A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  Fanny rolled onto her side and tucked herself into the niche of his body. Resting her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes. “Well done, Raphael.”

  FANNY LAY IN bed and ran a hand over her belly. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. They had made love. Something she had thought about—dreamed about—for years. And she was not disappointed. Far from it.

  Her fingers slipped between her legs, where proof of his invasion remained. A slippery translucent substance moistened her fingers. She sat up and tossed the covers back, searching for evidence of her lost innocence. Nothing much to speak of, perhaps a bit of pink on the sheet.

  Fanny swung her legs over the side of the bed and her toes brushed the floor carpet. The room tilted back and forth. Her head hurt. Rubbing her eyes, she vaguely remembered Rafe kissing her temple. “Sleep in, darling. I’m off to find Professor Minnow.”

  She washed up and dressed, leaving the buttons on her frock for Mrs. Coates downstairs.

  “There, now.” The kind woman’s nimble fingers fastened her dress. “By the looks of you, I’d guess a strong cup o’ tea and toast might be just the cure.”

  Fanny tugged up a lopsided smile. “A bit green, am I?” She sat at the kitchen worktable and eyed a pile of carrots. She took up a knife. “Would you like these sliced or diced, Mrs. Coates?”

  “Oh dear, never mind the chopping.”

  “Even as a child, I enjoyed helping out. At first, cook chased me out, but she gave in when I kept pestering.”

  Mrs. Coates placed the tea service on the table. “Dice them up, then—but drink your tea first. I’ll not have you cutting yourself and bleeding all over my kitchen.”

  The housekeeper sliced into a loaf of bread. “Young Harry likes to help shuck peas. Such a sweet child, misses his father something terrible when he’s in town.” The woman laid the bread on top of the stove to toast. “We almost lost him as wee ’un. Child was a sickly infant. Mr. Lewis fretted over him so. But the lad pulled through, and will you look at him now?”

  Fanny gulped her tea and poured another cup. “Where is Harry?”

  “Down the lane and across the dell at the pond—digging up worms. The two of ’em fish off Angel Bridge. They’ve been known to bring back a line of perch a time or two, but I don’t count on it for supper.”

  Fanny looked up from her chopping. “Is there a study in the house I might use? I need to write a letter of some urgency.”

  “Why, yes, I don’t believe Mr. Lewis would mind. The first door down the hall past the parlor.”

  Rafe’s study was small and lined with bookshelves. Pale light from a north-facing window poured over a simple secretary desk. Circling the room, Fanny ran her fingers over well-worn spines. Familiar names: Haggard, Stevenson, Cooper. Many of his favorite authors were hers as well.

  Something Rafe had said in the midst of their harrowing journey had continued to niggle at the back of her mind, something vaguely unsettling about Claire’s letter. Rafe recalled a missive that implied her impending engagement with the Duke of Grafton. Patently absurd, but nonetheless disturbing, for Rafe would not have made up such a thing. In point of fact, he had fully confessed his betrayal of affection and made no excuse for his lack of morals.

  She took a seat and opened the top drawer of his desk in search of notepaper. It was true that she and Claire had been writing to Nigel, knowing full well what a gossip he was—every word was bound to reach Rafe. But the letter was meant as a tease, something she and Rafe would laugh over once they returned from the Continent.

  Setting aside two letters from Vertiline, she removed a sheet of stationery from the drawer. Dipping pen into inkpot, Fanny scratched out a brief message. She bit her lip. If Claire were back in Edinburgh, a cable would reach her faster. Perhaps she could ask Mrs. Coates to send a wire. Fanny finished her message and reached for a blotter. Finding none, she opened the deep desk drawer.

  She spotted the blotter behind several tall stacks of letters. As she lifted one of the bundles she recognized the hand as Rafe’s. The top envelope was addressed to Francine Greyville-Nugent. Fanny’s heart fluttered in her chest. Gingerly, she fingered the soft twine that held the missives together and pulled the cord.

  Sifting through the pile, her fingers trembled. Every one was addressed to her. Fanny swallowed, remembering their argument at the farm. It’s been nearly five years—you might have written. She shivered as though he stood beside her this very moment. I wrote—many times. I just never posted a single letter. She opened the top envelope on the stack.

  June 10, 1885

  My dearest Fanny,

  How I miss you. I hope this letter finds you well. The gunshot wound to my chest continues to heal without infection. Doctor says I shall soon be fit enough to return to duty. As much as I have enjoyed the company of my toddling son and housekeeper these few weeks, I am also anxious to return to work and the distractions of London.

  There were several charming paragraphs about Harry. Apparently Rafe had been keeping a one-sided correspondence with her. Fanny skimmed down.

  There is a void in my heart and an empty place in my soul where you will always reside—I shall never find another in all the world like you, nor do I deserve to—

  The words blurred, and she had to squint to read his last lines.

  Last night I held you in my arms. Heaven. Then I awoke from the dream.

  All my love,

  Rafe

  She allowed herself a brief, quiet weep. It was as much a cry of joy as it was of sorrow. When this nightmare was over, she and Rafe would have a good long talk, make amends, and refer to these days together as their adventure. Fanny wiped away a lagging tear and sighed. They might take up the life they had set aside five years ago, the one that, God willing, still awaited them.

  She retied the bundle of letters and put them back into the drawer. If, one day, Rafe wished to show them to her, she would sit down and read each one carefully. Fanny inhaled a deep breath and exhaled a gentle sigh. For now, it was enough to know he had cared enough to write. Hundreds, he had said.

  She folded her note and returned to the kitchen. “When you get the chance, Mrs. Coates, would you send this off for me—at the wire office?” Fanny smiled and patted the skirt of her dress. “I’m afraid I haven’t a farthing on me.”

  The housekeeper pocketed the note. “Don’t worry, miss. I’ll take it out of the household kitty.”

  “Thank you.” Fanny took in a deep breath. “I thought I might join Harry for a bit of worm pulling.”

  “Just down the road on yer left.”

  The sky above Nettlebed was clear, and the sun was warm as Fanny walked down the narrow gravel road and into a field of clover. The pond, more of a large puddle, was nestled into a slope by a giant spreading oak.

  A chestnut head of hair bobbed up and down behind the tall grass at the pond’s edge. “How many so far, Harry?” she called out to him.

  The lad sprang up out of the tall grass. “Come and look.” The boy held up a tin. Fanny peered inside the can. “Ooh, I see a few lovely fat ones,” she said.

  He picked up a spade and moved to a muddy spot along a stand of cattails. “There’s always more down here.”

  The long low limbs of the oak spread out overhead. “Quite a good climbing tree, wouldn’t you say, Harry?”

  He looked up. “I’m allowed up to there.” He pointed to a thick low branch that hung out over the pond. “Father says if I fall, I can’t hurt myself too badly.”

  The boy smiled and it took her breath away. A miniature version of Rafe. “As a matter of fact, your father once had to talk me down from an old oak tree. I climbed so high, I became frightened.” The boy stared at her in the curious way a child does. Fanny smiled. “Would you like me to dig, and you can pull?”

  In short order they amassed a tin full of worms, enough for a nice long afternoon of fishing. Goodness, an entire afternoon of leisure. She realized that Rafe must have made up his mind to wait for the professo
r’s submarine.

  They started back along a narrow trail through the meadow. Harry ran ahead, chasing after something. Fanny craned her neck to see. He marched out of the grass triumphantly holding a bright green frog for her to examine.

  “Marvelous creature.” She stroked the pale green stripe down its back. “Put him back now. He has a wife and tadpoles at home on the lily pad.”

  Walking along the gentle winding lane, she found the neighborhood delightfully charming. “Are we in the Cotswolds?”

  Harry looked up at her. “This is Catslip Lane.”

  The squeak of carriage springs and the clink of harness rattled down the road. Fanny glanced behind them. A carriage wound its way through the quiet neighborhood. She smiled. “I’ll ask your father.”

  “He’s gone to Henley.”

  The tiny small hairs on her neck stood on end. Fanny turned back to take another look. The carriage swayed around a curve and increased speed. Alarmed, she turned to the boy. “Shall we have a footrace? First one to the garden gate wins.” Fanny picked up her skirt and ran after the boy, who sprinted down the lane ahead of her, oblivious to any danger.

  Creaky wheels and pounding hooves signaled that the carriage was right behind them. She swept Harry up in her arms and tossed them both into a hedgerow by the side of the road.

  The carriage swept past them at a furious pace. For a split second, Fanny breathed a sigh of relief. But the carriage slowed and, worse yet, stopped quite close to the house.

  Harry’s tin of worms rolled into the drainage gutter. “We must find your father.” She pulled him close. “Can you run all the way to Henley?”

  Wide-eyed, the boy nodded his head.

  Fanny grabbed Harry by the hand and they ran down the road in the opposite direction.

  “Halt right there. I’d rather not shoot you or the boy.”

  Fanny slowed to a walk, then a stop. She and Harry pivoted toward the threat. Not one natty bloke but two. Both of them stood at the rear of the carriage, weapons raised.

  She squeezed Harry’s hand. “Get ready to run again.”

  There was a sharp bend in the lane just yards away. If they could reach that turn, the men wouldn’t have much of a shot. How she and the lad would ever outrun these men she had no idea, but she meant try.

  She backed away as the gunmen stepped forward. “Run, Harry!”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “By any chance . . .” Rafe shouted over the motorized pump. “Have you seen Professor Minnow?”

  Mr. Spottesworth throttled down the motor on the bilge pump. “Left him outside the Bird In Hand last evening.”

  “The professor is nowhere to be found in the village.”

  “I walked him down the lane, pointed him your way.” The man wiped his hand on an oil-soiled rag. “I expect he’ll turn up, sir. A man can’t go missing for long in these parts.”

  The underwater craft bobbed peaceably in the river. Rafe tried not to look too wary. “I shall have another look along the road.” He turned, then pivoted back. “Might you be able to tow the submersible to London?”

  Spottesworth removed his cap for a scratch. “Well, now, I suppose that could be arranged, sir.”

  “Arrange it.” He borrowed a pen and slip of paper. “Deliver the submarine to Harbor Patrol and tell them to alert Special Branch, Scotland Yard.” He handed over the message along with near half a quid.

  Rafe hurried his pace, ruminating over his missing charge with an increasing sense of dread. He searched a ragged length of hedgerow along the lane just in case the professor had fallen into the shrub and passed out. Peering through a tangle of greenery, he thought of last night—just before dawn. The lovemaking had been nothing short of astonishing. Fanny had always been sexually appealing—even sensual in a natural, unaffected way. But how wonderfully receptive and adventurous she was as a lover.

  At a curve in the lane, he heard the distinctive lurch of a carriage and an ear-piercing scream he’d recognize anywhere. Rafe froze at the sound.

  “Let go! Get off me.”

  His heart leaped into a hard, fast pounding in his chest as he rounded the corner. The carriage driver snapped his whip over the heads of the team hurtling down on him. Rafe jumped to one side of the road and caught a glimpse inside the vehicle. Fanny struggled with someone, he was sure of it.

  “Rafe!” Her cry was muffled in a cloud of dust.

  He dove for a loose baggage strap at the rear of the carriage and pulled himself onto a luggage platform. Poking his head around the side of the coach, he looked for a foothold somewhere. Rafe heard a click, and looked up into a blast from a pistol.

  The bullet missed.

  The surly fellow angled himself farther outside the carriage and Rafe grabbed for the revolver. He wrenched the gun from the man’s hand, but it flew out of his grasp and into the dirt by the side of the lane.

  Rafe made a split-second decision and let go. A painful landing on his shoulder signaled something else was wrong. He sat up and checked his arm. His sleeve was red. Bollocks, the man had winged him.

  He rolled onto his feet and ran back to recover the gun. He passed a rusty old tin in the road. A scattering of worms squiggled and squirmed in the dirt. Rafe slowed and stared.

  Dear God. They’d got Harry as well.

  A charge of energy shot through his body. He dashed across the meadow and around the pond. Catslip Lane curved in a near half circle before straightening out toward Henley. He scrambled up the old oak, ducked a few low-hanging branches, and stepped out onto a limb that overhung the road. Rafe waited for the carriage to pass under and vaulted onto the roof,

  The driver turned and Rafe fired. Nothing but a click. Christ! Jammed or empty. He pocketed the gun and threw himself at the driver, only to be tackled by another bloke from behind.

  The carriage turned onto the faster, straighter road and picked up speed. The driver tossed his friend a weapon. Rafe lunged for the pistol as did his attacker, and they rolled to one side of the carriage. Gripping the barrel end of the revolver, the man pressed down the trigger. Rafe two-handed the barrel and shoved it aside. A blast of gunpowder covered his cheek and eye. The hearing in his ear cut out.

  Rafe swung and connected. The man struck back, but Rafe dodged the blow. Bare knuckles connected with the roof of the carriage. The man yelped and Rafe pushed him off and scrambled away. Where was the gun? The dark-eyed natty bloke with the weird grimace rolled over and pointed the weapon. Rafe struck out with his leg and kicked the man off the vehicle.

  As the desperate man fell, he reached out and caught Rafe’s ankle, pulling him off the roof. Twisting in midair, Rafe grabbed hold of a ridge at the roofline and dangled alongside the vehicle. He stared through the coach window into the eyes of his terrified son.

  This time when Rafe landed, there was a nasty crunch and a thud. He managed to lift his head. The carriage rolled away in a cloud of gravel dust and . . . stars. Drifting at the edge of consciousness, his head fell back.

  Rafe willed himself out of darkness. They had Fanny and Harry.

  The stars faded and his sight returned. An odd-sounding exhale blew across the nape of his neck. Rafe shot up off the body of his attacker and scrambled to his feet. Swaying, he looked down at a contorted grimace, frozen in death. The twisted body lay on the ground, eyes straight ahead, the skull turned at a disturbing, unnatural angle. The fall had broken the man’s neck.

  Good riddance.

  Rafe struggled for breath. He wheezed every inhale and there was no exhale whatsoever. He waited until he could draw breath more naturally.

  With nothing to be done for the dead bloke, Rafe turned toward the road. Something caught his eye—a sparkle in a rough brown patch of earth beside the body. He blinked and the shiny object blinked back. He picked up the jewelry piece and turned it over in his palm. A circular tiepin. Two golden circles—a wheel within a wheel. A large round sapphire had been set into the precious metal where the two circles came together. A badge si
gnifying rank, or some sort of medal?

  Rafe pocketed the pin and checked the revolver. There had been no malfunction—the chambers were empty. Rafe jogged down the road in hopes of finding the gun he had kicked out of the dead assailant’s hand.

  Now that Mallory’s men held captives, he was quite sure they’d keep to the carriage rather than risk the train stations. What he needed was a fast mount to catch them. Rafe gave up his search for the second gun, picked up his pace, and ran straight for the village.

  Turning onto High Street, he spied a rider and nice-looking mount readying to leave town. Rafe pulled out the revolver and grabbed hold of the reins.

  Startled, the disgruntled rider took a slash at him with his riding crop, and the horse reared.

  Rafe yanked the whip away. “Pardon the inconvenience, but I need your horse.” He caught the man by his jacket lapels and yanked him off his saddle.

  The wild-eyed equine snorted and pranced, but Rafe managed to lift himself onto the steed’s strong back. He toed into the stirrups—about right, not too short. He spun the horse around. “Wire Detective Kennedy, Scotland Yard, tell him Miss Greyville-Nugent has been abducted along with a child.”

  Rafe dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and the animal moved out nicely. Excellent. In no time at all, they would make up lost ground.

  FANNY NARROWED HER gaze on the man across the aisle. “Let me have the boy.”

  The bug-eyed brute holding Harry leered at her. She hardly knew who was worse, this ogler who made her skin crawl or the bearded and grim-faced man beside her, whose long fingers wrapped around her neck and tightened.

  Stuffed in the opposite corner of the carriage, a bound and gagged Professor Minnow appeared miserable enough. His eyes were red and swollen, and not all of the damage had come from drink.