A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (9 page)

She looked up from her handiwork. “We’ll need to find a doctor.” Rafe eased back in his seat and she buttoned his shirt. “Any moment now, we should reach Broxburn. Small town. Oil shale mostly.”

“I need to get to a telegraph office.”

She nodded. “After Broxburn, next stop is Bathgate. Coal mines. Lime and ironstone quarries. Some years ago, Father discovered cannel coal in the Boghead area and opened the Bathgate Chemical Works—paraffin oil and wax.” She smoothed the placard of his shirt. “Then of course there’s the Glenmavis Distillery.”

Rafe rubbed a bruised cheek. “I could use a glass of Glenmavis Dew.”

Fanny sat upright and pulled his waistcoat closed. “They’ll have an infirmary there. Or—there’s Coatbridge farther down the line. Father’s hot-blast process greatly increased the efficiency of their smelting ironworks.”

As always, smart as a whip, with a memory for detail. He smiled at her. “I see you’ve boned up on the Greyville-Nugent industrial empire.”

“I made a few trips with Father this past year. Believe me, a visit to the Gartsherrie Ironworks is one of the sights of a lifetime.” She patted his waistcoat and rose to take the seat opposite. The train braked unexpectedly and she tumbled back onto his lap.

Before she could utter a gasp, he wrapped an arm
around her waist and kissed her. “Remind me to thank our engineer.”

She squirmed a bit and pushed away, but without conviction. Those wide, dewy eyes appeared slightly tempted. Her gaze lowered and her lips parted. A gentle exhale of air wafted over his mouth as he brushed soft kisses over that plump pout. He pressed for more, tasting and teasing as he took possession of her mouth.

He tugged up her skirt and ran a hand up silky French stockings. She broke off the kiss and pushed his hand away. “Are you completely mad?”

“I would guess I am. Well, not mad as a hatter.” He dragged in a deep breath and exhaled. “Do you see what lust does to a man?”

“It makes him wicked and foolish. Don’t do it again.”

He held fast to her. “Ah, but I think you’d like me to be wicked and foolish again, wouldn’t ye, Fanny?” Her glare fell to his mouth. “Yes, I believe you would.”

Chapter Seven

H
e kissed her again. And though her hands pushed against his chest, her tongue dipped into his mouth and swirled a sensuous little dance with his. The honeyed taste of her conjured up sweet memories.

Shuffled footsteps and a bit of mumbled conversation alerted Rafe to a new rash of activity outside their compartment door. With his mouth still on hers he opened an eye. The ticket collector stood in the corridor chatting with a passenger. Torn between the man in uniform and her luscious mouth, he let her break off their kiss.

“Let me go.” She shoved him back into the seat and slipped off his lap, quickly settling on the bench opposite.

His breath matched the heave of her chest as they both labored for air. “Sorry, Fan. It’s just that you’re so—”

A short rap and the door opened. A uniformed man stepped into the compartment with a perfunctory nod. “Evening.” He took a long look at Fanny before he turned to Rafe. “Tickets, sir.”

“The lady and I will be traveling on to Bathgate.” Rafe reached into his pocket. “Change for a quid?”

“Two for Bathgate.” The ticket taker appeared to be having a bit of trouble with his coin changer.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a pad of telegram forms on you?” Rafe looked the man over again. After a few years with the Yard, one developed a nose for murky situations. He slipped a hand inside his coat pocket as a precaution. “Turning wet out there?”

“Yes, sir—we’ve got a spot of weather ahead—”

“Is that right?” Rafe fashioned a rueful smile. “Clear as a bell in Edinburgh.”

The ticket man let go of the change machine and pulled out a pistol. “The lady and I will be traveling on without you,” he growled.

Fanny slid down the bench, wedging herself in a corner. Her perfectly natural act of self-defense created a moment of distraction.

Rafe fired his Webley and the bullet struck the man’s temple. A faint trickle of blood flowed down the side of the imposter’s face. Glassy-eyed, the man pitched forward into his grasp. Rafe eased the body onto the floor of the compartment.

With barely a blink, Fanny stared at the frozen expression. “Is he—?”

Rafe dropped the man’s wrist. “Dead.” She inched around the corpse and reached out to him. Rafe helped her step over an outstretched arm. “You look a bit pale.”

“Where on earth did he come from?” Her open-mouthed
fascination moved from the corpse to Rafe. “And—how could you know?”

“He must have jumped on board with the other two—worked his way up from the baggage car.” He nodded at the imposter’s shoes. “The wet trousers and fresh mud didn’t seem exactly right. And the man couldn’t work a simple change device.”

Her gaze swept over the body again. “Shall we search him? Perhaps we might find—I don’t know, some sort of clue, I suppose.”

“You’ve been reading the story papers.” Rafe grinned.

Her flush colored wan cheeks. “You know very well I prefer a good adventure tale to poetry.”

Rafe checked the corridor. “Hard to believe no one heard the shot.”

“Frightened, wouldn’t you say?” Fanny pressed her nose to the outside window. “Broxburn station is straight ahead. Several constables are standing on the platform.” Fanny turned to him eyes bright. “A bit of good news, yes?”

Rafe grimaced. “I’d like to avoid local authorities for the moment.” He took up an arm of the body. “Help me get him on the bench.”

She did a yeoman’s job with her end of the corpse. “You don’t believe they are real policeman?”

“At the moment, I trust no one.” Rafe lifted the deadweight onto the train seat with a grunt.

They propped the sham ticket taker against the wing of a headrest and set his cap. Rafe glanced out the window. The train would soon slow enough for the officers to jump aboard.

He searched the man’s trouser pockets. “Check his waistcoat and jacket. She opened his coat with two fingers. “Quickly, Fan.” A grimace readily changed to a triumphant grin when she pulled out a small notebook and billfold.

“You’re a damn fine partner, Fan.” Rafe took the items from her with a wink. “Come.” He grabbed her hand and they moved silently down the corridor. At the end of the carriage, they reached the public water closet.

“Might I?” Fanny looked as though she almost hated to ask.

Rafe peered out the window. The uniformed men had begun to board the train one car ahead. “Make this the fastest piss ever.”

He opened the door and she screamed. “Bollocks.” A man lay curled up on the floor of the loo, dressed in nothing but his unmentionables. A deep crimson stain covered the back of his undershirt. Rafe slammed the door shut.

Fanny swallowed. “The real ticket collector?”

He nodded. “Poor bloke—”

She backed away from the water closet and reached out. Without a word, Rafe took hold of her hand. He inched the passenger car door open and poked his head out. A few people lingered on the platform, none in uniform.

The silver-gray sky marked a fine, lingering twilight, which would last for the better part of the next hour. He’d not chance a run for the station house. Dark glazing signaled the office had closed for the evening. Rafe
and Fanny tiptoed down the steps and struck out along the edge of the platform, holding to the shadows alongside the train. A cool mist hung in the air, and the paved stone beneath their feet was slick from a recent shower. At the end of the platform, he jumped onto gravel-covered ground and helped Fanny down. Behind them, the silhouette of a man exited the train. He looked east and west along the rails. Rafe crouched and pulled her against him.

The dark character, dressed in a natty suit, peered down their way. The man shouted something back inside the train.

“We’ve been spotted.” Rafe yanked her up and they quickly rounded the end of the train. They made a good run along the back side of the track, but there was no exit in sight. They were caught between a retaining wall to one side and the train on the other.

“There, up ahead.” A narrow set of crude stairs led up the side of the embankment. Fanny picked up her skirts and they clambered up the steep, uneven steps, arriving in a backstreet behind a terrace of buildings. A horse nickered in a public stable at the far end of the alley.

“You know this town?”

Panting, Fanny nodded toward a break between buildings. “I believe there are several shops and a few pubs up the lane.” Racing down the dark passage, they jumped over pools of fetid water and stumbled over a drunk. Out on the street, she pointed farther up the hill.

A group of shabbily dressed men, likely shale miners, bargained with two bawdy street whores. They passed
by several quiet establishments before coming upon a smoky, crowded pub. This might prove to be excellent indeed, exactly what they needed for cover. Rafe gripped her hand tight and steered a path through the lively room.

He slid a large coin across the bar to a rough-looking character. The man in charge, it would seem. “Might there be a cabinet particular available?” Rafe didn’t have to look; he was quite sure Miss Greyville-Nugent blushed cheek to toe.

“Got no fancy dining room with a hidden bed, mate.” After a rude and lusty perusal of Rafe’s pretty companion, the man gave him a wink and a nod. “Got rooms by the hour.”

“Should anyone inquire, you haven’t seen me or the young lady.” He dropped a few more coins on the bar in exchange for a key. “Have a good whiskey and sandwiches sent up.”

“Up the back stairs. Last door on yer left,” the bartender grunted. Rafe led the way upstairs and unlocked a sparely furnished room. A plain cast-iron bed filled all but a small corner of space where a simple wooden chair stood. “Not exactly Claridge’s.”

She plunked herself onto the mattress. “This is heaven.” Fanny looked up at him and smiled.

She forgot his past sins. For the moment. And he forgot about bedding her. For tonight. He tempered a devilish smile into something more benign. “You take the bed. I’ll curl up on the floor.”

Supper turned out to be mutton roast on a hard bun
and a bowl of strong hot broth. Rafe demonstrated a bit of pub sandwich savvy and dunked the crusty bread into the bouillon. “Mm-mm,” she murmured, dipping her own sandwich into the bowl and swishing it around.

“Done like a seasoned pub crawler.”

She held out her empty glass.

“One last sip, Fan. Your eyelids are ready to close.”

Her hair was a riot of loose pins and massive curls come undone. And her flushed cheeks and somnolent expression? Entirely beddable. Like a child fighting sleep, she jerked upright. “You killed a man today.”

“I did.” He uncorked the bottle and poured them each another taste.

She chewed on a last bite of bread. “Does it bother you?”

“I learned a hard lesson my first year with the Yard. Took a bullet in the chest. An inch or two over would have killed me.” He held up his glass and she clinked a toast. “Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking.

“If ye cheat, cheat death.” His brogue came out in full force.

“If ye steal, steal a woman’s heart,” she answered in kind.

He grinned. “If ye fight, fight for a brother.”

“If ye drink, drink with me.” She tossed back her head along with the whiskey. A beauty who could swill down a dram. Rafe took her glass and set both empties on the wooden tray at the foot of the bed.

“I no longer wait around to be shot at.” He stretched
out his legs and adjusted his shoulders against the hard ladder back of the wooden chair.

She sat on the edge of the bed and shivered. He leaned forward and lifted her foot to his knee. “You need sturdy boots and—” He unbuttoned a black
peau de soie
shoe and motioned for the other. “Try not to take offense, but I recommend a change of gown. The natty blokes behind us, along with the local police, will be asking after a young lady in mourning costume.”

She thought a moment before nodding. “Good.” She perked up and moistened her bottom lip with her upper. “I greatly dislike mourning attire. And I don’t believe Papa would mind, under the circumstances.”

“Actually, you look rather sophisticated togged up in black silk.” He rubbed her toes. “Your feet are cold.” She pulled her legs away.

“Can you undo your bustle without assistance?”

Though her eyes widened, she boldly lifted her skirt. She untied a string around her waist, stood up, and wiggled. A leather and metal frame the size and shape of a rugby ball slipped to the floor. As she stepped to the side, he picked up the apparatus and hung it from a single hook on the back of the door. By the time he turned around, Fanny had slipped under the bedclothes.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress. “You’ve had a long day.”

“A long two days.” Fluffing the pillow, she turned from him and sighed. “Buried Papa at four o’clock yesterday afternoon, and who of all people makes his unwelcome appearance but Raphael Lewis.”

He pulled up the covers. “Bothersome chap, but he means well.”

Without looking back she reached out. Icy fingers gripped his hand. A bit of shock had set in. He lay down above the covers and wrapped Fanny in his arms, spooning against her.