A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce

by Jillian Stone

  Fiona eased away, and he released her just enough to capture her gaze. He was about to ask if the kiss they’d shared was as good as the one of memory, but she reached behind her and pressed the door latch. “Come, Alfred,” she coaxed, and climbed down from the cab.

  Bewildered by her sudden exit, he handed over the leash, paid the driver, and followed her inside the empty shop. She stood by a cabinet full of exotic soaps, waiting for him. He approached her slowly. “Fiona, I hope I didn’t offend—”

  She grabbed his coat lapels and kissed him so unexpectedly she sent a shock of arousal coursing through him. She remained very close and spoke softly. “We have neighbors, the Greens, who own the millinery next door. Ida Green, their daughter, is better known as the Brompton Square Tattler. I wouldn’t want her to go round gossiping about us.” Fiona moistened her lips, a nervous habit he enjoyed immensely. “Sorry to be so abrupt,” she added.

  Archie kept his grin soft, playful. “You may kiss me abruptly, any time you wish.”

  Fiona blushed with color barely seen in the dim light. He reached up and touched her cheek with the back of his hand—just to feel the heat. “I believe you promised me breakfast for supper, Miss Rose.”

  “That I did, Mr. Bruce.” Fiona latched the front door and pulled the shade.

  “Is that you, Fee?” Mrs. Gallagher called down into the shop.

  Hurrying past Archie, she and Alfred scrambled up the stairs. “Wait until you see whom I’ve brought with me, Mrs. Gallagher.” Archie followed along, hands clasped behind his back. This is the way it would be with this quixotic young woman. At times she could be confounding and elusive—she had evaded him in Edinburgh—and yet, even years later, Archie continued to be intrigued.

  He climbed the steps feeling as though he were in a familiar dream. Something he had dreamed before—perhaps many times. Something he had yearned for all his life.

  He had grown up in a reserved home. His father, Bennet Angus Bruce, taught advanced mathematics at a preparatory college in Edinburgh. A detached man by nature, he spent a great deal of time reading and had required Archie to study vigorously. Archie’s one extracurricular activity had been football. “A fine mind needs fresh air to help circulate the flow of ideas” as Bennet Bruce would say.

  Archie’s mother was quite the opposite, warm-hearted and eternally convivial. And his two sisters were both flibbertigibbets, whom he loved dearly and missed terribly. From their letters, it seemed Mother spent a good deal of time and effort these days in pursuit of the right sort of husbands for Abigail and Nettie.

  After university, Father had advised him to stay in academia rather than become director of the crime laboratory for Scotland Yard. Mother had encouraged him to have an adventure in London—“but don’t tell your father.”

  For the past year, his world had become one long forensic science project—every experience, every thought, every physical sensation the subject of objective observation and analysis. Like his father, he was inclined to introversion, though his mother’s influence had allowed him the social skills to make friends. There just hadn’t been much time this past year, the exception being his brief dalliance with Vivian. So far, London had been a somewhat lonely experience, punctuated by moments of great triumph and, yes, adventure.

  Archie followed Fiona and Alfred through the parlor. In Fiona, Archie recognized a possible kindred spirit, one with a devilish difference—her dazzling smile.

  Fiona settled him at a small breakfast table and disappeared into a pantry. When she returned she cleaned his palm with warm water and a medicinal-smelling soap. “I have befriended a wonderful physician by the name of Olivia Erskine, who shares many of my beliefs about hygiene and skin care. She has an extensive knowledge of plant extracts and has collected some marvelous recipes from around the world.” Fiona opened a jar of salve and spread it carefully over the burn. “This happens to be a simple maceration using pulp from a cactus plant. I added a bit of citric acid as a preservative.”

  “My word, that is rather soothing.” Archie leaned forward. “Cactus, you say?”

  “From the American Southwest. She and I are talking about a small enterprise related to my Rose and Company soap business.” Fiona clamped the lid back onto the jar. “Try not to touch anything, until that absorbs—” She halted suddenly. “I just remembered, her son-in-law is a Yard man. She’s quite keen on him—a Mr. Kennedy, I believe.”

  “Zak Kennedy?” Archie nearly choked. “He’s the number two man at Special Branch, under Melville. No wonder she’s keen on him. He’s quite famous, for a detective.”

  “Small world, wot?” Fiona reopened the jar and spooned the gelatin-like mixture into a . . . Archie blinked rapidly as she removed a condom from a paper packet and expertly unrolled the rubber. He was sure his expression caused her soft laugh. “We often use a condom for small preparations of salve or lotion. I expect your burn will be gone in a few days’ time, but you must reapply frequently.” She rolled down the rubber and closed it off with a paper fastener. “This way you can carry it about with you.” She placed the condom in his good hand.

  He enjoyed watching Fiona do—well, almost anything. She was wonderfully orderly with a dash of vivacity. And her handling of the rubber goods was most . . . entertaining.

  She was a surprisingly independent young woman, who was also entirely capable. Apparently Fiona came and went as she pleased and traipsed around London unescorted. Which was not entirely unusual for a young businessperson, he supposed. Besides, she came from a close-knit family who often referred to themselves as an enterprise—Rose & Company, which, oddly enough, included the housekeeper and, at times, house pets.

  As the aroma of fried eggs and ham wafted into the breakfast room, a puddle of drool collected on the floor beneath the hound, who periodically wagged his tail and raised his brows in the direction of the kitchen. Mrs. Gallagher served up breakfast, as well as a meaty bone for Alfred to chew on. Between bites, Archie quizzed Fiona on prescription orders. “As you well know, the dosage you receive on a prescription is written in Latin. Shall we go over a few? Please translate, Omni mane,” he asked, forking a bit of soft egg onto toast.

  “Every morning,” she answered.

  “I may sometimes give you the abbreviation.” He chewed happily. “Ex aq.,” he asked.

  “With water.”

  “Ter die sumendus.”

  “To be taken three times a day.”

  “What is meant by the misce fiat?” Archie sliced into a juicy piece of ham.

  Fiona took a sip of tea. “Directions from the prescriber indicating the form in which the physician requires the prescription to be dispensed. For example, a mixture, an ointment, a pill, et cetera.”

  Archie grinned at her. “Nary a hesitation, my dear.”

  “That’s because it’s just you and I, and Mrs. Gallagher, and Alfred,” Fiona huffed. “The moment they stand me in front of those steely-eyed pinched faces, I’ll—”

  He cut her off. “No, you won’t.”

  “But how can you be so sure?” Fiona frowned. “You do realize you’re adding to the pressure—especially when I disappoint you.”

  “Quite impossible. You could never disappoint me, no matter how many times you failed the viva voce examination.”

  “That is because you are my—acquaintance.” She settled on acquaintance, but she would have rather called him something much more intimate.

  “Acquaintance?” He teased. “Then tell me, Miss Rose, how does percolation differ from maceration?”

  Fiona sat up straight. “Percolation differs only slightly from maceration in that the powdered drug is dampened with the . . .” She patiently described the delicate, exacting process of percolation, an extremely time-consuming operation—to the letter.

  Archie sat back and stared, in awe. It was obvious Fiona had been raised by a chemist, but she had also paid a good deal of attention to process. “You do realize you’d pass the exam with flying colors—if it weren’
t for those steely-eyed, pinched faces.” He sopped up what remained of a runny yolk with his last bite of toast.

  Fiona eyed his clean plate. “Would you care for another slice of ham, or an egg or two?”

  He sat back and sighed. “Completely full—excellent breakfast, Mrs. Gallagher.”

  The housekeeper collected a few dishes off the table. “Nice to have a young man with a big appetite around.” Fiona stood up with her plate. “Let me have that, dear. You and Mr. Bruce run along now, finish your studies.”

  Fiona led the way into the parlor. “Shall we work here or in the study?”

  Archie leaned back into the kitchen entry. “If he’s a bother, I can take him with us.” He nodded at Alfred.

  The housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you wish to tag along with those two, or stay here in the kitchen with Mrs. Gallagher and yer bone?” Alfred continued to gnaw happily.

  “I believe I have my answer.” Archie turned back to Fiona. “Shall we try the study?”

  She led him into a room lined floor to ceiling with books and furnished with a middling-sized secretary and two comfortable-looking armchairs.

  “Blimey, your father’s got an original copy of Meyer’s Modern Theories of Chemistry.” Archie glanced over his shoulder. “May I?”

  “Of course you may.” He pulled the book from its shelf and settled into the overstuffed club chair across from Fiona. Instantly immersed in the text, he slipped his spectacles on and thumbed through the pages. He glanced up to find her watching him. “Sorry. I find some of the early postulating about the order of atomic weights fascinating.”

  Fiona smiled. “When I was twelve, I became obsessively interested in the periodic table. More to the point—the missing elements of the table. I was quite sure it was a puzzle that could be solved, if one thought about it long or hard enough.” Her eyes flicked upward, along with the corners of her mouth. “I convinced father to help me paint the elements on the ceiling of my bedchamber, so that it might be the last thing I viewed at night and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes in the morning.”

  “When one is twelve, all things seem possible.” Archie shut the book and set it on the chair arm. “Is it still there?”

  Her nod was impish. “Would you care to sneak up into my room and have a look?” Her mouth grew wider and more sensuous the longer she smiled at him. And then there were those mysterious gray-green eyes which promised . . . mischief.

  She stood up and poked her head out the open door. “Mrs. Gallagher does the week’s shopping list on Wednesday night for market day.” Without looking back, she waved him up onto his feet, and he took her hand.

  “Lead the way, Fiona.”

  She snaked around the vestibule table and led him up a flight of stairs with a turn in it. Once they were on the third floor, she opened the first door off the simple hallway. Her room was small, by any standard, and dominated by an intricately curved iron bed frame topped with brass finials. A number of fluffy white pillows and linens covered the mattress. Archie pivoted in place. The ceiling angled over a gabled window, then flattened out above her bed. The elements were painted across the upper surface in a kind of spray of orderly stars. He placed his hands on his hips, silently skimming the letters and numbers. “I can see where you added a few over the years.” He spoke softly.

  Fiona stood beside him, her head craned back to read the table. “Ten new discoveries. Sixty-six and eighteen were added just last year.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her near to him. “And what might be the names of those two elements, Miss Rose? Or might I call you Émilie du Châtelet?”

  There was a sharp gasp for air, before her knees buckled. He held on and moved her to the edge of her bed. “Sit down for a moment—I can’t have you swooning on me.”

  “This is not a swoon . . . it’s a . . .” Fiona sat down and caught her breath. “In the cab earlier, you said, ‘Kiss me again.’” She chanced to look at him. “Were you by any chance referencing . . .” She swallowed.

  “You kissed me in the gallery of the ballroom.” He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Although, I suppose the enchanting young woman might have been Madame du Châtelet—plenty of ghosts lurking about the Library Hall.”

  Fiona stared, slightly open-mouthed. “You remember all of it?”

  He nodded. “Whenever I think of it, I wonder—does that lovely girl remember the kiss as well?”

  She continued to stare at him.

  “Of course, it was a rather brazen kiss, and I can imagine she might be feeling . . .”

  “Mortified. Put to shame. Truly humiliated.” She moistened her lips, hardly able to look at him.

  Archie kept his smile gentle. “Not too mortified, I hope.”

  She sighed sweetly. “No, I suppose not.”

  He wanted her so badly at this moment, he had half a mind to take her right there, in her virginal white bed. “Shall we try for a third, then?” He began his lovemaking at the curve of her throat. “I smell scented soap—one of yours, I believe.”

  “Orange Blossom.” Her whisper sent him to new heights of arousal.

  He breathed in the intoxicating smell of her soap, mixed with hints of . . . his favorite scent in all the world. He was reminded of a spring term he had studied abroad, in Andalusia, Spain. Many a late afternoon he would walk through the orange groves, brushing past trees laden with the heavenly scent of the pale white blossoms.

  His caress lingered at the tender spot below her earlobe. “Mingled with the salty taste of . . . Fiona’s skin kissed by sunshine.”

  “I worked in the garden today,” she moaned softly. “I always forget to wear a hat.”

  His mouth twitched some, and continued on across her cheek. She closed her eyes and he felt a shiver run through her. At last he arrived at the soft-pillowed lips of the young lady. He covered her mouth for some sweet ravishment with his tongue. Fiona gently encouraged him to explore deeper, teasing, then releasing. Her lips brushed down his neck, as his hands moved over firm breasts. He used his thumbs to tease sensitive tips.

  She moaned again.

  “I believe that was your second cry of love today—or third if you include the sweet little mewling in the hansom.”

  Nuzzling his shoulder, Fiona hid her head against him and acted rather shy for a brief moment. Suddenly she lifted her head as if she wanted to speak, but could not find the words.

  “What is it, Fiona? You need never be afraid to tell me anything.”

  “It happens only when we are together—when you kiss and caress me.” Her cheeks flushed as she looked him in the eye, earnestly. “I am wet.”

  “And where, exactly, are you wet?” Archie pressed his lips tightly together, for he was near beside himself with shock as well as amusement at her candor.

  Without a trace of guile, she narrowed her eyes. “You know where.”

  Try as he might, he could not stop himself from laughing. “Yes, I believe I do know where.”

  She drew her lips into a pout and he was near to spellbound. “Come, lie down with me,” he said. Archie shifted a few pillows and settled beside her. Side by side, they stared, momentarily, at the sweep of stars that made up the periodic table. He suddenly had a startling thought. “Fiona, how many years ago, exactly, did you turn twelve?”

  “Seven—well, a bit more than seven.” Fiona turned onto her side. “Why?”

  “Good God, that means you were how old at University of Edinburgh?

  Fiona blinked at him. “I turned sixteen when I was there.” Her muffled laughter was soft, musical. “Nothing to worry about. I’m nineteen now—perfectly respectable.” She nodded to the chart overhead. “Potassium.”

  “Not too respectable, thank God.” Archie scanned the periodic table, then returned to her. “I had no idea you were quite so young, Fiona.”

  She frowned. “And you are far from mature in years. Might I ask your age?”

  He answered her frown with a
mock sort of seriousness. “Vanadium.”

  She grinned. “Three and twenty.”

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “And you never answered my question about this . . . dampness. Not comical or amusing, Archie, please explain to me why I should not be alarmed by this.”

  He had to collect himself a bit before he could speak and not spoil the moment by erupting into anything smirky that might hurt her feelings. He held her close and kissed her temple. Smoothing a wisp of her hair back, he spoke quietly. “When a woman’s body gets ready to receive a man, it makes this slippery, lovely wetness when aroused. This wetness causes the act of intercourse to be very pleasurable for both the man and the woman.”

  Fiona’s brows knit together. “Mother never said a word about wetness.”

  “Do mothers generally speak so frankly with their daughters? My father never mentioned as much to me.” Archie swept an arm over the curve of her bustle and pulled her close.

  Fiona frowned. “Was that terribly uncouth of me?”

  “I found it powerfully arousing.” Her expression eased and he could not help but entertain the idea of a bit of slippery at the apex of her lovely limbs. The very thought caused him to make a slight adjustment to his trousers.

  “Just so you know, I never forgot our kiss in the gallery.” Her smile was sheepish, and so very Fiona.

  “That makes two of us.” He gently stroked her back. She was a scientist at heart, curious and experimental. Granted, she was a bit of a freethinker, and independent, and there was something almost wild in her nature. And that wildness called to him now, just as it had three years ago in the gallery.

  Her mouth landed on his in a soft, sweet buss to the lips. “Open,” she whispered, delivering luscious kisses in such a pleasing manner that it encouraged him to kiss her with equal tenderness. Archie spoke to her in a husky voice. “Someday soon, I’m going to do many wonderful things to your body, Fiona.” Moving further down, he continued his affections to her neck, stopping to run his tongue over the delicate bones at the base of her throat.