A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  “Patience requires control over oneself,” Nigel smirked. “Something you know nothing about.”

  Rafe pictured a brutal scenario involving Nigel’s broken, bloodied nose, among other wounds. He shook off the thought, and refused to get worked up about an unhappy incident that happened long ago. Unhappy incident was putting it mildly. He had suffered through a trial of lies, deceit, and betrayal. A ruse he should have seen through, but hadn’t, until it was too late.

  “Ready to throw down the gauntlet, Nigel? Just say the word. I’m game anytime you are.” He raked a steely gaze over the supercilious man. Irvine had always been considered attractive by the ladies, but he’d thickened some. He could imagine Nigel in a few years, with a potbelly and a harrumph.

  “Since you appear to be on friendlier terms with Fanny . . .” Rafe used his most affable grin. “Might I ask you to intercede for me? I desperately need to speak with her on a private matter.”

  “Fanny is a woman of delicate sensibilities and fragile temperament—”

  “So, you don’t know her at all.” Rafe studied the stiff, arrogant fellow. A wave of longing threatened his composure. He recalled the spirited little harridan of his youth, and the stunning young woman she had grown up to be.

  Nigel’s neck and shoulders stiffened. “Fanny is indisposed at the moment. Strain of the funeral and your undesirable presence, I’m afraid, has forced a brief respite.” Nigel puffed himself up. “What you ask is not only impossible, I find it objectionable. I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “Message for the Honorable Raphael Lewis St. Aldwyn.” A footman held out a salver. Rafe picked up the note card centered on the silver tray.

  Meet me in my father’s study. I believe you know the way.

  He smiled. Not quite so impossible, it would seem.

  Chapter Three

  “How is it you are always around for the worst possible moments of my life?” She spoke with her back to Rafe. The door to the study swept shut with a soft click. Wavy panes of glass blurred her vision as she gazed to the veranda. The veranda. How often she had sat alone in her father’s study and watched strangely beautiful ghosts make love on the balcony beyond these French doors.

  “If you’ve changed your mind—” He cleared his throat. “Would you rather I leave?”

  Fanny turned in time to catch a gesture. His large, elegant hand crumpled her note and swept backward. She raised her eyes, met his open gaze and raised brow. This was going to be awkward and uncivil. Very uncivil. The thought almost quirked a smile. Fanny set her chin high. “Oh no, you don’t. I have waited years for this moment. You will stand here and take your punishment.”

  Those flashing green eyes perused the room as he pressed his lips to together. She knew this innocent, trying-for-candid expression well. Rafe was hiding something. Likely one of those impudent grins of his.

  “Might there be an old torture chamber in the cellar? I’m not as familiar with the town house as I was with your country manse.”

  She thought perhaps she growled.

  “If there were such a dungeon, we might take up my drubbing there. No sense disturbing the guests with bellowing protests and cries of agony.” He stepped into the center of room. “Or, I could dash downstairs for a cat-o’-nine-tails.” The elusive grin surfaced. “Which would you prefer—Lieutenant Cutthroat?”

  “Don’t call me that.” Her pulse throbbed from temple to toes. He was using their childhood nicknames, characters from the serial Peter Simple, to cajole her. Maybe also to pull rank—his moniker had been Captain Savage. But then, he had always relied rather heavily on his charismatic presence. His older brother, the current earl, didn’t possess a single ounce of the legendary St. Aldwyn charm. By some peculiar trick of fate, Raphael had gotten it all.

  He moved one step closer and she took one step back. “Don’t you dare come near. I’ll scream at the top of my lungs.”

  “You have every right to be furious with me. Perhaps you should never speak to me again. In fact, I advise it.”

  Flippant, deferential, and absurdly charming. And he so often got away with it. She imagined all the fashionable young ladies of London swooned over every self-deprecating word and adorable grin. But did they know the pain he could cause?

  “Furious? Furious? I believe I am furious. Brought on by your”—she folded her arms under her chest and he took occasion to stare at her bosom—“infuriating behavior.”

  “I have fond memories of this room, that is until your father and his mistress caught us on the terrace.” He jerked his gaze from her bosom to capture a flutter of eyelash, a twitch of her mouth—most likely every nuance of expression. This close study of his had always been unsettling.

  She turned away and paced through the room, winding her way around overstuffed, comfortable chairs and hard-backed settees. “You cut me to the core on the night of our engagement ball. You didn’t even have the decency to create some sort of pretense. Five years pass without a word from you, and now today, of all days, you turn up at Greyfriars for the burial?”

  “Like a bolt out of the blue, wot? Quite a shock, I admit. Even for me. Gave Vertiline, Reggie, and Bess a stagger. And Mother, of course.” He followed her about the room at a leisurely pace, keeping his distance. “You do look a bit jarred, as do Edward and Ophelia. Didn’t see Cousin Claire anywhere about.”

  “We haven’t been able to reach Claire. She’s always off traveling—on the continent somewhere between countries, we assume.”

  “On a husband quest, is she? Has she . . .” He tortured a smile into something more sedate. “Slimmed down any?”

  Fanny shot him a look. “Claire can’t really help her size.”

  “Sorry. I’m told the Greeks worship the Rubenesque figure. You’ve filled out nicely, yourself.” A slow gaze swept up and down. “In all the right places.” He moved up behind her. “I see Nigel is still sniffing about—he’s always been the bumptious sort.”

  “I’d rather you left Nigel out of any discussion between us.” She brushed a wisp of curl off her face. “And he is not pompous. He’s perfectly—”

  “You aren’t seeing him, are you?”

  “And what if I am?”

  He read her expression flawlessly. “None of my business.” He snorted a chuckle. “But really, Fan—Nigel? You can’t be serious.”

  She whirled around. “No, Rafe, it is you who can never be serious.” She bit down on a raw lower lip. “Why are you here?”

  “You will soon find I can be downright humorless when it comes to your safety.” Dark green eyes glittered in the dim corner of the room as his gaze narrowed ever so slightly. “Unfortunately, the reason I am here may increase your trepidation, not ease it.”

  Her throat constricted. She didn’t like the sound of that at all. Still, she was curious. “Go on.”

  “No matter what you or my family choose to believe of me, I did not arrive in Edinburgh—today of all days—to torture Francine Greyville-Nugent. I’m here to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” Her brow furrowed. “I believe I need protection from you, not by you.”

  He didn’t crack a smile at her jibe. “I work for Special Branch, Scotland Yard.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard as much.”

  “At this point, I am here as a precaution—until we complete our investigation.” Hesitantly, he searched for the right words. “Two men have died recently, both prominent industrialists. Yesterday, the severed head and feet of an MP were found in London. The gentleman apparently made his fortune in railroads. We have sent investigators up to Kent in search of a torso. Sorry to put it so grotesquely, but there it is.”

  She made a wide-eyed search of his face. “And you therefore believe my father to be the other casualty. Even if that were so, I’m in no jeopardy.”

  “You intend to carry on your father’s various manufacturing enterprises, do you not? You have recently made public statements to that effect.” She paled a bit and he moved closer.

&
nbsp; “B-but it was an accident.” She knotted her brows. “I read the reports, interviews with citizenry who witnessed the whole—”

  “My assignment is to guard you with my life.”

  She was in agony. Her cheeks burned as her heart bled once again for her father. “This isn’t fair. I’ve earned a bloody rant, a good scream at you.” She wanted to rage—at him—Raphael Lewis, debaucher and forsaker of Fanny Greyville-Nugent, now returned as her protector? She turned away, then whirled around to face him. “No, I shall have a good shout and finally get some answers. Why did you abandon me the night of the ball?”

  “What did your father say? Did he explain anything?”

  “I asked often enough—for a while.” Fanny swallowed. “I can no longer badger a dead man—the answers are up to you now.”

  “Christ, Fan, there was only one course to pursue—allow you to cry off the engagement.”

  “Indeed. You did your gentleman’s duty. But why, Rafe? I thought we had an understanding. I thought you cared for me—a great deal, actually.”

  His eyes never left her, even when she gritted her teeth and fisted her hands. “I do care, Fanny. I always have and I always will—beyond measure.”

  Once again, the room filled with ghosts from the past. The faint scent of Father’s humidor, an argument barely recalled, the slam of the door as Rafe exited the study. She had always suspected the two men colluded together—to protect her from some hard-to-imagine, horrible truth.

  Father had paced the floor of his study, and delivered the news. There would be no betrothal. The marriage was off. She remembered little else of the particulars, just Father blustering about while tears welled in her eyes. He had the appearance of trying not to bark orders, but couldn’t help the timbre of his voice. “It would best if you retired to your room. I shall make the announcement,” he had said.

  Dormant rage broke loose and caused her body to shake off the memory. “What a sniveling coward you are. You are the worst kind of deceiver, Rafe—one who claims affection even as he withdraws his promise.”

  Rafe swallowed. Apparently it was difficult hearing the truth. “Hard to believe anything could be worse than sniveling coward.” He edged closer. “Fanny, the fact is I couldn’t marry you.”

  “More pretense and evasion, Rafe? Does it never stop? Everyone wanted the marriage. My father loved you like a son. And certainly your family—”

  “Marriage is impossible when one is already married.”

  A chill went through her. The room around her skewed. For a moment, she thought the earth might have tilted on its axis. “You”—she was aware of a faint ringing in her ears—“are married?”

  “I was married.” His gaze never wavered. “For a time.”

  The second her knees wobbled, Rafe rushed to her side and lowered her to a nearby settee. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  She shook her head. “Was?” The word rushed out in a whisper. “How can there be a was?” Her eyes darted here and there, blindly searching for answers. “Unless you abandoned her as well.”

  “Fanny, you’re rather pale. I think you should take something.”

  “Whiskey.” Her voice sounded shallow, disembodied. Slumped in a stupor, she watched him pour the Talisker’s.

  “She died six months after I weaseled out of our betrothal.” Amber liquid sloshed about as he held out a tumbler.

  “Poor girl.” Numbly, she accepted the glass. “I don’t suppose you could have told me you loved another?” Rallying a bit, Fanny tried for something brave and cutting. “Tell me, Rafe, did she die of heartbreak?”

  He stared at her for a long time. “Many times I wished to confide in you, Fanny, about my loss as well as my shame.” Rafe tossed back his whiskey. “Should I have told you everything from the start—involve you in my disgrace? To what purpose, Fan? Truth is highly overrated when it comes to scandal. You have to let the murmurs and whispers run their course.”

  Tipping her glass, she inhaled the scent of burnt oak and took a sip. The smoky spirit laid a soft blanket of fire down her throat. “Years ago, you stole my heart, and now I shall never get it back.”

  There it was—the real tragedy in this whole affair. That she might never be able to trust again, wholly. She hiccupped. Drat. Now there would be a series of them. Fanny gazed at a wall of family portraits, their customary stares colder than usual. She refused to cry in front of him. “I’d like to be left alone.”

  “The past is done, Fanny. And for that matter, what could I possibly offer now to set things right between us? It seems quite impossible, and I honestly don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

  Once more, Raphael Lewis attempted to muddle the issue. Perhaps the shock was too great, but she couldn’t bear to hear anything more from the man. She lifted her gaze to his. “I want you gone from my house this instant. Get out, Rafe.”

  “I’m afraid you will have to put up with me, like it or no.” A kind of husky burr had crept back into his speech. “I will not bargain when it comes to your life, Fanny. If you do not cooperate with Scotland Yard, you’ll be jailed for your own safety.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t.” She couldn’t decide whether a grin or a grimace rode above that determined chin of his.

  “I most certainly can. And I will.”

  How was this happening? Her small world had suddenly become too much to bear. Even as she grieved for her father, she was supposed to live in close proximity to this . . . reprobate, who claimed to be her protector.

  Fanny sucked in a breath and exhaled. “Everything you’ve just told me is—” She hardly knew where to begin or what to say. “This worry for my safety is pure conjecture. For all you Scotland Yard men know, these deaths could be coincidental.”

  “William Melville, director of Special Branch, doesn’t believe in coincidence, and neither do I. Hopefully, this should all be sorted out over the next week or two, then—”

  She sat upright. “Week or two?”

  “I will have to impose upon your hospitality. I’m afraid there is no other way to get round the inconvenience of having me about. You will be questioned extensively. I want a closer look at the scene of the accident. There won’t be much preserved to investigate, but one never knows.”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m to be questioned? For what reason?”

  “There are personages in your life, recent acquaintances, possibly, who may be connected to these events. My assignment is to safeguard the heiress to the Greyville-Nugent industrial empire and oversee a homicide investigation. No stone will be left unturned.”

  Thick with unshed tears and conflicting sentiments, the air in the study stifled. Her fan was missing. She tried another deep inhale and exhale, and still her heart pounded through every part of her body. “The guests will be leaving soon. I must return to the hall.”

  RAFE FOLLOWED HER down a sweeping turn of staircase to the foyer filled with attendees. The wake did appear to be breaking up. Fanny quietly took charge, directing staff to go after hats and wraps, respectfully thanking each guest. A bit of sniffling went on along with cheek kisses and whispered condolences. Dutifully, Rafe trailed alongside or behind. Fanny made an abrupt turn and nearly ran into him.

  “Are you going to be shadowing me about and pestering me?”

  Hands behind his back, Rafe straightened. “Yes.”

  “I suppose that is what detectives do. Trail after people like . . . dogs.”

  He held a grin in check. Fanny approached a man sporting a great deal of red facial hair and handed the gentleman his bowler. The man tapped the brim of his hat in his palm. “Pardon my intrusion, but might I have a word with you both? In private?”

  Fanny darted a glance at Rafe as they retired to a shallow alcove nearby.

  The odd, intrusive fellow pulled nervously at an auburn moustache. “Did I overhear Miss Greyville-Nugent call you a detective?”

  Rafe edged closer to nudge Fanny.

  “Arthur Douglas Poole, please me
et Detective Inspector Rafe Lewis.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “It seems Scotland Yard has sent a man up to investigate Father’s accident. According to Detective Lewis, I could be in some jeopardy.”

  “I’d like to keep that information quiet.” Rafe eyeballed Fanny, who in turn, rolled her eyes. “No sense worrying anyone unduly.”

  The wary chap backed away, then hesitated. “Yes, well, I’d cooperate if I were you, miss—strange goings on lately.”

  Rafe lifted a brow. “Is that so?”

  Rather abruptly, Nigel Irvine elbowed into their circle. “See me out, Fanny?”

  She accepted the offered arm. “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”

  Mr. Poole nodded to Rafe and leaned in. “I did not wish to alarm the young lady, but . . .”

  Rafe angled himself to better keep an eye on Fanny. She stood outside the door under the portico with Irvine. “But . . .?”

  “There have been several men lurking about the laboratory. James Lazar, my research partner, shooed them off again yesterday. One never knows—a good deal of industrial thievery about—crackpots everywhere.”

  “Are your facilities hereabouts, Mr. Poole?”

  “Why, I’m in research, Detective Lewis—at University, here in town.”

  “Would you mind if Miss Greyville-Nugent and I pay a call tomorrow? Say, late afternoon?”

  The man positively beamed—or was that a sign of relief? “Stay to your right, third building west of McEwan Hall.”

  “Look forward to it.” Rafe accompanied Poole out the entry and took up a spot beside Fanny—and a visibly disgruntled Nigel. “Why is he still here? What am I to make of this, Fanny?” Nigel whined.

  “Make nothing of it,” Fanny cajoled. “Now please, Nigel, say good night.”

  Rafe nodded affably. “Yes, please do say good night.”

  Nigel donned his hat, directing a warning glare at Rafe. “Contact me at once, should there be any trouble.”

  “Pishposh, Nigel, I expect no difficulties.” Her scoff was gentle, though she firmly turned him toward his waiting carriage.