A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  She stepped into petticoats and pulled on the ruined dress. “Hugh knows all about you and me.”

  Rafe raised a brow. “How is that possible?”

  “I told him.”

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “No wonder he’s crawling all over you.”

  “I asked him how it was possible for a man to declare his love for one woman and be unfaithful to her with another.”

  “A man in a very dark place, one who was betrayed himself, by a rival who called himself friend.” The words had slipped out, and there was no way to grab them out of the air and take them back.

  “Hugh said, ‘A man can love a woman with all his heart and still . . .’” The words died away as Fanny slowly turned around.

  He waited for her gaze to meet his. “You heard right, Fan.” The knot in Rafe’s throat threatened to choke off his intake of air. Her eyes, already large and round, glistened. Fanny was confused, shaken. But then, why wouldn’t she be?

  Her mouth moved to frame a word then hesitated. “Who betrayed you?”

  Rafe chose his words carefully. “It was Nigel.” There. He had finally spoken the name out loud. “In collusion with Claire. I didn’t allow myself to believe it at first.” His lungs contracted with the accusation.

  Fanny blindly reached back for the edge of the tub to brace herself on the rim. “Nigel?” The name rushed out in a whisper. “How can that be?” Her eyes darted here and there, searching for answers.

  He sucked in a bit of air. “To this day, I don’t know if it was a game between them or if it was deliberate.”

  “Nigel has always been a bit resentful—even envious of you, at times.” She shook her head. “You used to shrug it off, Rafe.” Rallying a bit, Fanny tried for something brave and cutting. “Was a knock to your manhood all it took to drive you into another’s arms?”

  He bit back a remark he was quite sure he would regret. So many times he had wished to confide in her about his loss of faith as well as his shame. He opened his mouth to answer and quickly shut it again. He had never been able to forgive himself, so why should Fanny? Even though he believed the ruse to be deeper and more insidious than she realized, the argument still rang shallow. She was right, all it took was a blow to his confidence and he was off with the first village chit that had batted an eyelash.

  She stared at a wall of empty pantry shelves. “I’d like to be left alone.”

  Rafe pushed off the door. “Do you need me to button your dress?”

  Her gaze traveled over to him, eyes welled with tears. “Please leave.”

  He backed out. And quietly shut the door.

  Rafe pumped a bit of water into the kettle and placed it back on the stove. He pulled out a stool, took a seat at the table, and pressed his forehead into the palms of his hands.

  Her muffled sobs tore into his gut. He forced himself to listen until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He yanked open the pantry door and picked her up in his arms.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Put me down.” She hiccupped.

  “Cry as long and as hard as you need to.” Her arms crept around his neck, and he hugged her close. “Just let me hold you.”

  Five years’ worth of pent-up tears had finally let loose. She thought the waterworks might never stop. And when the sobbing gradually lessened, a great deal of sniffling took over. Rafe rocked her gently in his arms. For once in her life, she had nothing to say, was utterly speechless.

  The floodgates had opened up inside her. These past few days, what with all the sudden danger and adventure, Rafe’s presence had filled the vast dark cavern inside her. At last she cried the tears she hadn’t allowed herself to cry. For her father. For herself.

  For Rafe.

  Now, more than ever, she was determined to go home. But not to Edinburgh. She would return to Lochree, the estate in Queensferry. She would raise the drawbridge, blockade herself inside the castle, and let the horrid natty blokes lay siege.

  A key turned in the kitchen door. Rafe reached inside his jacket for a revolver.

  “Don’t shoot. I’ve a hamper stuffed with chops and stout, and chocolate for our lovely guest.”

  Hugh unpacked the basket and set out supper. Fanny retrieved hairpins from the pantry shelf and arranged her hair while Rafe buttoned what was left of a dingy frock.

  She held a cold compress to her eyes and Hugh angled for a closer look. “Much better, swelling’s down. No more puffy eyes.” He pulled out a stool. “Mademoiselle.”

  They were all hungry—famished actually. The men set about devouring a half dozen meaty chops each and several tankards of beer. Fanny ate even though she thought she might retch up the lot of it. Happily, supper had the opposite effect and calmed her roiling stomach.

  Hugh sat back and studied the both of them. “It appears you were unable to reconcile.”

  Rafe glared at Hugh.

  Fanny glared at Rafe.

  Hugh didn’t glare, he grinned. “Come now, tell the love doctor.”

  Hands fisted, Rafe shot up so fast his stool fell over.

  Fanny shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know which of you is worse. The man who refuses marriage because he is already married.” Her scowl moved from Rafe to Hugh. “Or the man who admits to killing his fiancée’s brother.”

  Rafe eased back. “You cut down her brother?”

  “We weren’t promised. Never made it that far. Her brother was an unapologetic, murdering anarchist. What I did, I did for queen and country.” Hugh’s narrowed gaze met Rafe’s. “I take it you’re married, Detective Lewis?”

  “Was married.” His frown flattened into a thin grim line. “She died four years ago.”

  Fanny sighed. “What a sad and ghoulish pair you are.”

  “And you’re stuck with us, I’m afraid.” Rafe righted his stool.

  She fluttered an eye roll toward the ceiling. “What luck.”

  “’Tis a mystery how fortune smiles on us.” Hugh settled back on his stool. “I was stationed in the Punjab for several years—no doubt you’ve heard of the very ancient concept of kismet? It is used among Persians to express the idea of fate, specifically the inevitability of events occurring. Both what we do and what ultimately happens to us are preordained. We play out a story invented for us.”

  Hugh munched on a few leftover tidbits. “Sikhs, on the other hand, believe in Karma. The concept of action or deed, which affects causation and effect. One simply earns one’s luck, or lack thereof, by the actions and deeds of one’s life.”

  Rafe stared. “And what does this bit of unsolicited wisdom have to do with us?”

  Unfazed, Hugh tipped his kitchen stool back on two legs. “I fall somewhere in the middle. More of a hedonist philosopher, as it were. We are all sinners, perfectly capable of effecting our own redemption. A man’s destiny is what he makes of either his good fortune or his worst folly.” A self-satisfied grin widened as Hugh’s scrutiny moved from Rafe to Fanny. “Don’t end up like those flimsy characters in Anthony Trollope novels—quibbling over mistakes, misunderstandings—losing track of what is truly important.”

  Fanny looked up to find Rafe gazing rather intently at her.

  Hugh locked fingers together and stretched out his arms. “There’s a pack of cards upstairs. I don’t play unless we play for money.” It was a short reach across the table to squeeze Fanny’s hand. “Make yourself a hot chocolate and come try to lighten my pockets at vingt-et-un.”

  Even as her body ached for sleep, her heart raced at the very thought of escape and home. If she was to evade these two, she must do so quickly. And she would need a sizable bank. Enough to hire a carriage and driver. At this juncture, possibly the safest way to return home and evade the natty blokes. Especially if she was on her own.

  Feeling brighter, she clasped her hands together and rubbed. “If either of you two gentlemen would be kind enough to advance me a small sum, I would be happy to beat the pants off the both of you.”

  With all the intensity of high
rollers at a London gaming club, they played for several hours, Fanny often coming out ahead. “I believe my jack and nine beats your paltry ten and seven, Detective Lewis.”

  Rafe tossed his cards over. “Pisser.”

  Fanny scooped up the coins in the kitty and placed them neatly on the stack in front of her. She covered a yawn.

  Hugh tilted his chair back onto two legs. “I will make a few discreet inquiries about Mallory. Lieutenant Colonel Bellecort Mallory, if it’s the same character I’m thinking of. Cashiered out over a disturbing bit of misery. An explosion in the armory—killed several men. Blew half his skull off . . .” Hugh hesitated as Rafe’s eyes darted her direction.

  She returned a flat sardonic grin. “Wouldn’t want to upset the lady’s delicate sensibilities. Not after her father was ground to mincemeat by a threshing machine.”

  Rafe stared at her. “Why don’t you get some rest, Fan?”

  Hugh’s chair touched ground. “Just there—the door in the corner. Quite a soft bed and clean sheets. I don’t mind sharing.”

  “Another remark like that one, Curzon, and you’ll have nothing left to share.” Rafe tore his glare away as she rose from her chair.

  “I’d like to say it’s been lovely.” Fanny brushed her winnings into an empty coin pouch. “Because it certainly has been profitable.” With her heart racing and knees knocking, she walked toward the bedroom steady as you please. At the door she turned back and smiled. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  The room was small and gray. Not the least bit attractive. In fact, it was perfectly uninviting. Fanny headed straight for the gabled window. Dawn was breaking over the eastern rooftops of Glasgow. There was no time to concoct a plan. She must go now, before the whole city was up and about. The leaving part was going to be easy. She was angry with Rafe, now more than ever. Why had he not written to her in Italy? She bit her lip. Nigel could be spiteful and Claire was capable of malicious gossip. But Rafe knew all this. She unlocked the window latch. And now there was Hugh Curzon. A lost, world-weary man in search of his soul, which he had long ago sacrificed for queen and country. Rafe would no doubt end up just like him.

  The window sash lifted enough to get her fingers under and give the frame a shove. She looped the coin purse over her wrist and lifted herself onto the sill, swinging her legs over the ledge. The roof shingles were dry as bread and gave good footing. She crept to the edge of the roofline and looked down. Nearly three stories. She experienced a tinge of vertigo and willed herself to concentrate on finding a way down.

  She spied a downspout with plenty of brick outcroppings. Footholds, she hoped. The trouble with this aspect of her escape was the pipe ran down the corner of the building, very much in plain view of anyone in the street.

  She sidled over to the corner of the roof and had a look down the side of the house. Nothing. Not even a rose trellis. Drat.

  She swung her legs over the roof and rolled onto her belly. The hardest part would be hanging off the edge until she managed to find a ledge or crevice. And try as she might, she couldn’t seem to find a brick out of place. Then suddenly, a toehold! Her foot slipped into a crack in the mortar. Fanny held on to the drainpipe and inched downward. She craned her head over her shoulder, searching for the next protruding brick or gap in cement.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing up there, lass?”

  Fanny mouthed a silent prayer before risking a glance below. Professor Minnow stood on the sidewalk with his hands on his hips.

  She lifted a finger to silence the big Scot and slipped down the pipe. She couldn’t help it. She let loose a loud yelp. Grasping desperately at pipe and bricks, she reached a thick bit of ivy and held on.

  “Don’t let go, lass! Wait for me to get under you.” Hamish Minnow trotted along the walkway yelling at the top of his lungs. The man’s booming voice would carry down the River Clyde, sail the Irish Sea, and awaken every living soul between Glasgow and Belfast. Fanny cringed. She might have burst into tears, but she was rather occupied at the moment hoping to live.

  “Fanny! Are you mad?” Rafe’s voice. She bit her lip and realized it was possible to be humiliated to the point of wishing one could die and fearful about dying in the same moment.

  She gritted her teeth, “Shut up, Rafe. Just—get me down. Or up.” A quick look above found Hugh at the edge of the roofline.

  “I can’t reach her, Rafe. You’ll have to climb up from below.”

  The ivy broke away from the wall. She dropped through the air until the thicket of sinewy branches held again. Eyes squeezed shut, Fanny hung on with all her might.

  The stand of ivy creaked, and then arched over. “He-l-l-l-p!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Rafe positioned himself under a thick tangle of ivy. The mass of foliage snapped, groaned, and bowed over slowly, dropping her into his arms.

  “Rafe. Please get me down from here.” Her eyes were tightly shut and she clung to a few broken offshoots.

  “You are down, my darling.”

  She opened her eyes. “What happened?” His grin must have vexed her thoroughly, because she growled, “Set me on the ground, please.”

  Rafe held on tighter. “Not until you promise never to do such a thing again.”

  She looked away and sighed. “Promise.”

  He pressed his chin against her forehead. “Promise, what?”

  “Don’t treat me like a child.” Her fists dug into his chest.

  He removed a sprig of leaves caught in her sleeve. “Then don’t act like one.” He let her wriggle out of his grasp.

  “I’ll not be going to London with you, Rafe. I’m set on returning home—to Lochree.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Once we’re in town we’ll sort this all out and you’ll be free to return home again. I promise.” Rafe took a quick look around. The sun glinted above rooftops and the street was near to bustling. “Might we continue this argument inside?”

  He nodded at the bleary-eyed professor. “I was beginning to wonder if the Dundas police had decided to keep you.” Rafe motioned for him follow. The big man lumbered behind as they reentered the building and traversed the kitchen.

  “Stopped off for a pint or two.” Minnow squeezed his hulking frame up the winding closet stairs. “A man gets a mite thirsty sitting in jail.”

  They joined Hugh Curzon at the window overlooking the street. “We can’t stay long. Not after that little spectacle.”

  Rafe exhaled. “You believe our location is compromised, then.”

  Hugh stepped back from the curtain. “Dundas has its share of spies and informants. Word will travel fast.”

  “Aye, yer right about that, sir.” The large man reached out a hand. “Professor Hamish Mulvaney Minnow.”

  “Ah, you must be Detective Lewis’s other charge.” He stepped forward. “Hugh Curzon.”

  Minnow bent an ear. “Of—?”

  Hugh grinned. “Not really necessary for you to know, Professor. Suffice to say I am friendly.”

  Minnow winked at Fanny. “Secretive lot, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t give a fig where you all are headed—to hell for all I care.” She approached Hugh. “I would like you to place me on the first train back to Edinburgh, Agent Curzon.”

  For once, Hugh didn’t flirt or smile. “It is my understanding you are being transported to London, for your safety, in the custody of Detective Lewis. I would have to have received a countermanding order to interfere. Do not ask me again.” He hesitated. “You could have been gravely injured just now, Fanny.”

  She uttered a rather disturbing wail, stomped her foot, and threw herself down on the settee. A flurry of dust rose up and caused a sneeze. Rafe bit his lip. Her dilemma might be comical if the poor miserable thing weren’t so . . . miserable.

  How brave and resourceful Fanny had been these past few days. For the life of him, Rafe could not think of another woman who could have borne up under such a hellish ordeal. And last night he’d blurted
out that nasty bit about Nigel and Claire. He wanted to kick himself. All of it could have—no, should have—waited until this case was over and the danger past. He would have gone to Fanny afterward, laid out the foolish tale in its entirety, including his suspicions.

  “There, there.” Minnow sat down beside Fanny, discharging a larger cloud of dust. “Have a tipple o’ this, lass. He pulled a bottle from his coat pocket. “Now, it willna hurt ye to take a short little junket to London with Professor Minnow. I’d like nothing more than to have the daughter of Ambrose Greyville-Nugent help me demonstrate the submariner at the Exposition.” The man’s eyes lit up. “I’ve an underwater ship, lass. Wait ’til ye see her.”

  “Oh dear.” She took a swallow of whiskey.

  Rafe moved closer and took a seat near the sofa. “What is it, Fanny?”

  “The London Industrial Exposition.” She crinkled her brow. “What with the funeral and being on the run and all, I’d quite forgotten about it. Father had a machine sent ahead to London.” She turned to the professor. “There is to be a competition, with a good deal of prize money.”

  Eyebrows raised, Minnow nodded. “Five hundred and a hefty defense contract to the winner.”

  “Very kind of you to invite me, but I’ve had quite enough excitement these past days, thank you very much.” Fanny squared her shoulders.

  Minnow took a long swig, wiped the bottle on his sleeve, and passed it over. “Take your adventures now, while you can, lass. Someday soon there will be bairns, and after they’re grown, a pack of grandchildren—and what tales ye’ll have to tell.”

  “Professor Minnow, do you always talk in such heroic terms? Some of us would rather go along in life a little less greatly.”

  Minnow’s eyes crinkled. He reached out and tipped her chin. “Ah, but not you, Fanny.”

  Her liquid brown gaze traveled from Minnow to Hugh and landed on Rafe. An interminable silence ensued, one that brought a very long sigh. “I made a promise myself, in Edinburgh, to seek justice for my father’s murder.”

  Rafe reached out and squeezed her hand. “We’ll get them, Fanny, I promise you.”