A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (29 page)

“I did sacrifice a few men at the loch. Good cause, though.”

“Honestly, Rafe, I’d tell you if I knew. Father called it a surprise—for me. We’ll find out soon enough when we reach London. You haven’t heard from the solicitor, Mr. Connery?”

“Only one wire today.” His eyes shifted away. “They’ve discovered another body. An industrialist, or so they believe.”

Eyes wider. “What happened?”

“Is that your question?”

“Yes.”

Rafe filled both their glasses. “All this truth requires liquid courage.”

He tilted his chair back. “This time, they found parts of a torso. Head’s missing—parts of hands and legs. Grisly, as if the man was drawn and quartered.”

Fanny slumped in her chair. “Sounds like Mallory.”

“Our villain likes to keep things interesting. A bobby on patrol found a bloodied piece of waistcoat in Savoy Row. There was a card in the pocket with the name of a munitions factory in Newcastle.”

“Newcastle.” Fanny pressed her lips together and squinted. “I might have a name for you.”

Rafe rocked forward. “Who?”

“Is this your question?”

He nodded.

Fanny looked up from her glass. “William George Armstrong. He owns Elswick Works. Hydraulic machinery and heavy artillery. The Armstrong gun is a rifled cannon, which gives the gun gyroscopic stability and improved accuracy. ’Tis a very powerful cannon with range as well.” Her voice grew faint and a bit raspy. “Reportedly, projectiles fired from the gun can pierce a ship and explode inside an enemy vessel, which would increase the damage, and casualties.” She drained her glass.

Rafe started to pour then tipped the bottle up. “How much more can you handle?”

“One more. And I will count that as a question. Now I have two.” Fanny leaned forward. “What exactly did you and Father discuss in his study, after he and Eliza caught us on the balcony?”

“I confessed everything—well, most everything. When I finished, Ambrose was actually rather civil. He told me he’d never forgive me for such a betrayal. For injuring you so—and then he said a funny thing. He said, ‘God damn you—you’ve done the right thing, Rafe.’”

Fanny’s mouth dropped open somewhere along the telling. “Father never said a word.” Her gaze traveled the room. Glazed eyes that focused nowhere until, at last, they connected with him. “Did you . . .” She caught her breath. “Did you . . . love her? Ceilia?

“Very sadly.” His eyes never left hers. “Yes.”

“Why is that sad?” Her speech was nearly a whisper.

“Because I didn’t love her . . . not at first.” Fanny’s eyes filled with unshed tears. Rafe handed her his pocket square and she pressed it to her eyes. “Thank you.” She continued to dab at the evidence of her sorrow.

“I came to love a young woman who had made a terrible mistake. Quite as terrible as the one I made. There we were, two people quite miserable in a marriage neither one of us wanted, with a child on the way. My affection no doubt began with empathy—we were so . . . pitiable.”

She reached for the shot glass and he covered her hand with his. “Fanny . . . I never loved her as I love you—as I will always love you.”

She stared at him for a very long time. “How tragic for
us, Rafe.” She lifted the glass and tossed back the last of her whiskey. She stood and wobbled a bit.

He caught her wrist. “Let me explain.”

Her eyes darted about the pub, as a few people began to take notice. “I believe I’ve endured quite enough truth for one evening.”

Fanny dipped a dismissive curtsy and had to steady herself on a passing gent. “Sorry.”

The man grinned. “My pleasure, lass.”

“Excuse us.” Rafe downed a shot, picked up the bottle and followed her to the door. “Fanny, wait.” A shiver ran up his spine. He had risked everything to reveal the truth to her and he must see it through to the end. It was his only hope of ever winning her back.

Rafe signaled their leaving and the professor raised his glass in salute. He set the whiskey on the bar. “Mr. Spottesworth, at the end of this bottle, might you point the professor in the direction of Catslip, last house in the lane?”

“I’ll have him home in a wheelbarrow if I have to, sir.”

“Good man.” Rafe dashed out the door and located Fanny trudging down the road. She tilted to one edge of the lane, overcorrected her balance, and wobbled to the opposite side. Her state of inebriation caused him a brief smile.

FANNY KEPT MOVING. If she stopped, the ground underfoot moved and the earth whirled around her.

Rafe caught up and fell in beside her. “You know why God invented whiskey?”

She glared at him. “So the Irish would never rule the world.” She hiccupped. “You still tell that joke, Rafe?” She stopped in the lane and stared at him. When she listed to one side, he reached out to steady her.

Fanny yanked her arm away and marched down the lane. “What’s the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake?” She looked over her shoulder at him and nearly fell in the ditch.

“One less drunk.” He jogged to catch up. “Really shouldn’t pick on the Irish—especially when we Scots match them dram for dram.” He put his arm around her waist and dragged her up beside him. She didn’t protest, much. “Except for this Scot. You’re a cheap date, Fanny. What was that? Half a dram over four?”

“Where’s the Talisker’s?” She swayed. “I could use another.”

“Back at the pub, I’m afraid.”

She swayed and squinted at him. “But you paid for it.”

“Hamish Minnow has dedicated himself to reaching the bottom of our bottle. Here we are.” Rafe guided her through the wooden gate at the end of the lane.

Fanny stood on the brick walkway while he closed the gate. A tilt of her head brought a thousand stars into view. All . . . whirling . . . around . . . in . . . the . . . sky. She steadied herself and sighed. “I dream about you every night.”

Rafe pivoted slowly. Even though his face was something of a blur, he looked . . . hopeful.

“Well, nearly every night.” Fanny shrugged and loosed
an apologetic giggle. “How embarrassing. I have no idea why I blurted that out.”

He swept both arms around her. “You’re in my thoughts by day and my dreams at night.”

A tingle ran down her spine, numb as it was. She thought she managed a thin smile before stepping away. “Rather foolish of us, wouldn’t you say?”

Rafe opened the terrace door and they crept inside the darkened house. An oil lamp sputtered on a side table near the stairs. He adjusted the wick, picked up the lamp, and signaled for her to go up ahead.

At the top of the stairs, a door swung open. “Oh, Mr. Lewis, I’m afraid young Harry has had a terrible night terror. Might you take a turn with him, sir? He’s been asking for you.”

“Yes, of course.” Rafe turned to Fanny. “Your room is on the left, and mine is another two doors past on the right. In case you have a nightmare of your own—you did mention you dream of me.” He winked at her and entered the nursery.

Fanny leaned against the wall, and exhaled.

“Have you checked under the bed, Harry?”

“Yes, Father.”

“The wardrobe as well?”

The conversation made her smile. She imagined a soft shake of hair as Harry nodded.

“Once or twice?”

“Twice.”

“And you still didn’t find him?”

“He’s here, I know it,” the little boy whispered.

The sound of furniture being dragged across the floor prompted her to peek into the room. Rafe pulled the child’s bed over to another wall.

“There, now. When the Nettlebed Troll arrives, he will believe he’s under your bed. That is when we’ll get him.” Rafe spun around. “Where’s my old cricket bat?”

Harry stood in the middle of the room in his nightshirt and pointed to the corner. The bat leaned against a child’s cupboard, its shelves filled with toys and storybooks.

Rafe grabbed the bat with one hand and hoisted the child under his other arm. “There, now.” He settled Harry in his bed and pulled up the covers. “You hold on to this.” He placed the cricket bat in his son’s small hands.

“What if he comes when I’m asleep?”

Rafe sat on the bed. “I’ll wake you.”

“Will you help me get him?”

“Of course. That’s what fathers are for, chasing off trolls.”

Fanny closed her eyes and smiled. How could this be happening? It seemed as though there were no sins too great to be forgiven. All the anger she had ever harbored toward Rafe was falling to pieces and evaporating into thin air. She would blame the whiskey in the morning, but for tonight, she was quite sure she had never been more in love with Raphael Byron Lewis. He had been honorable once—a young man with a generous and noble heart. In a very reassuring sense, in this fleeting stolen moment, Rafe became the man she had loved since childhood, utterly steadfast and familiar.

And there was something else. She wanted him. Dear God, she wanted him more than she had ever wanted any man in her life. And that was rather odd. Fanny peeked back into the nursery. He reclined against the headboard, his arm wrapped around his son. It was odd because Rafe Lewis was the only man she had ever wanted. Ever.

His voice filtered into her fuzzy brain. “. . . I’m quite certain the only way little boys can get to the Land of Nod is by moonbeam.”

“Tell me how to catch a moonbeam.”

“You know how.”

“Yes, but I want you to tell me again.” Harry yawned.

Fanny slipped away from the nursery and opened the bedroom door on the left. Her gaze, however, ventured down the corridor to the second door on the right.

Chapter Twenty-six

R
afe entered his bedchamber and disrobed. Fanny had always been a wicked tease and a bittersweet torture, but tonight she had blurted out something extraordinary. Something that actually gave him pause.

I dream about you every night.

Rafe tried sleeping on his stomach. When that didn’t work, he tried his back. With each toss and turn, a picture came to mind. A lovely water nymph dipped into the loch. He lay on his side. A voluptuous beauty bared her breasts in the loft. He punched up a pillow and changed sides. An earth goddess emerged from her bath.

Steaming hot, he tossed off bedcovers, swung his legs off the mattress, and walked to the dresser. He ran his hands over beard stubble as he leaned over the basin. He lifted a pitcher and splashed his head and neck. Cool water dripped down his shoulders and chest, bringing some relief.

He tried thinking about the case. All the events of the past few days, which included a small army of anti-progressives,
whirled in his head on whiskey wings. It seemed obvious the shadow-faced minions wanted Fanny for something special—a grand statement of some kind. As Rafe puzzled over the meaning behind their relentless pursuit, he became more and more convinced they would find their answers in London.

He returned to bed and slowed his breathing. Turning onto his side, he faced the wall of the house and stared past the clouded, wavy window glazing. He counted a few evening stars before rolling onto his back with a grunt.

The dull aching throb of a very visible cockstand pitched an impressive tent under the bed linens. Cursing to himself, Rafe kicked off the covers a second time to yield wholeheartedly to the temptation of his oh-so-turgid flesh.

He heard the click of his door latch, and rolled over to find Fanny standing just inside his chambers. “Might you help me with these?” He was getting used to the enchanting sight of an awkward elbow up in the air as she tried pointing behind her.

He quickly covered himself and spoke softly. “Come here.” He patted the edge of the bed.

“Sorry to be such a nuisance.” She hiccupped.

He grinned. “I’m beginning to have a greater appreciation for these tiny, unmanageable buttons.” When he got to the base of her spine, he kept his touch light and helped her slip out of the gown. He kissed the top of an ivory shoulder. “Sleep with me, Fan.” He nuzzled a pretty length of neck.

She raised her arms overhead and he lifted off her camisole. His hands went around her waist and traveled under the curves of her bosom. She turned to him, a sensuous arch to her back, breasts silhouetted by moonlight. “You may let down my hair.” He removed a handful of hairpins and a mass of curls tumbled down her back. For a time he lost himself in a tangle of corkscrews and coils. The intoxicating scent of her. His fingers gently wound their way through the soft curls and pulled her close. She leaned against him and hiccupped. Again.

Rafe sighed. Fanny was inebriated. He couldn’t possibly take advantage. If and when he took her virginity, he wanted her full, sober—and wanton—consent.

He lay back against pillows and inhaled a deep breath. His pulse felt as though it tripped over itself when she slipped under the sheet. Pulling her close, he cupped her breast as his fingertips played over a silken nipple, which quickly ruched into a hard point. She moaned and the small of her back rubbed up against his cock—velvet soft, skin on skin. The randy boy danced a pretty dance between the two dimples above her derriere. He ran his hands up and down the silky smooth curves of her. Having little experience with the sexually uninitiated, he reminded himself to take it slow. Not just because Fanny was an innocent, but because he knew very well she had only to touch him and he would erupt like Mount Etna.