A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (34 page)

She picked up the vanity mirror for a look. Watered silk—lovely—with a rather daring décolletage.
No femme fatale by nature, she would nonetheless play Bellecorte Mallory with every bit of wit and sangfroid she could muster. A violently nauseous stomach nearly overcame her. She must seduce the very man who had ordered the execution of her father. She could not dwell on the thought for long; it was too disturbing. Fanny pinched her cheeks and moistened her lips. She was in the game of her life and would play it fearlessly.

Chapter Thirty

T
he man named Aubrey escorted Fanny through a catacomb of tunnels and connecting rooms. She lifted her skirt to climb a rise of stair and arrived at an iron door rounded at the top and bottom like a ship’s hatch. The butler ushered her through the opening. “Watch your step, miss.” She entered the boudoir of a sultan.

The cavernous room appeared to be a reflection of the man in charge. Simple elegance with a rugged, distinctively male sensibility. More like a pirate’s den than the private quarters of a—what might this strange man be called? An anti-progressive, surely, but his comportment was that of a leader, the self-styled autocrat of his very own anarchist movement. At least it would seem so, what with Mallory’s private army of minions.

The ceiling was low, vaulted. A sumptuous bed, sized for Henry VIII, dominated the room. Fanny quickly surveyed the rest of the quarters. A small library was in one corner; a sitting room and dining area occupied the rest of the space. Covering the stone floor, plush, red Persian
carpets had a warming effect. Her gaze traveled back to the heavily draped four-poster. She disciplined her mind to stay in the moment—not to roam into abhorrent, fearful territory.

“There is wine and stronger spirit on the breakfront by the table.” The one-eyed butler bowed. “Mallory will join you shortly.” The door clanked shut behind the manservant.

Fanny waited a moment and checked the door. Locked.

It was a short walk across the room to the whiskey. She opened amber-filled decanters until she found something smoky and poured herself a tumbler. She tossed back half a glass of—what had Rafe called it? Liquid courage.

“You favor good whiskey, Miss Greyville-Nugent. Might I ask you to pour another?”

Fanny spun around. A man she did not recognize set down his hat and crop and strode into the room. He wore riding clothes. She examined long legs in breeches, covered to the knees with top boots. He looked every inch the polished English gentleman. He paused at the dining table, removed a dark-haired wig, and peeled off a rather dashing, close-cropped beard.

She turned back to the buffet to pour his drink and a splash more for herself. “I rather liked the shaved head with the beard.”

“Yes, a gold ring in one ear and the picture would be complete. Shall I have Mr. Talbert bring in his glue pot and costume jewelry box?” He stepped closer and his
eyes grew darker. Not the cold fire of their first meeting. This time his gaze swept over her figure with a kind of heat that made her weak-kneed with terror. And yet there was also a sense of empowerment in his need. He wanted her badly.

“Unnecessarily sociable of you, Mr. Mallory.”

“Just—Mallory.”

She forced her eyes to look straight into those searing black orbs and was scalded by his gaze. She offered him his drink. “Mallory, then.”

He slipped a hand over hers and accepted the glass.

“Is Mr. Talbert the dwarf or the very corpulent gentleman?” She tilted her chin. “At least some of Mallory’s minions appear to hail from a traveling theatrical of some sort. Or am I wrong?”

She could not be sure, but she thought he stifled a laugh. He gestured toward the parlor area with his glass. A grand chaise longue and several side chairs were arranged for conversation in the center of a large area rug.

“I thought I heard you speak once at a worker’s rights gathering, but I must have been mistaken,” she chattered on a bit nervously.

“I often use a decoy to deliver my speeches, whilst I mill about amongst the disgruntled. I handpick all my recruits.” Mallory patted the cushion beside him on the settee. “One or two of the men have a good deal of theater experience and enjoy public speaking. I also find their knowledge of makeup and facial appliances useful in my endeavors.”

“Do you fancy yourself a Robin Hood?” Fanny asked.

“Neither knight nor peasant, but most certainly above the law.” He studied her as a talented roué might observe a future conquest. “Robin Hood is entirely too romantic for this day and age, wouldn’t you agree? The citizenry of Britain long ago made their decision—replace a man’s horse with steam, give his job to a child—” Mallory reached across the chaise and turned down the lamp wick. “Abandon the soft glow of gaslight for Mr. Swan’s electrical light bulb.”

As he leaned away, she studied the brutal zigzag scar that curved down the side of his head and disappeared behind an ear. She wanted to gulp her whiskey, but sipped instead. “I don’t believe electricity will ever replace the beauty of a dancing flame.” Over the rim of her glass, she connected briefly with a flicker of light in his black gaze. Fanny abandoned sipping for a good gulp. “Tell me, Mallory, do you mean to put an end to progress in general or do you terrorize selectively?”

The slightest uptick at the ends of his mouth suggested a kind of world-weary amusement. “As I mentioned, the citizens have voted. Keep the wheels of industry turning at any price. In ‘the age of the machine, Britain has become the workshop of the world,’ or so Thomas Carlyle says.”

Mallory settled into the curve of the chaise while those piercing eyes evaluated, questioned. “It is one thing for children to labor on farms or help with the spinning. But to put a child in the narrow air shaft of a coal mine to open and close the ventilation doors, or crawl underneath running machinery—perhaps lose a
finger or two . . .” He seemed to drift off momentarily.

“Young children are gone from the regulated workplace for some time now.” Fanny squirmed a bit. “With each successive decade the industrialists have made progress.”

“When forced to it.”

“Granted, change hasn’t always come willingly.” She lowered her eyes before raising them again. “Why do you not choose to make your argument through legislation, Mallory? More equitable pay for women, for instance, and more funding for public schools.”

“My brother was killed, crushed by one of your father’s huge machines.” Mallory resettled himself to look at her more directly. “He was nine years old.”

Stunned, Fanny drew herself upright. “So, an eye for an eye, is it?”

He finished his glass and got up for more whiskey. “Ah, but there is more to this tale of woe.” He returned to the couch with the decanter and Fanny lifted her glass. “One fine October morning, my entire family was killed in the Jewell Gunpowder Mill explosion. One hundred and nine men, women, and children dead—many more injured. Happened years before you were born.”

“In 1863, actually, the year I was born.” Her whispered words barely registered.

Mallory rubbed the side of his temple. “At the time of the explosion, I was in the infirmary getting my hand stitched. Saved, ironically, by an earlier mishap.”

A heavy heart thumped inside her body. “You lost everyone?”

“God spared no sorrow for me. By the time I returned to the factory, the building was on fire. A few of the injured managed to crawl out alive.”

Fanny bit her lip. “I suppose it’s no wonder you took it upon yourself to rid the country of this popular new form of modernization.” Her world spun slowly out of control. How could one ever recover from such a blow? She supposed one never did. “I do not mean to in any way take away from your very painful loss, nor the terrible misfortune that befell your family, but I must argue for at least some of the good that comes with industrialization. The machines have created a new working class, which Robert Peel referred to as—”

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.”