“Ah, Mrs. Coates. We’re going to need blankets and a bottle of whiskey—immediately.”
Minnow grunted. “Now yer talking, Detective.”
Rafe looked down at Fanny, who could barely keep her eyes open. She’d gotten a few hours of sleep on the train, but could use a long night’s rest. Rafe yawned. They all could. The personal revelations could wait another day.
Chapter Twenty-four
Fanny awoke to birds chirping and pried an eye open. From the looks of it, she was in a strange room, in a strange bed. But the mattress was soft and the comforter most comforting. Several chatty wrens perched on a ledge just outside the windowsill. Her gaze traveled from small panes of wavy glass, along a swirl of flowered wallpaper to—
She started at the sight of a small person standing in the room. A child with large round eyes stared without blinking.
She lifted her head. “Hello.”
No answer, only a hint of a smile in green eyes flecked with copper. The short pants and the bowl haircut gave him away. “My name is Miss Greyville-Nugent. But you may call me Fanny.”
Still no response, but the eyes did appear to grow wider, if that was possible. “Shall I try to guess your name, then?” Ah, now there was a familiar sort of grin. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and pretended to think very hard. “Might your name be . . . Fenwick?”
The boy shook his head violently.
Fanny wrinkled her brow. “No, I suppose not.” Propped on an elbow, she realized she had no sleeping gown on. Whoever had put her to bed had taken off her clothes. She remembered soaking wet garments and drew the covers close. “Might you be a lieutenant colonel in the dragoons? A Melvin Stewart?”
The child laughed, a golden sparkle in those emerald eyes. Just like—Fanny’s gaze traveled to the man standing in the doorway.
Rafe entered the room in clean shirt and trousers, his waistcoat unbuttoned. “Guessing games are his favorite sport. He’s relentless. He’ll keep you at it all morning.”
Rafe’s hair was damp, glossy—just out of the bath. He looked vibrant and so very masculine. He stopped at the foot of the bed and lowered his gaze. “Sneaking into a lady’s bedchamber?”
The child looked up, unafraid. “You are in a lady’s bedchamber.”
“Yes, but I am quite sure Mrs. Coates has taught you better.” Rafe lowered his chin for a scowl. “Introduce yourself, then go downstairs.” Rafe turned to Fanny. “You take chocolate?”
“Please, with plenty of hot milk and sugar.”
“Have Mrs. Coates ready a breakfast tray.” The boy dipped a polite bow and ran from the room.
“No running in the house.” Rafe leaned against the foot rail and turned to her. “He knows better, I’m sure of it.”
“Father?”
Her heartbeat quickened as her gaze left Rafe and traveled to the little boy, who stood in the open doorway. She felt light-headed. In need of air. As though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
“What is it, Harry?”
“I wished to ask about meringues in her chocolate—but now you’ve gone and told her.”
“Yes, I’m afraid she knows everything.” Rafe’s gaze briefly met hers. “Why don’t you tell our visitor your entire name? The long one.”
“The very long name, or the one with two names?”
“Whichever you’d like.”
The boy turned to her and smiled. “Harry Lewis.”
“I should have guessed Harry. Had you given me a hundred more chances, I would have. Pleased to meet you, Harry.” The ends of her mouth tugged upward. “And I would very much enjoy a nice soft meringue in my cocoa.” Long after Rafe closed the door she stared at the entryway, unsure if she wished to flee or stay.
She felt the mattress dip as he sat on the edge. “Fanny?”
Her gaze slowly scanned the room until their eyes met. She swallowed. “You have a son.”
His eyes were steady, careful. “No one knows, Fanny. Not even Vertiline. Just Mrs. Coates—and now you.”
She very much did not want to cry at this moment, but her eyes insisted on welling. “Might I ask why?” She hardly recognized her own whisper.
Rafe lowered his eyes. “He’ll not pay for my mistakes. I won’t stand for the raised brows, the chilly treatment, especially the cold stares from Mother. I won’t have him treated as the mistake, a burden the St. Aldwyns can ill afford.”
She blinked hard. “Many families take in bastards, Rafe. You were married—”
“To a village smithy’s daughter. If I hadn’t married—just bore the child off to raise—Harry might have had a fighting chance.”
His gaze traveled out the window, past singing birds and into the void. “It seems, in trying to do the right thing, I did the one thing my family might never forgive.”
“But . . . we were to marry, and I’m a commoner, of sorts.”
His grin was wry, cynical. “You come from landed gentry—an ancient, well-respected family. With a dowry the size of a princess.”
It was all suddenly clear. “I had no idea your family needed the money so badly.”
“Harry was barely four months old when Ceilia died. I traveled to London looking for employment. Vertiline wrote and apprised me of the impending St. Aldwyn ruin, and I asked if I might make use of this cottage.” He glanced at her somewhat sheepishly. “During that time I tried to write. I wanted to confess everything to you and my family. But when I learned how empty the coffers were—”
He shrugged. “Eight months later, Reginald married Bess. I do not know the size of the income, but her dowry has likely kept the estate in credit.”
In her mind’s eye, Fanny conjured Dunrobin Hall, sitting on a hill above the firth, the picture of elegant disrepair. Her heart continued to beat erratically from the depths of a sinking stomach. There had been rumors of financial difficulties after the earl died.
Rafe grimaced. “They’ll never forgive me for not marrying you. Can you imagine what Harry would go through?”
A tapping came from the door. “Your breakfast tray, miss.”
“Once you’ve had your chocolate and a nice hot bath, come and find me.” Rafe opened the door for Mrs. Coates.
A spry woman with steel gray hair and a warm smile entered the room. “Your shoes and stockings, dear.” Fanny vaguely remembered the housekeeper from last evening. “I washed them out and let them dry by the stove.”
Fanny glanced out the window. Sunny and bright. “What time is it?”
“A bit after two in the afternoon.” Rafe smiled, exiting the room. “Mrs. Coates washed your clothes. They’re likely dry on the line. I’ll go check.”
“IF YOU PULL up every one of those, there won’t be a morsel left for the rabbits.” Rafe bent over a row of turnips. “And I’d like to know how it is I get the tiresome weeding job while you have all the fun harvesting.”
Harry shook soil off the pale orange root, and placed the carrot in a wooden basket. “But I do weed. Mrs. Coates forces it upon me or—”
Rafe chucked a handful of weeds into the heap beside him. “Or no sweet cream and berries at tea?”
Harry darted up from behind frothy carrot tops and tossed a dirt clod at him. Then another.
“Watch it.” Rafe tossed one back. And another. Within moments a colliding salvo of garden soil projectiles arched across orderly rows of vegetables. “All right, enough, Harry.” Rafe made his way across the garden, dodging chunks of dirt. “No sweet cream and berries for this lad.” He tackled his son and lifted him into the air.
Harry flapped his arms and made like a bird. “Higher!”
“Demanding little devil.”
“Here they are, miss.” Mrs. Coates escorted a freshly washed and dressed Fanny into the garden. His housekeeper gave him and Harry a look—her grim one. “I’ll not have time to make a decent tea if you keep me busy heating water for baths.”
Rafe brought his son gently back to earth. “I’ll scrub him up, Mrs. Coates.”
>
“Again!”
“One last fly.” Rafe whirled the agile little body into the air over his shoulder. Harry squealed in delight. “Shall we have a chat with our guest before you’re off to your tub?”
Rafe plunked himself down on the garden bench beside Fanny. “Careful, he can be a monster.”
“I must say a very charming monster.”
Harry wriggled off his lap to sit between them. “Yes, that’s just it. Monsters are often charming. That’s how they worm their way into your heart,” he said.
Fanny’s smile seemed thin—forced, actually. She turned to Harry. “Can you tell me the names of all the vegetables you grow?” She rose from the stone seat. “Better yet, why don’t you show me?” Harry slipped off the bench and held out a dirty hand.
“Look at those filthy little digits.” Rafe relaxed onto the bench. “Most girls wouldn’t hold hands with you.”
She took the small hand in her own and winked at him. “Where is the professor? Gone off to dredge up his submersible?”
Rafe nodded. “He was up before me this morning. Found a bloke just south of here with a bilge pump. I thought we’d have a bit of tea and catch up with Professor Minnow at the tavern later.”
“What about this row?” she queried Harry, then turned to Rafe. “You’ve made arrangements to meet?”
Rafe grinned. “There are four pubs in town—five counting the Rose and Crown Inn. We’ll find him.”
Harry pointed to a feathery clump of green. “Radishes.” He looked up at Fanny. “Is Professor Minnow a fish?”
Fanny knelt down to finger the fernlike leaves. “The professor is the inventor of a ship that can sail underwater.”
“Oh, like a minnow.” Harry smiled knowingly.
Fanny laughed. “Very much like a fish.”
Rafe stretched his legs out and savored the sight of Harry and Fanny stepping carefully between the cucumbers and wax beans. He knew well and good he had left questions unanswered. Even now he could see the wheels turn in that wickedly clever brain of hers.
History to ponder.
Timelines to puzzle over.
Half-truths to ruminate on.
Sins to atone for.
She would have a million questions about all of it. Emotions were likely to run deep, far deeper than any simple explanation he could provide. He had wanted to wait until this whole frightening episode in her life was over. Until he had this crazy lot of anti-progressives, Bellecorte Mallory included, tossed into the Newgate jail. Case closed.
Rafe entered the house to check on Harry’s bath. Perhaps the pub was a good idea, where a few drams of whiskey couldn’t hurt. A public place where she wouldn’t cry or wail or carry on. Much.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Are you quite sure?” Rafe raised a brow. “What about the motor?”
“If the seals hold to the engine compartment, the Brayton will be bone dry.” Professor Minnow lifted his glass of stout to another man at the bar. “I’m telling ye, she’s nearly afloat. Mr. Roger Spottesworth here has called up another pump from Reading. Be here in the morning. She’ll be seaworthy by afternoon.”
Rafe paid for a bottle and two pints. “Have another on me, gentlemen.” He scooped up two small glasses and headed for a table placed near a large hearth. Glowing embers added a rosy hue to Fanny’s cheeks.
“The professor says the submariner will be ready to shove off by afternoon tomorrow.” Rafe kicked out a chair and set their glasses down.
Fanny frowned. “I’m not in any mood to go belowdecks, are you? Not until I’m assured he’s solved his ballast problems.”
Rafe uncorked the bottle and poured them both a glass. “You do seem rather concerned with ballast problems. Apart from our sinking yesterday, what makes you so wary?”
She sipped a drop of whiskey. “Father also experienced ballast tank problems. Rather tricky managing fore, aft, and main tanks on a vessel less than fifty tons. It’s my theory the trouble would disappear with a larger warship, where small displacements of air—that is, changes in buoyancy—wouldn’t cause such unmanageable effects.”
Rafe sat back in his chair and grinned. “Tell me, Fanny, how involved with your father’s work were you?” He swallowed half a dram. “Truthfully, this time.”
Fanny’s eyes narrowed slowly. “Truth, is it?” She raised her drink and held it to her lips. “All right. If it is truth you want—truth is what you shall receive. But I will require the same of you.” She emptied her glass and set it on the table. “Truth for truth, Detective Lewis.”
Rafe met her narrow squint with one of his own. “Me first.”
She nodded her go-ahead.
“You refer to a submarine as a warship—why?”
“Can you think of any other use, apart from scientific studies, for such a stealth ship?”
Rafe shrugged. “Spying?”
“A line item the size of a submarine on the Home Office ledger?” She rolled her eyes upward. “That would be an allowance in the Ministry of War budget, would it not?”
“Spoken like a defense contractor.” Rafe grinned. “Scotland Yard might make use of such a craft.”
“Irish Americans financed a submarine project in America. I believe it sank—weighed down by too much dynamite, I expect.” Fanny’s eyes danced from the firelight. “I’m trying to picture you trolling the Thames for anarchist bombs.”
Rafe poured and she picked up her glass. “My turn. How is it . . .” She hesitated. “How is it you waited until the night of our engagement ball to call off the marriage?”
Rafe took in a breath and exhaled. “I suppose I could have sent a wire—‘Sorry darling, but I can’t marry you. Stop. Got a girl bagged. Stop. Already hitched.’”
Fanny’s eyes glistened. The sight made him swallow. He reached across the table and rotated his glass. “I had a mind to come to you in person. But I was late getting to Edinburgh. Ceilia was having a rough time—the pregnancy was difficult. As you well know, I arrived just hours ahead of the ball.”
Rafe shook his head. “I remember walking into the hall, joking with family and friends and thinking, ‘Dear God, what have I done?’” He picked up his glass and tossed it back, welcoming the whiskey burn. “Then you walked out on the terrace.” A faint smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “You were the loveliest little thing—exquisite, actually.”
“Ravishing.” She swallowed. “I believe that was the word you used.” The blush on her cheeks didn’t come from the warmth of the hearth.
“All of that and more.” Rafe stared at the beauty across the table and pictured the dazzling lavender gown she had worn that evening. Shoulders bared, her alabaster skin glowed in the moonlight. “I nearly had you right there on the balcony.”
“Yes, if it hadn’t been for Father and Eliza Murray—quite an inopportune moment, as I recall. What exactly did you and Father discuss, afterward, in his study?”
Rafe uncorked the bottle again. “I believe the next question is mine.”
Fanny crossed her arms under her chest and raised a brow.
“What kind of machine did your father have shipped to London?”
“Ha!” She leaned forward. “I have no idea. Sorry, Rafe.”
He frowned. “Truth?”
She raised her pledge hand. “On the lives of Her Majesty’s Fusiliers, if any of our foot soldiers are left alive.” Her eyes teased momentarily.
“I did sacrifice a few men at the loch. Good cause, though.”
“Honestly, Rafe, I’d tell you if I knew. Father called it a surprise—for me. We’ll find out soon enough when we reach London. You haven’t heard from the solicitor, Mr. Connery?”
“Only one wire today.” His eyes shifted away. “They’ve discovered another body. An industrialist, or so they believe.”
Eyes wider. “What happened?”
“Is that your question?”
“Yes.”
Rafe filled both their glasses. “All this truth requires liquid
courage.”
He tilted his chair back. “This time, they found parts of a torso. Head’s missing—parts of hands and legs. Grisly, as if the man was drawn and quartered.”
Fanny slumped in her chair. “Sounds like Mallory.”
“Our villain likes to keep things interesting. A bobby on patrol found a bloodied piece of waistcoat in Savoy Row. There was a card in the pocket with the name of a munitions factory in Newcastle.”
“Newcastle.” Fanny pressed her lips together and squinted. “I might have a name for you.”
Rafe rocked forward. “Who?”
“Is this your question?”
He nodded.
Fanny looked up from her glass. “William George Armstrong. He owns Elswick Works. Hydraulic machinery and heavy artillery. The Armstrong gun is a rifled cannon, which gives the gun gyroscopic stability and improved accuracy. ’Tis a very powerful cannon with range as well.” Her voice grew faint and a bit raspy. “Reportedly, projectiles fired from the gun can pierce a ship and explode inside an enemy vessel, which would increase the damage, and casualties.” She drained her glass.
Rafe started to pour then tipped the bottle up. “How much more can you handle?”
“One more. And I will count that as a question. Now I have two.” Fanny leaned forward. “What exactly did you and Father discuss in his study, after he and Eliza caught us on the balcony?”
“I confessed everything—well, most everything. When I finished, Ambrose was actually rather civil. He told me he’d never forgive me for such a betrayal. For injuring you so—and then he said a funny thing. He said, ‘God damn you—you’ve done the right thing, Rafe.’”
Fanny’s mouth dropped open somewhere along the telling. “Father never said a word.” Her gaze traveled the room. Glazed eyes that focused nowhere until, at last, they connected with him. “Did you . . .” She caught her breath. “Did you . . . love her? Ceilia?
“Very sadly.” His eyes never left hers. “Yes.”
“Why is that sad?” Her speech was nearly a whisper.
“Because I didn’t love her . . . not at first.” Fanny’s eyes filled with unshed tears. Rafe handed her his pocket square and she pressed it to her eyes. “Thank you.” She continued to dab at the evidence of her sorrow.
A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis Page 21