Ferguson stared at him. “Ye canna mean these malefactors would dare attack the constabulary?”
Rafe didn’t blink. “How many men are on duty this morning?”
“That would be myself and Sergeant Wallace here. I can marshal deputies given an hour or—”
“Not fast enough. I’m afraid we are all in danger.” Rafe turned to Tuttle. “Do you have friends or relatives in town?”
Tuttle nodded. “Lara’s brother is a collier, has a flat between here and the mines.”
Rafe turned back to the constable, who grunted a sigh. “Have it your way, Detective Lewis. I am in possession of several telegrams addressed to you in care of this station.” The man sorted through a stack of wire envelopes before handing them over.
Rafe tore into the missives, sharing something of the messages with Fanny and the others. “Detective Kennedy of Scotland Yard has alerted law enforcement from Edinburgh to Glasgow as to my identity and the threat to Miss Greyville-Nugent.”
Ferguson looked as though his troubles might soon be over. “Ye should be safe in the city once again, miss.”
Rafe glanced up from the wire. “Except that I am ordered to bring her to London.”
“What?” Fanny’s eyebrows collided in a straight line.
“And I am to make contact with another inventor, a Professor Minnow. You wouldn’t by any chance—know him?” The constable shook his head. Rafe took a swipe across the desk and grasped a pencil. “May I?”
Ferguson kept an eye on his scribbling. “Deciphering one of those coded wires?”
Rafe tapped the side of his head with the writing instrument. “I do those in my head.” He scrawled a brief sentence or two, transposing letters as he went along. “I’m writing a reply.”
“You use a military code?”
“A centuries-old encryption, actually.” Rafe continued to work his squiggles. “I think it might be best if Fanny and I leave Bathgate as quickly as possible.”
The constable checked his pocket watch. “Glasgow train should be here within the hour. Ye’ve got just enough time to get to the station.”
Fanny pivoted in her chair. “Constable Ferguson, I wish to return to Edinburgh posthaste, with or without Detective Lewis.” Her eyes darted over and he tried a wounded look, but it was no use. She saw right through it. “Rafe, I do not wish to further endanger anyone else on my account.” She returned to Ferguson, all beseeching eyes and mournful pout.
Before she could utter another word of entreaty, he was forced to dash her hopes. “I’m afraid you have no choice, Fanny. You are now in the custody of the Crown.” Rafe passed the wire over the desk.
Ferguson dug out a pair of spectacles and read the directive. Sorrowful eyes peered over the rim of the reading glasses. Shaking his head, the constable offered her the wire.
“Come here, lad.” Mr. Tuttle reached out a hand and Duncan slipped off her lap.
Fanny accepted the missive and slumped back into her chair. There was a gasp, a hiccup, then a bit of sob.
“The writ is for your own protection.”
She turned her head. “How is that possible, Rafe? Why would London be any safer than Edinburgh?”
“I don’t know.” He sucked air quietly through his teeth. “Fanny, no matter where you go, you’ll expose someone to danger.” He wondered, frankly, if there were other motives behind this request of hers. To elude him—quite likely. All that intimacy last night no doubt made her skittish. The thought, however, turned the edges of his mouth upward.
“Fan . . . I must ask a favor. While I encrypt this message—which takes more than a bit of concentration—might you give the constable a description of the horrid natty blokes?”
Ferguson leaned back in his chair. “What’s this about horrid natty men?”
Fanny rolled her eyes and colored slightly. “A description of mine—a silly one. The men after me all dress rather smartly.”
“Have ye noticed they wear black waistcoats?” Ferguson seemed pleased with himself. “Quite formal in appearance when it comes to attire.”
Lara Tuttle perked up and nodded. “Almost like they were militia or clergy.”
Rafe looked up from his ciphering. “Might be a uniform of some kind.”
“Caused a bit o’ trouble the other evening at the Nag’s Head.” Ferguson lowered his voice. “Declared themselves member of some order—the Utopian Society.” The constable scoffed a chuckle. “Raving lot. Several of them talking nonsense. ‘The machines will destroy us.’ I tossed the worst troublemaker in the lockup ’til he sobered up. Daft man tried to lecture me. ‘Britain’s reign is over. Greatness wasted on a system of domination and exploitation.’”
Rafe exchanged looks with Fanny. Hurriedly, he finished his secret missive and stuffed the paper into his coat pocket. “We’d best be on our way, Constable.” He lifted the warming plate from the cast-iron stove and tossed in the telegrams from Special Branch.
“Best see you out this way.” The constable escorted them all to the back of the station. “See to yer family, and be back here within the hour, Mr. Tuttle. We’ll take a ride out to the farm.” The farmer nodded as the collie scuttled through the door with the young family right behind. The Tuttles dashed across the narrow alley, made a turn at the first lane, and disappeared. Ferguson turned to Fanny and Rafe. “Follow this alley straight up the hill to the train station.”
Rafe nodded to the constable and grabbed Fanny by the hand. They kept to the shadowed side of the lane and periodically took cover in doorways. Fanny peeked around the corner. “Station straight ahead.”
Rafe handed her a small pouch of coins. “Purchase our tickets and board the train the moment it arrives. Try for a compartment.”
“Where will you be?”
“Takes a bit of time to send an encoded message. I must see it through and destroy the original.” He indicated for her to proceed on ahead of him. “Don’t worry, Fan. I’ll find you.”
FANNY FOLDED HER hands in her lap and sought to disappear into her corner by the window. Several passengers occupied seats in the compartment, including an elderly vicar and two ladies. With no hat, gloves, or coat of any kind, she attracted stares from the other passengers. She clutched the train tickets in one hand and used the other to smooth her hair.
In no mood to face off their cool stares, she gazed out the window. Why oh why was this happening to her? Always on alert now, she peered up and down the tracks looking for dark-suited pursuers. She wanted to go home. Back to her life before all of this . . . turmoil. Before Father died.
Fanny had not yet come to terms with her father’s death, not wholly. A heavy blanket of horror shrouded her mind, smothering both her grief and her loss. Days ago, she’d confronted the truth of the gruesome murder, even vowed to see her father’s assassins brought to justice. So what had happened to her? Last night with Rafe had happened. She hadn’t expected the intimacy to be so—intimate. Her body trembled at the very reminder of his pleasuring.
And the Tuttles. Those dear children put at such risk, and such a lovely young family. All because someone with a private army was after Ambrose Greyville-Nugent’s daughter.
Incredible. Impossible. Nightmarish.
Fanny inhaled a deep breath and exhaled quietly. She scraped her upper teeth across her lower lip and contemplated the question of her further cooperation with Scotland Yard. In point of fact, the local police appeared woefully undermanned, no matter how well intentioned. A hiss of steam and the gentle bump of train cars rolling forward caused her empty stomach to lurch. Where was Rafe?
The fates had been perversely mischievous of late—case in point, Raphael Lewis. She felt a smile coming on. Of all the devilish, philandering scoundrels in the world to come to her aid, why did it have to be—
“Here you are, darling.” His lips bussed her cheek. “In your dash to board the train, you forgot these.” He plopped a blue peplum jacket, a pair of crocheted gloves, and a small but jaunty enough chapeau in her lap.
Rafe smiled his signature winsome grin at the middle-aged spinsters across the aisle. “A bit late rising this morning. Almost missed the train.” He might as well have winked. “Newlyweds.” The ladies tittered and the vicar turned the page of his newspaper with a snap.
Fanny pulled on an open-weave glove. “You had time to shop, Detective Lewis?”
Rafe used his new ruse to touch her cheek and sweep a few errant hairs back into the coil of hair on her head. “Hand me your hat, love.”
She examined the high-crowned fedora on her knee. One side of the brim included a spray of poppy and cornflowers tucked into a grosgrain band. He set the hat on her head and adjusted the tilt. “There. Every bit as cheeky as my lovely new wife.” He removed a long hatpin from the ribbon and fastened the crown to her topknot. “After you were safely away, I took a separate route to the station.” His words whispered over her ear. “I happened to find a shopkeeper opening her doors. The jacket and hat came straight out of the window and the gloves off the counter. I tossed two crowns at the confounded woman and was out the door in under sixty seconds.”
“You always were foxly fast.” She flashed her eyes with a smirk.
Rafe sat back. “Do you think so?”
“I know so.”
He grinned. “Handy trait in my line of work, but hardly clever.”
The morning sun had quickly warmed the compartment. She tried fanning herself with a loose glove. “Clever enough, Rafe, and I think—rather thoughtful of you.”
Rafe settled back beside her. “Crikey blimey, Miss Greyville-Nugent, does this mean I have reason to hope?”
“Don’t pop the corks yet, Detective Lewis.” She glanced out the compartment window as brickyards and smokestacks were replaced by the hills and dales west of Bathgate. “Many trials are yet to come.”
Fanny sighed. Perhaps, for the moment, she would go along with Scotland Yard’s directive. But she wanted answers. “What news from London? Might Special Branch have anything to say about my—our dilemma?”
“Nothing half as brilliant as your insight on the matter, which I wired them. I will say the mounting casualties have confirmed suspicions.”
“My father, that chap in London, and Mr. Poole.”
Rafe nodded. “They’re off collecting inventors and industrialists in London, housing them in a secret enclave somewhere in town. They’ve instigated a roundup here in Scotland as well. Peter Guthrie Tait, Lord Kelvin, and someone named Waterstone are in protective custody.”
She was going to need a salve for her lower lip if she kept on chewing. “Good God. Tait and Lord Kelvin in the same cell together. They don’t get on. William can be quite insufferable.”
Rafe’s eyes wrinkled. “They’ll likely put them under house arrest.”
“And how is it I am ordered to London, while they reside comfortably in Edinburgh?”
“Can’t say for sure.” When she slanted a glare, he shrugged. “They must fear you’ve been singled out in some way.” His gaze wavered slightly over her face. “There is a lovely blush of sun across your cheeks and nose, no doubt from all that frolicking in the loch and the heather.”
“But no spots?”
He squinted and made quite a show of examining her cheeks. “Alas, there are none.”
Exasperated, Fanny crossed her arms over her chest. She caught a glimpse of her new hat’s reflection as they passed through a small tunnel. She adjusted the brim slightly.
For several miles, she gazed out the window. It would not be difficult to loll about in a reverie over yesterday’s swim in the loch and the astounding pleasures of last evening. In fact, she wished to curl up against Rafe’s broad shoulder and forget the morning’s excitement.
The train lurched and she squinted down the tracks. Something was wrong. “We’re slowing down.”
Rafe pressed close to the window. “Bollocks.”
Chapter Fourteen
Fanny groaned. “Now what?”
Rafe reached for her hand and pulled her onto her feet. He nodded to the passengers in their compartment. “Excuse us, ladies.”
She trailed Rafe out the compartment and down the aisle. At the rear door of the railcar, he stopped abruptly and turned to her. “The train is being flagged down.”
Her pulse raced. She should be used to this kind of disruptive scenario by now. Back at the station she had sensed something afoot but had dismissed her apprehension. “By them—the natty blokes?”
“We’re not waiting to find out.” Rafe struck the heavy door latch and it swung open.
Fanny pulled back. “We’re still moving.”
Rafe nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.” With those discomforting words he was down the steps and off the train. She squinted through fluttering lashes. A blur of coattails flew through the air. He managed to land on his feet, which was hopeful, until his body folded under him. He rolled onto his side and disappeared down the embankment.
“Rafe!” Panic set in and she froze, momentarily. She was to be the next one off the train, but there was no Rafe to catch her. Biting her lip, she stepped down the metal stairs and hoped for a grassy patch of hillside. Something with a bit of cushion.
His voice barely carried over the shrill squeak and hiss of the train. Something about a hill and a bit of encouragement. “Jump, Fanny.”
Gathering her dress around her knees, she let go of the handrail. She couldn’t think. She just had to close her eyes and . . .
The knoll wasn’t nearly as soft as it appeared. Her landing, if one could call it that, was bone jarring and teeth rattling. She tumbled head over heels before smoothing out into a sideways roll down the grass.
Every rock bruised.
Every burr pricked.
Finally she slid to a stop. Shaken senseless from the fall, she lay prostrate on the ground, arms clutched fast to her sides. Her head throbbed, and she sucked in short, labored breaths. She waited for the shooting pain to come, signaling a broken limb or two. The slightest whimper escaped her throat. She licked her lips and tasted blood.
With a bit of effort, she raised her head. Her dress had flown up around her thighs, her stockings were torn in several places, and both knees were skinned.
“Fanny!” Rafe clawed his way up from the base of the hill to her side. “Are you all right?” The strength and comfort of his embrace surrounded her, and she burst into tears.
He rocked her in his arms and rubbed her back. Gently, he kneaded some of the aches away. This time, with permission, he checked her arms and limbs for injury. The concern in his expression blurred through damp eyelashes. He wiped tears off her cheeks. “I should have been there to catch you.”
She hiccupped. “No broken bones?” She wiped her eyes with a gloved hand and blinked.
“No permanent damage to either one of us.” He grinned, she was almost sure of it. “I’m afraid your new bonnet has not fared quite as well.” She unpinned her hat. “See—a dent in the crown, and you’ve lost a few posies.”
She stabbed the hatpin into the brim. “Help me up.”
Rafe’s arm wrapped around her waist and he stood insufferably close as he lifted her to her feet. He also held on too long. “I’m perfectly fine.” She pushed him away, teetering on weak legs. He tried to steady her. “Let me walk about, Rafe.” After a few wincing steps, she turned around and hobbled back.
“You’re hurt.”
“Nonsense, a bit of a sprain is all.”
Rafe lowered to his haunches. “May I?” She lifted her eyes along with her petticoat. He craned his neck for a look. “Ah yes, there is a swelling.” His fingers gently probed her ankle. “You mustn’t try to walk on this.”
She dropped her skirt. “I shall not prattle on about a simple sprain.” She took a few tentative steps and started down the hill. “We’d best be on our way.”
He rose from his crouch. “Fanny. Let me carry you.”
“Ha!”
Rafe trailed along after. “I rather liked your tears. I was able to
witness this lovely softening—a sign of maturity, I think.”
She spun around and struck him in the face with her ruined fedora.
“Ouch!” He hunched away from her.
Instantly regretful, she bit her lip. “Sorry. Are you all right?” She noted a red welt under his eye. She dropped the ruined hat.
He gazed at her between furious blinks. “Quite all right, only half-blind.”
“But really, Rafe, that business about softening and maturity? I greatly dislike those kinds of remarks. Gentlemen often think to compliment a lady on her gentle ways and girlish sentiments.” She took a moment to huff. “But it is often an insult, is it not? ‘Little lamb, how wonderfully biddable you are.’”
Rafe stared at her. “I take it all back. I meant to remark upon how contrary and troublesome you can be.” He turned away and surveyed the field in front of them. “This grass is not tall enough to provide cover. We need to cross the field and get to that small copse of silver birch.”
After a bit of slow going, he fell in alongside her. Fanny winced with every step. “Truth be told, I dislike your suffragist rhetoric as much as you hate my flattery. Besides the vote, what do you possibly hope to get out of it, Fanny?”
“I’ll take the vote for a start. And it is my intention to study engineering at university. That is, if I survive this gruesome adventure.”
Her revelation appeared to knock the wind from his sails. They walked along in silence for a number of strides before a chug and hiss signaled the train pulling away. Rafe looked back across the field. “Entirely too much exposure.”
“What?” Her breath was strained and harsh from pain.
“Are you up to something faster?”
Fanny nearly choked. The very thought of faster caused her eyes to moisten and burn again. She stepped up the pace for several strides, limping so terribly she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
“Unbelievably muleheaded of you.” He swept her off her feet. “Arms around my neck—that’s it.” Lifting her higher, he adjusted his grip, and quickened the pace. “I fully understand your anger, Fan. It must seem as if every time I enter your life I bring with me some form of difficulty.”
A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis Page 13
