A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (7 page)

R
afe flew out the alley, feet keeping pace with his racing thoughts. Christ, where was she? He took a corner so fast he nearly tumbled onto the bloody pavers. Regaining his balance he lengthened his stride. There, straight ahead, a furniture van wobbled down the street at a blistering fast pace. “Fanny!” Common sense and a nose for crime said he’d find her inside. She had to be.

The clumsy conveyance would have to slow considerably to make the tight turn at George Square. Rafe vaulted over the iron fence and cut across a small patchwork of park surrounded by a quiet row of shops and townhomes. He pulled out his Webley and fired above the driver’s head. The man snapped the reins and the horses bolted around the turn.

Rafe sucked in a gulp of air and cursed the day he’d smoked his first cigarette. “Dear God, I’ll give up the fags, just let me catch this damned—” Rafe leaped onto the driver’s step and pulled himself up beside the man with the reins.

He pressed his revolver to the inside curve of the driver’s ear. “Stop the van.” The bloke jabbed him hard in the ribs, but his hands were full of reins. The frenzied nags took the next corner at a blistering pace, tilting the conveyance on two wheels. “Bloody hell.” He grabbed the man by the collar and used the steep angle to shove the driver off.

As if in a nightmare, the carriage teetered momentarily, then groaned—protesting the pull of gravitational forces before it toppled over. The jarring crash all but hurled Rafe onto the street. But not quite. Thrown to the very edge of the wagon, Rafe pulled himself onto the side panel and crawled back to the front of the vehicle. The overturned van continued down the cobbled lane with great deal of grating and scraping. Sparks flew off the wheel hubs as the terrified horses continued to run, out of control. An eternity of seconds passed before he managed to get hold of the reins. With a firm hand, he pulled back, gentling the horses with the sound of his voice. The drag of the overturned caravan helped slow their forward momentum.

The crash and the horses’ high-pitched whinnies brought several men running from a nearby mews. One groom helped steady the animals while the other man worked to unhitch the team from the wagon.

Rafe jumped to the ground and made his way to the rear doors of the van. He squinted back down the lane, but could find no sign of the fallen driver. No injured body lying in the road. Likely ran off, lucky dolt. He reached out and turned the lever on the rear doors. Nothing. He gave it a hard tug.

Jammed.

Bracing his foot against the frame, he wrenched one side free. The open door swung out and hit the ground. Poking his gun into velvet blackness, he held the revolver at arm’s length and entered the van.

A streetlamp cast a dim flickering light over the body of a large bloke lying unconscious or dead on top of—Rafe climbed farther inside. “Hello there?”

A muffled cry answered as he wrenched the hefty torso away from a rumpled Miss Greyville-Nugent. Fanny was alive.

“Are you all right?” He rolled the rest of the inert body off her. The deadweight uttered a moan.

She rose up on her elbows. “Captain Savage to the rescue.” She coughed, gasped for a bit of air, but otherwise appeared unharmed. Wild strands of curl haloed her head. Rafe swallowed—so relieved he hardly noticed how tousled and, well, beddable she looked.

“Here, let me help you.” He reached out a hand.

Gingerly, she picked her way out of the van and onto the pavers. While she fluffed up her bustle and patted down skirts, he checked her ankles and limbs for a sprain. She swatted his hand away.

“Apologies. Don’t know what came over me.” A lock of hair had fallen in his eyes. He raked it back.

“Are all Scotland Yard men the cheeky sort?” Excellent. She was more than unharmed; she was the spirited young lady of memory.

He returned her grimace with more of a grin. “Regretfully, worse than cheeky.”

Though she seemed herself again, he knew from experience the shakes would start soon enough, when the excitement wore off and shock set in. He must get her home and into a hot tub. Good God. He imagined the goddess stepping into her bath—a lovely curve of spine, a plump derriere. She turns to reveal those lovely peach mounds . . .

Mentally, he slapped himself.

She looked up from buttoning her boot and grinned. That devilish pixie grin from childhood—the fairy of Lochree—smiling at him. He checked the urge to yank her into his arms and—well, enough of that sort of thing. What a cruel trick of fate this assignment was turning out to be.

Several new men approached the wreckage to lend a hand. “Right. Could one of you shave off a bit of rein and tie up the large character inside? The sorry bloke just attempted to abduct this young lady.” Rafe poked his head inside the compartment to supervise. “Hands and feet both.”

The elder man of the group nodded. “Yes, indeed, sir. This here culprit won’t get away.”

Rafe drew a tuppence from his pocket and called a young groom over. He placed the coin in the boy’s palm. “Make your way to the nearest police station. Report what has happened here. Tell them there has been a kidnapping attempt. Have them send a man round to 28 Randolph Place.” Rafe took out a card and passed it over.

The young groom squinted, mouthed a few words silently, and gasped, “Blimey, Scotland Yard.”

Fanny shivered, crossing her arms under her chest. Rafe’s gaze lingered a moment on her lovely figure covered in black silk before he unbuttoned his coat and draped it around her shoulders. He took a deep breath, turned her around, and steered her into George Square.

“Blimey, Scotland Yard.” She mimicked the voice and wide eyes of the stable boy. “I suppose all of London’s young ladies swoon over a chance meeting with a Scotland Yard detective.”

“Depends on the type of encounter.” Rafe sauntered happily alongside her. “Ladies do tend to swoon during a rescue or very soon after. I prefer the sturdier lass, like yourself, especially if the lady is on the curvy side.”

Fanny laughed. How utterly nostalgic. Her laughter often started as a soft giggle and ended in something wonderfully musical. For the moment, she had forgotten how angry she was with him. He wondered how long it would last.

Rafe opened the gate at the corner and motioned her through.

She waited for him to turn around, sporting her signature pout and accusatory squint. “I suppose this incident means you are thrust upon me for the duration?”

“I am honored to be thrust upon you for the duration.”

Lovely doe brown eyes went wide and somewhat dewy. She marched away, shoulders back and chin forward. He paused to admire the sway and bounce of her bustle. “Fanny.” He caught up to her. “Please forgive my indelicate humor.”

She squinted at him. “Are you capable of being serious for a single moment?”

He tried to look thoughtful. “Aggravated by the job, I suspect. When confronted by danger one simply”—something shifted in the corner of his eye—“makes light of the matter.”

A shadow emerged from a nearby alley. The dark figure of a man stepped into the street and took up the walkway some distance away. Rafe put a spurt on their pace. “You have my permission to impart severe discipline in the future. Whip a bit of serious into me—find that switch in the dungeon.”

“There is no dungeon at Randolph Place. I don’t know why you keep insisting—”

Rafe took ahold of her arm. “Fanny, do pay attention. A man has fallen in behind us and there is yet another across the lane.” He squeezed her elbow. “Don’t look now, darling.”

“Ouch.” She wrenched her arm away. “No endearments, Detective Lewis.” Still, she leaned in. “What shall we do?” Her sense of adventure never failed—even when she was imperiled.

“Ready your petticoats for a good dash.” He ventured so close he had to fight off a sudden urge to buss her cheek. Fanny gathered up the front of her dress as they turned the corner.

He grabbed her by the arm. “Run, Fanny.”

They sprinted down a crescent-shaped street of terrace houses, and he pulled her into a basement niche hidden by stairs. Crouched against the stone residence,
he held her tight in his arms. “Where might we find a police station?” His words buffeted softly over her ear and she turned her head. In the shadows he could just make out plump lips that bowed so beautifully when she was either deep in thought or in a pout.

“I’m not sure, exactly. High Street, perhaps. Or Waverley station.”

Of course, the train station.

“Stay down.” He rose high enough to have a look about. The men were gone, but it wouldn’t take long before they worked their way back through the neighborhood. “We’re going to get ourselves over to Nicolson Street, plenty of carriage traffic and cabs for hire.” Wide-eyed, the dear girl bobbed her head and followed him out into the lane.

He caught sight of their pursuers just as he helped Fanny into a hansom. The dark-suited men stepped up the chase, dodging a jumble of road traffic. Rafe jumped in and opened the trap door in the roof. “Double the fare if you get us to the station as fast as possible.” The driver snapped his whip and left the men running up on the cab in the dust.

Rafe lost sight of them as they passed several carriages on the road. The driver moved them along at a nice clip, but not fast enough to suit Rafe. Waverley station was blocks away. More than likely, their pursuers would see the hansom turn into the train station.

Fanny’s concerned expression echoed his own sentiments. “Get ready to exit up ahead, past the park.” She
bit her lip and nodded. When street traffic piled up close to the station, he and Fanny left the hansom behind and ran the rest of the way to the station on foot.

“Bollocks.” He banged on the door. “Whoever heard of a police station that closes down for the evening?” An echo of footsteps and shouts could be heard across a myriad of train platforms. Placing one foot behind the other, Rafe swept Fanny into the shaded alcove of the precinct’s entryway.

“What are we to do?” The plea in her voice made him wish he had a ready answer.

He removed his Webley and spun the chamber. Five bullets. He leaned forward to peer around the corner and quickly retreated. “Not sure.”

“Not sure?” She frowned. “I should think a Scotland Yard detective would know exactly what to do at a time like this.” Her whispered chide was so . . . adorable.

She peered around his shoulder at the pistol. “Why don’t you use that on those men following us?”

“Would you like that, Fan? Set them back, bullets blazing? Even if I didn’t give a wit for my own neck, I have you to think about.”

She sighed. Loudly.

“Those blokes out there would likely shoot me dead, and then where would you be? Back in the hands of your abductors.”

“I can’t see that abductors are much worse than faithless jilting abandoners.”

He blinked. A painful silence permeated the humid
air between them. Far off, bursts of steam and the creak of luggage carts echoed under the vast architectural canopy covering the platforms.

She averted his gaze and bit her lip. “That was unkind and uncalled for under the circumstances—”

“No. You’re quite right on every count—an inexcusable act of deceit and cowardice, hurtful and very wrong of me. But we are in no position to sort this all out.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fanny, I must ask you for a truce.”

Those plump lips pursed into a bow. “For how long?”

“Several days.”

She brushed the floor pavers with the toe of her shoe. Her gaze eventually returned his. “You’ve got several hours, Detective Lewis.”

He held out his hand. “Settled.”

She hesitated before shaking. “Do not take this to mean you are forgiven.”

Rafe nodded in agreement. “Out of the question.” He returned his revolver to an inside pocket. “When is the next train out of Waverley?”

“I believe the last train to Glasgow leaves at eight o’clock.”

Rafe stared at her. “This evening? Excellent. This is good news.”

She rolled her eyes. “Summer schedule.”

Rafe flipped open his pocket watch. “Bollocks, eight o’clock.” He stole another glance around edge of the storefront. The two natty blokes stood in front of platform five. He recognized at least one of the men as a
pursuer. Rather a well-dressed gang of thugs. Minions, he supposed, but whose? He scanned over to the next platform. A porter lifted a heavy-looking chest and handed it off to another man standing in the baggage car.

“Blimey, they’ve got the wrong train.” He motioned her up beside him. “Come.” Rafe pointed to the correct platform. “See the luggage cart just to the right?” She nodded. “We’re going to make a run for that train.”

“We’re leaving Edinburgh?” Without having to look, he knew two small frown lines formed between her brows.

“Only for a day or two.” He grabbed her hand and trotted silently toward the platform. They hugged darkened storefronts and a telegraph office as they made their way toward the train to Glasgow. The porter signaled the engineer and the locomotive began a slow chug out of the station. Rafe sprinted toward the moving cars. “Stay with me, Fanny.” He glanced back as he released her hand. Game little Fanny was only a step behind him, skirts flying.

Rafe reached a passenger carriage door. The evening was warm enough to have the train windows down. Sweat trickled down the side of his brow as he signaled a man having a smoke. “Scotland Yard, open the door.”

Rafe leaped onto the step and turned back. The well-dressed thugs monitoring the wrong train had spotted them and were giving chase. Rafe glanced ahead. They were about to run out of platform. The faster man closed in behind Fanny and took a swipe at her.

Rafe leaned well off the step of the compartment and stretched out a hand. “Jump, Fanny.”

Chapter Six