A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (32 page)

She took her seat quietly even as her pulse raced. So what was keeping him? Fanny tasted bile and wet her lips. She took heart in the fact that he was with them in spirit—biding his time, perhaps. Outnumbered and out-gunned, he waited for the right opportunity for a rescue. She looked at brave little Harry and winked.

Wretched men. No matter what happened, she and Rafe would see every last one of them swing from the gallows at Newgate. Fanny turned to the bearded menace beside her. “If you do not let me care for this child, I will scream and struggle and bite without end.” She stuck out her chin. “Let the boy sit with me and I promise to be quiet and cooperative all the way to London.” She even forced a pleasant look. “Your choice.”

The grim bloke studied her. The frown appeared to be permanent. “What makes you think we’re on our way to London?”

Fanny shrugged. “Aren’t we?”

He nodded to the man across the aisle. Fanny reached out for Harry, who jumped into her arms. She sat him on her lap and smoothed back his hair. “Much better, yes?”

The child snuggled against her but continued to stare wide-eyed. “Don’t let the awful man frighten you.” Fanny glared at the ogler. “He is going to hang by his neck until his tongue protrudes, his eyes pop, and he defecates on himself.”

The man’s gaze finally shifted off her.

She could have sworn Professor Minnow winked.

RAFE HUNG BACK far enough to keep an eye on the carriage. It had taken every ounce of willpower to keep from riding up on Fanny and one of Mallory’s henchmen. She appeared to be taking some sort of necessity break, bless her. Just like her to try to slow the blokes down, make it as difficult as possible for them. A ragged smile tugged at one side of his mouth. Headstrong, defiant, unruly—all traits Fanny had in abundance.

These last days with her had been some of the most harrowing, frustrating, and punishing days in his life. They had also been a wonder. Such wicked punishment doth God mete out when he knows he’s got you good. He could never live without her now. And tucking Harry away like he had, hiding from his family’s scorn. The rationale for his retreat from life had worked up until a few days ago. Now it seemed absurd—perhaps even cruel and cowardly.

Rafe straightened his shoulders. When this was all over and he had Fanny and Harry safely tucked in his arms, he would never let them go. He pictured both of them together in the carriage. More than likely the professor was with them. He took some comfort in knowing the three captives at least had each other. But he did not dare to dwell long on the subject. His heart jumped inside his chest. Those men held on to Harry for only one possible reason.

To keep Detective Lewis at bay.

They were nearly upon Windsor, little more than an hour to London now. He would wait to make his move until they reached town and a bloody snarl of traffic. He toyed with the idea of following them as far as their lair—directly into the hands of Bellecorte Mallory himself.

Chapter Twenty-eight

R
afe closed the distance as the carriage veered off Bishopsgate and merged into the traffic on Ratcliffe Highway. Their entry into London was perfect; the avenue teemed with traffic. As they traveled deeper into the East End, Rafe’s view was obscured by a tall paneled wagon. Without much difficulty, he maneuvered around the hulking vehicle, and caught sight of the carriage as it turned onto Commercial Road. They would soon be dead center in the middle of the Docklands.

Rounding the corner, he lost them momentarily. The carriage must have sped ahead and made a turn. Rafe pressed his borrowed mount for a bit more. The horse, a hearty chap, was tired but willing. Generally, the thicker the traffic, the more erratic—which definitely seemed to be the case this afternoon. Several carts jostled onto the road in front of him. Undaunted, Rafe wove a circuitous route through the snarl of drays and hansoms. He could just make out the battered road sign ahead, and turned onto the row of warehouses.

No carriage to be seen. He didn’t worry greatly, not at first. Cautiously, he guided his mount up and down the dead-end row. He squinted down back alleys and questioned warehouse workers. This was impossible.

“They’ve disappeared,” he muttered to himself. Even though his pulse raced, he kept his head.

The carriage had been out of his sight for fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds. Rafe recalculated those seconds over and over. How much time would it take for a carriage drawn by two horses to vanish? The doors of these great warehouses were tall and wide enough. Christ, one could easily drive a vehicle inside and lock up quickly. How much time? He sighed. Apparently, just enough.

An imposing tobacco warehouse took up one side of the street—a good five hundred feet long divided by strong partitions, each with double iron doors. A smaller storehouse, however, seemed the likelier candidate. Rafe checked every door. Locked and likely bolted from inside. The whole of the district was under the care and control of the officers of the customs. Rafe looked around. Nary a customs man be to found this afternoon.

Rafe considered his options. He was three miles from Whitehall and could use reinforcements. If he stayed, he might try shimmying up a drainpipe. He could climb into the storehouse through a skylight, or crack open a back door. But that sort of illegal entry was best left until dark.

Flynn and Zeno Kennedy had been working the case from London. Zeno had not shared much in his coded wires, but it was likely they had information and
resources that could help him get to Fanny and Harry faster than lurking around Henry Street on his own. And there was the Yard dog. Rafe could not shake the idea that Alfred’s olfactory talent might be useful here. Most of these great warehouses had extensive underground vaults storing thousands of pipes of wine and spirit. Who knew what the talented bloodhound might sniff out?

“WHERE ARE YOU taking us?” Fanny lifted Harry and stepped around the fetid waters of—whatever it was they traveled through. Neither bloke answered. Some time ago, they had passed through acres of wine cellar. But the acrid stink of old port and sherry had been replaced by something far worse. A sewer, or at least it smelled like one. And it looked like what she would imagine a sewer to look like: crude and cavelike.

Fanny hitched the boy up on her hip and he pinched his nose to block out the stench. She dipped her head. “Could you hold my nose as well?”

Harry reached out and placed a thumb and finger to each side of her nose. “Ah, what a relief—so much better,” she said. He snickered softly at the nasal sound of her voice.

Minutes passed like hours as the group trudged through pools of fungus and nameless sludge. They halted at last before an iron door. The grim bloke rapped on the metal plate with the butt of his gun. The small hairs on Fanny’s arms and neck rose as they entered yet another dark, unwholesome cavity. A single sputtering lantern hung from
a chain in the center of the room and shadows loomed in every corner.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them with a clunk.

Fanny hugged Harry close and waited for her eyes to adjust. She made out a group of men: their two abductors and two more—one very short, the other somewhat portly—all of them standing near a wall of sturdy tea chests. Her nose twitched at the strange scent of moldy tea leaves—oolong, she thought.

The very short man leaned forward for a better look. In the gloom, his only discernible features were a horrid sprig of red hair and ruddy cheeks. Fanny squinted before leaping back in shock. “Mrs. Tuttle!” she exclaimed. The man let loose a sinister chuckle.

“How is this possible?” Her speech rasped from a scratchy throat, no doubt caused by the wretched foul air.

“Come closer, Miss Greyville-Nugent.”

Her heart jumped erratically as she inched forward again. She pictured the odd, disagreeable creature in a frowzy gray apron and dress from the farmhouse. She stared at the small man—a dwarf, she supposed. He leaned across a stack of tea chests and smiled. Nothing very amusing about that sardonic grin. “Spent many years performing in the most degrading sort of theatricals. I find it simple enough to change my gender in the course of an operation—for the cause.”

“How wonderful to be so . . . talented.” Fanny hesitated. “Might you explain something about this
cause
of yours, Mister—?”

Less amused, the dwarf shook his head. “The cause is our business and none of yours, miss.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Since my own father was a victim of your cruel purge, I believe I have every right to ask the question.”

The portly bloke standing nearby cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could answer a few questions first.” He moved in beside the dwarf, who opened a red leather pocket journal complete with insignia and took out a fountain pen.

The corpulent man’s coat was ill fitting and his waistcoat buttons were ready to pop. Rather disheveled for one of the dapper minions. “The location of your warehouses here in London, for a start,” he said. The man’s fleshy lower lip protruded—a meaty sort of ledge where drool collected in corners like viscous cobwebs. He was abhorrent, all right, but far from forbidding.

Fanny studied them both before speaking. “I suppose you would have to believe your
cause
was righteous, to go about your killings in such a crude, sensational manner.” She fought off shudders and backed away. She wasn’t entirely foolhardy. She knew enough to be wary of them. “Perhaps you might be more specific about what you are looking for? Greyville-Nugent Enterprises has several manufacturing facilities about the greater London area.”

Fanny raised her chin and stared back at the not-so-very natty blokes. Whatever these two wanted, they wouldn’t be getting much from her, not if she could help it.

A wooden stool whined and creaked as the largish
gent settled himself on the smallish seat. “Your company’s entry in the London Industrial Exposition, miss. Just tell us where it is and we will leave you and the boy”—his beady eyes shifted to Harry—“unmolested.”

Her pulse raced but she answered mildly. “Be delighted to, gentlemen.” Fanny hiked the child up her hip and hugged him tighter. “I shall tell Mr. Mallory whatever he wishes to know—in trade.” She paused to take in the gobbler’s belly and the ink-stained sausage fingers of the dwarf’s pen hand.

“Do you act as secretary for the cause? If so, please note my willingness to negotiate.” She tried for a demure smile. “Surely one of you is brave enough to deliver my offer to your master?”

“Negotiate?” A weary sigh, like a rush of wind, escaped the shadows of the cavern. “I’m afraid I do not listen to offers, miss.” The voice was deep, even gravelly, and yet as low as a whisper.

All eyes shifted to a break in the rock wall. Someone moved—or rather descended down a crude set of steps. Fanny strained to see this new apparition. A man of normal size and build, perhaps taller than average. She wondered how long he had been standing there on the stairs spying on her.

The dark figure prowled closer. Flickering lamplight caught the prominent angles of cheekbone and jawline. The light above sputtered to brighter life and haloed the top of his head. Fanny blinked from the startling sight—he was completely bald, and there was a ghastly zigzag scar that ran down the side of his skull.

Her knees knocked as she edged backward.

Dark eyes smoldered like glowing coals. He gazed at her with suspicion and no small amount of curiosity. “Tell me, Miss Greyville-Nugent, what terms did your father make with the steelworkers in Motherwell?”

Unlike her previous inquisitors, this was a man to be reckoned with. In the weak lamplight he appeared almost handsome in a macabre sort of way. And he moved like a panther after prey—fierce and muscular. The word
devil
popped to mind, an accurate description of those savage eyes that never left her.

Fanny met his fire and ice gaze. “Who am I addressing, sir?”

“Oh, I think you know very well, miss.” The firm-set mouth twitched slightly. “I am Mallory.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

R
afe stumbled inside the office, ushered to a chair by Melville himself, director of Special Branch. The headman nodded to Mr. Quincy, his secretary. “Would you collect Mr. Kennedy? I believe he’s in the lab with Mr. Bruce.”