A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce

by Jillian Stone

  “Consider this, Inspector Bruce. Perhaps you haven’t asked the right question. You haven’t asked . . .” Vivian took a long, hard, up-and-down look at Fiona and then shifted her gaze to him. “What is your price?”

  “Vivi drives a hard bargain, which is why I invite her to all my more difficult negotiations,” a deep voice growled. The shadow of a man stood inside the door of the storehouse. Behind him loomed a larger shape, no doubt a lookout and rear guard.

  “Simon Grey, Baron Grey de Ruthyn. I believe that is your name, is it not, sir?” Archie stepped forward and squinted. Damn it, he needed his spectacles. The man wore a coachman’s hat pulled down low over his forehead. There were dark hollows where his eyes should be and a shadow under his nose. His most visible feature? A deep cleft in his chin.

  “I want the formula sent to you from Waltham Abbey. Give it up, Inspector Bruce, and I will let you and the girl go.”

  Archie didn’t hesitate. “I don’t have it on my person.”

  “Untrue. Vivian saw the wire delivered as you left the office to teach your class.”

  Archie stepped in front of Fiona to block her lovely but guileless face. No doubt she wore a look that screamed, Oh my word, the wire is in my bosom! He rethought his answer. “I did have the wire this afternoon, but I’m afraid I gave it to Agent Gunn as he left the flat this evening. You can check my pockets.” He took another step forward.

  “That will be far enough.” The shadow shifted back and signaled to several of his larger trolls. “You’re a very bad liar, Mr. Bruce.”

  “Now see here,” Archie complained, as he was hauled back into the corner he came from. “I gave it to Finn this very evening—I swear it.”

  Fiona, however, was brought closer. The man in the shadows spoke. “Undress her.” Fiona screamed as one of the thugs ripped open her blouse.

  “I will make sure every one of you rots in Newgate Gaol for this,” Archie roared with a kind of anger he rarely felt and never expressed. Held in a viselike grip, he struggled until he thought he might dislocate both arms. His ears began to ring and yet Finn’s voice came to him—something he had taught Archie out at the armory. “Whenever a man comes at you from behind, struggle forward for as long as you dare. Then reverse course and run him backward into the hardest object you can find.” In this case, Archie set his sights on a heavy pillar holding up the rafters of the storehouse.

  Archie lunged forward and then swiftly reversed course, taking the oaf behind him by surprise. He sent the man crashing back into the post, knocking him out cold. Still the giant thug managed to drag him to the ground with him. Archie rolled off the unconscious man and scrambled to his feet. One of the two oafs holding onto Fiona let go of her and came after him. Archie led the man on a chase up and down a labyrinth of narrow passages between crates and bales. One consolation—he had managed to work one of his hands free. Archie peered out from behind a tea chest as he shed the rest of his bindings and tossed off the rope.

  Grey de Ruthyn shouted directions at Vivian, who lunged at Fiona and tried to take hold. Fiona, dear girl, began to twist and pitch and yaw—making it impossible for Vivian to get a grip on her.

  Archie looked back in time to see the man who was after him lunge, forcing him out from the cover of the stacks. “Settle down, Mr. Bruce, or I’ll have no choice but to shoot her.” Grey de Ruthyn pointed a gun at Fiona. Archie slowed immediately, but he continued to walk toward the open door. Another massive troll loomed up behind the shrouded leader. This one wasn’t as wide, but he was taller than the others—as tall as Agent Gunn. In fact, he looked a lot like Agent Gunn.

  “Bloody hell. Hello, Finn.” Archie had caught just enough of the jawline and that mane of thick hair to know that Phineas Gunn was standing directly behind the gun smuggler. Archie sucked in a whispered breath and ran straight for Grey de Ruthyn, purposely putting himself between the leader and the gun pointed at Fiona.

  As shots rang out, it was a thing to behold, seeing Finn in action. First he took down the leader with the butt of a rifle, then he fired at the thugs inside. He hit the man holding Fiona, who went down as she wrenched herself away.

  Archie grabbed Fiona by the arm and swung her behind a giant bale of cotton. “Turn around, love.” He untied her hands and shrugged out of his coat. “Cover yourself with this. Work your way back to Rhys and stay with him.” Fiona nodded and backed off into the deeper shadows of the warehouse.

  The only illumination was a skylight overhead. A few faint beams of moonlight pooled on the floor just in front of Archie.

  He caught sight of Finn crouched behind a column of tea. Archie waved him over. “Where are they?” Finn asked, sidling up beside him.

  “Vivian is on the other side of these crates and the rest have scattered far back into the shadows.”

  “Can you take Vivian?” Finn asked.

  Archie nodded. “Grey de Ruthyn dropped his gun. I think I can reach it.”

  Finn gave him a wink. “Remember to aim for the body.”

  Archie grinned. “Then I might actually hit something.”

  Finn blasted a shot into the dark and ran through a beam of moonlight into the deep blackness of the warehouse.

  Archie spied Grey de Ruthyn’s gun on the floor and lunged for the weapon. Vivian stepped into view and discharged her weapon as he slid across the floor. He picked up the pistol and without even thinking, Archie rolled onto his back and returned fire at Miss Mowbray, who spun around and followed Finn into the deep shadows.

  “Bollocks, missed.” Archie stood up and searched the stacks until he found Fiona.

  “Archie,” she cried, looking as if she might run out into the open just to check on him.

  “I’m fine, Fiona. Stay behind these crates with Rhys.”

  Hugging the stacks of warehouse goods, Archie moved into the depths of the warehouse. He hadn’t gotten far when Finn emerged from the darkness with Vivian in tow.

  “Where’s the rest of them?”

  “Out the back—there’s a rear door that leads to an alley.” Finn shrugged. “Got this one though, and she’s wounded. Nice shooting, Archie.”

  He blinked at the growing blotch of red on Vivian’s sleeve. “Dog’s bollocks, Finn.” Archie beamed as they walked under a shaft of moonlight. “We got both of them!”

  Vivian smirked. “You’ll never get Simon . . . he’s too smart for you.” She nodded toward the door. The slumped-over body was gone—vanished.

  “HOW DID THIS horrid gunrunner—Grey de Ruthyn—know to look in my unmentionables, Mr. Gunn?” Fiona reached into her corset and pulled out the telegram. Archie quickly rebuttoned his coat around her.

  “Do call me Finn, and I must say you two are adorable together—as are your underthings, Miss Rose.” Mr. Gunn sat across the carriage, grinning ear to ear. He nudged the pissing-mad Miss Mowbray on the seat beside him. “Wouldn’t you agree, Vivian? Is that arm bandage too tight? Or is the gag uncomfortable?”

  They had already paid a visit to the hospital, where Detective Rhys and Miss Mowbray were treated and released. Rhys, though still a bit dazed, insisted on going home to his flat, while they escorted Miss Mowbray to the CID lockup.

  Finn settled back in his seat for the ride to Whitehall. “To answer your question, Miss Rose, I don’t believe it was Grey de Ruthyn’s intention to have a look in your corset. I think it much more likely he was using you to get to Inspector Bruce.”

  Archie stared at Vivian. “Was she a plant from the start, or was she turned?”

  Finn glanced at the bound and gagged woman by his side. “Care to comment, Miss Mowbray?” He exhaled. “No? Ah well, looking forward to you and me in the interrogation room together.” He studied Archie. “Actually . . . wouldn’t you like to find out who set off the shrapnel shell?”

  Archie rubbed his chin—one of his thinking-man gestures Fiona enjoyed. “I’m becoming more and more convinced the whole thing was accidental. Alfred and I bounding up the stairs rattled the office. Sir Frederi
ck said it himself, all it would take is a fall to the floor.” Archie recreated the scenario: “The wall shakes, the canister tips over and hits the floor nose-down. The detonator sets off the fuse in the nose, which in turn sets off the shrapnel charge, which is what blew out the door and windows. The shell only flew another twenty feet, carried mostly by momentum.”

  Fiona blinked. “But . . . what caused the doorknob to heat up before the blast?”

  “A crude experiment of my own making, I’m afraid.” Archie grimaced. “The scorching hot knob was likely caused by a battery-powered security alarm whose wires overheated. The crossed wires likely fried the alarm, along with the doorknob. The shrapnel destroyed the alarm box, but I’m convinced the two incidents are unrelated. The doorknob might have been blistering hot for hours.”

  Archie’s eyes narrowed on Finn. “It is possible Grey de Ruthyn never cared about the gunpowder per se, but the formula was another matter. One can sell a formula many times over. Much more valuable than two canisters of gunpowder.”

  “Mystery solved, mole uncovered—weaselly arms trafficker still at large.” The agent rocked his head back and forth. “Not bad for a night’s work.”

  Archie grinned. “Not bad at all.”

  Finn leaned forward. “Here’s the plan. I shall drop off Miss Mowbray with the jailor. Then I shall escort you both to”—Finn eyed Vivian—“the safe house. Scotland Yard will want you both in protective custody for the next twenty-four hours. Gives us time to collect extraneous culprits and the like.”

  Archie exhaled. “Is this really necessary, Finn?”

  He stared at Archie as if he’d gone daft. “Think of it as a job . . . perquisite.”

  The agent returned to Fiona. “I have no wish to alarm Mr. and Mrs. Rose, but we will post a number of Metropolitan police about the square for the next few days. And of course, there will be no mention of the kidnapping or gun battle. Nothing too scary.” Finn smiled.

  “If my parents aren’t pleased”—Fiona sighed—“Ida Green certainly will be. She and another acquaintance of mine enjoy spying almost as much as you, Mr. Gunn—I mean Finn.” Fiona straightened a bit. “In fact, I did hear reports of strangers about the square. Do you suppose we were followed this evening?”

  “It’s very possible Grey de Ruthyn had you both followed,” Finn answered.

  Fiona opened her mouth to speak—closed it—then changed her mind and had to ask. “There is one thing that remains puzzling to me—how did you know? If you hadn’t come back for us, we might be . . .”

  “As I left Wapping,” Finn interjected, “I noticed a van turn off Commercial Road. There have been rumors of guns being transported in ice vans. Thought I’d follow at a distance, and what do you know? Turned out to be coming straight for you lot.”

  The carriage pulled into Greater Scotland Yard and stopped outside the entrance to the lockup. Finn exited the carriage. “Coming, Vivian?” When she didn’t move, Finn reached inside, dragged her across the seat, and picked her up. “Back in a flash.”

  Archie put his arm around Fiona. “How do you feel about spending twenty-four hours in protective custody with me? Safe enough? Or shall I request a chaperone?”

  “Good God, no.” Fiona snuggled close. “I will be perfectly safe with you, Archie.”

  He brushed his lips over the fine hair at her temple. “Not too safe, I hope.”

  Finn leaped back inside the carriage and they were off to Whitehall Court in a dash. The very splendid apartment building was the residence of peers, heads of state, and ambassadors from around the world. “Eighty-two luxury apartments—one of them is reserved as a VIP safe house.” Finn escorted them up to the fourth floor and then down a corridor to a paneled door with no number. “The apartment has a hidden entry.” He handed over the keys to Archie, who opened the door. Fiona blinked. “It’s a linen closet.”

  “Push on a shelf,” Finn urged gently. Fiona felt under a stack of bath sheets and pushed—there was a click, as if a latch released. The shelves all swiveled at once, on a hinge. Fiona pressed forward. “Almost like a very thick second door.”

  The sitting room beyond looked lovely. “Off you go,” Finn said. “I’ll be back to check on you in the morning. I believe there’s a small pantry with refreshments, and a water closet. All the comforts.” Finn plucked back the keys. “By the way, once you’re in, you’re in.” Finn smiled at them. “You both got through this evening with barely a scratch. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Fiona kissed his cheek on tiptoes. “Thank you for everything, Finn.”

  “My pleasure.” He winked at her. “Or more likely, yours.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After a complete tour through the apartment twice, Fiona pronounced the safe house “a marvel.” It had hot running water, a plumbed cast-iron tub, and electricity! She switched the light on and off several times and pinched herself. The bulbs were bare and rather glaring, but she imagined being able to read under a lamp like this. Eyestrain would become an ailment of the past!

  She unbuttoned Archie’s frock coat and folded it neatly across the back of a chair. Out of habit she reached up to unpin her hat and remembered it had been ripped off her head and crushed under a thug’s foot. So she unpinned her hair instead. Perhaps there was a brush in one of the dressers.

  Archie opened a cabinet in the pantry and found a rack of wine bottles. “Shall we have a glass of wine, Fiona?”

  “That would be lovely.” She wandered into the bedroom, as Archie opened one drawer after the other. “Can’t seem to find a corkscrew,” he groused.

  A large four-poster stood in the middle of the room, with a highboy and a wardrobe on each wall. Venturing further, she discovered a dressing table and dipped down to look in the mirror. Tilting her head, she found evidence of her capture and struggle: red finger marks on her throat, and her color was a bit pale.

  Her gaze moved lower, to her blouse—torn open, ragged and forlorn, but the camisole was stunning and the corset covered in small violets cheerful. Quite suddenly she wanted out of her clothes. She removed her blouse and skirt and stuffed them in a drawer. She untied her bustle and petticoats and left them in a puddle on the floor.

  Stripped down to her new undergarments, the cool air soothed her skin and calmed her mind. She sat down at the dresser to finish unpinning her hair.

  “I found a basket of biscuits and chocolate, would you like— Fiona?” Archie stopped short. She met his gaze in the mirror, as she let the last of her hair down. Thick curls fell in massive waves down her back. Archie looked as though his heart might stop. She patted the bench next to her and smiled. “Come sit with me.”

  He slid in beside her and handed her a glass of wine. “And how was your day, Miss Rose?” He kissed her neck and she tilted her head so he could leave a trail of tingles. “Fraught with demands, Mr. Bruce.”

  He applied a gentle kiss to each red mark. “I recommend a glass of wine and more kissing.”

  She swallowed from the glass he offered and they did a good deal more kissing. She touched his thigh, and he brought her hand up between his legs. “Show me what to do,” she whispered.

  He drained the glass and set it down. “Come to bed with me, Fee.” He held out his hand and led her over to the comfortable-looking four-poster. He paused to look at her in pale lavender hose and matching garters. “Have you any idea how delicious you are and how aroused I am?”

  If he only knew how eager she was to have her first sexual experience—and it would be with Archibald Bruce. Her knees trembled at the very thought.

  “Before I unbutton my trousers . . .” He took her hand and let her feel the hard length and breadth of him. Then he guided her hand inside his drawers.

  “It feels like velvet,” she gasped.

  “Even though I might die from desire, I believe I will encourage you to explore on your own,” he rasped in a husky voice. He shrugged off his waistcoat and braces, and pulled his shirt over his head. “Unbutton the rest,”
he urged her, and she exposed his penis, which sprang to life, angling up toward the ceiling. “Take hold and stroke the shaft.”

  Fiona stared for a moment, and then curiosity got the better of her, and she reached out again, grasping him gently at first. “Do you like this? Might I hold you tighter?” she asked.

  He nodded his encouragement, showing her how to hold him firmly and circle her fingers around the tip of the shaft. Gently, he moved her fingers up and down—and she continued on her own until he was panting very hard. “Not yet,” he gasped, and took her hand away. She didn’t quite understand.

  He coaxed her to lie back on the bed while he untied his shoes and pushed off his hose. His back was broad, and narrowed down to a vee with slim hips and muscled buttocks. She shivered a bit and sat up, wrapping her arms around him. She rested her cheek against the smooth surface of his back as her fingers wove a dance over his chest and down his torso. “Fuzzy,” she murmured against his skin. She very much liked the way Archie was built—hard—but not overly muscled in the arms and chest, with long, athletic legs. And that mat of chest fuzz, oh my! A single finger traced the trail of small hairs past his navel and sent a shudder through his body. She knew this because that untamable penis bobbed about with her every touch.

  He turned to her. “We are going to take this slowly.”

  Fiona leaned back on her elbows. “Why?”

  He tried to muffle a chuckle and failed. She arched a brow and waited for an answer.

  Archie crawled over the bed to her. “Because it will be more . . . erotic.” He propped himself against pillows and placed her between his legs. “Now then, may I remove this beautiful corset?” He loosened strings. “How is it ladies spend a good deal of cash on clothes that a man can’t wait to remove?” Fiona helped unlace, and soon both the corset and camisole were off—flung into another puddle of discarded underthings on the floor. He fell back just to look at her.

  “I suppose that is the point of it—silly as it may seem.” Fiona could feel the heat of her blush under his admiring gaze. He kept his touch light, sweeping his fingers over round mounds and nipples, down the curve of her waist and belly. Her hips answered him with a wanton, lusty thrust.