A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  Finn pushed out of his chair and moved around the table. “In Minnow’s case, they more than likely planned to scuttle the sub by tampering with its ballast controls. The professor would have been found, eventually, at the bottom of the Thames if Rafe hadn’t fished him out of a sinking ship. Pun intended,” Finn added. “There is also the possibility that Fanny is to be number seven in some kind of grand finale. Whatever the scheme, the Utopians under Mallory did not foresee Special Branch getting onto them so quickly. Sending Rafe up to Edinburgh like you did must have vastly undermined their plans. And Rafe is correct, we must keep the pressure on.”

  Rafe gathered Harry in his arms, anxious to get going. “Can we at least attempt to take the submarine under the docks—a trial run?”

  “Does anyone know anything about how to operate this craft? And who’s going down in that bucket of . . .” Melville drew a deeper frown. “It’s not even seaworthy by last account.”

  Rafe nodded to Finn. “Grab that old map.” He bit his tongue and made a great effort not to raise his voice to his boss. “Might we argue about this on our way to Docklands?”

  Archie Bruce stepped into the fray. “I’ve had a look at the controls. With a bit of practice up and down the river, we’ll get the knack of it, sir.”

  “Hold on.” Melville opened a desk drawer and took out several new pistols and a box of shells. “Brand new Webley Mk1s. Arm yourselves, gentlemen.” Melville loaded a pistol and handed it over to Rafe. The director looked him over with a kinder eye. “Do try to hold on to your weapon for a change, Detective Lewis.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” Rafe slipped the Webley inside his jacket. “Any of those battery torches left?”

  Archie pocketed his weapon. “We’ve got two in the lab—just take a moment to collect them.”

  Outside 4 Whitehall Place, Rafe hailed a hansom and sat Harry on his lap. Finn squeezed in beside them. Zeno, Archie, and Melville followed after in the director’s carriage. Finn spread the map out on his lap and toggled a switch on the torch.

  Rafe grinned. “First try and you didn’t have to bang it around—good sign.”

  Harry blinked at the magical torchlight. Rafe took in the look on his son’s angelic face. “Quite an adventure you’re having.”

  Exiting Blackfriars Underpass, they turned onto Upper Thames Street. Rafe pointed to the massive construction site out on the river. “See there, Harry. They’re building the Tower Bridge.”

  “Actually, we may have only one boat basin to search, and a small one at that—take a look.” Finn hunched over the map tracing the route from Henry Street to the docks. “Assuming the underground caverns were made by nature and the passages connecting them by pirates—as the crow flies—” His index finger stopped at a triangular basin.

  They soon ditched cabs and carriage for a river taxi, which got them to the Port of London Authority Harbor Patrol Pier in no time. Framed by the dark silhouette of the looming Tower Bridge construction site, Melville paced the length of pier, eyeing the submarine suspiciously. “Blimey, indeed.”

  Rafe approached Zeno. “You’re about to become a father. Perhaps you’d like a bit of practice?”

  “We’d be delighted. Cassie has just finished the nursery, you can sleep in nurse’s bed.” The detective smiled at Harry.

  Rafe smoothed silky bangs and tilted his son’s chin. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to be brave a few hours longer. I must find Fanny and bring her home.” Harry nodded solemnly, none too pleased about it. “This very nice man and his wife will take good care of you while I’m gone.” Transferring the boy to Zeno, he turned away quickly and joined Archie and Finn dockside.

  “You believe you can control this thing?” Rafe searched Archie’s face. Not a risk taker by nature, their young lab director shrugged. “Only one way to know, I suppose.”

  Rafe ran a hand through his hair and turned to Finn. Glistening beads of sweat dotted the man’s forehead. “Crikey, this is a bit nerve-racking.”

  Finn stared at him. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Fanny picked up the skirt of her new dress and climbed the stairs. Silk again, in a mysterious shade of claret. She dreaded every step, as though she made her way toward the hangman’s noose—even the procession surrounding her felt like a gallows walk. The manservant, Aubrey, led the way, with another burly man close behind her. Mallory had sent an order—in the form of a request—that she leave her hair down. She had complied, tying her unruly mass of curls behind her head with a ribbon cleverly garnered from some trim on the gown.

  Aubrey rapped tentatively and gestured her through the door. Something was wrong. She sensed it almost instantly. The suite was deathly quiet and darker than she remembered. The grind and clunk of a heavy door latch made her flinch. She trembled with each step as she ventured farther into the room.

  Mallory lounged across a high-backed settee. His head lay against the sweeping curve of an arm, his long legs stretched across the other wing. Moving closer, she could not help but notice his waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned to his trousers. The narrow gap exposed a sliver of masculine flesh with a mat of dark fuzz that trailed from chest to navel.

  She hesitated as he turned his head. His gaze swept over every inch of her figure before settling on the gown’s décolleté. He lifted a finger in the air and circled. “Turn around.”

  On display for his personal pleasure, she pivoted slowly. A blaze of heat rushed to her cheeks.

  “Come closer.”

  His eyes appeared strained, and much redder than the usual black orbs that studied her with unblinking intensity. “You look unwell, Mallory.” She feigned a note of concern.

  “I’m afraid a blistering headache is coming on.” He grabbed hold of her wrist and guided her around the side of the chaise. He rested his head back against the upholstered curve of the arm. “Place your hands on each side of my head—the temples.” She did her best to keep her hands steady. “Mm-mm, cold hands are soothing.” He closed his eyes. “Circle slowly.” Gently, she massaged his temples and he exhaled. “I suffer the occasional supraorbital neuralgia, due my head injury. Press harder.” He lowered his gaze. “Are you always so brave?”

  “I hardly think of myself as brave. Might I try a different spot?” She moved her hands over his shaven head to the base of his skull and circled her fingers. “Here, perhaps?”

  “God, yes.” He groaned with relief.

  “What caused such a terrible wound? Surely you could grow an excellent head of hair to cover the scar.”

  “A long and painful military tale.”

  “Yes, but why choose to display such a mark?”

  Mallory sighed. “After I lost my family, an uncle took me in—a military man who had sired a bevy of daughters. Raised me as a son—in his footsteps. I suppose I took to the military life with its order, its clear directives. I rose up the ranks rather quickly until the accident.”

  He brought her hands forward again to his temples. “A mortar cannon exploded. Set off a chain of return fire. I don’t remember much after that.” Mallory gasped for air, as though bracing for a wave of pain. “There was a long period of unconsciousness. I thought I had died. No one could have been more surprised than I to wake up in hospital.

  “As commanding officer I was assigned blame—cashiered out for negligence. They sent me to a mental hospital to be long forgotten. Over the next few years, I recovered most of my faculties.”

  Fanny bit her lip. So, the men in dark suits and pointed collars were Mallory’s own private militia. “Your life does appear to be fraught with injustice.”

  “Exactly the kind of life that turns an orphaned guttersnipe into an anarchist.” He reached up and drew her near, pressing her hands to his chest.

  He showed her where he wanted her hands to go. Encouraged her fingers to travel over the soft mat of hair that covered a hard-muscled chest.

  “Lower.” A whispered demand as he pulled her closer. He
r fingers traced the trail of hair down a flat torso. His belly quivered, and he groaned softly.

  She was nearly cheek to cheek with him, her lips a breath away from his ear.

  If she was his lover, she might whisper naughty promises of things to come. If she were his enemy, she might tear into the flesh of his ear—add her mark to his mutilation. Instead, she withdrew her hands from his belly and moved to press her lips to the scar on his head. Gently, she traced the zig, then the zag down the side of his skull.

  IN THE DIM light of the submersible, Rafe studied his shipmate. Something a bit twitchy about Finn. The cool-headed Mr. Gunn was noticeably agitated.

  “Don’t look at me that way. I’ll get worse if you keep looking at me that way.”

  Rafe suppressed an urge to mock. “What way?”

  “That bug-eyed, racked with concern way.”

  Their trial run up and down the Thames had gone so well, Melville had waved them along. Tensions had eased, some, until they submerged. They were now well into the triangle basin. As the water grew progressively murky and strangely oppressive, Finn had begun to sweat bullets.

  “Are you a hydrophobe, by any chance?”

  A rolling of the eyes accompanied Finn’s sigh. “Normally, I’m more of an agoraphobe. Crowded spaces, enclosed public places—squares and the like. If I was the self-diagnosing sort, which I suppose I am, I’d call this particular bout claustrophobia.”

  Rafe puzzled over the man’s affliction. He recalled a rooftop facedown as the train pulled out of Glasgow. Finn had shot down old Ruddy-face as cool as you please. He sucked in stale air and exhaled. “What can I do to help?”

  Hunched over, Finn braced himself in the hatchway. “I cannot just stand here and watch Mr. Bruce fumble about with the controls. Give me work to do.”

  Rafe straightened as much as he could in the sub. “I believe Archie’s got things working fairly well now.” Their submarine pilot continued to toggle switches in an effort to find . . . something. Archie flipped a switch overhead and a swath of light beamed through the bilgy green basin water. “There we are. Much better, wouldn’t you say?”

  Finn ducked for a look out the observation window. “At last—we can see three feet in front of us.”

  Rafe agreed with Finn’s bleak assessment. “Thick as a black fog down here.”

  Arch turned to Finn. “Near as I can tell, we’re not more than a few feet under the surface. The rear observation dome will give us a view higher up. I could use another set of eyes if we’re to find this old pirate route.”

  Archie unhooked a cone-shaped speaking tube attached to a rubber hose. “Should be one of these back there. Give us a shout if you see anything.”

  Finn nodded his head. “Right.”

  Rafe took the seat beside their intrepid pilot and strained to see through the flotsam and jetsam. A hail of squawks blared out of the cone above Archie’s head. Rafe took down the speaking tube. “Say again, Finn?”

  “I’ve a herd of river rats swarming about the glass up here—love to take a few nips out of my head. Have a look above.”

  Rafe craned his neck toward the surface. A myriad of undulating shadows and tiny, clawed feet paddled just underwater. “Blimey. Hundreds of them.”

  Arch motored alongside the immense black hull of a moored ship. “The rodents are attracted to the light, possibly? Ask Finn if he can get a direction—where they’re coming from.”

  Before Rafe could speak, Finn’s voice filtered through the device. “As soon as we pass this ship, throttle down a bit and head us starboard thirty degrees.”

  A trail of rodent legs and tails led them into the oldest section of the dock. The crude stone basin wall grew more rugged until . . . it just fell away. An entire section of wall appeared to break off into darkness. “You see what I see?” Rafe spoke into the cone and waited for an answer. “Finn?”

  “Christ. Tell Archie to take us lower—and another ten degrees or so starboard.”

  As the submarine slipped into what they hoped was a passageway, Rafe strained to see into the unknowable darkness of the gaping hole. “Can you reverse our direction?”

  “If there is a reverse lever I haven’t found it.”

  He wiped away a few beads of perspiration off his forehead. “Excellent.”

  Archie took a quick glance at Rafe. “There must be a back lever around here somewhere.” A stomach-lurching grinding noise came from below ship. Archie grimaced. “We’re scraping bottom.”

  Finn’s tinny voice actually had a reassuring effect. “I can see air pockets throughout the tunnel. The dome is partially above water—with more room above—you can take her up a bit.”

  The next terrible clunk and crunching noise came from the top of the sub. They were now partially above the waterline. The search beam illuminated rugged walls that closed in from both sides. Rafe’s gaze traveled up, over, and down. “Narrow bugger.”

  “Rather tricky, these small adjustments in ballast.” Archie tugged on several wheels and levers. At the moment, the most reassuring aspect of their cruise down this ancient passageway was the constant putter of the submersible’s engine.

  Finn’s voice shouted from the cone. “Stay your course, Mr. Bruce. If I’m not hallucinating, there may be a grotto ahead.”

  Rafe fixed his eyes forward. The passage grew even tighter for a time before it opened, rather quickly, into an expansive cavern.

  Archie whistled. “Blimey. And to think this quiet cove is hidden beneath the Docklands.”

  The moment they surfaced, Rafe cranked the wheel of the overhead hatch and poked his head up. The pungent odor of decayed organic material mixed with stale air—mustier, moldier than topside. The sub chugged softly into the cavern, gliding through dark waters. “Heave ho, mate.” Finn urged from below.

  Up on deck, Rafe stepped through a thin sheet of water. He pivoted in a slow circle, peering into cracks and crevices. Long ago, by the looks of it, a stair and walkway had been constructed up one side of the cave. And there were hints of passageways lit by torches. Archie nosed them toward a grotty old pier.

  Finn joined him. “Awfully quiet. Do you suppose anyone’s home?”

  Rafe removed his revolver from his jacket. Out of habit he checked the cylinder. Six bullets. And he had more in his pocket. “Let’s knock on a few doors.”

  “SUCH A HEAVENLY angel . . .” Mallory reached up and brought her around to his side. “And what trouble you are.”

  “Trouble does seem to follow me of late.” Fanny perched herself on the edge of the settee and tried to make small talk. Much more difficult, face-to-face. Like now—when he captured her gaze and held it.

  She knew that look of desire very well. On her dearest, most darling Rafe. “You delivered the boy safely to Scotland Yard?” This forced flirtation with Mallory had worked her stomach into knots. She drew her lower lip between her teeth. Mistake. His eyes locked on her mouth and she heard a groan.

  “To their door.” He pulled her to him and did not ask permission. “A kiss.”

  Every fiber of her being reacted to the soft pressure of his lips. Warm, passionate, they traveled lightly over her mouth and then pressed harder with more intensity.

  She grew frightened and pushed away. He leaned closer, never taking his eyes off her mouth. “I am not finished.”

  Mallory seized her and kissed her angrily. Fanny shut her eyes tight and tried not to resist. He assailed her mouth with his own, plowing the depths with his tongue. He pulled her onto his chest, the press of his erection more than obvious. If only she could just let him do as he wished. His breath was ragged and his words even more so. “Say yes, Fanny.”

  She declined with a shake of her head. “Please, Mallory.” Her voice husky from fear of this strange, unholy attraction. He reached out and pressed her hand to his groin.

  “Shall I tie you down and take you here on the settee? Look at me.” He was so arrogant. So aggrieved. He grabbed hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “
What happened to willingly?”

  “I made a bargain. I will do what I must, but I’m not sure about the pleasure part.” Fanny swallowed. “You murdered my father. Not something one can easily overlook.”

  Mallory slumped back onto the arm of the chaise. “Yes. I did.” She found both his shrug and grin disturbing. A kind of madness seemed to overtake him at times. “Not something one can easily apologize for.”

  A volley of bullets rang out in the passageway. Her heart quickened with the thought of what might be happening outside the door.

  Much like a sudden bolt of lightning is followed by a downpour of cold rain, Mallory’s reaction to her shifted. His glare deepened as his black eyes once again blazed a deep crimson red, not unlike they had during their first meeting. He made no mention of the disturbance, and yet she knew he listened.

  The echoing ricochet of more gunshots. Closer, she thought.

  He drew his mouth into a thin cruel line. “So, it appears the lady’s protector makes yet another attempt at rescue.” Mallory shifted her off the couch and traversed the room.

  “It is comforting to know someone looks out for me.” Fanny bit her lip and tried to look as though she regretted the remark. Impossible when her heart had grown wings and soared with hope. Until Mallory slid open a desk drawer and removed his pistols.

  He tossed a coat and hat her way and shrugged into a frock coat. He grabbed her by the hand, and paused at the door. “Cry out, make any attempt to communicate, and I will shoot him dead.”

  He opened the door a crack. No guard standing watch. It seemed this outlaw post was rather understaffed this evening. Fanny wondered why. Had Mallory sent them all away? But why would he do such a thing? He took her by the hand and hauled her toward a set of spiral stairs carved into the rock of the cavern.

  RAFE SPOTTED MOVING shapes at the end of the passage—two people, a man and a woman. Dear God, one of them must be Fanny. He thought his heart would pound out of his chest. “Scotland Yard! Stop right where you are.” He climbed the stairs.