Curzon removed a missive from his jacket and passed it over. “From Detective Kennedy, addressed to you in care of me.”
While Rafe ciphered through the message, Curzon turned to her. “And you, miss—how might I make your stay here at 19-B Oswald a pleasant one? I take it you’ve been on the run for the better part of two days?”
“I would very much like a bath, a change of traveling clothes, and something to eat, in that order, Mr.—Agent Curzon.”
Rafe looked up. “Fanny, I would be happy to—” he began.
Curzon’s dark gaze never left her. “It would be my pleasure to see to a bath for Miss Greyville-Nugent.” He turned to Rafe. “You both look like you could use a hot soak and a good rest. As long as Miss Greyville-Nugent’s abductors and are still in pursuit, neither of you should be seen on the streets.”
Rafe nodded. “I’ve another man under my protection, a Professor Hamish Minnow, an inventor the Yard wants brought in. I expect him here shortly. If he does not turn up soon, I shall have to go after him.”
“You have an address?” Curzon asked.
Rafe shook his head. “Said something about a warehouse upriver.”
The intelligencer wrinkled a brow. “One of hundreds, I’m afraid.”
Rafe leaned forward. “He can’t very well sneak a landship the size of a locomotive and twice as loud into storage without someone noticing.”
Curzon turned to Fanny. “I’m afraid this refuge is very much each bachelor for himself. I had just put a kettle on when you arrived. Perhaps you’d enjoy a cup of tea while Detective Lewis and I scare up a tub?”
They all descended into the kitchen, where the intelligence agent filled a teapot and brought out a tin of biscuits.
Fanny set about heating more water, and Rafe located a nice-sized copper tub in a pantry closet. “I believe I shall bathe here.” She hesitated. “With the door and all . . .”
Curzon bowed. “You will at least have privacy, miss.” A bell rang among a line of servant’s bells. “Ah, we have another visitor.” He cracked open the service door, and motioned to Rafe. “Shall we have a look?”
Pleasantly perched on a stool by the large worktable, Fanny sipped an entire cup of tea and devoured two biscuits before Agent Curzon returned. She forced a swallow midchew. “Where is Detective Lewis?”
“It seems your inventor chap is in some difficulty.” Fanny stood up to leave. Curzon held up his hand. “His trouble is with the local authorities. Detective Lewis left a moment ago with an officer from the constabulary.”
“Whatever does Professor Minnow need Rafe for?”
Curzon added a drop of cream to his tea. “Bail.”
Disquietude did not quite describe her unease. Very much alone with the spy or agent, or whatever he was, Fanny suddenly found it impossible to meet his gaze—for long. There was something attractive as well as dangerous about this strange virile man. Fanny bit her lip and busied herself checking pots of water on the stove. Steaming hot. She wiped her hands on an apron hanging near the dishpan. She could feel Curzon pass behind her. He wrapped a towel around his hand and picked up the first pot of water. He made several trips from the pantry to the stove until all the warm water was in the tub.
He unwrapped his hand and nodded a bow. “Your bath awaits, miss.”
Fanny dipped a finger in the bath water and motioned to Curzon, who adjusted the temperature with a pan of cool water. Fanny tested the water again. “Yes, that’s lovely. Thank you.”
He turned to leave the small room and closed the door after him. “Agent Curzon.” The door slowly swung back open. “I’m afraid this is rather awkward.”
The man’s smile twitched a bit.
“Could you—?” Fanny lifted her arm and pointed behind her. She even twisted around a bit to show him the length of buttons running down her back.
With his hand still on the knob, Curzon leaned against the doorjamb. “You want me to undress you?”
Cheeks aflame, Fanny turned her back. “Just the buttons, please. I can manage the rest myself.” How utterly humiliating and difficult. Rafe had left her here, alone in the house, knowing there was a bath on the way and this . . . man for company.
Occasionally, his fingers or knuckles would brush against the flesh on her back. Warm hands. She laughed softly, nervously. “So sorry to put you through this.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Greyville-Nugent.” His voice was soft, playful. “You may apologize for so many, many buttons, however.”
“Yes, Rafe complains of the same—” Fanny bit her lip and cursed to herself. “I suppose you think I let gentlemen disrobe me as a matter of course.”
“No, Miss Greyville-Nugent, but I do detect an undercurrent of familiarity between you and Detective Lewis. Am I not correct?” He turned her around and held her with both hands. Her dress slipped off an arm. His gaze fell to her bare shoulder.
“Good God, it’s no wonder he loves you.”
“Do you think so, Agent Curzon? You are dealing with a man who betrayed my trust—who called off our betrothal the night of our engagement ball. And yet, I still care a great deal for him.” Fanny bit her lower lip. “Many people would advise me differently. They would argue that if a man truly loved a woman, he could never do such a thing.”
Curzon studied her. “That’s not entirely true, miss. I have loved many women in my life and never married one of them.”
They stood in close proximity—too close. Fanny dipped her fingers in the water. “I suppose I must press on or my bath will grow cold.”
Dutifully, Curzon backed away.
“Might you leave the door open a crack and sit inside the kitchen—a ways off?” She blushed again, just asking the question. “This is a strange house.” And the look in his eyes—they were too piercing, too dark and full of . . . well, she didn’t wish to think on it.
He left a sliver of space between door and jamb. “If I am to sip tea and listen to you splash about in your bath—I will require a distraction. A story, I think.” A kitchen stool dragged across polished floorboards. “It seems you and Raphael Lewis have a history together. Shall we call it ‘The Princess of Industry and the Scotland Yard Detective?’”
“I’m afraid it’s a very long tale, and nothing very dramatic happens until the last few chapters.” She stepped out of her dress.
“‘Begin at the beginning,’ Miss Greyville-Nugent, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’” His husky voice carried through the crack in the door.
A furtive, puzzling sort of man who quoted Lewis Carroll. She unpinned her hair. “Then I suppose you really ought to call me Fanny.”
Chapter Nineteen
The moment she slipped into the bath a moan escaped her throat and skimmed the surface of the water.
“Honestly, Fanny, moans and sighs?” The agent exhaled a tut-tut. “Don’t get me wrong, all perfectly delightful, but I was expecting ‘once upon a time.’”
As the steaming bath calmed scrapes and soothed bruises, she lathered up a cake of soap. “Your story, Agent Curzon, begins with a rather idyllic childhood.”
“Now that we have become intimates, please call me Hugh.”
Scrubbing off layers of dust and grime, Fanny recalled summers spent riding far up into the hills, games of cricket that lasted until well after dark. Lawn pins and croquet—all played ferociously and with abandon.
“Then Reggie went off to college and it was just Rafe and me.”
Hugh Curzon slurped his tea rather loudly. “I never once played cricket with my sister. Bookish sort.”
Fanny caught a length of pant leg through the crack in the door. Long-legged, this one. Rafe, too, had wonderfully long muscular legs. No doubt de rigueur for lady-killers. She squeezed out a washcloth. “In winter there was chess and backgammon.” Fanny smiled. “And Dunrobin Hall golf—an eighteen-hole course, up and down stairs.” The centuries-old wainscoting in the great hall had suffered a number of unfortunate scrapes and dents. “Golf w
as outlawed after a wild ball of mine broke a Ming vase.”
“Don’t tell me, young Lewis took the blame.” Hugh taunted.
“Yes.” Fanny paused. “Rafe went off to college a year later.”
“You were lonely.”
“Very.” She submerged her head into the water. A moment of oblivion. She resurfaced and pushed wet hair off her face. Raising her knees, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Mother died when I was very young. Barely three.” The only face she knew was an image of her mother from an old tintype. “I was left with Father, who was kind, but awfully busy. My uncle and his wife were always about, and my cousin Claire, who was . . . bookish.” Fanny soaped her hair. “When Father announced our betrothal, I was the happiest girl in Victoria’s Empire.”
“I can imagine the St. Aldwyns were equally thrilled. Your dowry must have been sizable.”
“Whopping.” Fanny reached for a pitcher of fresh water on the floor. “I didn’t give a fig about the title.” The ceramic handle slipped out of soapy fingers and fell over. “Drat.”
“Everything all right?” Hugh’s query came from just outside the door.
“I could use another pitcher of clean water—to rinse my hair.”
She tilted her head and caught a glimpse of him through the narrow slit.
“There should be warm water left in the kettle.”
The door opened a crack wider. “If the bath water is soapy enough to provide cover, I might come in and pour if you’d like. I promise not to—”
“Such a lie. You all peek.”
Hugh snorted a chuckle. “All right. Then I won’t touch.”
Fanny pulled her knees against her chest. “You may come in.”
He opened the door and didn’t stare, exactly. He admired. “You sure?”
She nodded, even though her cheeks were hot. “Shall we get this over with?”
“Lean forward, Fanny.” Warm water splashed over her hair and back.
“Rafe came up from university just for the engagement ball. He spoke privately with Father.” She supposed she would never know exactly what transpired between the two men. “The next thing I knew, Rafe was gone and Father stood on the stairs in the great hall and . . .” She swallowed. “He announced to the entire assemblage that I was calling off our engagement—that I had quite made up my mind. Father claimed it was for the best . . .” Her voice drifted off.
“Just days ago, Rafe finally confessed his reasons for calling off our betrothal. ‘One can’t marry someone, Fanny, when one is already married.’”
Hugh stopped pouring. “Jesus.”
“I stood in my father’s study and thought, ‘This cannot be my life.’ I was in shock, paralyzed.”
“Lean back.” His husky voice was oddly soothing.
She raised her chin, resting her head on her shoulders. Warm water poured over her scalp. Hugh’s handsome angular face appeared overhead. “A man can love a woman with all his heart and still make mistakes—do things he might deeply regret.”
She frowned. “But how could that be?”
“Life often has a way of spiraling out of one’s control. A man finally meets the love of his life, and then makes a grave mistake—something irrevocable. He might have . . . killed the lady’s brother, for instance.”
Her eyes flew open and searched his face. Hugh’s piercing gaze met hers and softened. She swallowed. “Does she know?”
His smile was hesitant, gentle. “I believe so.”
He lifted the pitcher. “Close your eyes.” Once more, water flooded over her head and into the tangled curls plastered to her back. He piled up wet hair and wrapped her head in a towel. “Such a darling little thing. I more than half envy Rafe.”
“Why do you continue to believe Rafe cares for me?”
“For one, he threatened to rip my balls from my scrotum should I dare scrub your back.” He laid a bath sheet by the tub and turned to leave. Fanny gurgled a laugh and looked up.
Rafe stood in the doorway to the pantry.
There was something dark and menacing in his eyes, like nothing Fanny had ever seen before. His deadly gaze traveled to Agent Curzon.
“My word, this is unfortunate timing.” Hugh approached Rafe cautiously, hands up in casual surrender.
“You should have told me you had no further use for your testicles, Curzon, I would have picked a different organ—close by.”
If Rafe’s eyes could slash and cut, Hugh Curzon’s most prized masculine body part might soon be served up as dinner. On a roll.
Fanny gripped her knees tight to her chest. “Rafe!” She lifted her brows and forced a pleasant expression. “Would you be kind enough to leave us alone, Hugh?”
Reluctant to leave, the agent’s protective stance caused Rafe’s eyes to bulge.
“I’ll be perfectly fine. Rafe would never—”
Rafe grabbed Hugh by the lapels and leaned into his chest. “I do not take advantage of women, nor cause them any—”
“Not exactly true, is that, Rafe?” Fanny cut in sharply, then gentled her words. “Please let him go.”
RAFE LOOKED HUGH up and down. The man was every inch as tall as himself, with a bit more brawn. But he could take him in a fair fight.
Reluctantly, he eased back and Fanny nodded to Hugh, who closed the door with a wink. Rafe spun around. “What the hell are you doing, letting a strange man into your bath?”
Fanny rolled her eyes. “Hold up the towel.”
A demigoddess arose from her primordial sea. Rivulets of foaming water ran down her breasts. The glistening droplets traced a path between luscious mounds, a narrow torso, and a sweet belly, only to be caught in a nest of soft brown curls.
She unwound the towel from her head and turned slowly while she fluffed a tangle of hair.
A lump formed in his throat. Not the only thing that was rock hard.
He noted those wonderful dimples just above the round plumpness of that enticing derriere. She turned full circle before she stepped into the towel. He covered her in the warm sheet and held her, wrapped in his arms.
“There now,” she whispered. “You are the only man I would ever let see me.”
“Fanny, I love you.”
Searching his face, she bit her lip. “Funny, that is what Hugh said.”
Rafe blinked at her and gritted his teeth. “Blasted, deceiving operative—cuckolder. Love at first sight, was it?”
Fanny blushed from temple to toe. “How you jump to conclusions!” She giggled softly. “Hugh said, ‘It’s no wonder he loves you’—he meant you, Rafe, not himself.”
She nodded toward the floor. “Take note of the puddle of water you are standing in. My pitcher of rinse water tipped over. Hugh offered—”
“I bet he did.”
She raised both brows. “Nothing happened. And even if—” Fanny broke off midsentence and stepped out of the tub. He grabbed hold of her arm to steady her.
“You were about to say?” He stuck his chin out.
“You are the only man who has ever seen me naked—entirely. You have touched me in places no lady should ever allow a man to know without a ceremony. Quite an advantage, wouldn’t you say, for a dodgy ex-fiancé?” Fanny carried on drying her hair. A mountain of curls cascaded around her shoulders and down her back.
“Good God, you are lovely.”
“‘Good God, you’re lovely—Fanny, I love you.’ What does it mean? Words, Rafe, empty words—”
Rafe yanked her into his arms and kissed her. And she returned his ardor with a surprising passion, slipping her tongue into his mouth, tangling, retreating, chasing. He caught the plump bottom ledge of her mouth between his teeth and tugged. And she rallied to his game of kiss and release with her tongue and teeth.
He slipped his hand under the sheet and brushed his thumb over the tip of her breast. The towel loosened and fell below firm mounds as he teased up one nipple with his fingers, the other with his tongue. She spoke in incoherent, musical utterances and trembled in his
arms.
He returned to her mouth and whispered over her lips, “There are times when words just won’t do.”
Her eyes searched his. “If I thought for a moment, you might truly love me . . .”
“It doesn’t matter to me that you have doubts, or that it might take me a lifetime to convince you of my affection. All that matters, Fanny, is that you let me try. I love you with all my heart, and with no idea how I might ever fully make amends.”
“As we’ve discussed, Mr. Lewis, there are ways for you to redress your sins.” Fanny backed away and slowly pulled up her bath sheet. “Would you hand me my undergarments, please?”
Hugh rapped at the door. “While you two are reconciling—and I do hope you are faring well, Detective Lewis—I shall attempt to find something edible for supper.”
“Yes, you do that.” Rafe tossed the remark over his shoulder.
Fanny butted past him and opened the door a crack. “Might there be a confectionary nearby where you could purchase some chocolate?”
“At this hour I should find the cooks at work. They might take pity, for a sixpence.”
Fanny’s eyes brightened. “I believe we have sugar. We’ll need a jar of milk and perhaps some soft meringues?”
Hugh smiled through the crack. “I will endeavor to bring back all the items you need to make your hot chocolate, miss.”
She returned his smile. “Thank you.”
Hugh looked her up and down, sizing up her figure. “I’m afraid I’ll not be able to find you any suitable attire until morning.”
Rafe tossed a few shillings through the crack and slammed the door. He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “Do you enjoy that man’s company?”
Fanny tied on her drawers and slipped on her camisole. “You do him a disservice, Rafe. He has been very kind.”
“How kind?”
“At the moment, very much kinder than you.” Fanny picked up the pretty summer frock, now sadly splattered with mud and torn along the hem.
Rafe stared at the floor, his jaw clenching. “When the shops reopen in the morning, I will purchase all new traveling clothes.”
A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis Page 17
