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

girl, Burleigh. Hoping for a prenuptial fling?”
    Cecil poked his chin out. “I am no more engaged to Daphne than you are to Muriel Villers-Talbot.”
    “And according to Muriel, who so dutifully keeps me informed, your fiancée is in Paris, is she not? Purchasing her trousseau.” This man with a new name towered over Cecil. “At least my so-called fiancée hasn’t sent out the wedding invitations.”
    Cecil glowered.
    Torn between raising a brow or bursting into laughter, Cate pressed her lips together and tried very hard not to chuckle. Much to her dismay a rather loud snortescaped. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Cecil. I’ll be ready in a dash.”
    She opened the lid on a jar of cold cream and spoke to the wide-eyed miss in the mirror. “So, the Baron Burleigh is engaged.” Based on the few strained words between the men, it would seem Mr. Gunn was nearly spoken for himself.
    She closed her eyes and ran the soothing cream over darkened eyelids. When attending soirees with Cecil, she had always assumed the raised brows were due entirely to her avocation. Obviously, there was another layer here. Cate used a soft cloth to wipe away the greasepaint.
    If a man was a philanderer before marriage, what might a girl look forward to afterward? She almost felt sorry for the fiancée. Daphne, he had called her.
    Though her experience with stage-door gentlemen could hardly be called extensive, she knew enough to be quite sure of one fact. Men didn’t change—not much anyway. They were either trustworthy or they were not. She hardly knew which one of the posturing males outside her dressing room was worse: Cecil Cavendish or Phineas Gunn, as he now called himself.
    “Phin-e-as.” She whispered the name under her breath. New name, same old deceiver. A man who played false for a living could never be trusted. So why then did her lips still burn from the heat of his kiss?
    She once believed they had met by accident on the Passeig de Gràcia. Lugging along two large hatboxes, she had given up on a cab and decided to walk to her aunt and uncle’s home. The fashionable avenue in Barcelona was as broad as the Champs-Élysées. A favorite place for aristocrats to display their riding skills and expensive carriages.
    “ Perdón, señorita. Estoy . . . buscando la casa de Gaudí ?”
    Shading her eyes from the low rays of the sun, she peered up at a magnificent horse and an equally imposing rider. “You are English, señor ?” Drawing closer, Cate made out a charming grimace from a strikingly handsome man.
    “Pardon my poor Spanish. I’m looking for a new residence designed by Gaudí. I believe it is on Carrer Nou de la Rambla—” Distracted, his eyes narrowed and shifted away.
    Cate followed his line of sight to a teetering pony cart driven by a chubby-faced, curly-haired child that was traveling at a dangerously fast pace down the broad street. Wide eyes accompanied the girl’s panicked expression and whimpering cries. Cate’s heart accelerated even as the Englishman pressed his mount into action and overtook the out-of-control pony. Leaning far over his seat, he grabbed hold of the reins and slowed the animal.
    Cate dropped her hatboxes and ran onto the boulevard. She positioned herself alongside of the cart just as the flushed child burst into tears. A tired old groom trotted up to join them. “Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios. Gracias, señor.”
    “If the child cannot control the animal, you’d best take hold of these.” With quite a singular glare, the gentleman on horseback handed the reins to the groom.
    Cate replaced the Brit’s glare with a smile and translated. She added an eye roll and shrug. “ Inglés.”
    The groom tugged on the pony’s head. “¡Adelante!” The elder man admonished the child gently, and led the pony and cart away. The little girl wiped off a tear and stuck her tongue out at them.
    “Well done, sir,” she murmured. “Even if your damsel in distress thinks you a spoilsport.”
    He