“I understand the female body reasonably well. Thought about medicine for a time. Got an A in anatomy.”
“Is that right?” Finn seemed amused. “There was one small but significant omission. That lovely little pearl-sized spot there.” He pointed with his pen.
“Yes, what is that?” Archie asked, tilting his head for a better look.
“That, my friend, is how you get your young lady to praise God and beg for more.”
Chapter Nine
“Drat!” Fiona stood on the northeast corner of Bloomsbury Square. Where was he?
Near the end of class, Archie had popped a quiz on the periodic table. As she was one of the first pupils to turn in answers, he had examined her paper. “Might I suggest something, Miss Rose?” he asked in a low voice, his dark gaze igniting something wicked in her lower parts.
“What is it, Mr. Bruce?” she answered quietly.
He had leaned closer. “Might I suggest you meet me across the square, in say, five minutes?”
She had tilted her head and smiled. “Yes, of course, Mr. Bruce.”
“Where are you, Archie?” A carriage slowed and pulled alongside the curb.
“Pssst! Get in, Fiona, we have an errand to run for Scotland Yard.” The door opened, and Archie popped his head out. “Ready for a caper?” He helped her inside and sat her down close beside him.
“We’re not going to the Royal Society lecture?”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to miss Sir Benjamin Baker on ‘Bridging the Firth of Forth.’ Next month, Sir Thomas Hirst has a wonderful lecture planned—amusing title anyway: ‘Ah, Why Was Newton Ever Born?’ Will you come with me?”
“As long as it’s not the night before the major, I would be happy to attend.”
Archie squinted at her. “You will pass the major effortlessly.” He dared to take her hand in his. “Fiona, you must trust me on this—please?” He squeezed her hand and slowly released it.
She sensed a new intimacy between them tonight. Archie spoke softly with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m planning a small dinner party—spur of the moment, actually, and I was hoping for your advice. We have an agent, by the name of Flynn Rhys, who injured his leg—a rather complicated break, I’m afraid. Melville’s got him on assignment in Wapping. A storehouse in Shadwell Basin, on the lookout for arms traffickers. Poor chap never gets out, and he’s not the type to be cooped up. I thought we might bring him up a bite of supper, bottle of wine or two. What do you say?”
Fiona enjoyed watching Archie Bruce think out loud. But tonight, she was also touched by his thoughtfulness. “Why, that sounds lovely.” She pulled the chain on her watch pin to check the time. “It’s a bit late for a trip to Fortnum’s.”
Archie nodded. “When I first came to London, Zak Kennedy, Rafe Lewis, and Flynn took me out for a bite of gentlemen’s grub. We went to a large seafood saloon on Cheapside.”
“Lake & Turner’s,” Fiona offered. “They serve the most wonderful brine-steamed mussels. And my favorite—a spicy fish chowder. We can purchase a pail of stout, and a loaf or two of crusty bread.” She must have appeared rather bright-eyed about the idea, because she caught a look from Archie that nearly took her breath away. It was the kind of look that made her feel . . . desired.
Archie unhooked the speaking cone and gave the driver directions. “Cheapside . . .” He looked to her for a street number.
“Forty-nine, I believe.” She waited anxiously for him to hang up the cone. “And are we really to do a bit of sleuthing?”
Archie looked at her and smiled. “My word, you are game for adventuring this evening.”
“It’s because I’m wearing sassy new silk underthings from Paris.” She couldn’t see her instant cheek color, but she certainly felt it. “Oh dear—I don’t know what made me say such a thing.”
“Perhaps it’s because you want me to know they’re under your jacket—beneath your blouse. . . .” Archie’s grin was slow and slightly devilish. “I have an idea.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a telegram. “Might I ask you to hold onto this?”
She unfolded the wire and read a formula for what appeared to be some kind of combustible material.
3HNO3+ C6H10O5 C6H7(NO2)3O5 + 3H2O
There was also a mixing formula, which called for 68.2 percent insoluble nitrocellulose, 29.8 percent soluble nitrocellulose gelatinized with ether, and 2 percent paraffin. She looked up and raised a brow.
“Top secret gunpowder formula. The wire was delivered to me as I left the lab this afternoon for class. We need to hide this in a safe place—somewhere no one would think to look.” His eyes fell to her bosom for a moment.
Fiona smiled. “Auntie Mirabell always keeps her valuables on her person. She claims that is what God made cleavage for.” She opened her blazer and unbuttoned her blouse, one button at a time.
“Clever and rather . . . ribald of your aunt.” His gaze moved over her new corset, which pressed her breasts into perfectly framed round globes.
Fiona nodded. “Oh yes, Mirabell has a naughty streak in her.”
His eyes hadn’t budged off the sheer fabric that allowed a hint of rosy flesh to peek through. “Much to my delight, you seem to take after her.” He tore his eyes off the plump pair of mounds and met her gaze. “You are beautiful, Fiona.”
She did not push away when he folded the missive and reached out for her. His hand caressed the silken fabric of her corset, as his fingers traveled up her quivering belly and under her camisole. He deposited the folded paper just below the curve of a breast. As he withdrew his hand, his thumb brushed lightly over a taut peak. A tingle of arousal caused her to catch her breath—encouraging him to press his mouth to the other tip. He wet the sheer fabric and then suckled until a soft whimper escaped her lips.
“I can’t seem to keep my hands off you.” His voice was raw with desire as his half-lidded, smoldering eyes rose to meet hers. Locked in his gaze, as he stroked a hard tip, she was quite sure he felt her shudder of arousal.
“Do you plan on taking me here, in the carriage?” Her breathless words were meant to taunt him.
His gaze burned into her. “I know I’d like to show you a great deal of pleasure, Fiona.” His finger continued to graze her nipple and send ripples of naughty, forbidden desire through her. “I’d like to toss up your skirts, and stroke you—with my fingertips, my lips, my tongue—until you beg me for relief from your arousal.” His words, spoken like promises, whispered over her ear. “And then, when you are very wet, I will use all that lovely moisture to slip inside you. . . .”
She closed her eyes and let her imagination run wild.
He dipped his head as if to kiss her and then pulled back. “St. Paul’s dome,” he nodded out the window. “I’m afraid we’re already onto Cheapside.” Gently, he withdrew his hand from her camisole and buttoned her up.
Fiona sighed. He had entered her mind and planted the most wicked and pleasurable thoughts. And she would likely think of nothing else for the rest of the evening. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Shall we take this up again after supper, Miss Fiona Aphrodite Rose?”
FIONA STOOD BESIDE Archie as he checked the address. “This has to be it, twenty-three-G Milk Yard, Wapping—a flat on the second floor.” A boarder answered and they nodded to several others in the parlor as they quickly made their way upstairs. Archie knocked quietly.
The door opened a crack. She could just make out an eyeball with a flinty gaze, which stopped rolling about when it landed on her. The door opened wider. “Mr. Gunn—this is a surprise,” Fiona gasped.
Archie seemed a bit taken aback. “Fiona and I thought we’d pop by for a visit with Mr. Rhys. Brought a bite of supper with us.”
“Excellent timing—I was just on my way out.” The large, imposing man stepped through the door. “Hello, Miss Rose. I had no idea you and Archie were acquainted.” The gentleman appeared to be both delighted and amused.
“Recently . . . reacquainted, actually.” She smiled at Mr. Gunn.
“And how is it you two know each other?” Archie asked.
She wasn’t sure if Archie looked relieved or aghast. “Mr. Gunn is a customer of Rose and Company.”
“My neighborhood chemist.” Mr. Gunn smiled a little too brightly. Fiona could only assume the two men enjoyed needling each other.
Archie nodded. “London suddenly feels like a very small township.”
“Is that you, Archie?” The gruff words came from inside the flat.
Archie gestured Fiona inside, and she caught his narrowed warning glare at the very tall agent backing down the corridor.
“My lips are sealed, Inspector Bruce.” Mr. Gunn winked at Archie and disappeared down the stairs.
Fiona approached a young man with a large plaster cast on one leg. He took a moment to boldly admire her. “You’re not Archie.”
“No, I am not.” She smiled at the darkly attractive agent.
“No indeed. You’re much prettier.” The man flirted shamelessly.
“He’s a little mad, but as derring-do as these Special Branch men come. Flynn, may I present, Miss Fiona Rose.” Archie nodded from one to the other as he made introductions. “Fiona, please meet Detective Flynn Rhys—man of the hour. We’ve taken to calling Flynn by his last name, Rhys, so feel free to address him thusly.”
Fiona tilted her head, studying the detective. “Rhys means dragon in Gaelic—rather fitting, I suspect.”
Rhys studied Fiona in a way that both pleased and disturbed her. Dark hair, a swarthy bit of beard stubble, and those clear, Irish-blue eyes. The man was an obvious rake and devilishly handsome to boot. These Special Branch men were all so full of themselves, Fiona couldn’t decide if it was infuriating or charming.
Archie set down the hamper and she laid out bowls, silver, and napkins. “The waiter at Lake & Turner’s kindly waived the deposit for these carryout provisions,” she related to Rhys, “when Archie explained this supper was for a wounded but recovering Yard man.” She looked up and Archie smiled—warmly and with genuine fondness.
Something like fireworks went off in her chest, or a tattoo of drums. She was fully aware of her growing affection for Archie. She supposed, if she were pressed to describe the sentiment, she would say there was a thrilling sense of . . . inevitability with him.
“Blimey, that smells like heaven.” Flynn sat in the only upholstered chair near a window. He appeared to be plastered from his foot to well above his knee. The mending leg was kept elevated on the back of a wooden stool.
“Rhys.” She set the plate on the side table, between a pair of binoculars and his revolver.
“I believe I shall call you Heavenly Fiona—sea goddess bearing oysters.” The detective slurped one down and sighed.
Fiona fixed another platter and motioned to Archie to sit beside her on the only other furniture in the room, a poorly sprung bed. “I thought we’d share a plate.”
The clip-clop of hooves on pavers echoed from the street. Rhys pulled himself up a bit and raised the binoculars. “Ah, we have a delivery,” he noted.
“Seems late for that sort of thing.” Archie tipped back the half shell and swallowed.
“The docks work as late as they have the light. But I have found the darker it gets, the more interesting the shipment.” Rhys refocused both eyepieces. “Shall we see who answers the door?” With his eyes trained on the street below, Rhys reached over for another oyster.
Eyes wide, Fiona handed Archie a napkin and balanced the plate on her lap. The next few minutes were rather tense, but for the occasional slurp of an oyster. Wordlessly, Fiona collected empty plates and returned with bowls of chowder and large, crusty chunks of bread to sop it up with.
It seemed to Fiona the entire room was set up to monitor the comings and goings on the street below—even the bed had been pulled up close to the window. A telescope on a tripod angled out a lower section of window and pointed toward a location other than the warehouse. Archie leaned forward and closed an eye over the telescope. A good length of time went by, so she assumed something of great interest had captured his attention.
“I see Miss Molly is occupied with a bit of in and out,” Rhys commented.
Archie jerked his head back. The detective’s binoculars were now pointed in the same direction as the telescope. “She’s really wonderful company. Most evenings she has several visitors.”
“May I see?” Fiona leaned forward to have a look through the telescope.
“Hold on.” Archie swung the telescope over to the large double doors of the warehouse. “There you are.” She leaned across him to look through the eyepiece. “A bit of narration, please,” Archie encouraged.
“Several good-sized men—dockworkers, likely. They’re standing beside a smallish van—something the size of an ice wagon.” Fiona sighed. “Not nearly as interesting as a scene in a brothel.”
Rhys snorted under his binoculars. “At the moment I would have to agree, Fiona.” He swept the street as he returned his focus to the storehouse. “Patient enough, these blokes. How long have they been waiting now?” Rhys asked as he scraped a last spoonful of chowder from his bowl.
With the fading of the light, the room had grown dim. Fiona glanced up at Archie, who had seemed a bit on edge since they’d entered the flat, as though something niggled at him.
Archie exhaled. “By any chance, Agent Gunn isn’t still working the Grey de Ruthyn case, is he?”
Rhys didn’t answer right away, as if he was weighing his answer. “He can’t let it go, says he has a—”
“Did anyone see that?” Fiona burst out, her question an excited whisper.
Rhys straightened. “Where do I look, Fiona?”
“Keep your eyes on the edge of the van. I’m looking along the bottom.” Fiona needed confirmation she’d seen what she thought she had seen. A minute crawled by and then another. There! The entire van jostled about, as though someone was moving around inside it.
Rhys whispered, “Dog’s bollocks—there’s someone in the van.”
“An armed guard perhaps?” Archie asked, wrapping an arm around Fiona.
“Maybe. Or hostages they’re looking to trade. Could be anything. If you were Grey de Ruthyn, illegal arms trafficker, wanted on the Continent and in Britain, how would you travel about the Docklands? In a fancy town coach or a grotty old ice van? There’s good reason we haven’t gotten him, yet.”
Archie stared at him. “They could be waiting for others—some sort of meeting, perhaps.”
Quiet for a moment, Rhys set down the binoculars. “I’m starting to get a feeling about this. I take it you have a carriage waiting?”
Archie nodded. “A fair distance—near Commercial Road.”
“You must get her out of here.” Rhys motioned them both out the door.
Archie pulled Fiona to her feet, then balked. “But what about you, Rhys?”
“Never mind about me, I have my Webley here.” He picked up his revolver and winked at Fiona. “I owe you many thanks—oysters, chowder, pleasant company . . . napkins—but I’m afraid you must be off.”
Archie turned to leave with Fiona in tow. “We’ll drive straight to Whitehall—”
The door of the flat slammed open in a thunderous burst, as if a cannon blew it open. Armed, shadowy figures, silhouetted by flickering gaslight, strode into the room. “Drop the gun, Detective Rhys, or we’ll have to shoot your lab director and his little student.” The feminine voice resolved into a face as the shape moved closer.
“Miss Mowbray,” Fiona gasped.
Chapter Ten
Archie struggled against his captor, who shoved him into a narrow passage between stacks of tea chests. The three of them had been taken captive and transported across the street to the run-down storehouse. He looked back over his shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the thugs handling Fiona. “Don’t you dare touch her!” he shouted.
Fiona’s cry was muffled by a large hand and a gruff “Tell her to shut her gob, or I’ll stick somethin’ in her she�
�ll wish she never seen angry.” The brute tied her hands behind her back while another group of oafish thugs stood inside the storehouse and guffawed. The inside of the storehouse was filled with a mountain of tea and looming bales of cotton, stacked two stories tall.
Her captor pushed Fiona into a dark aisle between crates where she joined Archie and Detective Rhys, poor bloke.
“Is he alive?” she whispered. Archie tried to look hopeful, but Rhys lay on the floor, his leg cast thrust out at a disturbing angle. Blood gushed from the top of his head to his eye, where a bullet had grazed him.
“Detective Rhys, are you all right?” Fiona wrung her hands.
Archie leaned over the body. “Rhys, answer Fiona so she won’t worry.”
A low moan—more of a grunt—was enough to cause a sigh of relief. Fiona turned to him. “Why are they picking on us, Archie? What could we possibly know—?” Fiona stopped midspeech when he winked at her, then shook his head ever so slightly.
“Stop your chatter over there. Boss’ll be here any minute.”
Archie scanned the room and narrowed his gaze. “What do you want, Vivian?”
“I would be doing a good deal of soul-searching if I were you.” Vivian rolled her eyes in a coy fashion. “I would be asking myself—what’s one little secret to Queen Victoria?”
How long had the woman been working in collusion with Grey de Ruthyn? On the train, Finn had alluded to her affairs with an assortment of Whitehall’s finest. If she worked for Grey de Ruthyn—no confirmation as yet—then the man had a mole inside the Yard. No wonder he had so easily eluded them. On the other hand, if the Yard knew about her and had been feeding her false information . . . a dizzying panoply of espionage scenarios passed through his brain, forcing him to refocus.
“Treason is a serious decision for some of us, Vivian. As I said, what do you want?”
Vivian had drawn a little too close. Archie’s hands were tied, but he could still make a run at her—do some damage before the thugs got to him and beat his brains in. He met her gaze and held it. “Perhaps I need to rephrase the question.”
A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce Page 9
