughter, Cate pressed her lips together and tried very hard not to chuckle. Much to her dismay a rather loud snort escaped. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Cecil. I’ll be ready in a dash.”

  She opened the lid on a jar of cold cream and spoke to the wide-eyed miss in the mirror. “So, the Baron Burleigh is engaged.” Based on the few strained words between the men, it would seem Mr. Gunn was nearly spoken for himself.