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

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
     
    B y 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 yet, how like him.
    She slipped down the backstage stairs crowded withup 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