A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (28 page)

A figure swung over the railing and landed directly in
front of them. Finn pulled Cate away from some sort of mad, grinning gorilla. Or was this leaping figure a drunken, naked Frenchman? One covered in copious amounts of body hair.
“Ah, nuit glorieux. Les étoiles, la lune, une belle femme . . .”
The man made no attempt to cover himself and lunged closer.

Finn stepped in front of Cate. “Shall we leave it at
bonsoir
?”

“Ah—you are
Anglais
! I spend three years in Portsmouth. I shall translate.
Une nuit comme ce soir?
On such a night as tonight?
Une beauté visite mon phare?
A beauty visits my lighthouse?” The man craned his neck to get another look at Cate.

Finn stared. Accompanying the man’s annoying French lesson, there was a good deal of bobbing and weaving and wild arm gestures. The strange character appeared to be in performance mode for an audience of one—Cate. Finn drew himself up to his full height and leaned over the furry little devil. “Far be it from me to dash your hopes with the young lady, but she’s taken. And might I suggest you don . . . a loincloth?”

The man leaped backward. For a moment, Finn thought the wiry, athletic character might backflip and walk away on his hands. It didn’t help matters any that Cate was laughing. Uncontrollably.

He silently cursed Dé Riquet’s suggestion of a respite in La Flotte. “Ooof! The little man dances in the breeze,” he said. The strange creature wiggled his hips side to side. “But not so little,
oui?
”

Finn looked back as Cate peeked around his shoulder. “You find gypsy circus performers with Saint Vitus Dance appealing?” He kept himself positioned between the mad Frenchman and Cate, who did not try very hard to
smother her laughter at—yes, this had to be him—Sylvain Robideaux.

“Bugger this!” Finn pulled out his pistol.

Immediately, the wily man sobered. “You are here to rob me? As you can see, I have nothing to steal.” He dropped his hands to display his gentlemanly wares. “Nothing but nature’s jewels,
mais oui?”

“We are not here to
steal
anything. Dé Riquet suggested we might rest here.” Finn holstered the gun inside his coat. “An obvious mistake on our part. Come on, Cate.”

“Did you say, Dé Riquet? One moment!” The character waved a finger and disappeared up the stairs.

“Good God, even his ass is hairy,” Finn remarked as he craned his neck to peer up the curved rise of stairs. A smattering of whispers and giggles emanated from above, along with feminine laughter. The odd man poked his head over the railing. “Don’t go.”

Finn turned to Cate. “What do you make of this? Do you wish to stay or leave?”

She raised both brows, along with her shoulders. “I don’t believe he’s dangerous. Besides, I have you to protect me.” Finn studied her lopsided grin, which had an infectious effect on him.

“All right,” he groused, “but if he comes back wagging that little ferret in the air again . . .”

“Bonjour de nouveau et bienvenue!”
Descending the stairs, Sylvain now wore trousers and pulled braces over his shoulders. “Please sit down—friends of Dé Riquet are friends of mine.” Their host, if one could call him that, added a few lumps of coal to a small iron stove. “Wine, cognac?” He opened a glass cabinet and took down a bottle. “I am Sylvain Robideaux.” There was a small cot placed
against the wall, and two ladder-back chairs. He bid them each take a seat. “And you are?”

“Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. Please, call me Cate.” Every so often the man fiddled and twitched. It was distracting.

Finn examined every corner of the room, before settling into a chair beside Cate. “I am Hugh Curzon, the lady’s escort. Might I ask—why do you suppose Dé Riquet suggested we pay you a visit?”

Robideaux gathered up three glasses from a sideboard and uncorked a bottle of brandy. “Let me wager a guess. You journey to Saint-Martin. Perhaps you have some sort of business at the Citadel?” He passed them each a glass of cognac and sat down. The man wasn’t down a second before he jumped out of his seat and called to the ladies standing on the steps above. “Are you dressed,
mes chéris
?”

Two plainly attired but rather pretty young women descended the stairs. With a nod to Cate and a surprisingly brazen inspection of Finn, the girls gathered their coats and started downstairs. Robideaux followed after, protesting their departure.

Cate leaned across the table. “It appears we interrupted the gentleman’s leisure.”

At least one side of Finn’s mouth cracked in a smile. “Hard to know whether we arrived pre-, mid-, or postcoitus.”

Her gaze traveled warily about the lighthouse service room. “There has got to be a reason Dé Riquet sent us here,” she whispered. “He must have heard the anarchists talking—something about my brother being held on this island. I believe Monsieur Robideaux can help us. And I so fear that Eduardo is about to be transported off to—”

“Devil’s Island.”

Finn turned toward the voice behind him. A sobered Robideaux stepped onto the landing. “Prisoners are gathered and held at the Citadel until they fill the convict ship. Then bon voyage, never to be—”

At least the man had the decency to stop, Finn thought.

Finn sipped on the excellent French brandy and studied the bedeviled fellow. It seemed nothing about this chap was quite right. His hair was arranged in a series of lopsided ragged tufts, and there was something about the mad gaze . . . One eye didn’t quite track with the other. Robideaux poured himself a glass.

“Haven’t you had quite enough for one evening?” Finn grumbled.

“This?” He held up his glass. “
Mais non,
Monsieur Curzon. It is the absinthe that makes me crazy.”

Finn supposed that explained at least some of the man’s confounding behavior. Their host settled back in his chair and stared at Cate. “How is it you don’t know if your brother is in the Citadel? People are either prisoners or they are not, mademoiselle, it is not a matter of guessing.”

Finn set his glass down and uncorked the cognac. “Mind if I pour myself another?”

Robideaux shrugged. “As I said, if Dé Riquet sent you, then you are my guests. What is mine, is yours.”

Finn sat back with his glass and explained, “The incarceration of political prisoners is tricky and very often secretive. Anarchists sometimes fall into a gray area not covered by the War Powers Act. Nor do they enjoy a citizen’s rights. And though not strictly lawful, the names of these men can be withheld. As it turns out, I have a bit of business to do with the French authorities in Saint-Martin. Might you have any contacts there?”

“We would be most grateful for your assistance—”
Cate covered a yawn. “And a bed for the night. I would love to rest my head on a pillow for a few hours.”

Robideaux tossed back the last of his brandy. “You are tired. We shall talk in the morning.” Once again, the wiry man leaped from his chair and led the way out of the tower.

Inside the keeper’s cottage, he showed them to a small upstairs bedchamber that was clean and recently swept, clearly indicating the man employed a housekeeper.

“I’m off to bed down MacGregor and see to our bags.” Finn leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well. Shall I wake you early?”

“Don’t you dare.” Cate flopped onto the bed, fully clothed.

Chapter Twenty-two

A
shaft of morning light angled across a small copper tub in the middle of the room. Cate shed her pantalets, testing the water with her toe. “Was your swim in the ocean invigorating?” she asked. An offshore breeze teased up a window curtain as well as dusky nipples. “Compared to a ballet girl au naturel?”

Finn’s gaze lingered. “You are the very definition of the word
invigorating
.”

She sank into the water and sighed. “I shall kiss Adèle for this bath.”

Finn rubbed his hair dry with a rough towel and stepped into a pair of clean drawers. “So, we’re on a first-name basis with the staff now?”

“And what about you, sir—up with the cock’s crow, I take it?” She dunked a washcloth in the water. “I found this small bath in the kitchen along with a housekeeper, who introduced herself as Adèle. An attractive woman, don’t you think?”

“She bakes a bonny brioche.” Finn flopped down on the bed and stuffed a few pillows behind him. “I do hope you
had yours dripping with melted butter and strawberry conserve.”

“I swooned over every morsel.” Cate closed her eyes, and lay back against the rear of the tub. “According to Adèle, who insisted on practicing her English, you and our host Sylvain spoke at length this morning—in hushed tones. ‘Sylvain go the village and Monsieur Curzon groom and feed his
cheval
.’ ” Cate perfectly mimicked the housekeeper’s heavy accent.

“Lovely patois of French and English.”

“And what of Eduardo?” Cate used a washcloth to soap her neck and shoulders. “We should push on to Saint-Martin soon.”

“Sylvain seems to believe the transfer to the ship will take place tomorrow. He’s gone to the village to see what else he can ferret out.” Finn appeared to be enjoying her bath as much as she was. “If I were a painter, I would paint you this way—with those few strands of hair loosed from the knot on your head and those dancer’s limbs draped over the sides of the tub.”

A gentle smile lit up her face as she sponged off yesterday’s grime. “Yes, and these gangly legs require a shave.”

Finn reached into his travel bag bedside. Stretching further, he passed her the straight razor.

“Merci, chéri.”
Cate curled her toes over the edge of the tub and soaped her leg. She opened the razor and guided the instrument up from her ankle. “This appears to be an excellent razor. I hope you don’t mind?”

“I’ll give it a good stropping after you’re done.” Finn punched up a few pillows and leaned back. “Do all dancers groom their legs and underarms?”

“Body hair is a distraction on stage—some costumes reveal
more than others.” Cate grabbed her toes and pointed her leg straight up in the air. She guided the razor along the back of the extended limb.

“My word, you’re flexible.”

She lifted one leg then the other for a last inspection. “And getting less so every day I do not practice.” Finished with his razor, she soaped her hair, then piled the tangle of wet strands on her head. She squeezed the sea sponge and a soft rain of clear water rinsed the suds down her neck and back.

She climbed out of the tub and caught him ogling again.

“Cate—what am I to do? Not look? Pretend I don’t see those rivulets of water meandering down every curve?” By the time she finished drying off with the rough towel he was hard. And she noticed. And Finn noticed her notice.

“Touché
, Monsieur Curzon.” A smile tugged at the ends of her mouth. “I believe you need a washup. Unless you wish to go around smelling like a shellfish dinner.” She collected a cake of soap and a basin of water and moved to his bedside. Using the sea sponge, she washed him off one limb at a time. She untied the drawstring. “Lift your derriere, sir.” He raised up off the mattress and she pulled off his drawers.

She purposefully avoided the waving, randy staff that twitched with her every touch. Just when he likely thought she wasn’t going to venture further—she smiled. “Now for the manly bits.”

Her hand wash left him thoroughly clean and greatly aroused. Once again, she dried him off, ministering to cuts and bruises from a jar of salve. Reaching back into her portmanteau, she unscrewed a tin of scented oil. “Rosemary and lavender oil—for those tight muscles.”

“I do hope you plan to rub some of that on the caber.” Finn punched up a pillow and locked his hands behind his head. His gaze moved down her legs with a kind of raw hunger, as though he were considering which part of her to taste first. She pulled up the nubby cloth that barely covered her. “Are you determined to drive me mad, Cate?”

“How impatient you are. Turn over.” She applied the lotion to his skin and massaged his neck and back muscles.

Finn groaned into the pillow. “M-mm, you are considerably improved in temperament from the peevish young lady of last night.”