A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (22 page)

Minnow grunted his acknowledgment, grabbed a side rail, and lifted himself up the craft with surprising agility. Rafe shouted after the man, “Don’t make me come after you, Professor Minnow!”

Chapter Eighteen

“T
his safe house, as you call it, on Oswald Street. What is it exactly?” Fanny trotted up beside Rafe, who set a blistering pace along Clyde Street. The cobbled thoroughfare bustled with carts and pedestrians even at this wee hour of the morning.

“It’s a kind of hotel for detectives working undercover. A secure location for witnesses or undercover operatives in danger—usually on the run,” He glanced over at her.

Her brows knit together. “Like us.”

The tall masts and rigging of the merchant ships moored along the river wharf painted a macabre crisscross of webbing across the night sky. Rafe reached for her arm at the street corner. “When agents are found out, they need a place to hide until they can be brought safely into headquarters. The Yard men who work the Glasgow docks are after arms dealers and explosives traffickers, mostly. Deadly dangerous work. Two operatives were killed last year. A rat-catcher found the bodies in the hold of a ship, partially—” The last detail trailed
off as he checked the sign post. “Hold on. Here we are, Oswald Street.” They made their way down a row of shop fronts and boardinghouses.

At No. 19, they entered the foyer of the residence and used the door knocker on the apartment lettered B.

“Will I have my own room?” She moistened her lips. “Will there be food and a bath?” Fanny allowed herself to hope for a few creature comforts.

“Perhaps
hotel
was the wrong choice of words.” Rafe’s mouth twitched. “More likely pub food brought in and a quick washup—we’ll see what can be done.” They waited in silence. And waited.

Rafe lifted the knocker and rapped again.

Fanny leaned in. “Do you suppose the house is not in use at the moment? Might there be a key we could ask for—from a neighbor?” She detected a whiff of fresh paint in the air and noted the clean runners on the polished wood floor. Perfectly respectable. She tilted her head back to check the brass letter again. “You did say ‘B’?”

“B as in bollocks.” Rafe tried the knob. Locked. He rapped on the door, this time with bare knuckles.

“Rude of Scotland Yard to direct us here and have no one to—what would you call it?”

“Bring us in. And rather typical, actually, the rudeness.” Rafe stepped away from the door, only to jerk back with a start. Fanny pivoted in the direction of his gaze. A rather swarthy-looking man dressed as a gentleman leaned against the rail post at the foot of the stairs. He pointed a pistol at them.

When Fanny opened her mouth to speak, Rafe grabbed her hand and shook his head. The man pushed off the banister. “If you would walk on ahead—this way.” He gestured with the gun—Fanny to go first and Rafe to follow after. They made their way down the corridor behind the stairs to a service entrance. The strange man crossed ahead and held the door open. He motioned them both inside.

They were in a kitchen, with a large kettle of water steaming on top of the stove. Fanny brightened at the thought of a cup of tea, no matter how unsettling their taciturn host might be.

He bid them follow and wound a path through the kitchen and down a corridor, where he opened a door revealing a narrow stair closet. She raised a brow as he pointed upward. Up close, he was strikingly handsome in a dangerous, brooding sort of fashion. As she squeezed by him he regarded her with an amused half smile.

She felt his eyes on her as she climbed the angled wooden treads. Feeling her way in the dark, hardly able to see the next step, she ran headlong into—“Ouch.” She rubbed her nose.

“You will find a latch to your right. Slide it back.” The man’s accent, though well-educated and thoroughly British, held traces of another dialect—something close to home, perhaps?

She found the pull and stepped into the upstairs apartment. There were a number of angles to the ceiling and one heavily draped gabled window. Straight ahead, she could just make out a table beside an overstuffed chair.

Familiar with the placement of furnishings, their armed escort slipped into the room. The strike and hiss of a safety match revealed an oil lamp on the table. He tipped the flame to the wick and replaced the funnel. The imposing gentleman nodded to Rafe and spoke in a low voice. “Please, come in.”

After adjusting the wick the stranger took a moment to study them. Rafe appeared calm enough, as though he waited for something. She found the room a bit musty and cleared her throat.

“Detective Lewis.” The man’s dark eyes gentled when they reached her. “And you are Miss Francine Greyville-Nugent. The engraving in the paper does not do you justice.”

She swallowed. “I never much cared for that photograph.”

“I must ask both of you to remove whatever is in your coat pockets.”

Rafe pulled a revolver from each pocket and set the weapons on the side table. He also produced a number of folded papers and the red leather journal taken off the dead man on the train. There were also several satchels of coin.

Their enigmatic host gestured them over to the settee while he swept up the papers and journal and took a seat opposite.

Rafe sat down beside her and gave her a comforting wink. She leaned close. “Rather a great deal of intrigue, wouldn’t you say?”

“Standard procedure, Fan.”

The mysterious gentleman glanced up from his reading. “Sorry for the subterfuge, Miss Greyville-Nugent, but as the detective says, we must follow procedure whenever possible. You’d be surprised how often it keeps us alive.” He closed the journal, and refolded the papers.

“I am Hugh Curzon, on assignment for the Office of the Admiralty. Here in Glasgow, bored out of my brains, awaiting the arrival of a large shipment of explosives.” He nodded to Rafe. “Scotland Yard, perennially understaffed and always at a loss for agents, asked me to step in.” Setting back in the overstuffed chair, he stretched his legs out and folded his hands in his lap. “How may I be of service to you?”

“Have you a wire or some form of communication that might confirm you are who you say you are?” Rafe’s polite smile appeared rather clenched.

Curzon removed a missive from his jacket and passed it over. “From Detective Kennedy, addressed to you in care of me.”

While Rafe ciphered through the message, Curzon turned to her. “And you, miss—how might I make your stay here at 19-B Oswald a pleasant one? I take it you’ve been on the run for the better part of two days?”

“I would very much like a bath, a change of traveling clothes, and something to eat, in that order, Mr.—Agent Curzon.”

Rafe looked up. “Fanny, I would be happy to—” he began.

Curzon’s dark gaze never left her. “It would be my pleasure to see to a bath for Miss Greyville-Nugent.” He turned to Rafe. “You both look like you could use a hot soak and a good rest. As long as Miss Greyville-Nugent’s abductors and are still in pursuit, neither of you should be seen on the streets.”

Rafe nodded. “I’ve another man under my protection, a Professor Hamish Minnow, an inventor the Yard wants brought in. I expect him here shortly. If he does not turn up soon, I shall have to go after him.”

“You have an address?” Curzon asked.

Rafe shook his head. “Said something about a warehouse upriver.”

The intelligencer wrinkled a brow. “One of hundreds, I’m afraid.”

Rafe leaned forward. “He can’t very well sneak a landship the size of a locomotive and twice as loud into storage without someone noticing.”

Curzon turned to Fanny. “I’m afraid this refuge is very much each bachelor for himself. I had just put a kettle on when you arrived. Perhaps you’d enjoy a cup of tea while Detective Lewis and I scare up a tub?”

They all descended into the kitchen, where the intelligence agent filled a teapot and brought out a tin of biscuits.

Fanny set about heating more water, and Rafe located a nice-sized copper tub in a pantry closet. “I believe I shall bathe here.” She hesitated. “With the door and all . . .”

Curzon bowed. “You will at least have privacy, miss.” A bell rang among a line of servant’s bells. “Ah, we have
another visitor.” He cracked open the service door, and motioned to Rafe. “Shall we have a look?”

Pleasantly perched on a stool by the large worktable, Fanny sipped an entire cup of tea and devoured two biscuits before Agent Curzon returned. She forced a swallow midchew. “Where is Detective Lewis?”

“It seems your inventor chap is in some difficulty.” Fanny stood up to leave. Curzon held up his hand. “His trouble is with the local authorities. Detective Lewis left a moment ago with an officer from the constabulary.”

“Whatever does Professor Minnow need Rafe for?”

Curzon added a drop of cream to his tea. “Bail.”

Disquietude did not quite describe her unease. Very much alone with the spy or agent, or whatever he was, Fanny suddenly found it impossible to meet his gaze—for long. There was something attractive as well as dangerous about this strange virile man. Fanny bit her lip and busied herself checking pots of water on the stove. Steaming hot. She wiped her hands on an apron hanging near the dishpan. She could feel Curzon pass behind her. He wrapped a towel around his hand and picked up the first pot of water. He made several trips from the pantry to the stove until all the warm water was in the tub.

He unwrapped his hand and nodded a bow. “Your bath awaits, miss.”

Fanny dipped a finger in the bath water and motioned to Curzon, who adjusted the temperature with a pan of cool water. Fanny tested the water again. “Yes, that’s lovely. Thank you.”

He turned to leave the small room and closed the door after him. “Agent Curzon.” The door slowly swung back open. “I’m afraid this is rather awkward.”

The man’s smile twitched a bit.

“Could you—?” Fanny lifted her arm and pointed behind her. She even twisted around a bit to show him the length of buttons running down her back.

With his hand still on the knob, Curzon leaned against the doorjamb. “You want me to undress you?”

Cheeks aflame, Fanny turned her back. “Just the buttons, please. I can manage the rest myself.” How utterly humiliating and difficult. Rafe had left her here, alone in the house, knowing there was a bath on the way and this . . . man for company.

Occasionally, his fingers or knuckles would brush against the flesh on her back. Warm hands. She laughed softly, nervously. “So sorry to put you through this.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Greyville-Nugent.” His voice was soft, playful. “You may apologize for so many, many buttons, however.”

“Yes, Rafe complains of the same—” Fanny bit her lip and cursed to herself. “I suppose you think I let gentlemen disrobe me as a matter of course.”

“No, Miss Greyville-Nugent, but I do detect an undercurrent of familiarity between you and Detective Lewis. Am I not correct?” He turned her around and held her with both hands. Her dress slipped off an arm. His gaze fell to her bare shoulder.

“Good God, it’s no wonder he loves you.”

“Do you think so, Agent Curzon? You are dealing with a man who betrayed my trust—who called off our betrothal the night of our engagement ball. And yet, I still care a great deal for him.” Fanny bit her lower lip. “Many people would advise me differently. They would argue that if a man truly loved a woman, he could never do such a thing.”

Curzon studied her. “That’s not entirely true, miss. I have loved many women in my life and never married one of them.”

They stood in close proximity—too close. Fanny dipped her fingers in the water. “I suppose I must press on or my bath will grow cold.”

Dutifully, Curzon backed away.

“Might you leave the door open a crack and sit inside the kitchen—a ways off?” She blushed again, just asking the question. “This is a strange house.” And the look in his eyes—they were too piercing, too dark and full of . . . well, she didn’t wish to think on it.

He left a sliver of space between door and jamb. “If I am to sip tea and listen to you splash about in your bath—I will require a distraction. A story, I think.” A kitchen stool dragged across polished floorboards. “It seems you and Raphael Lewis have a history together. Shall we call it ‘The Princess of Industry and the Scotland Yard Detective?’”

“I’m afraid it’s a very long tale, and nothing very dramatic happens until the last few chapters.” She stepped out of her dress.

“‘Begin at the beginning,’
Miss Greyville-Nugent,
‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’”
His husky voice carried through the crack in the door.

A furtive, puzzling sort of man who quoted Lewis Carroll. She unpinned her hair. “Then I suppose you really ought to call me Fanny.”

Chapter Nineteen