A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  “Right behind you.” Rafe’s voice, comforting under the circumstances.

  Fanny edged forward. “Professor Minnow, what sort of—I distinctly hear the hiss of a boiler on board, but the toggle switches?”

  “Steam conversion, lass. There’s a dynamo electric generator in the rear of the ship, under the gunner’s seat. Powers the searchlight and the onboard lamps.” Minnow threw a lever and, with a shudder and hiss, the vehicle started up again. “Have a seat. You can be my navigator.” The large man gave her a wink and patted the space beside him.

  Fanny hesitated.

  “Come now, I could use another pair of eyes.” She marveled at how he could see anything out the narrow slits for windows, bladdered or not. She crawled into the cabin and lowered herself onto a thinly padded bench. “Not that I have to worry greatly about us running off the road.” He winked. “Built for a rough ride, she is.”

  “Might there be a view out the rear?” Rafe yelled over the rumble of the engine. “I’d like to keep a lookout for the dark-suited blokes.” He leaned farther in. “You wouldn’t by any chance know who they are?”

  “You’re the detective, Mr. Lewis, not I. You’ll find a chair underneath the Gatling gun in the stern,” Minnow called over his shoulder. “As ye pass by the furnace, shovel in a bit of coal, would ye?”

  Fanny squinted through the mechanism in front of her. She could swivel the apparatus from side to side and imagined that in daylight one could scan a wide range of terrain. The dark gray road before them wound its way across a flat plain. Far ahead, she could see dots of light. “Professor Minnow, those lights ahead—”

  Minnow squinted through the crack. “We’ll be upon the Clyde and the Port of Dundas shortly.” He turned to her with brow raised. “And soon after?”

  “Glasgow.” Fanny smiled. She wasn’t sure why she felt such elation. Maybe it was because she had formulated a plan. Orders or not, if Rafe continued on with this ridiculous plan to try for London, she would just have to take matters into her own hands. Once they were in the city, she would slip away and catch the first train back to Edinburgh. She neither wanted nor needed the protection of Scotland Yard, and she had certainly put Rafe through enough. She tried adding up the number of times he might have been killed or injured these past two days and quickly lost count.

  Fanny sighed. All this dangerous life-risking behavior of his was having its effect. She was being won over, completely and utterly. And she wasn’t forgetting how his body nestled with hers, or how heavenly his mouth felt when he lightly brushed his lips over hers. A warm heat prickled up her neck to her cheeks. She fanned herself. “Boiler keeps it nice and cozy in here.”

  Minnow steered the behemoth with handled sticks that rose up from the floor. “A bit too cozy on a summer’s day, if you take my meaning.”

  She had detected his meaning the moment she sat down beside him. The man needed a bath, sooner rather than later.

  “What ho!” Rafe’s shout traveled through the inner workings of the landship. “Three riders brandishing weapons approach from the north.”

  Minnow unhooked a speaking tube from the ceiling. “Release the lever at the side of the chair—you and the gun will pivot. Let me know when you’re in position.”

  Fanny peered out of her window slit. She made out three men—likely the ones who’d chased them down and left them at bottom of the mine-shaft. If anything could scare these blokes off, it would be a Gatling gun pointed at them.

  “Aimed and ready, Professor.” Rafe’s voice sounded far away and tinny.

  “Now then, listen carefully. You’ve got no real accuracy, lad, so fire well above their heads. I’ll not have ye bring down one of God’s finest four-legged creatures.” He winked at Fanny. “I’m a gambling man by nature.” Minnow returned to the speaking cone. “A long-odds filly as fast as the wind and as pretty as you please financed this here rig, so watch yourself.” Minnow crossed himself. “Fire at will, Detective.”

  Minnow turned to Fanny. “You’ll want to cover yer ears, miss.”

  IT TOOK ALL the strength Rafe possessed to keep the gun firing and not let it spin wildly out of control. Empty shells spewed out of the repeater and dropped to the floor. He was so preoccupied with the unwieldy mechanical gun, he forgot to let up on the cranking mechanism. Only when the barrel began to smoke did he become alarmed. “I’ve got a very hot gun back here!”

  “Let up on the crank, Detective.” Instantly, Rafe let go of the handle. His entire body throbbed from the release of tension in his arms and back. He squinted through a haze of smoke. The natty blokes had turned tail and were retreating at a gallop.

  Rafe loosed a battle cry of triumph. “This is a fine war machine you’ve made here, Professor Minnow.” He sat back in the rotating chair, released the lever, and spun around, scanning the terrain. Flickering lights from several cottages a ways off meant they were approaching civilization.

  Glasgow. He removed a stack of folded wires and found the decoded address of the safe house. 19-B Oswald Street. Undercover Special Branch men would offer shelter and help get them safely out of town. He hoped for a cozy room in a nice, out of the way hotel. He hadn’t slept much in these last two days, and all he could think about was a bath, a bed, and a dram. He swallowed, remembering how thirsty he was. “Professor Minnow, you wouldn’t by any chance have anything to drink up there?”

  “Pressure’s down, laddie. Stoke the fire and I’ll send the lass back with yer reward.”

  Rafe removed his jacket and shoveled coals into the furnace. His gaze followed the funnels and pipes from furnace to boiler. Inside the horizontal cylinder the steam would drive the pistons—which in turn cranked the wheels of this great beast. Rafe wiped a bit of sweat off his brow with his sleeve. “What a marvel.”

  “Thank you very much for the compliment, Rafe.” Fanny dipped her head through the hatch. She held a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a covered container in the other.

  He reached out for the metal pail. “Water?”

  She handed it over. “Somewhat tepid I’m afraid, but it’s liquid.” He poured the water down his throat and splashed another handful over his face. Fanny leaned against the hatch opening. “Once again, Detective Lewis, you saved the day.”

  Rafe grinned. “Not me. This machine—this beast is the absolute future of war. And I, for one, am very glad Professor Hamish Mulvaney Minnow is on our side.”

  “He’s quite the character.” She ducked her head into the rear compartment. Rafe took her by the hand. “Have a go at the gunner’s post.” Ignoring her protests, he climbed up into the chair and pulled her onto his lap. He placed her hand on the crank and released the lever. “Sight through the notch here.”

  While Fanny took aim over a sea of dark grass, Rafe rotated the turret. “My word, this is excellent. Will the gun do a full rotation?”

  He spoke softly in her ear. “Three hundred sixty degrees, Lieutenant.” She jumped and accidentally cranked a spray of bullets into a field alongside the road.

  “Sorry, Professor, Fanny got carried away.” Rafe removed her hand from the gun’s trigger mechanism.

  She poked him in the ribs. “Not exactly carried away. You whispered in my ear.” Fanny moved to slip off his lap. “It tickled.”

  “Don’t go.” He held on to her arm. “Rest here a moment.” He encouraged her to lie back against his body.

  She shot him a look over her shoulder. “For a little while, then I must return and assist Professor Minnow.”

  “Call me Hamish, and take yer time, lass.” Minnow’s voice barked through the speaking cone dangling overhead. “The river now lights our way. Fix your turret north-northwest, Detective Lewis, and have a look.” Rafe released the lever at the side of the chair and rotated the hand crank.

  “Look, Fan, as lovely as can be,” Rafe said softly. The river Clyde snaked a silvery path through the darkened landscape. The road they traveled would soon take a turn and run alongside the broad waterway.

&n
bsp; “In London, I often walk home along the Thames. It reminds me of home—the path along the firth that connects Lochree with our deer park.”

  She rested her head back against his shoulder. “Rafe?”

  “Hmm?” His breath blew softly across the delicate hairs of her temple.

  “I want to apologize for my very rude behavior, back on the road.” She hesitated. “All that screaming and fisticuffs and such.”

  “I’m quite recovered, Fan.”

  “In fact, you’ve been so wonderfully kind and devoted these last few days, I believe you deserve a bit of tribute.”

  Rafe turned her in his arms. “A few trial credits, perhaps?”

  “Oh yes, a fistful.” A slash of brow came together. “But you are not yet entirely forgiven.”

  “I will strive for entirely before we reach London.” He stole a quick kiss and then another.

  “Rafe, when we reach Glasgow, I shall return to Edinburgh. You may carry on—catch and arrest the natty blokes and the dastardly man with the initials BVM, if the monogram is indeed the man behind this”—Fanny jerked upright on his lap—“ghastly business.” Her brows crashed together.

  “Rafe, there was a man last year—rather an eccentric fellow. I’ve only seen him once. He was speaking to an unlawful assembly of millworkers. I believe his name was Bellecorte Mallory. I have no idea what his middle initial might be. Father called him a crackpot.”

  His slight uptick in pulse rate signaled an important clue. “Good God, you may have just given us our first big break in the case.”

  She leaned back against his shoulder. “Rather a woolly bear sort, with a bit of drool around the mouth. Mr. Mallory hardly seemed the type to be plotting the grisly demise of the most prominent citizens of the industry.”

  “Mild-mannered but half-mad anti-progressive gathers around him a close-knit group of misguided souls—”

  “The size of an army.” She sniffed.

  “And these minions join in his scheme to rid the world of steam engines and motorized machines by eliminating their fiendish creators.” Rafe rubbed the top of her head with his bristled chin. “Seems irrationally . . . reasonable.”

  “What is not reasonable, or rational, is how my dilemma continues to endanger innocent citizens, to say nothing of the burden I place on you.”

  “Fanny—”

  “In protecting me, you put yourself in great danger. I shall return home, hire my own private horse guard, batten down the hatches, and wait for this whole bloody business to be over.”

  Rafe exhaled. “No, you will not.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Rafe sighed. “No-o-o-o, you will not.”

  “Ye-e-e-s-s, I will.” Fanny chewed her bottom lip. “How impossible you are.” She slipped off his lap.

  Rafe snorted. “I’m impossible?”

  “Detective Lewis,” Minnow’s voice squawked from overhead. “Port of Dundas, straight ahead, and I’ll be needing to head upriver apace. You’ll be wanting to get Miss Greyville-Nugent to safety while I park this here Iron Lady in a storehouse.”

  Rafe and Fanny moved forward into steerage. “Meet us at 19-B Oswald Street.”

  “Know the area well.” Minnow rose from his seat. “Down the lane from Ivory Black’s—a fine gaming establishment.” The professor gestured upward and Fanny started up the ladder. “I’ll see the lass safely down while you stoke me a few more, Detective.”

  Dutifully, Rafe shoveled coal before he climbed out of the leviathan landship. Skipping the last few footholds, he jumped to the ground. Good God. He craned his neck. Hamish Minnow was a mighty-sized Scot, the kind built for wielding a claymore or tossing a caber. Reasonably tall in stature, Rafe found he had to step back a bit to make eye contact with the giant. “My orders are to escort you and Fanny to London.”

  Minnow grunted his acknowledgment, grabbed a side rail, and lifted himself up the craft with surprising agility. Rafe shouted after the man, “Don’t make me come after you, Professor Minnow!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “This safe house, as you call it, on Oswald Street. What is it exactly?” Fanny trotted up beside Rafe, who set a blistering pace along Clyde Street. The cobbled thoroughfare bustled with carts and pedestrians even at this wee hour of the morning.

  “It’s a kind of hotel for detectives working undercover. A secure location for witnesses or undercover operatives in danger—usually on the run,” He glanced over at her.

  Her brows knit together. “Like us.”

  The tall masts and rigging of the merchant ships moored along the river wharf painted a macabre crisscross of webbing across the night sky. Rafe reached for her arm at the street corner. “When agents are found out, they need a place to hide until they can be brought safely into headquarters. The Yard men who work the Glasgow docks are after arms dealers and explosives traffickers, mostly. Deadly dangerous work. Two operatives were killed last year. A rat-catcher found the bodies in the hold of a ship, partially—” The last detail trailed off as he checked the sign post. “Hold on. Here we are, Oswald Street.” They made their way down a row of shop fronts and boardinghouses.

  At No. 19, they entered the foyer of the residence and used the door knocker on the apartment lettered B.

  “Will I have my own room?” She moistened her lips. “Will there be food and a bath?” Fanny allowed herself to hope for a few creature comforts.

  “Perhaps hotel was the wrong choice of words.” Rafe’s mouth twitched. “More likely pub food brought in and a quick washup—we’ll see what can be done.” They waited in silence. And waited.

  Rafe lifted the knocker and rapped again.

  Fanny leaned in. “Do you suppose the house is not in use at the moment? Might there be a key we could ask for—from a neighbor?” She detected a whiff of fresh paint in the air and noted the clean runners on the polished wood floor. Perfectly respectable. She tilted her head back to check the brass letter again. “You did say ‘B’?”

  “B as in bollocks.” Rafe tried the knob. Locked. He rapped on the door, this time with bare knuckles.

  “Rude of Scotland Yard to direct us here and have no one to—what would you call it?”

  “Bring us in. And rather typical, actually, the rudeness.” Rafe stepped away from the door, only to jerk back with a start. Fanny pivoted in the direction of his gaze. A rather swarthy-looking man dressed as a gentleman leaned against the rail post at the foot of the stairs. He pointed a pistol at them.

  When Fanny opened her mouth to speak, Rafe grabbed her hand and shook his head. The man pushed off the banister. “If you would walk on ahead—this way.” He gestured with the gun—Fanny to go first and Rafe to follow after. They made their way down the corridor behind the stairs to a service entrance. The strange man crossed ahead and held the door open. He motioned them both inside.

  They were in a kitchen, with a large kettle of water steaming on top of the stove. Fanny brightened at the thought of a cup of tea, no matter how unsettling their taciturn host might be.

  He bid them follow and wound a path through the kitchen and down a corridor, where he opened a door revealing a narrow stair closet. She raised a brow as he pointed upward. Up close, he was strikingly handsome in a dangerous, brooding sort of fashion. As she squeezed by him he regarded her with an amused half smile.

  She felt his eyes on her as she climbed the angled wooden treads. Feeling her way in the dark, hardly able to see the next step, she ran headlong into—“Ouch.” She rubbed her nose.

  “You will find a latch to your right. Slide it back.” The man’s accent, though well-educated and thoroughly British, held traces of another dialect—something close to home, perhaps?

  She found the pull and stepped into the upstairs apartment. There were a number of angles to the ceiling and one heavily draped gabled window. Straight ahead, she could just make out a table beside an overstuffed chair.

  Familiar with the placement of furnishings, their armed escort slipped into the room. The
strike and hiss of a safety match revealed an oil lamp on the table. He tipped the flame to the wick and replaced the funnel. The imposing gentleman nodded to Rafe and spoke in a low voice. “Please, come in.”

  After adjusting the wick the stranger took a moment to study them. Rafe appeared calm enough, as though he waited for something. She found the room a bit musty and cleared her throat.

  “Detective Lewis.” The man’s dark eyes gentled when they reached her. “And you are Miss Francine Greyville-Nugent. The engraving in the paper does not do you justice.”

  She swallowed. “I never much cared for that photograph.”

  “I must ask both of you to remove whatever is in your coat pockets.”

  Rafe pulled a revolver from each pocket and set the weapons on the side table. He also produced a number of folded papers and the red leather journal taken off the dead man on the train. There were also several satchels of coin.

  Their enigmatic host gestured them over to the settee while he swept up the papers and journal and took a seat opposite.

  Rafe sat down beside her and gave her a comforting wink. She leaned close. “Rather a great deal of intrigue, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Standard procedure, Fan.”

  The mysterious gentleman glanced up from his reading. “Sorry for the subterfuge, Miss Greyville-Nugent, but as the detective says, we must follow procedure whenever possible. You’d be surprised how often it keeps us alive.” He closed the journal, and refolded the papers.

  “I am Hugh Curzon, on assignment for the Office of the Admiralty. Here in Glasgow, bored out of my brains, awaiting the arrival of a large shipment of explosives.” He nodded to Rafe. “Scotland Yard, perennially understaffed and always at a loss for agents, asked me to step in.” Setting back in the overstuffed chair, he stretched his legs out and folded his hands in his lap. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “Have you a wire or some form of communication that might confirm you are who you say you are?” Rafe’s polite smile appeared rather clenched.