A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  “Not quite five.”

  “His name?”

  Rafe eyed the file with his name on it. “Harrison Gabriel Lewis.”

  Zeno looked up from the folder. “Is there a . . . Mrs. Lewis we should know about?”

  “Deceased.”

  A rap at the door brought a lab technician in to look at his wound. Zeno closed his file. Reluctantly, Rafe shrugged out of his shirt. He turned to confront stunned looks on the men’s faces. “What?”

  “Christ, Rafe.” Zeno shook his head. “Is there a place on your body that isn’t wounded or bruised?”

  He looked down at his torso. “Those last two tumbles off the carriage did a bit more damage than I thought.”

  Zeno blinked. “You rode all the way to London in this state?”

  “I can tape the ribs for now, but—” The technician got out several rolls of muslin cloth from a medical kit. “You should see a doctor.”

  Melville grimaced. “Sorry we didn’t get more help out to you.”

  “I understand we’re short on manpower.” Rafe winced as the lab man pulled the bandage tight.

  Flynn poked his head in the door. “Blimey—you get hit by a train?”

  RAFE PRESSED UP against the warehouse. Under cover of fog, he and Flynn were back in the warehouse district along with Alfred, the Yard’s trusty bloodhound. Getting to Henry Street had been tediously slow. During a black fog, emergency workers with large torches slowed every vehicle at main intersections throughout the city.

  Flynn emerged from the brownish-yellow haze wielding a pair of bolt cutters. “A real pea souper this evening. Spot of luck, wot?” Rafe stepped back. Flynn snapped off the padlock. “You’re sure this is the storehouse?”

  “More like a guess, really.” Rafe led the Yard dog through the door of the warehouse. “Alfred will let us know quick enough.” The floor was sticky, as if it had been newly tarred. Alfred sniffed and licked.

  Flynn lowered onto his haunches and rubbed the sticky substance between fingers. “Sugar residue—leaks through the wine casks.”

  Rafe toggled the switch on his torch. Nothing—as usual. He slapped the metal cylinder in the palm of his hand and a swath of light lit up the floor in front of them. Rafe peered into the vast surroundings of the warehouse. “We could use more light,” he said.

  “Sorry. Broke mine over a dynamiter’s head a month ago.” Rafe had to imagine the grin on Flynn’s face. A swath of low-lying dark mist crept under the cracks of the warehouse doors. The dense fog invaded everywhere. “I put a requisition in for another.”

  “That will take a year.” Rafe passed a stack of tea chests a full story tall. The larger warehouses were partitioned off in sections. Rafe’s nose twitched from the pungent smell of tobacco mixed with tea leaves and rum—an intriguing brew.

  Alfred strained on his leash. “Here we go—what’s up, old boy?” Rafe asked. The dog sniffed along the stone floor and arrived at a pile of horse droppings. Flynn stepped around the hound.

  Rafe noted the wheel tracks and hoof prints. “So they brought the carriage into the midsection.” He swung his torch over to a wide set of doors. “Likely exited there as well.”

  Gingerly, they both walked the approximate perimeter of the horse and carriage, looking for footprints, a trail of some kind—something, anything. Best they could make out were three sets of scuffs that led away from the carriage in different directions. One group of prints was their own. That left two others that went . . . nowhere. Rafe squinted at every mark on the ground while the Yard dog sat and watched.

  Rafe turned his torchlight on the hound. “Anything, Alfred?” He swept the floor with a circle of light. Drool pooled in front of the dog. The beam passed over a small white dot.

  “Hold on,” Flynn said, squatting beside Alfred. He picked up the small white object and turned it over in his palm.

  Rafe swung the light back. “What is that?”

  “Looks like a button.”

  Blood pounded through every part of his body. “Bring it closer.” Flynn wiped off the dog spittle and handed it over. Rafe could hardly contain himself. “This button is from Fanny’s dress.” She’d worn the damn dress for days. He knew every little posy on the thin muslin frock. And he’d rather not think why buttons were missing from her dress. He clenched his teeth and focused on finding his son and Fanny, bringing them safely home and never, ever letting them out of his sight again.

  “This has to have her scent all over it.” Rafe held the button to Alfred’s nose and the hound snuffled around the tiny button.

  The animal stood up and Rafe urged the dog onward. “That’s a good boy. Show us where Fanny and Harry are.” Alfred led them in a circuitous route through bales of tobacco. At the rear of the warehouse the canine stopped to sniff around a stack of tea chests six feet high and nearly as wide.

  The hound sat down with a groan.

  Rafe scanned the area with his torch. Sure enough, another round white button. This one had a small yellow flower on it. He swallowed.

  “Give us a bit of light—this way.” Flynn motioned him over. Rafe turned the beam toward his partner. Fresh scratches on the floor suggested these crates of tea had been moved recently. “I’ll hold the torch.” Rafe pointed to his sore ribs with a grin. “Lucky for you, tea chests are light.”

  Flynn rearranged tea chests until he uncovered a metal door made of iron bars and steps leading downward. “One would suppose the stairs lead to the wine cellars belowground. Odd that the only access would be blocked.”

  Rafe grunted. “Then again, maybe not.” He gritted his teeth and helped shove a few more chests aside, enough to lift the grate.

  They descended into pitch-blackness. Pervasive wine fumes and the moldy smell of dry rot pervaded the deathly still air. Rafe ran his torch beam floor to ceiling over the narrow, cavernlike tunnel.

  “Blimey.” Flynn whistled. “Let’s hope those batteries hold out.”

  At a fork in the passageway, they searched the ground. The Yard dog growled and ran off after something. The lead slipped through Rafe’s grip and trailed after the animal. “Hold on, Alfred.” Rafe and Flynn followed as fast as they could with only a bobbing torch to light the way. The hound trotted back with a dead rodent in its mouth and dropped it at Rafe’s feet.

  Rafe exhaled. “Perhaps we should rent you out to the rat-catchers? Might pay for your horsemeat, save the taxpayers.”

  Alfred whined and cocked his head.

  “Never thought he was fast enough to be a ratter,” Rafe mused aloud. Something was odd about this.

  Flynn shook his head. “Perks up when he’s on the scent, though. Led us straight to the body in Canterbury at a blistering clip. Not that it was difficult. The torso was just as you called it. Lying neat as you please between the rails.”

  Alfred used his large proboscis to nudge the dead rodent several times. Rafe sucked in a breath. “Rats pretty much eat anything—don’t they?”

  “Dog’s bollocks.” Flynn stuck a thumb under his cap and scratched. “You think he could smell a button in a rat’s belly?”

  Rafe unfolded his pocketknife. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  HARRY INCHED OFF Fanny’s lap to explore the dingy cell they were locked in. Rumblings from the next room sounded like the professor had argued with his inquisitors. The minions wanted something from the inventor, perhaps the whereabouts of the submersible. And their curiosity bordered on maniacal with regards to her father’s entry in the exposition. She thought it likely that she and the professor were inadvertently thwarting some scheme of Mallory’s. No doubt the man wanted to make a big splash—some sort of grand and gruesome execution. Not that she could fathom what he had in mind, but she was intrigued by the idea that they might be able to interfere with his plans.

  A jangle of keys and the whine of rusty hinges caused her to jump. “Come, Harry.” The boy returned to her side as a string of unfamiliar men paraded into the room. One held a dress—something in deep shade
s of sapphire. And there was a steaming bowl of water with soaps and towels.

  The last man, who carried himself like a butler, set down a bench and looking glass. He arranged the soaps and bowl, a comb and brush. After laying out towels, the man turned to her. He wore an eye patch. She nearly rolled her eyes. What a motley crew of well-dressed pirates these blokes were.

  “I am Aubrey.” His bow was more of a brief nod. “Your presence is required at dinner. Mallory has provided you with these small comforts, as well as a change of gown.” The man’s one good eye traveled up and down her tattered frock. “Please refresh yourself. I will return within the hour to escort you to his suite.”

  The door clunked shut and Fanny sprang into action. She stripped off the dingy white frock and removed every last remaining button. Harry stashed them all in various little boy pockets.

  She washed up first and then gave Harry a good scrub and toweled him off. “When you see your father, I want you to remember to tell him something for me. Could you do that?” she asked.

  Harry nodded, his eyes brightened. “Is Father coming for us?”

  “I believe he is trying very hard to find us this very minute—but we must help him.” Fanny hesitated, not knowing exactly how much to reveal to the child. “Just in case your father can’t find us right away, I am going to make a bargain this evening. If I am successful, you will be able to help your father—so he can locate the professor and me.”

  She held him by his wee little shoulders. “Listen very carefully, Harry. What do you hear?” A muffled assortment of sounds filtered down through the low, arched ceiling.

  Harry’s eyes rolled upward. “Noisy.”

  Fanny smiled. “Harbor hubbub. Tell your father I can hear the sailors singing boisterous songs from a Yankee ship. And there is a cooperage nearby—lots of hammering and empty casks rolling along cobblestones. Will you remember, Harry?”

  The boy pushed his arms into shirtsleeves and repeated back nearly every word to her. Fanny buttoned his shirt up the back, turned him around, and ran a comb through his bangs. “Very handsome—like your father.”

  Rafe would find them. He must.

  Until then, they would, all three, soldier on. Fanny left hook and eyes closed and lifted the new gown overhead. “Pull down hard, Harry.”

  The child took hold of the skirt and tugged from the back, while she gripped the front and sucked in a breath. She refused to ask those horrid men to fasten the dress. Ugh! One last wriggle and she squeezed herself into the bodice of the gown.

  She picked up the vanity mirror for a look. Watered silk—lovely—with a rather daring décolletage. No femme fatale by nature, she would nonetheless play Bellecorte Mallory with every bit of wit and sangfroid she could muster. A violently nauseous stomach nearly overcame her. She must seduce the very man who had ordered the execution of her father. She could not dwell on the thought for long; it was too disturbing. Fanny pinched her cheeks and moistened her lips. She was in the game of her life and would play it fearlessly.

  Chapter Thirty

  The man named Aubrey escorted Fanny through a catacomb of tunnels and connecting rooms. She lifted her skirt to climb a rise of stair and arrived at an iron door rounded at the top and bottom like a ship’s hatch. The butler ushered her through the opening. “Watch your step, miss.” She entered the boudoir of a sultan.

  The cavernous room appeared to be a reflection of the man in charge. Simple elegance with a rugged, distinctively male sensibility. More like a pirate’s den than the private quarters of a—what might this strange man be called? An anti-progressive, surely, but his comportment was that of a leader, the self-styled autocrat of his very own anarchist movement. At least it would seem so, what with Mallory’s private army of minions.

  The ceiling was low, vaulted. A sumptuous bed, sized for Henry VIII, dominated the room. Fanny quickly surveyed the rest of the quarters. A small library was in one corner; a sitting room and dining area occupied the rest of the space. Covering the stone floor, plush, red Persian carpets had a warming effect. Her gaze traveled back to the heavily draped four-poster. She disciplined her mind to stay in the moment—not to roam into abhorrent, fearful territory.

  “There is wine and stronger spirit on the breakfront by the table.” The one-eyed butler bowed. “Mallory will join you shortly.” The door clanked shut behind the manservant.

  Fanny waited a moment and checked the door. Locked.

  It was a short walk across the room to the whiskey. She opened amber-filled decanters until she found something smoky and poured herself a tumbler. She tossed back half a glass of—what had Rafe called it? Liquid courage.

  “You favor good whiskey, Miss Greyville-Nugent. Might I ask you to pour another?”

  Fanny spun around. A man she did not recognize set down his hat and crop and strode into the room. He wore riding clothes. She examined long legs in breeches, covered to the knees with top boots. He looked every inch the polished English gentleman. He paused at the dining table, removed a dark-haired wig, and peeled off a rather dashing, close-cropped beard.

  She turned back to the buffet to pour his drink and a splash more for herself. “I rather liked the shaved head with the beard.”

  “Yes, a gold ring in one ear and the picture would be complete. Shall I have Mr. Talbert bring in his glue pot and costume jewelry box?” He stepped closer and his eyes grew darker. Not the cold fire of their first meeting. This time his gaze swept over her figure with a kind of heat that made her weak-kneed with terror. And yet there was also a sense of empowerment in his need. He wanted her badly.

  “Unnecessarily sociable of you, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Just—Mallory.”

  She forced her eyes to look straight into those searing black orbs and was scalded by his gaze. She offered him his drink. “Mallory, then.”

  He slipped a hand over hers and accepted the glass.

  “Is Mr. Talbert the dwarf or the very corpulent gentleman?” She tilted her chin. “At least some of Mallory’s minions appear to hail from a traveling theatrical of some sort. Or am I wrong?”

  She could not be sure, but she thought he stifled a laugh. He gestured toward the parlor area with his glass. A grand chaise longue and several side chairs were arranged for conversation in the center of a large area rug.

  “I thought I heard you speak once at a worker’s rights gathering, but I must have been mistaken,” she chattered on a bit nervously.

  “I often use a decoy to deliver my speeches, whilst I mill about amongst the disgruntled. I handpick all my recruits.” Mallory patted the cushion beside him on the settee. “One or two of the men have a good deal of theater experience and enjoy public speaking. I also find their knowledge of makeup and facial appliances useful in my endeavors.”

  “Do you fancy yourself a Robin Hood?” Fanny asked.

  “Neither knight nor peasant, but most certainly above the law.” He studied her as a talented roué might observe a future conquest. “Robin Hood is entirely too romantic for this day and age, wouldn’t you agree? The citizenry of Britain long ago made their decision—replace a man’s horse with steam, give his job to a child—” Mallory reached across the chaise and turned down the lamp wick. “Abandon the soft glow of gaslight for Mr. Swan’s electrical light bulb.”

  As he leaned away, she studied the brutal zigzag scar that curved down the side of his head and disappeared behind an ear. She wanted to gulp her whiskey, but sipped instead. “I don’t believe electricity will ever replace the beauty of a dancing flame.” Over the rim of her glass, she connected briefly with a flicker of light in his black gaze. Fanny abandoned sipping for a good gulp. “Tell me, Mallory, do you mean to put an end to progress in general or do you terrorize selectively?”

  The slightest uptick at the ends of his mouth suggested a kind of world-weary amusement. “As I mentioned, the citizens have voted. Keep the wheels of industry turning at any price. In ‘the age of the machine, Britain has become the workshop of the world,’
or so Thomas Carlyle says.”

  Mallory settled into the curve of the chaise while those piercing eyes evaluated, questioned. “It is one thing for children to labor on farms or help with the spinning. But to put a child in the narrow air shaft of a coal mine to open and close the ventilation doors, or crawl underneath running machinery—perhaps lose a finger or two . . .” He seemed to drift off momentarily.

  “Young children are gone from the regulated workplace for some time now.” Fanny squirmed a bit. “With each successive decade the industrialists have made progress.”

  “When forced to it.”

  “Granted, change hasn’t always come willingly.” She lowered her eyes before raising them again. “Why do you not choose to make your argument through legislation, Mallory? More equitable pay for women, for instance, and more funding for public schools.”

  “My brother was killed, crushed by one of your father’s huge machines.” Mallory resettled himself to look at her more directly. “He was nine years old.”

  Stunned, Fanny drew herself upright. “So, an eye for an eye, is it?”

  He finished his glass and got up for more whiskey. “Ah, but there is more to this tale of woe.” He returned to the couch with the decanter and Fanny lifted her glass. “One fine October morning, my entire family was killed in the Jewell Gunpowder Mill explosion. One hundred and nine men, women, and children dead—many more injured. Happened years before you were born.”

  “In 1863, actually, the year I was born.” Her whispered words barely registered.

  Mallory rubbed the side of his temple. “At the time of the explosion, I was in the infirmary getting my hand stitched. Saved, ironically, by an earlier mishap.”

  A heavy heart thumped inside her body. “You lost everyone?”

  “God spared no sorrow for me. By the time I returned to the factory, the building was on fire. A few of the injured managed to crawl out alive.”

  Fanny bit her lip. “I suppose it’s no wonder you took it upon yourself to rid the country of this popular new form of modernization.” Her world spun slowly out of control. How could one ever recover from such a blow? She supposed one never did. “I do not mean to in any way take away from your very painful loss, nor the terrible misfortune that befell your family, but I must argue for at least some of the good that comes with industrialization. The machines have created a new working class, which Robert Peel referred to as—”