A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (31 page)

“Ah ha! Queen Victoria received a cut in room rate, compliments of Sylvain Robideaux. And this suite is worth every sou, monsieur.” The Frenchman pulled back a damask drape to reveal a most startling view of the Citadel.

Finn blew a soft whistle and stepped onto an expanse of balcony. He gestured for Cate to follow. “The rain has abated, but watch yourself—the floor titles may be slippery.” He held on to her hand as they took in the startling sight of the fortress. “A man could map the entire prison grounds from here. Time the watch. Notate the daily routines—schedules.”

Sylvain joined them on the terrace. “This view, in combination with an ancient map demarcating secret entrances and exits, would afford such a man a very intimate knowledge of the fortress.”

Finn appeared fascinated by a section of parapet walk behind crenellated walls. “You have a set of fortress defense plans?”

A sly smile crossed Sylvain’s face. “A copy of the original—the only one in existence.” Their mysteriously resourceful host exhaled a self-satisfied sigh. “You have the suite for the duration.”

Finn tore his eyes off the prison grounds. “What duration?”

“The convict ship does not sail as usual. They claim the ship undergoes repair work. Word on the street says they await a late delivery of prisoners.” Sylvain followed them back inside the suite. “This is most unusual, as the ship to my knowledge has never been delayed for prisoners.”

Finn found three glasses in a cabinet by the table and poured them each a cognac. They warmed their innards with French brandy, ordered room service, and waited for dinner to arrive. A tap on the door produced a lady’s maid, and Finn raised a brow. “Why?” he questioned.

She swept a few errant wisps into her topknot as she rose from the table. “For my hair.”

Finn angled his head back. “Your hair looks . . . adequate.”

Cate kissed the top of his head. “Glad you understand, dear.” She winked at Sylvain and exited the room.

  *  *  *  

FINN ALMOST CRACKED a smile, but for the bevy of other servants that followed the young maid into the suite. Some set the table, others moved to the terrace. He tilted his head to look out the French doors. Outside, the hotel help swept water off the balcony and into a rain gutter. As they dried off table and chairs, Finn dug in his pocket for additional tip money.

Sylvan shifted in his seat. “You play the role of a person of influence well, monsieur.”

Finn studied the curiously well-connected man. “Here’s a theory.” He sank into a wing chair and crossed a booted leg. “International prisoners are difficult to prosecute, especially terrorists; they’re often wanted in several countries.”

“Extradition can become a contentious matter.” Sylvain toyed with his empty glass.

Finn swirled a last swallow of brandy around in his glass. “Messy, to be sure. For one thing, anarchists aren’t exactly covered by the Geneva convention.”

Sylvain leaned forward. “They are not prisoners of war, so what are they?”

“More like criminals with a cause. There have been rumors of late that a few governments, France in particular, are beginning to capture and hold foreign anarchists, either for future trades with other governments, or even more insidious, for transport to offshore prisons—rid the world of the troublesome rubbish.”

“Many years ago, the Citadel was renowned for its political prisoners, monsieur.” Sylvain proceeded to relate several instances of men being held who happened to be on the wrong side of one political imbroglio or another.

Finn swallowed the last of his cognac. “One rather glaring problem is the detainee’s anonymity. No habeas corpus. No trial at all, in most cases. No records of their capture, or their incarceration. I dislike the idea of a conspiracy, particularly one perpetrated by powerful men of influence and sanctioned by—”

A knock at the door signaled dinner had arrived. Sylvain grinned.
“Huîtres, poulet rôti, et une tarte de pomme.”

“Shall I translate?” A newly coifed Cate had returned to the table. She picked up one dish cover after another. “Fresh oysters, roast chicken—” She inhaled. “And an apple tart—what lovely fare.”

Finn offered her a chair. Soft waves had been artfully wound into an elegant topknot. “Quite a pretty poof you’ve got there, mademoiselle.”

Sylvain broke off a chicken leg and waved au revoir.

Finn straightened. “You’re leaving?”

“I must return to La Flotte, clean the lantern, light the lamp, and prime the clockworks.” He bit into a crispy piece of skin and chewed.
“Délicieux.
I leave you to eat, dress for the soiree, and plot against warden Moreau,
oui
?” He bowed as he backed out the door.
“Bonsoir, mes amis!”

Finn carved the bird, while Cate set out the plate of oysters. Having grown used to the near-constant chatter from their Île de Ré guide, she found the room quiet, but not uncomfortably so. She had also rekindled a fire in her belly for the man sitting across the table. Wherever Phineas Gunn went, it seemed, adventure followed. But there were other things he did, quite expertly, to cause her cheeks to blush. And there was something else—she felt protected by him, as well as valued. There was a word for that.

Apreciado
en español.

The English word was
cherished
.

Right on cue, heat swept over her cheeks. Finn studied her quietly. “Your hair is lovely. Sorry I was so boorish about it earlier. You have my permission to stab me with your fork if it makes you feel better.”

“That bit of grousing earlier?” Cate popped a baby carrot into her mouth and rolled her eyes. “Uncle, as well as
mi abuelo,
my Spanish grandfather—big grousers. I have put up with it for years. Doesn’t perturb me in the least.” She smiled a wily sort of smile at him.

He met her gaze for a moment. “And what of our mercurial lighthouse keeper?” He added a few more roasted vegetables to both their plates. “If instincts serve, beyond the jocular, hairy laddishness, there may lurk another Sylvain Robideaux.”

Cate looked up from her plate. “Friendly or not so . . .?”

“Not sure, as yet.” Finn spooned a bit of jus over slices of breast meat. “He moves freely around the town. Well connected and well liked, it would seem. It’s just—” Finn forked up a piece of chicken. “He strikes me as a man who might very well work both sides of the angle.”

“No surprise there; Dé Riquet recommended him.”

Finn nodded. “Sylvain has been invaluable thus far—perhaps too much so.”

“You think he’s steering us.” Cate set fork and knife down. “What do you recommend?” she asked through a particularly delicious bite of chicken.

“For now, keep eating.” Finn uncorked a fruity golden wine, which turned out to be a delightful accompaniment to a slice of apple tart.

After dinner, they took bottle and glasses into the sitting area of the suite. Finn sat beside her on the settee, hooked a finger into a waistcoat pocket, and read his watch. “Our wardrobe should arrive any time now.”

He settled an arm around her. “Do you mind?”

She snuggled up against his shoulder. “I should like another war story, please.”

“Ah, my dear Cate—war is a gruesome, dismal business. If there is any glory in killing, I have yet to find it.” Finn sipped his wine. “Even a trained soldier cannot imagine the horror of it, not until you’re caught up in an ambush, surrounded by fallen comrades—dead or crying out in pain—the unseen enemy taking shots at you from hidden positions in the hills.”

She placed her cheek against his chest. “Your heart is racing. In London, Lady Lennox made reference to some sort of battle fatigue, as did Cecil.” She sat up and turned to him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is the condition you suffer, Finn? Something happened to you in India—in the Northern Territories.”

A part of him wanted her to know. Hardy was aware of some of it, his quack doctor had wrung out more of the story, but Cate—there was something about her that made him feel like confessing. He wondered if he would get to
a certain place in the story and shut down—“suppressed memories” is what Monty had called them.

“All right.” He stared at her. “But perhaps it would be best if I didn’t look at you directly.” Finn set his glass down on a side table and pulled her back close to his chest with both arms. “It’s been called everything from extreme cowardice to battle fatigue to Soldier’s Heart—quite a romantic notion, that last one.”

Cate scoffed softly. “I can’t imagine anyone having the nerve to call you a coward. They obviously haven’t seen you perform your duties.”

Finn rubbed the side of her head with his chin. “I was often sent out on patrol. Mostly we were looking for any signs of tribal movements. We knew Al Qui tari Masari was amassing an army and would likely attack the fort. The only question was when. We got into a bloody skirmish west of Kandahar and suffered several casualties. I delayed our retreat to pick up our injured—suddenly we were surrounded, and taken prisoner.

“We were held in a Pashtun village up in the mountains. As the highest-ranking officer alive, I was kept in a deep hole, underground. Each night I listened to the sound of my men being tortured. In the morning, they would lower a ladder—walk me by soldiers tied up and ready for execution.”

His entire body began to tremble, just the slightest involuntary vibration. Her leg muscles quivered in a similar fashion after rehearsal. Cate sat up and turned to make eye contact. His gaze was fixed on a memory buried deep in his past.

“Blocks of wood were placed into their throats so they could not swallow. Stop me if it gets too—”

“I’m not the squeamish sort—please go on,” Cate said softly.

“Then the tribal women took turns urinating into their open mouths.” He inhaled a long raspy breath. “They suffocated—or drowned. Not sure which term to use . . .”

“Dear God.” She grabbed hold of him.

“Sorry, I’m experiencing some dizziness, a bit of vertigo,” he said. His arm dropped to her waist and she clung to him. Strong arms throbbing with life wrapped around her. He rocked her, for what seemed like a very long time.

Cate snuggled against him. “But you survived, Finn.”

“Yes, I survived eight days and nights of interrogation, torture—”

“Were you injured?”

“Nothing like the men under me. Beatings mostly—and a hot metal rod jabbed at me. You’ve seen the scars on my chest. Not sure why they didn’t kill me. At one point, most of their fighters left the village—off to ambush a search party sent after us. It turned out to be a lucky break for me and the few men still alive. We escaped that night.”

“A daring rescue, no doubt.” Cate tucked her legs up under her skirt. “This requires more wine, sir, as I need to be fortified for the next chapter of this adventure.”

Finn marveled at Cate’s response to such a lurid story. Her resilient spirit, her bravery. He knew full well that she had nearly become ill over its telling. Even all these years later, he was as good as sick over it himself. But somehow, he had choked out the horrific details of those terrible executions—something he had only done once, years ago. He had given a complete accounting of his patrol’s capture and detainment to his commanding officer. Colonel Brown and several other officers had listened intently, stopping on only one occasion—for a bit of fresh air.

He dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes. “You sure you want to hear more?”

“The telling of your escape? I wouldn’t miss it.” Her blazing blue eyes were large and liquid. She squeezed his hand in encouragement.

“All right then.” He inhaled a breath and exhaled slowly. “The screams and cries would begin as soon as the sun went down. To keep from going mad, I occupied myself digging footholds in the side of the old well they kept me in. The walls were lined with uneven stones held together with a bit of crude mortar—mostly mud. I must have been about eighteen feet down. Every night I tore at the crumbling sand and rock.”

“Tricky work, to say nothing of the fall you might have taken.”

Once again Finn pulled her close. “I did fall—twice.” She settled into the warmth of his body. “That night I grasped at anything for a leg up. If I could escape the bloody pit, I knew the layout of the village well enough to make an attempt to free the men. Worst case, we could fight our way out and get killed in the process.”

“The latter being preferable to the kind of death that awaited if you did not escape.” Cate murmured her thoughts aloud.

“I had another six feet left to climb—enough to get a shoulder aboveground, so I could lift myself out of the shaft.” Finn swallowed a sip of wine.

Cate angled away to look back. “Whatever you do, don’t stop now, or I shall bite my fingernails.”

“I only fell once that night—wrenched my ankle but it made no matter. I would have run the fifteen miles back to the fort on a broken leg. I remember poking my head up out of the hole, thinking, ‘They’ll shoot my head off,’
and not caring if they did. As it turned out, all that was left of the tribe’s warriors were a few guards, elders, and the women and children.

“A second bit of luck was it was pitch-black; the moon had set. Once I was out of the hole, I managed to crawl behind a barrier—part tent, part hovel. A row of horses were tethered to a line—including the big red lad.”