A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  He waited for his vision to adjust to the darkened room. Jars of preserves and sacks full of staples filled the deep shelves in front of him. A narrow door to one end would likely lead to the living quarters. Inching off the sill, he made the three-foot drop to the floor as quietly as possible.

  The cat’s tail went unseen until he landed on it.

  Much like a torture victim with his cock in a vise, the feline’s scream resounded through the larder and presumably the rest of the county. Large yellow eyes blinked at him from the shadows. He grabbed the growling minx by the ruff and tossed a flurry of gnashing fangs and swiping claws out the window. Another angry yowl came from outside.

  Rafe sat on a large sack of grain and sucked the bloody scratch on his hand. Christ. One had to assume the current tenants, whoever they might be, were now fully awake. He heard a stirring in the next room—and something else. The floorboards beneath the grain sacks shimmied. Rafe swung around and squinted into the darkness. Another mouser perhaps?

  A rapid hammer of muffled taps resounded through the cottage. Fanny’s knocks. Rafe moved to the larder door and turned the knob. Nothing. He reversed directions. Bollocks. The door was locked from the outside. He searched wall hooks and shelves for a key.

  FANNY STARED DOWN the cold steel barrels of a shotgun. At the other end of the gun Mrs. Tuttle was looking rather cross and bleary-eyed. Both she and the weapon swayed. Was she bladdered? Could a person wake up and still be drunk?

  Squinting hard, the Tuttle woman craned her neck to see the barnyard. “Where’s that detective friend of yours?”

  Fanny crossed her arms under her chest. “That was a rather unkind thing to do, Mrs. Tuttle, leaving us up in the loft without a ladder.”

  After a wobbly peering about, the small woman grunted. “Inside.”

  Fanny pressed forward, forcing the dwarf in skirts to shuffle backward. But the disagreeable woman didn’t fall or trip. Blast it.

  “Not so fast, deary.”

  Fanny stuck her chin out. “What have you done with the people who live here?

  The small woman narrowed beady eyes on her. “Like to know, wouldn’t ye? Where’s the Yard man?”

  The gloves were off, but the ruse might yet be on. Fanny’s gaze darted about the room. “Left in the middle of the night for town. Promised he would bring back the constable.” Fanny inched away from the barrel of the gun, searching for signs of life. The layout was simple enough. The cottage consisted of a main room with a pantry and kitchen to one end. A plain stairway with unadorned railing led to sleeping quarters above. Where was Rafe?

  Fanny lifted her shoulders and shrugged. “He appears to be a reliable sort. Although we girls can never be sure about a bloke, can we?” She raised her voice and loosed a smile; perhaps she could win over Tuttle, if that was her name.

  The dwarf woman pointed her gun toward the rear of the kitchen and shoved Fanny backward. Fanny placed one foot behind the other. “Yes, well, why bother with Detective Lewis when it is me you’re after?”

  The little woman sidled up to a narrow door. She dropped a skeleton key on the floor. “Pick it up and open the latch.” The shotgun remained poised while Fanny inserted the key. With a click, the door swung open.

  The Tuttle woman lifted her chin and gestured with the tip of her weapon. Fanny stepped inside and pivoted. “Tell me, Mrs. Tuttle, why does BVM want me so badly?”

  The small woman’s mouth dropped open as her fingers tightened on the trigger.

  A hand came out of nowhere and shoved the barrel of the gun to one side. The blast was deafening. Gun pellets tore into a large sack of flour, filling the air with a cloud of white dust. Through the pale mist of flour particles a masculine form leaped between Fanny and her captor.

  Rafe. She heard a dull sort of punch, a grunt, then a thud. The large grayish frame whirled around. “Are you all right?” His voice sounded as though it came from a distance.

  She pointed to her ears. “Ringing.”

  He nodded and spoke louder. “You were spiffing. Just brilliant.” He dropped onto his haunches. Fanny could just make out the fallen lump on the ground, the unconscious body of Iona Tuttle. “There’s a coil of heavy twine on the shelf in the back. Bring it here, Fan.”

  Rafe dragged the old girl inside the larder. Fanny passed the cord and watched him tie several neat loops around her neck. “I believe she’s alone.”

  “Most likely left here to keep watch. I wager this is the only north-south route into Bathgate. Travelers have to pass by here on their way into town.” Rafe rolled the woman over and looped the ties around her ankles. He tested the knots. “There. If she tries to wiggle her way out, she chokes herself.”

  Fanny turned her head to admire his handiwork. “Cook does up a roasting goose in similar fashion.”

  “We need to get to a telegraph office in Bathgate.” Rafe grinned. “I would say the initials BVM mean something, wouldn’t you?”

  Fanny’s eyes brightened. “You saw it, too?”

  “An instant before she was prostrate.” Rafe placed both hands on his hips. “Quite a brave little charade, Fanny. Please don’t do it again. I had no idea the woman had a shotgun pointed at you.”

  “And where were you and your Webley, Detective Lewis?” She tried a frown of annoyance, which quickly reversed itself. “I have a knack for sleuthing?”

  “A bit too fearless but . . . quite extraordinary, actually.” Ever the ready charmer, the gleam in his eye was a mixture of pride and something else. Lust, she suspected. The thought made her uneasy. He had made love to her last night without actually—doing the deed, as it were. And it had been pure pleasure. Warm thoughts and the memory of his touch actually caused her knees to wobble a bit. Her gaze darted away and back again. “I believe this adventure has aged the two of us.” She began to laugh.

  Rafe jerked upright and tousled his hair. “A bit of gray might add a dash of sophistication.” A halo of white flour floated about his head.

  “To my mind, you are quite dashing enough.” She brushed flour dust off her cheeks and felt the heat of her blush.

  A hopeful smile tugged the ends of his mouth. “Give me a moment.” He took a step or two backward and began to drag heavy sacks of grain from one side of the small room to the other.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If I am not mistaken, beneath the larder we will find a root cellar. And in the cellar . . .” Rafe shoved a large flour sack over and pulled on an iron ring. The trap door opened.

  “Please, sir! Do not take my wife and children. Ye can have me and do as ye wish, but I beg ye do no harm to my family.”

  Rafe leaned over the opening. “Now, why would Fanny and I wish to harm anyone, Mr. Tuttle? You are the real Mr. Tuttle, I take it?”

  A long moment of silence passed while the man looked them over. “Gavin Tuttle,” he offered. “And who are you, sir?”

  Fanny peered down into the cellar. A young man and woman huddled together holding two small children in their arms. Frightened smudged faces looked up at her. “It’s perfectly safe now. This is Detective Inspector Lewis from Scotland Yard and I am Francine Greyville-Nugent.” She smiled. “We are friends.”

  Rafe held a hand out and the couple passed the boy up to Rafe and the girl to Fanny. “Mrs. Tuttle.” Rafe lifted her up out of the trapdoor. Last man out, Mr. Tuttle climbed up after his wife.

  A good-looking lot. The family appeared shaken, but no worse for the wear. Mr. and Mrs. Tuttle reached out for both towheaded children “Come, Duncan. Effie.”

  Rafe handed over the boy. “I’m afraid we have no time for acquaintances. Your family cannot stay here alone without protection. We must all travel to Bathgate and report this incident to the township’s constable.”

  “That would be Clarence Ferguson.” Mr. Tuttle laid a protective hand on his young son. “Good man, retired Royal Scots Lothian Regiment.”

  “I take it the men who forced you into the cellar also borrowed your equipage?” Rafe no
dded past the window to the road and fields beyond. “Is there an inn close by where we can hire a carriage?”

  Tuttle shook his head. “The MacClarys live down the road. They’ve a fine team of mares and a good-sized dogcart.”

  “How far away?”

  “A mile and a foot south.”

  Rafe frowned.

  Faintly, the snap of reins and hooves could be heard pounding on the road. On tiptoe, Fanny could just make out a serviceable old barouche stirring up dust as it turned down the drive. “Who do you suppose this could be?”

  Rafe glanced out the open window and waved Mr. Tuttle over. The young father stepped over to the window and squinted. “That’s my rig and them are the blokes who took my house over.”

  “Natty dressers, were they?” Fanny blurted out.

  Taken aback, Tuttle blinked and turned to his wife, who nodded. “Right smart, I’d say.” Outside, pounding hooves slowed to a trot.

  “Well now, it seems we have visitors.” Rafe turned to Mr. Tuttle. “Help me get these bags of grain up against the door.”

  Tuttle stared at him. “We’re barricading ourselves in, then?”

  “We’re going to make it look that way.”

  Fanny caught the furrowed brows on the farmer’s wife, who rocked the whimpering little girl in her arms. “I’ll not go down in that hole again.”

  Rafe shoved the bag of grain against the door and tossed a look over his shoulder. “Fanny, tell them I’ve got a plan.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You tell them.” Hoisting a sack over his shoulder, Rafe stopped to raise a brow.

  “Oh, very well, then.” She helped push a large bag over. “Detective Lewis, generally speaking, devises reasonably good plans—at least he’s managed to keep us alive thus far.”

  “Not the kind of glowing account I’d hoped for.” He turned to the young farmer, his mouth firmly set. “We’ll not be leaving you and your family behind.” Rafe grabbed another grain sack.

  Gavin Tuttle set the boy down and joined in. They quickly had a stack of staples pressed against the larder door.

  Rafe clapped flour dust off his hands. “How many men last time?

  “Three plus the wee woman.” Tuttle pointed to the lump on the floor.

  “Did all of them carry weapons?”

  The farmer nodded. “I believe so.”

  Rafe broke open the shotgun and checked both barrels. “You’ve got one shot.” He handed the gun off. “I’ve always found the butt-end makes a handy bludgeon.” He dragged a milking stool over to the window. The moment the carriage rolled past the rear of the house and entered the farmyard, he climbed onto the sill and leaped to the ground. He reached up for Mrs. Tuttle. One by one, everyone made it through the small window and safely to the ground.

  Rafe hunkered down to speak to the children. “Your father and I are going to disappear for a few moments, but you mustn’t be afraid. Your da is going to help me take back your carriage so we can get away from the bad men.” Both children stared wide-eyed. “You must promise to be very quiet.” Rafe dipped his head. “Effie? No more tears.” The child nodded from behind her mother’s skirts.

  Rafe approached Fanny with brows drawn and a glint in his eye. “Keep the troops calm and quiet. No bugles or screaming from young cadets.” He pressed an index finger to his lips and winked at the children. “The next time you see us we will be driving up close to the side of the house. Be prepared to let fly and cast yourself and the wee ’uns into the gig. We don’t mean to slow down much as we pass by.”

  He nodded to Mrs. Tuttle. “Ladies.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fanny took the boy, Duncan, by the hand and Mrs. Tuttle carried her daughter on her hip. The young mother shushed the sniffling girl. “Chin up, Effie. Remember what Detective Lewis told you.” The young woman managed a thin smile. “My name is Lara.”

  “Lara, lovely name—much better than Iona. I’m Fanny.” She queued the Tuttle family up against the cottage and waited. After several tedious moments, loud thuds and a strangling noise could be heard from the yard. Fanny peeked around the corner.

  A man lay on the ground, but she couldn’t see who lay in the dirt—pray God it wasn’t Mr. Tuttle or Rafe. Several shots fired and Fanny caught a glimpse of Rafe struggling with one of the natty blokes.

  Mr. Tuttle climbed onto the driver’s seat and unhooked the reins. “Hurry, Rafe!” Her harsh whisper carried. She chewed her lip, knowing full well she had broken silence.

  “Bloody hell, Fanny, give a me a moment, I’m trying to finish this last one off.” Rafe got in a few crushing blows to the man’s face and rolled out of the clinch. The natty bloke righted himself and pulled a gun. Rafe raised his Webley. She had no idea how many bullets were left. Rafe fired and the man fell to the ground. Her pounding heart welcomed a sigh of relief.

  Mr. Tuttle slapped the reins and Rafe jumped aboard. Fanny signaled to the young mother beside her. “Come.” As the vehicle slowed, she scurried farther into the yard. Running beside the carriage, she lifted Duncan up into Rafe’s capable hands and helped to secure Lara Tuttle and her daughter into the rear seat. Rafe reached out and pulled her up onto a carriage step. “My skirt—” Fanny gathered her dress and yanked it away from rear wheel spokes.

  “Slow us down!” Rafe shouted to Tuttle as he lifted Fanny into the vehicle.

  The Tuttle’s collie ran alongside the carriage and yipped. “Orkney!” Duncan leaped off his mother’s lap and nearly tumbled over the edge of the carriage. “Here, boy.” Tongue lolling, the old herder picked up speed and made a leap for the carriage. Fanny set the child back on the bench and leaned out to grab the child’s pet.

  “Fanny!” She heard Rafe over her shoulder. She reached for the dog but her hands barely brushed his head and front paws. “I’ve almost got him.” The children began whimpering.

  She leaned farther out. “Hold on to me!”

  Rafe’s arms went around her waist. “Quickly, Fan, there’s a bridge ahead.”

  Alarmed by Rafe’s warning, she glanced up the lane. In mere seconds her head would be lopped off and the dog cleaved in two by a stone bridge pillar. She grabbed the dog by the ruff. Front paws splayed, and rear legs scrambled. Fanny held on and tugged harder. At the last moment, strong arms yanked both woman and canine to safety.

  Out of breath, Fanny looked up at Rafe. “Thank you.” She might have predicted a cross retort accompanied by a few curse words. But the look in his eyes was something akin to relief.

  She directed his attention to the child on the floor of the carriage. Duncan hugged the panting collie, who licked the boy’s cheek and wagged a ragged tail. “Lovely sight, is it not? A boy reunited with his dog?”

  Rafe rocked with the sway of the carriage as Gavin Tuttle snapped the reins and steered the team onto the main road. The ends of his mouth made a sudden plunge downward. “Never do such a thing again.”

  She could not fathom why, but she found his snappish words rather endearing.

  Shots whistled overhead.

  Fanny peeked around the canopied top of the buggy. Two figures ran down the long drive firing wild shots after them. “I thought you got them both.”

  “Apparently not.” Rafe grabbed Tuttle’s shotgun. “Stay down.” He popped off a shot that presumably sent the men scurrying for cover. At a runaway gallop they entered the cover of a small wood. Mr. Tuttle skillfully slowed the team and brought the horses under control.

  Fanny settled herself on the narrow bench of the rear seat. Mrs. Tuttle and the children appeared rattled but otherwise hardy. Rafe glanced back at Fanny. She thought he meant to say something, but then changed his mind. His gaze left her breathless and shivering. And her reaction was not entirely due to the morning’s excitement. Rafe had always been athletic and awfully clever, but this Yard man was both wily and courageous. And he had heeded her concerns about the Tuttles, when they were only a possibility. A figment of her worried imagination.

  She retur
ned his wink with a smile.

  “DETECTIVE INSPECTOR RAPHAEL Lewis, Scotland Yard.” Rafe handed a card to the officer at the front desk of the constabulary. A middle-aged man sporting a neat gray beard and moustache poked his head around the corner of a back office and gave them all a long look. The man nodded at Tuttle and boldly approached Fanny. “Yer the missing heiress, Miss Greyville-Nugent?”

  Fanny nodded, “I am, sir.”

  “Clarence Ferguson, constable here in Bathgate.” The man examined her disheveled appearance. “No worse for the wear, I presume? The detective here has acted the proper gentleman?”

  Rafe eyed Ferguson as the constable questioned Fanny. Rafe thought about their afternoon at the loch, and last night in the loft. Perhaps he hadn’t acted the perfect gentleman, but then she hadn’t acted the demure young lady, either. Fanny had turned into a wanton goddess.

  She squared her shoulders. “I have been well protected, Constable.”

  The headman surveyed the motley assemblage and settled his gaze on Rafe. “Been expecting you.”

  Rafe buttoned his coat. No doubt they appeared a ragtag lot. “On the run for two days from Miss Greyville-Nugent’s would-be abductors and, I’m sorry to say, West Lothian law enforcement.”

  The man turned to Rafe. “Ye dinna need to tell me my business, Detective Lewis. I am in receipt of several messages from authorities in London and Edinburgh.”

  Rafe exhaled. “Excellent. Then the confusion has been cleared up?”

  Constable Ferguson gestured toward his office door. “Will be soon enough.” He ushered them all into a plainly furnished office, which included a government-issue desk and a few chairs. A small cast-iron stove took the morning chill off the room. The man in charge settled into a desk chair on wheels and looked as though he expected to interview the lot of them at his leisure.

  Rafe cleared his throat. “The culprits after Miss Greyville-Nugent are, at this moment, in the area of the Tuttles’ farm, doing their best to acquire transport into Bathgate. They are armed and dangerous, and there may well be more of them here in town.”