A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (41 page)

The men rode off, but they did not drop their weapons. “Bollocks.” Finn aimed his pistol and winged a man; the other two turned and fired wild shots. Finn returned fire and took off after the guards. “Let’s put a bit of a scare into them.” He pursued the men, hell-bent for leather, but at the last minute he turned MacGregor and headed straight for the yacht. Finn pressed his heels into MacGregor’s sides and the horse flew out from the shadow of the warehouse and alongside the pier.

Cate stared in horror at the sight of the ship’s gangway being retracted.

“Hold the gangway!”

“Finn, what are you doing?” She gulped.

“He can jump this, Cate. Hold on to his mane. Let him know you’re with him.”

She could see the men on board the yacht, particularly the gangway staff, were scrambling to get the bridge back in place. And there was a tall man shouting orders who looked a great deal like the chargé d’affaires.

Beneath her legs she could feel the powerful muscles of the great horse tense and flex. Finn lifted the reins to
give MacGregor his head and urged him onward. The gangway was nearly back in place, but it was still too late. Cate grabbed hold of his mane and shut her eyes. She felt them leave the ground, milliseconds passed, and then there was a great clatter and thud as front hooves and rear legs pumped to keep them climbing up the rest of the gangway. Cate opened an eye. They had landed surprisingly far up the bridge, but the metal and wood platform rocked and swayed from the sheer force of their landing and nearly gave way. “Good boy, keep up the scramble.” Cate urged the animal on, as did Finn, with calm, firm words. With only a slight hesitation, the horse pushed off the collapsing gangway using powerful rear legs and with a second, remarkable leap, MacGregor made the lower deck of the ship. Cheers went up from a crowd dockside and as well as on board.

Cate leaned over and hugged the magnificent horse around his neck. Then she hugged Finn with all her might. This brave horse and rider were meant for each other. She wondered if the two of them could make room for a third. She collapsed into Finn’s arms and held on while he maneuvered the horse along the deck and away from the crowd.

Finn helped her down and they both gave the snorting, prancing equine a good rub, soothing his frayed nerves. Cate smiled at Finn. “If you weren’t different species, I’d say you were both cut from same plaid.” She scratched MacGregor’s nose. “He has the heart of soldier.”

Adrian Fortesque greeted them. “On behalf of the Egyptian and British government, welcome aboard.”

“I look forward to a good tumbler full of scotch—later on.” Finn trailed after the viceroy’s grooms, who led the red horse away. Somewhat bewildered, Cate
turned to the chargé d’affaires. “Where are they taking the horse?”

“There’s a compartment belowdecks, stores the royal carriages and several of Khedive Tewfik Pasha’s Arabians.” Fortesque grinned. “We arrange match races for the pasha whenever he’s in London. His nags win quite handily.” Fortesque offered his arm. “Shall we find you a sumptuous berth, scare up a bit of ladies’ wardrobe, perhaps?”

Her room was incredibly small but very well appointed. A vase of fresh flowers had been placed on a small writing desk. And there was a bed, neatly made up and built into the wall. “Drinks at eleven in the stateroom—the earliest hour they serve liquor.” Fortesque turned toward the bell pull. “Tug on that and a servant will—
materialize.
I honestly don’t know where they come from.”

Amused, Cate tilted her head to peek behind the bell pull. “Might there be a pasha’s magic lamp to rub back there?”

Fortesque hesitated at the door. “Sorry to have been such an . . . ass.”

She met a different man’s gaze. His usual callous expression had softened. “There were times when you might have been more . . . helpful.” Her eyes narrowed before she smiled. “You did manage to redeem yourself—in the end.”

Adrian stared at her the way men do when they want something badly. “You are very lovely.” Steel gray eyes darted away, then returned to her. “I suppose you’re mad about him?”

She nodded. “Completely, utterly mad about him.”

“
That
will be enough, Miss Willoughby.” Adrian tilted his head for one last, wistful look. “Shall I make a few
discreet
inquiries about wardrobe for you?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Very kind of you, Mr. Fortesque.”

He caught the door on his way out. “Call me Adrian.”

She grinned. “If you call me Cate.”

The moment the door closed, she gave the bell pull a yank and a genie arrived.

She ordered a pot of tea and a bath, in that order. The tub turned out to be slightly larger than a washbasin, but the tea was divine. Miraculously, the genies on board appeared at her door with a simple frock and a pair of silk stockings and dancing slippers that pinched her toes. Nothing new there. Rather a hodgepodge affair, but when patched together with a blue velvet riding jacket, she looked almost—presentable.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and pinched her cheeks. Off to find her man, Cate lifted the latch on the cabin door and ventured onto the deck. She stopped several servants before she found one who spoke a smattering French. “Monsieur Curzon’s cabin—
le grand Anglais, s’il vous plaît.
” From what she could piece together, Finn was still below with MacGregor; there had been an injury.

“Will you show me the way?”

The cabin boy nodded and she followed him belowdecks to a spacious indoor paddock. The compartment smelled of hay and horse dung, exactly like a barn—or in this case, a floating stable. A line of carriages were secured to one side of the space, while a row of stalls, the other. She crossed an indoor paddock covered in wood shavings. One of the stall doors was open. A stable hand held Sergeant MacGregor’s head while Finn knelt on the floor, beside the horse. The horse nickered as she approached. “What happened?” Cate stroked MacGregor’s nose.

Finn looked up from wrapping a rear hoof. “He ripped
a shoe off—that last scramble up the gangway did it.” Finn wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “The shoe took a piece of hoof with it. We’ve built the outer wall up with a plaster cloth. He’ll be hobbling around for a bit.” He tossed an unused bandage into a nearby kit.

“Poor boy.” She stroked the horse’s nose.

“I can’t say he minds the attention.” Finn took a moment to examine her head to toe. “I miss the trousers—that lovely view of your bum.” He clapped the plaster dust off his hands and placed his hands on his hips. “Where did you find the dress?”

“Adrian was kind enough to arrange it.”

“Adrian, now, is it?” He reached out with his hand. “Have you had breakfast? What hour of morning is it?”

The stable hand moved around the large animal. “I’ll stay with him, sir—see that he has his water and hay.”

Finn nodded to the young man. “No oats—let’s keep him as quiet as possible.”

He led her up onto the main deck. Momentarily, the sun burst from behind the cloud cover and the sea sparkled. Standing at the ship’s rail, he inhaled deeply. “Ah, fresh air, open seas—no prison cell.” His eyes crinkled from the sun and the wind ruffled his hair.

“You’ve removed the bandage.” Cate stood on tiptoe and he leaned over so she might inspect his wound. A dark red streak ran from his hairline through his scalp. “Clean wound and healing over.” The fast steamer cut through a swell of waves and her stomach roiled a bit. “Haven’t got my sea legs, as yet. Am I a bit green?” She turned her back to the ocean.

He placed his hands on the guardrail on each side of her. “Your eyes match the blue of the sea.” He leaned
close, as if to kiss her, but did not. “And a tinge of green becomes you.”

She snorted a soft laugh. “I haven’t heard a word of appreciation, sir. Quite a prize I rescued, one of Her Majesty’s most valuable men—”

“You’re not far off, Cate.” Adrian Fortesque ducked through a hatch, waving a stack of telegrams. “I have here urgent messages from every intelligence organization in Britain, all of them demanding answers or shouting directives regarding an operative by the name of Phineas Gunn, alias Hugh Curzon.” He drew up beside them. “They require answers.” He pointed the missives toward midship. “I recommend the lounge. There, Mr. Curzon or Mr. Gunn—whichever you prefer—you will find an assortment of telegraph pads, writing instruments, and an eighty-year-old scotch.” Adrian raised a brow and a grin. “Shall we?”

After a pour of Talisker’s finest, they settled in to read messages and compose answers. “Ah, here’s one from Scotland Yard.” Adrian picked up the wire. “Pertaining to the matter of a sloop, chartered by Spanish insurrectionists in La Rochelle harbor. There was an explosion.” Adrian’s cool, appraising gaze moved from Finn to Cate. “Would either of you . . . care to explain? Special Branch would love to hear about it.”

Rocking his head side to side, Finn contemplated his answer. This silent evaluation of his had always intrigued her; she could almost see the clockworks turn in his head. Finally, he exhaled. “I’m not convinced the Spaniards were
Los Tigres.
”

“
Were
being the operative word.” Adrian shuffled down a few missives. “It would appear the Admiralty agrees, Mr. Gunn.”

Finn poured them all another swallow. “Just call me Finn—that puts us all on a first-name basis.”

Adrian flashed a look over his reading spectacles. “There may be a shadow organization within
Los Tigres
—bent more toward violence and disruption than reform.” He crumpled the missive and placed it in an ashtray. Rummaging in a side pocket, he removed a box of safety matches. “Would you be interested to know, I received several messages with the clear directive: bring in Agent-of-influence Crowe as well as
El Tigre Solitario
—by any means necessary.”

Adrian struck a match and held it to the crumpled paper in the ashtray. “Last night, I Rogered the lock of the local wire office—tapped off a few messages of my own.”

“Ah, Roger the skeleton key.” Cate rolled her eyes. “So much more amusing as a verb.”

Adrian blew out the match. “I telegraphed the names of those extracted and informed the Admiralty as well as Scotland Yard of your capture. I left Reginald, my aide, to wait for a response and returned to our rooms in the palace.”

Finn tossed back his whiskey. “I take it you heard back.”

Adrian picked up one of the missives and read aloud: “From General Frederick Roberts, ‘Lend all assistance necessary to the recovery of Agent Gunn. Stop. Hero of the Battle of Kandahar and national’ ”—the chargé d’affaires met Finn’s gaze directly—“ ‘treasure.’ ” Adrian leaned forward, shaking his head. “Bloody Roberts, for God’s sake—they must have bloody woken him up for that.”

Cate waited for Finn’s response. In fact, she and Adrian both waited. “It appears your escape from the tribal village wasn’t harrowing enough.” She gave him a nudge. “There’s more.”

Adrian slumped back in his chair. “Oh goody.”

Finn shot a lethal glare across the table.

Adrian tossed his hands up in casual surrender. “I like war stories.”

“As Cate mentioned, I was captured and held in a village northwest of the fort.” His speech seemed measured, reluctant. “I managed to escape, along with a few other survivors. Our return was slow going. The men were in poor condition and Kandahar was surrounded by Ayub Khan’s army.

“Once we made it inside the walls, we learned that General Roberts’s troops were on a forced march from Kabul to Kandahar to reinforce us. Since we had slipped through the Afghan general’s lines, we knew where their troops were camped. I mapped out their positions and led a sortie to clear the way for Roberts.”

It was hard to imagine how he mustered the courage to do such a thing after what he’d been through. “You went back out again.” Cate’s voice was almost a whisper.

“The sortie wasn’t a complete success but we managed to push Ayub’s army into the mountains long enough for Roberts’s reinforcements to arrive.” He spun his whiskey glass around at the base. “We won the Battle of Kandahar—or declared it so. Six months later we pulled out of Afghanistan.”

Finn stood and pushed back his chair. “Any idea when we make port?”

“Midafternoon, I expect.” Adrian gathered the pile of missives and their responses. “Reggie wired the Clouzot brothers before daybreak. Suffice it to say they will be anxious to see who arrives in Cherbourg.”

“If you’ll excuse me.” She followed Finn out of the lounge.

Sensing a shadow, Finn turned back. “I’m sorry, Cate, but that kind of heroic war talk rankles.”

She grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed. “Help me to understand—please, Finn.”

“Many soldiers suffered insults and terrors much greater than the ones I endured, and some of them died. For what?” Finn stopped midrant, his eyes dark and troubled, as he tried to hold back his grief and his anger. “There is nothing noble about war, Cate, not the one I experienced. But there is something gloriously noble about the soldier beside you. All this talk about national treasure—I fought for my men. As a soldier you’re asked to walk the razor’s edge, for God and country. But in combat, it’s the bloke beside you who counts.”

“Like the Punjabi soldier—the Sikh man who shouted the warning—the one who was . . .”