A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (12 page)

“As you can see, we’re rather informal here at Brookes House.” Cate led the way down the servants’ stairs. “I am forced to get by with the barest amount of help until—” She caught herself. “That is, for the time being.”

Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Mettle took a damp cloth to the wound. “You mean until you are able to fence the jewels,” he hissed and drew breath between his teeth.

Unmoved, the woman dipped the cloth in soapy water and continued to dab. “Listen to you—big strapping man like yourself—this’ll give you something to complain about.” She uncorked a small bottle and applied a tincture.

Finn yelped.

  *  *  *  

CATE BIT BACK a grin. She’d made no attempt to sell the recovered jewels. Not a single inquiry. And nary a clue how to begin or where to go. Against her better judgment, she had risked additional contact with Agent Gunn. How was she supposed to explain to him that the jewels were part of a larger covert operation? And at the same time, the gems were very much a part of her uncle’s estate, and therefore she needed an idea of their worth. She still held out hope that Finn might point her toward the right sort of buyer—one who would not ask many questions.

“Fence?” She leaned over her housekeeper’s shoulder. “Whatever do you mean, Finn?”

He raised a slow, skeptical brow. “A fence is a receiving house for stolen goods.”

Mrs. Mettle chirped in. “I’ve a cousin who dabbled in a bit of crime. Led the high life for a time, now he’s spending his days in Wormwood Scrubs.” The housekeeper wrapped a length of clean cloth around shaved ice and twisted.

She took his hand and pressed it over the muslin pouch. “Keep a bit o’ pressure on that egg, sir.”

Cate held up a dropper. “Tincture of opium, just a—”

Finn grabbed her hand and jerked it away. “No laudanum.”

The housekeeper stared. “Cup o’ tea, then?”

He released Cate’s hand and nodded. “Please. With a spot of cream.”

Periodically, he displayed quite jarring episodes of temper—or nerves. She had never paid them much mind until recently. He looked at her a bit sheepishly. “I had a close brush with an opium habit after I returned from India.”

She remained quiet and nodded.

He studied her from under the compress. “You did a right smart noddle on my head—for a ballet girl.”

“I shall not apologize for last night, Finn.”

He lowered the cloth. “Did I ask you to?”

Gently, she raised the compress up again. “Dancers are always dealing with sprains and swelling. Give it a bit longer.”

“Sneaky, as well as clever—that move of yours into my coat pocket. Laudable, though mortifying.”

“
You’re
humiliated? And what would you call that table dance you had me do at gunpoint?” A slow grin crept across his face and she stared a bit too long at those sensual lips. A pleasant tingle fluttered through her. “You needn’t answer that.”

“Where are they, Cate?”

She met his gaze briefly. “I suppose it is a bit ridiculous to play coy at this juncture.”

Finn lowered the compress. A larger smile created a deep line that ended in a dimple. “I would say so.”

She produced a pouch from her skirt pocket. Pulling the silk cord, she rolled out the fabric, arranging the jewels on top of the satin. Finn leaned over the table.

“Two necklaces. A bracelet. A dazzling set of emerald earbobs and a diamond stickpin.” Cate looked up from the array of gems. “Everything I’ve recovered so far.”

“Stolen,” he corrected her.

“Recovered.”

He exhaled. “We’ve been down this road.”

“Truthfully, I haven’t tried to cash them in because I haven’t a clue where to go.” She hesitated. “I was hoping you might direct me to a jeweler who . . .”

Even though his grin widened, it was apparent he was not going to volunteer any names.

“Miss Willoughby will be needing a sharp swag handler. A fence, sir, just as you were saying before.” The housekeeper set his tea down, along with a small pitcher of cream.

Finn stirred a drop into his cup. “Have you seen these jewels before, Mrs. Mettle?”

“Not these here, sir.” She nodded at the pretty baubles on the table. “Leastwise, not while the baron was alive.” She slipped a calling card out of her apron pocket. “But this man did.” She slid the card across the table. “Heard them discussing the gentleman’s fee in the baron’s study.”

Finn removed the cold compress and picked up the gilt-edged card. “Adophe Picard.”

Cate immediately noticed the raised brow. “And who is Adophe Picard?”

“Perhaps the most respected gemologist alive. His father was a master jeweler. Years ago, Cartier apprenticed at his workshop.” Clearly flummoxed, Finn pressed her housekeeper for more. “Are you are quite sure Picard met with Baron Brooke?”

“Oh, their business was real private-like, but I reckon he appraised the gems, sir.”

Cate blinked at her servant. “You might have told me, Margaret.”

“Didn’t realize you were a part-time snakeman, miss—until now.” The housekeeper winked.

“And if I have anything to say in the matter, that sort of risky behavior on the part of Miss Willoughby is about to come to an end.” He answered Cate’s frown with narrowed eyes and a grin. “All right, my dear, I will help you locate and identify the jewels. But in return, I expect due diligence. You must continue your search for proof of ownership.”

He rolled up the velvet pouch and handed it over. “For the time being, I am willing to entrust the jewels to your safekeeping.”

Cate suspected this was a peace offering of sorts.

He held up Picard’s calling card. “May I keep this, Mrs. Mettle?”

“I’ve no use for it, sir. Only kept it because I thought it was pretty, all those fancy gilt flourishes.”

Finn rose to leave. “See me out?”

He didn’t take hold of her arm. Nor did he lightly press his fingers to the small of her back, like a gentleman. His large hand wrapped around hers, warm and reassuring. And something else; there was a kind of intimacy with this man that she quite . . . adored. Cate shook off the thought and reminded herself not to get used to anything about Phineas Gunn, no matter how tempting.

He retrieved his hat from the vestibule table and turned to her. “There’s a musicale this evening at Ross House, the Marquis of Sutherland’s London residence—old friend of Mother’s. I will fetch you directly after your performance. We’ll miss supper but arrive in time for entertainment. Evelyn Walsh, a fine mezzo-soprano, shall warble out a few arias whilst you and I do a bit of skulking about.”

“Have I anything to say about this?” she huffed in protest.

Finn stepped into the street. “New rules, Cate. You cooperate with my investigation and I won’t arrest you.” He tipped his hat.

She slammed the door. “Wicked, arrogant devil.” She stomped through the house and up the stairs. “Horrid, overbearing beast.” In her bedchamber, she threw open the doors of her armoire. So what might she wear tonight?

Chapter Eight

F
inn parked MacGregor at the public stables and entered Scotland Yard in a tumult of troubled thoughts. His musings ran from lascivious fantasy to grave speculation, and they were all about Cate Willoughby. He passed Horse Guards stationed at the entrance to 4 Whitehall and headed upstairs, but turned a corner a bit too sharply and stopped short.

“Phineas Gunn.”

He blinked at the man he nearly crashed into. “Rafe Lewis.”

“On my way over to The Rising Sun. Care to join?” The Yard man swept back a shock of hair that perpetually fell in front of his eyes. “I believe Kennedy and Melville are there.”

Finn pivoted on his heel and followed the agent downstairs. “Exactly who I’m looking for.”

“New case?” Rafe opened the front door and gestured Finn through.

“A new old case.” He settled in beside Rafe for the brief walk across Greater Scotland Yard. “What brings you to town? Last I heard, you and Fanny married.”

“I finally won forgiveness and the darling girl said yes. Couldn’t be happier.” Rafe grinned. “Actually, I’m here to discuss an agent-at-large position in Edinburgh. Fanny won’t let me resign—won’t hear of it. Says I’ll get peevish stuffed in an office all day.” The good-natured agent chuckled. “She’s right, of course.”

Finn stole a glance at the detective, who appeared annoyingly content. Fulfilled somehow. “Lovely young woman. Mad about you, as I recall.”

Rafe’s grin went a bit lopsided. “If you ask me, she was entirely too keen on you.”

“Fanny shamelessly used me to needle you.”

“And you willingly cooperated.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “A man would have to be blind to refuse her. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?” He shrugged his way past a blockade of customers at the pub entrance. They found the gray-whiskered director of Special Branch, William Melville, standing amongst his men at a nearby table.

Glass in hand, Melville cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. Most of us know our intrepid protector of Queen and country as a tireless investigator, working into the wee hours without complaint, except for the occasional grunt or snort.” Melville poured a pint of bitters into the soup bowl placed on the table. “To a nose brave and true. Let us drink a toast to Alfred.”

The red-coated bloodhound sat in a slat-back pub chair, drooling.

“Hear hear!” A rumble of cheers went up from the men surrounding the most valuable dog in the empire. Zak Kennedy nodded to both Finn and Rafe, pointing to a few extra pints on the table.

Finn raised a glass. “And to what
auspicious
deed, do we owe this
auspicious
occasion?”

“Alfred has sired a litter of pups,” Melville boasted. “And the bitch has a great nose.”

“Stout lad.” Rafe tipped his drink. “How many new mouths to feed?”

Melville puffed out his chest. “Seven.”

Archibald Bruce, the much-touted young scientist of Special Branch, sidled over. “Hello, Mr. Gunn.”

Finn’s gaze shifted off the hound lapping bitters. “Mr. Bruce. It appears you will soon have an entire squadron of noses at your disposal.”

Archie wiped a bit of foam off his upper lip. “We’re hoping to have a son or daughter at every major port of entry.”

Last year, Archie Bruce had been hired to create a crime scene laboratory. As Finn understood it, the young man had quickly established a bomb detection squad as well as a bomb dismantling and detonation facility in the East End, an unofficial adjunct of the division and, as such, sub-rosa. Archie’s fledgling staff, along with Special Branch agents, had done well for the citizenry of London. Not only had they caught and jailed an assortment of anarchist dynamiters, but they had prevented quite a number of bomb attacks.

“I’m afraid Alfred has recently catapulted to the top of the dynamiters’ enemies list.” The young lab director added a grimace.

Finn stared. “There’s a price on his head?”

Bruce nodded, gulping his stout. “Five hundred pounds.”

Finn blew a low whistle.

With a nose that could identify trace particles of nitroglycerin and diatomaceous earth, Alfred was a serious threat. And London was awash with anarchists and rebels these days. American, Irish, Spanish, French—
with enclaves in every major European capital. Which brought Finn to the reason he was here. He caught Kennedy’s eye.

Zak scratched the hound’s ear on his way over. “Shall we grab another pint and some air?” A crowd of lunchtime guzzlers spilled out the door of the pub and onto Greater Scotland Yard.

He and Kennedy relaxed against one of the pillared gates leading to Horse Guards. “So, you have news, Finn?”

He nodded. “Through a strange bit of fortune—or misfortune, depending on how one looks at it—I was able to identify your cat burglar.”

“I take it our man escaped, though you have an identity?” Zak’s mouth twitched.

Finn exhaled. “
Your man
is most definitely not a he, but a she. And a most lovely one at that.”

Zak straightened. “Don’t tell me—Catriona de Dovia Willoughby.” Much to his chagrin, the senior Yard man tossed back his head with a hoot. “And she got away.”