A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  “Very well. I will travel to London.” She chewed on that plump bottom lip again. “The moment we arrive, Detective Lewis, you will take me directly to Scotland Yard, where I will demand my rights as a citizen. I am quite certain my detention is unlawful and unwarranted.” Fanny tilted her chin. “There are plenty of excellent solicitors in London. I will file suit against Her Majesty’s Royal Empire if I am not released. And promptly.”

  Rafe’s mouth twitched. “Spoken like a true mogul of industry.”

  She crossed her arms under her chest. “And I want a new change of wardrobe—proper traveling clothes and a straw boater.” She leaned forward with a glare. “Straightaway, if you please, Detective Lewis!”

  Hugh grinned. “It occurs to me you could wire staff in Edinburgh, have a trunk of Fanny’s things shipped here before she wakes this afternoon.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I say we catch the first train south. We’ll purchase a sleeper or a compartment. Fanny can rest on the train.”

  Hugh checked his pocket watch. “If you leave now, I can accompany you as far as the border to help with protection.” The naval operative shrugged on a topcoat.

  Rafe turned to Fanny. “There is no reason why a trunk could not be delivered to London. Small recompense, after what you’ve been through, but still, your own things will bring some comfort.” He tried an encouraging smile.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I suppose that means I wear this sad little frock all the way to London.”

  Rafe sighed. “Smile, Fanny, and no one will notice.”

  “We’d best get going, then.” Hugh unlocked a traveling chest and removed two double-barreled rifles along with a number of shells, which he stuffed in his pocket. He passed one of the long guns to the professor. “Two triggers. Here and here.” He pointed to both finger pulls. “Take care, Professor—these guns are custom-made by John Rigby—paid a bloody fortune for them.” Curzon kept the other rifle, grabbed a pistol for himself and a box of ammunition, which he tossed to Rafe.

  Agent Curzon led them down every rat-infested alleyway in Glasgow until they reached George Street Square. Hugh nodded across the thoroughfare. “Queen Street station.” Huddled together behind the Willow Tea Room, they watched the entry into an annex of the station.

  Minnow hiked the rifle under his long coat. “Trains headed south leave from platforms at the far end.”

  Rafe nodded to Hugh. “You and the professor go in first. Locate the train with the most immediate departure.” Rafe reached back for Fanny’s hand, which he received. “Fanny and I will slip in quietly and find you.”

  Hugh and the professor dodged a few cabs and carriages and walked straight in the entrance as casual as you please. “We’ll give them a few minutes to check the departure board and locate the platform.” Rafe leaned back against rough brick. “Is something the matter? You are entirely too quiet and cooperative.” He felt her forehead. “Are you well?”

  She slapped his hand away. “You know how I feel about pushing on to London. I put all of you at risk—don’t argue with me, Rafe. Plainly, you do not care about my feelings on the matter. I find this most disloyal of you and rather wormlike—scuttling there and about at Scotland Yard’s bidding.” Fanny sniffed.

  Rafe exhaled a sigh of relief. “The worm part hurts, Fan.”

  Her gaze rolled skyward. “A devilish, lowly worm at that.”

  “Worms are, by definition, lowly.” He grinned. She could hurl all the names she wanted at him. The adorable, spirited Fanny was back. “Come.” He took up her hand. “Save your vitriol for when we’re safely aboard and on our way.”

  Weaving through a tangle of travelers milling about the station, they worked their way to the far end of the train shed. Fanny leaned in. “The large man ahead, isn’t that the professor?”

  “I see him.” They were almost upon the platform when he caught sight of Hugh behind a baggage cart. The secret service agent’s rifle rested on a traveling trunk and pointed directly at them . . . until the barrels swiveled. The hairs on the back of Rafe’s neck stood on end. Curzon was quietly signaling that they were being shadowed. He released his grip on her hand and drew his pistol. “Quickly, Fan, run on ahead.”

  In an attempt to draw their pursuers off, Rafe dodged his way through a bustle of passengers scurrying in the opposite direction. He caught a glimpse of the professor. Minnow whisked Fanny inside a passenger car and stationed himself on the steps. Rafe scanned over to Hugh, who lifted his firearm and retreated back toward the railcar. The sight of a man brandishing a long gun sent the crowd into a panic and the travelers began to stampede. Good man, Curzon.

  Rafe glanced behind him. There—several passengers back, he spotted the familiar pockmarked face of their pursuer in the field outside Bathgate—the man who had pointed a gun at Fanny. And there was another dark-suited, surly chap right beside him.

  Swept along in the rush of the crowd, Rafe fought his way through the teeming masses. A shot fired from the rear. The poor man next to him grunted and dropped to the ground. More screams as the horde swelled and began to scatter in all directions. The train was leaving. In fact, the last railcars were approaching the end of the platform.

  He had to make that train. Rafe ducked between travelers and headed for a great ironwork stairway that led to the street above. He launched himself upward, taking two steps at a time. The two blokes behind him jostled past commuters as they chased after him.

  As soon as the pedestrian traffic cleared, Rafe turned and fired his revolver. One of the gunmen slumped and rolled down the steps. The other culprit leaped over the tumbling body, menace in his eyes. Rafe made the landing and vaulted over the railing. There was a breathless moment of free fall and then a terrible thud as he landed on the roof of the departing train. He rolled onto his side, and peered behind him.

  A hand shot up from the back of the last railcar, then everything went black. Rafe sat up and shook the buzzing from his ears. The chug of the engine and shrill whistle echoed through the tunnel, along with the smell and taste of cinders and smoke. He could just make out a head and shoulders rising from the rear of the train. Where was his gun?

  As quickly as they were plunged into darkness, it was light again. The ruddy-faced man pulled himself onto the roof, pistol in hand.

  A desperate, quick scan located his Webley. The revolver had skittered along the edge of the railcar’s roofline. His beady-eyed pursuer flashed a maniacal grin. “Well now, I finally get rid of you, Detective Lewis.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rafe lunged for his revolver. Sliding along the edge of the railcar’s roofline, he grabbed the gun just as a shot fired overhead. “On behalf of Scotland Yard, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to surrender your weapon.” Rafe hardly knew which way to look. Arching backward he caught sight of Hugh Curzon with a smoking rifle. He rolled onto his back and sat up. His stunned attacker sank to his knees, a red crimson spot widening on his chest.

  Hugh climbed onto the roof and walked toward them, rifle aimed at the natty bloke whose eyes glazed over and rolled up into his head. Hugh lifted his boot, and tipped the dead man onto his back. A pool of blood oozed from around the upper torso. Crimson rivulets ran down shallow grooves etched in the roof. Hugh offered a hand up and stayed with Rafe to make sure he was steady on his feet. “All right?”

  “Grand timing, Curzon.” Rafe nudged the corpse with his foot. “Shall we?” Trailing a thick smear of red, they dragged the body to the edge of the car and rolled him off. The body hit the adjacent rail tracks just as a northbound train whistled past. Hard to know what happened next as both trains swept past each other. Rafe enjoyed a fleeting fantasy—something bludgeoning, gruesome, and disturbing. He was becoming as bad as the natty blokes.

  Hugh nodded ahead. “Another tunnel coming.” They both dropped down between cars, and climbed from baggage to passenger carriages. “In here.” Hugh opened the door to a private sleeper compartment.

  Fanny sat comfortably on a plus
h leather seat opposite the professor with a platter of biscuits and a teapot beside her. “You never told me Scotland Yard travels first-class, Rafe.” She chewed her biscuit. “Is everything all right?”

  Rafe sat on the other side of the tray and sampled a small cake. “Two less natty blokes to worry ourselves about. I plugged one in the station and Hugh got the other, saving my life in the process.”

  Fanny’s eyes widened above a tipped cup. “I suppose I should thank you for that, Hugh, only I’d rather not.” She returned cup to saucer with a clink.

  “Still angry with us, Fan?”

  Fanny tilted her chin. “My displeasure with you, at the moment, is boundless. One might even say it reaches infinitude.”

  Rafe raised a brow. “My, that is a great deal of vexation.”

  Hugh placed his double-barreled rifle in an overhead rack and settled in beside the professor. “Infinitude . . . would that be longer or larger than an eternity?”

  She cast a glare across the aisle. “For the moment, I am locked in a terrible dilemma. Either be abducted by horrid Utopian Society minions or be imprisoned by Scotland Yard.”

  “You are in custody, darling.” Rafe reached for another cake. “And our accommodations are so much more . . . accommodating than theirs, unless you’d like for me to tie you to a skip loader at the bottom of mine-shaft.”

  “Not amusing, Rafe.” She stared out the window, hands clenched in her lap.

  He was laughing. “Really? I find it rather droll.” The look on her face stopped him cold. “Come now, Fanny, I’m only teasing . . .”

  She continued to gaze out the glass, and refused to speak.

  “Is there a pack of cards about?” Hugh poured himself a cup of tea from the tray. “Adorable as it is, I’d rather not listen to the two of you bicker for the next few hours.”

  Rafe settled back. “I’d like to conduct a debriefing first—starting with Fanny.”

  She looked alarmed. “Must we?”

  Rafe tempered a grin that might put her off. Minnow had hunched himself up in the corner and was nodding off. “Professor, feel free to join in anytime.”

  Minnow cracked an eye open. “If I have something to say, I’ll say it.”

  Rafe turned to Fanny. “Could Mallory’s interest in you, if indeed Mallory is our man, have something to do with your father’s secret invention? Do you have any idea what kind of machine it is? And where it might be housed in London?”

  Fanny licked a few biscuit crumbs from her bottom lip. The sight distracted Rafe no end. “I can’t think of anything offhand. I believe the exposition’s theme this year is A Better Britain, A Better Life.”

  “I have it on good authority yer father’s entry was no war machine.” Minnow resettled his large frame on the compartment bench. “Do a bit of industrial espionage on my own, Detective.”

  “And might I ask about your entry, Professor? You mentioned a submersible?”

  Minnow’s eyes twinkled. “A three-man submersible, twelve tons on her. Powered by a seventeen-horsepower Brayton engine and armed with pneumatic tubes for the launching of torpedoes at enemy ships.”

  Rafe blinked. “My word, Minnow, that is impressive.”

  “She’s tied up in the Oxford canal at Lucy’s Ironworks, being fitted with arc lighting and stainless steel plates. I’ll be needing ye to drop me off in North Oxfordshire so I can motor the Horatio down the Thames in time for my demonstration.” Minnow grinned. “Plenty enough room for the three of us, Detective Lewis.”

  Rafe frowned.

  Hugh leaned forward. “Might be safer than the trains.”

  Fanny arched a wary brow at the elder Scotsman. “You’ve tested this submariner well? I’d hate to be sitting twenty feet underwater and have the main ballast tanks fail.”

  Professor Minnow grinned. “So, it’s true, then. Ambrose had a nautilus of his own in the works. Ha! I knew it! Did a bit o’ testing in the inlet there along Queensferry, I expect.”

  She grinned. “Father had a large boathouse built on the firth. Houses a number of mysterious seaworthy conveyances.” This time it was Fanny’s turn to wink.

  Rafe considered Hugh’s words. The trains coming into London from the north would likely be monitored. “Yes, why not?” He perked up. “We’ll take the submariner.”

  Fanny fidgeted. “Is the debriefing over, because I wish to prepare a wire home. I was promised a trunk of clothes shipped to London, was I not?”

  “Bollocks. I’d quite forgotten.” Rafe reached in his coat for a pencil stub and notepaper. “Fire away.”

  Fanny moistened her lips. “I suppose I should prepare for the worst. At least a week or two of wardrobe.”

  “Depends on how long it takes us to run down these culprits. Might be months.”

  Fanny glared. “Do you have to be so bleak about it?”

  Rafe flattened a grin. “Your list, Fan?”

  “I’ll have the blue and white striped traveling dress with the matching pelisse and the straw skimmer with the cornflower blue ribbons. That will require white petticoats and chemise. White or slate gray stockings and blue garters . . .”

  “Matching garters?” Rafe quirked a brow. “Who the devil even knows what color garters you’re wearing?”

  She stared at him. “I do.”

  Rafe tempered his retort. “Do you always plan your wardrobe down to the color of your unmentionables?” He watched her face flush. “Never mind, of course you do.”

  “I’ll need at least at least five day frocks. The plain blue muslin and the pale yellow pinstripe with the pink and white paisley waistcoat.” She detailed a shirt and jacket and skirt combination before stopping with a sigh. “And I suppose something respectably black.”

  Minnow snored comfortably from his corner and Hugh settled back into the plush bench seating and tipped his hat over his eyes. Rafe noted a half smile from the agent whenever Fanny detailed matching underthings.

  As her day and evening selections proliferated, Rafe developed a kind of shorthand: five day frocks, one black. The train slowed as it pulled into the station. He needed to wire Scotland Yard, as well as send off Fanny’s trunk list. He folded the note.

  She frowned. “We’re not done. I haven’t selected shoes and jewelry.”

  “Oh yes, you have.” Rafe unfolded the paper. “Coordinate shoes, gloves, and jewelry with wardrobe.” He neglected to mention he had already added undergarments to his list of color-coordinated accessories.

  He rousted Hugh and the professor, who took up weapons and followed him out the door. Rafe dipped his head back in the compartment. “Lock us out, Fan.”

  “Address the telegram to Mrs. Lockley and tell her to have Fiona do the packing.” She rose to secure the door. “You might also send a cable to 7 Abercromby Place, to a Mr. J. Silas Connery, my father’s solicitor. He will know where the exposition machine was shipped.”

  Rafe smiled. “Very helpful of you.”

  “Anything to facilitate the demise of the Utopian Society.” She slid the latch.

  Fanny plopped back into her set and yawned. The sun had broken out over the lowlands and warmed the compartment. For the next few hours, she might try to get some sleep. She folded her jacket to use as a pillow and tucked herself into a sunny corner by the window. A myriad of suppressed questions, mostly regarding Rafe’s ill-fated marriage, came bubbling up and she was left with no distraction but to consider yesterday’s revelation.

  Of course, things made better sense now, especially if Rafe had somehow been duped into thinking he’d been jilted. If she recalled correctly, it had been Claire’s idea to write Nigel and mention Fanny’s acquaintance with the Duke of Grafton. Rafe was sure to hear about it secondhand. She bit her lip. The letter had implied a flirtation—enough to nettle Rafe for not making the trip, but nothing that might plunge him into deep despair.

  She felt upended by Rafe’s obvious distress, but also nettled. The longer she thought about the now infamous missive, the more puzzling Rafe�
��s response to their prank became. And it was quite impossible to confront either Nigel or Claire at the moment.

  Fanny adjusted her makeshift pillow. Her eyelids grew heavy. Three raps. She jerked awake. Three more raps. Grumbling, she got up and let her bodyguards in.

  During various stops, either Rafe or Hugh busied themselves sending or collecting telegrams. The farther the train traveled without trouble, the more everyone was able to catch a wink or two of rest.

  “Fanny.” She felt a tug on her sleeve and opened her eyes. “A quick good-bye, before I return to Glasgow.” She blinked and peered out the window. The sign on the station read Lockerbie. They were near the border.

  Hugh leaned over and kissed one cheek, then the other. She reached out and stroked the stubble of beard along his jaw. “It was very nice making your acquaintance, Agent Hugh Curzon.”

  A slow smile curved the edges of a strong mouth. “Likewise, my dear.” He covered her hand in his and brushed the inside of her wrist with his lips. “Love is not love unless it is tested in some way.” He winked at her and backed out the door.

  Hugh hoisted both long guns over his shoulder and wove a path through the travelers on the platform. She thought he turned back once, to look their way, before he disappeared into the crowd.

  She sat back and met the darkest green eyes she had ever seen. Her gaze shifted to the professor. Still snoring. Reluctantly, she returned to Rafe. “Don’t look at me that way.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “You can’t suppose I enjoyed watching that intimate little tête-à-tête.”

  His jealous words could not have touched her more. She inhaled a deep breath and kept her voice down. “I find it rather sweet, this sudden possessiveness of yours.”

  “You are spectacularly lovely, Fanny—even when you try your shrewish best to bedevil me.” Rafe shook his head in wonder. “It’s no wonder men are drawn to you like hounds to the scent. Frankly, I am still a bit bewildered you remain—”

  She interrupted. “Unwed, on the shelf? A spinster?”