Mallory sighed. “‘An additional race of men,’ who are pressed into factory work and obliged to become respectable, hardworking laborers.” He sipped from his glass. “And since you quote Peel, allow me the poet and critic Matthew Arnold: ‘This strange disease of modern life with its sick hurry, its divided aims,’” he quoted.
There was a distance in his eyes—it was nearly always there, she thought, as if Mallory was not quite of this world. Aware of her study, he returned to her. “Another unsightly by-product of greed and mass production—is the whole of Britain’s landscape soon to be despoiled?”
Fanny found herself evaluating Mallory, viewing him as she never thought she could—more as a damaged soul than an adversary. His opinions, those of a crusader, were not the ravings of a mentally disordered man. In fact, they were entirely rational. Even his madness seemed to have lessened, cloaked in a delicate shyness and hidden in some secret place, away from scrutiny. At first, she had been intimidated—overawed by the man. And now, disturbingly, in these moments alone with the leader of the Utopian Society, she found him as pitiable as he was dangerous.
Sitting close beside him, she found he exuded a quiet control, a coiled serpentine presence, nearly overpowering at times. Well-built through the chest and arms, with muscular legs covered in tight-fitting deerskin breeches and gleaming leather boots. The sheer physicality of him was . . . unsettling. Something akin to a faint tremble ran through her. “I don’t suppose anyone likes the look of smokestacks, except titans of industry. But must you punish so brutally?” Nervous, she moistened her lips, and his gaze moved to her mouth.
Inexplicably, the very next thing Fanny found herself doing turned out to be as shocking to her as it was to the man beside her. Before she could gain any control over her hand, she reached out and stroked the smooth-shaven side of his head, tracing the ragged cream-colored scar.
“Whatever I do, I do to make a point—” He trailed off in surprise. Her guileless, candid gesture had stopped him midsentence. Somewhat awkwardly, Fanny became aware of her unfathomable behavior and withdrew her hand. The humiliation of such outrageous deportment caused a wave of heat to rise from her neck to cheeks.
She managed an uneasy laugh. “I don’t know what came over me, please excuse me . . .”
“No, please.” Covering her hand in his, he guided her fingers across his stubbly jaw and large, well-formed mouth. Gently, he turned her hand palm up and brushed his lips down to the faint pulse on the inside of her wrist. “Forgive me, Francine.” He swept a hand over her cheek. “Your name is Francine, is it not?”
Most disturbingly, she did not shrink from his touch. She swallowed. “Most everyone calls me Fanny.”
She had never seen him smile, really. He appeared vulnerable—human. And she was positive she had felt him tremble, earlier, when her finger had traced the awful scar down behind his ear. She had touched him in a special place, like the ones Rafe had touched at the loch. Good God . . . Rafe.
In a faraway place, in the far reaches of her mind, she could hear him. Jump, Fanny. Run, Fanny—hang on, Fanny! She blinked back any show of emotion. She would make love to a nine-headed hydra if she had to—to survive. And this man was most assuredly a monster with a wounded heart and tortured soul.
The devil swept a few strands of curl off her brow, and took a very long moment to examine every feature on her face.
There was a rap at the door. Without taking his eyes off her, Mallory answered. “Enter.”
The butler, Aubrey, rolled in a cart laden with a number of covered dishes and several bottles of wine.
“Ah, supper. Are you hungry?”
Even though her stomach pitched like a ship in a storm, she would eat at a snail’s pace and drink a good deal of wine. “Famished.”
Mallory uncrossed black leather boots and stood. “The lady and I will serve ourselves.”
From her seat in the parlor, she saw that dinner appeared to be simple, elegant fare. There was a piece of fish, a leg of beef, boiled potatoes, and buttered vegetables. Fanny marveled at the spread, but wondered, frankly, how much cooking could possibly be done in these caverns.
She rose and tugged at Mallory’s hand. “I must ask a favor—a simple act of kindness.” She quelled a current of fear that caused a racing heart and shallow breath. “About the child, Harry . . .”
“The boy will be returned to his father tomorrow.” He escorted her to a chair at the table. A wave of relief flooded through her. “And now it is my turn to ask a favor.” He reached around her waist and pulled her against him. “I want you to come to me willingly, consciously—” He turned his chin slightly, his mouth so close his breath buffeted gently against her lips. “And with pleasure.” Those eyes of his, burning coals of controlled rage, searched her expression for the slightest sign of guile. “Will you do that for me?”
Fanny masked her hesitation by admiring his well-defined lips. She thought about a kiss but held back—too much. Too readily given. She opened her mouth and curled the tip of her tongue over the edge of her upper lip. Her gaze lifted. “I will.”
The ground shook underfoot and a great blast of thunder buffeted the air around them. Fanny lost her balance and reached out. Mallory covered her body with his. The deafening roar of an explosion blew the door to his suite open. The shock wave sent them both flying onto the carpet. He rolled her under the table. “Stay here.”
Fanny coughed. “What just happened?”
“Intruders.” He let go reluctantly and crawled out from under the table. Fanny lifted the tablecloth. Mallory helped the man called Aubrey up off the floor. Several more of his minions entered the room as the dust settled. “Came from one the cellars below, sir,” one said.
Mallory took a cursory look about the room as Fanny crawled out from under the furniture. “No harm done.”
While Mallory and his men huddled near the entrance, Fanny eyed the buffet cart full of food, and sidled over. She slipped a silver compote off the table and emptied dried fruit into a napkin.
“It appears Scotland Yard might be onto us.” Mallory turned just as Fanny stuffed a roll in a dress pocket.
She straightened up and raised both brows. “I found them to be brighter than one might think.” She smiled, thinly.
Unfazed, even amused, he moved to the doorway. “Then again, it could have just as easily been a rat. They’ve been known to chew on fuse wire.” He glanced back at the supper tray. “Take what you like back to your quarters.”
Mallory bowed to her. “Until tomorrow night.”
RAFE GROANED. SOMETHING moist and warm slithered over his face and cheeks. Hacking dust and dirt from his lungs, he opened both eyes. The Yard dog panted inches away. The dripping tongue lapped upward, slathering him again. “That’s enough, Alfred.” A ticklish wheeze in his chest forced him up on his elbows for a look around. “Flynn?”
Like some sort of uncanny beacon, the dog’s nose swung toward a pile of rubble. Several bricks tumbled onto the floor beside him. Rafe struggled to his feet and sucked in as much particle-filled air as he dared. His lungs burned and his ribs ached. He felt under his shirt and ran his fingers over the tape that wound around his rib cage.
He leaned over the great mound of mortar and stone and began tossing off bricks. Within a few minutes, he uncovered a pair of boots attached to two legs. He took up both feet and pulled. A yell came from deep under the pile. Rafe checked in with Alfred. “Good news. He’s alive.” The Yard dog sat down beside him. Rafe couldn’t be sure, but he thought the hound looked pleased.
Rafe labored near to half an hour uncovering his partner, who emerged from the debris scuffed and bruised, but in relatively good health. After a long fit of coughing, Flynn scanned the cellar.
Several pipes of wine had been blown to smithereens. Most of the casks’ contents had drained through grates in the floor, leaving a few dark red pools spotted about. Flynn dabbed his finger in a puddle and tasted. “Pitiful waste of a lovely vintage.” His partner s
ucked in a wheeze. “We must have set off the dynamite.” He coughed out more dust.
Rafe nodded. “Some kind of rigged wire or land mine. Lucky we didn’t both get blown to pieces. Along with Yard dog here.” The hound whipped a tail against his side.
He helped Flynn up from the ground. His partner took a few steps and winced. “Bollocks. I can’t put any weight on this leg.” He teetered slightly.
Rafe stepped up beside him. “You’ve likely cracked a bone.” He looped Flynn’s arm across his shoulders and the two hobbled away from the pile of bricks. Gingerly, they made their way back out of the underground cavern and shut the warehouse door. Once outside, he and Flynn stepped over a drunken warehouse worker in the alley.
“Hold on.” Rafe swung them both around and gave the old bird’s shoulder a shake. “Say there, Jasper, know anything about the deeper caverns—below the wine cellars?”
The drunken sot squinted at him. “Under St. Katharine Docks. Seen ’em myself. The river pirate caves, hundreds of years old. Used them to stash contraband and treasure.”
Flynn shook his head. “Poor old sea dog.”
Rafe squinted through fog as thick as ever. “Nothing to be done here. It’ll take days to clear out the rubble. We’re going to have to find another way in.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Rafe blinked several times and Zeno Kennedy came into focus. The number two Yard man appeared overhead, haloed by the harsh light that poured through a sooty glass skylight.
“Wake up, Prince Charming.”
“Bugger off, Kennedy.” Every inch of bone and muscle felt the hardwood bench under him. Rafe sat up and recognized absolutely nothing about his surroundings. Sore ribs forced a grimace.
“You managed to get Flynn to Harley Street last night. The surgeon is with him now.” Zeno grinned. “Glad to see you were able to catch a few hours’ sleep.”
Rafe rubbed his eyes. “Eventually, if one does not obey the laws of nature, one just—passes out.” He exhaled. “And how is Mr. Rhys?”
“Fractured tibia. They’re plastering him up as we speak.” Zeno nudged his shoulder. “Come, grab a bite of breakfast with me.”
They found a pub nearby and tucked into a hearty plate of egg and kippers. “Flynn says you’re determined to find another way in.” Zeno buttered a warm bun.
“There’s no other recourse. I’ve got nothing to go on—all my leads have dried up.” As the waitress passed, Rafe ordered another pint. He reached in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a bit of change. Picking through copper and silver coin, he came across the sapphire stickpin. “What do you make of this?”
Zeno leaned forward to examine the trinket. “More like a medal than a piece of jewelry.”
Rafe forked into his remaining kipper. “Picked it up in the dirt beside a dead man. One of Mallory’s blokes.”
“Quite a large gem—do you think the stone is genuine?”
“Can’t think why it wouldn’t be. The Utopian Society appears to be extremely well financed.” Rafe stopped chewing. “Why?”
Zeno tossed a bit of change on the table. “I might have an idea.”
LARGE DROPS OF summer rain pattered quietly on the roof as the carriage rounded Oxford Circus. “Where are we headed?” Rafe settled in beside the number two Yard man.
“Nineteen Chester Square, Belgravia.”
Rafe lifted a brow. “Tony address. Who’s the chap again?”
“Phineas Gunn. Interesting fellow. I knew him distantly some years ago—we were both in Her Majesty’s Scots Greys together. Bruising rider. He once beat me by several lengths in a race around the parade grounds. Got himself stationed in the Raj, the Punjab region. Suffered a rather bad event, hasn’t been the same since.”
A bit of rain slanted inside the coach and Zeno lifted the latch and closed the window. “Somewhat of an odd duck,” he went on. “An acute recluse at times, and yet he continues to take on assignments now and then. He’s a top-notch criminologist and quite a talented writer of crime fiction—penned several novels. Scholarly works, as well, in the field of forensic science.”
Rafe frowned. “That might be useful if we had a body.” He couldn’t think of it, not with Fanny and Harry in the clutches of a madman. He clenched his fists and concentrated on Zeno’s briefing. Anything to avoid spiraling into a demoralized state.
“Mr. Gunn is also a gemologist—more of a gentleman’s hobby. I’m told the nobs seek his advice on purchases and pay him handsomely for appraisals. Scotland Yard has him under retainer—actually, we share him with military intelligence. Perhaps he can help. At any rate the man’s bound to have some unconventional thoughts on Mallory, as well as the murders.” Zeno flashed a half smile. “I believe you will get on with him.”
“I thought he was an odd duck.” Rafe said.
Zeno nodded. “Precisely.”
As it turned out, the uncommon Mr. Gunn employed a rather eccentric butler, who accepted their cards, rolled his eyes, and abandoned them to a small reception parlor. While Rafe paced, Zeno made himself comfortable on the settee. “I know it’s difficult under these trying circumstances, but you must keep your head about you. A needless waver or wrong move at this juncture—”
“We can’t afford another setback,” Rafe bit out.
Zeno’s reply was measured. “Exactly why we’re here—we need the best mind we can get on this.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen.”
Rafe turned toward the deep, resonant voice with a touch of gravel—a familiar voice. He nearly jumped at the sight. “Hugh Curzon?”
“One of several names used in service to queen and country.” The imposing man in the entry smiled. “I assure you, Phineas Gunn is written in the birth register at St. John’s Anglican, Helmsdale.”
Rafe looked him up and down. “Well, this is . . . a bit of a shock.” He turned to Zeno, and found his grin an equal irritant. “He is the man you described as the brilliant recluse?”
Unruffled, Phineas Gunn leaned against the door frame. “My nervous spells wax and wane. I’ve had a good long respite, of late, from my infirmity.”
A rather striking woman darted past the open door. “Until next week, chéri.” Gunn reached out and caught her. A half stride took them down the passage, out of view. An audible kiss and a faint titter of laughter wafted back into the receiving room.
The man returned to the parlor and nodded to them both. “Miss Hébert takes good care of me.”
“Indeed, Mr. Gunn.” Rafe didn’t give a fig whether this man was Hugh Curzon or Phineas Gunn—not if he could help him find Fanny and Harry.
“Please call me Finn.” The man’s gaze softened and he cleared his throat. “Very sorry to hear about your son—as well as Miss Greyville-Nugent. You have both my sympathy and support.”
Rafe faltered slightly. “You’ve been briefed on the matter?”
“Only what’s in the papers. I just got back in town myself,” Finn added.
“Christ, the press has gotten wind of the kidnapping.” Zeno’s dislike for the newspapers and scandal sheets was well-known. In fact, the detective was nothing short of famous around town, having been written up by the yellow newssheets on many occasions.
“Would you both care to join me for a cup of coffee—or something stronger?” Phineas rang for his servant. “While we refresh ourselves, you can fill me in on all the details the press didn’t get.”
FANNY FOLDED SEVERAL slices of roast beef and placed them on a linen square. “You take the rest, Harry. I’ll have the roll.”
She divided what remained of the dried fruit, pocketing a few pieces for later. She had managed to take away a small platter full of food last night and their jailors had even allowed her to pass a bit of nourishment on to the professor. The wink Hamish gave her through the peephole in the door of his cell had helped sustain her through the night.
If Rafe had been the one to set off the dynamite, she prayed he was not gravely injured. She could not allow hersel
f to even think such things for long. She refused to believe he might be gone. Injured, perhaps, but not gone. Harry had asked about the explosion and she had reassured him he would soon be reunited with his father.
Fanny bit into her roll and watched his little legs swing back and forth from the wooden bench that had doubled as their bed last night. Nearly sick with worry, her fears spiraled into a vast nightmare of woe.
Last night, she had returned from Mallory’s suite and found Harry huddled in a corner, shivering. Quickly repurposing her soft cotton frock as a blanket, she sat him on her lap and fed him bits of dried fruit and a lovely sliver of fish. After several repetitions of “Diddle Diddle Dumpling” and “Ding Dong Bell,” he had curled up in her arms and slept as soundly as she had fitfully. In the middle of the night she had awoken and felt his little hand in hers.
She smiled at Harry. “You’re awfully quiet. Cat got your tongue?” He chewed on a piece of meat, and managed a smile with a mouthful.
A bone-chilling moan drifted through the walls of their cell.
Harry swallowed. Fanny swallowed.
The brassy clink of keys at the door was already familiar. Two minions: the fat bloke and the dwarf this time. Fanny inhaled a deep breath and stiffened her resolve. The immense chap seemed larger and the dwarf smaller than she remembered. “We’ve come for the boy.”
Harry jerked upright, his wide eyes darting toward her.
“I will not release the boy to the likes of you.”
“Oh, I believe you will, miss.” The gluttonous belly shook in amusement, the kind with no laughter.
Fanny reached out and clasped Harry tightly in her arms. “Oh dear, I’m afraid Mallory will be very displeased. You see, we struck a very private bargain last night. If he wishes me to honor our agreement, I will need to speak with him.” She dared raise a brow, slightly. “I would make it my business to get him down here at once, if I were you.”
A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis Page 26
