A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce (8 page)

Fiona stared, slightly open-mouthed. “You remember all of it?”

He nodded. “Whenever I think of it, I wonder—does that lovely girl remember the kiss as well?”

She continued to stare at him.

“Of course, it was a rather brazen kiss, and I can imagine she might be feeling . . .”

“Mortified. Put to shame. Truly humiliated.” She moistened her lips, hardly able to look at him.

Archie kept his smile gentle. “Not too mortified, I hope.”

She sighed sweetly. “No, I suppose not.”

He wanted her so badly at this moment, he had half a mind to take her right there, in her virginal white bed. “Shall we try for a third, then?” He began his lovemaking at the curve of her throat. “I smell scented soap—one of yours, I believe.”

“Orange Blossom.” Her whisper sent him to new heights of arousal.

He breathed in the intoxicating smell of her soap, mixed with hints of . . . his favorite scent in all the world. He was reminded of a spring term he had studied abroad, in Andalusia, Spain. Many a late afternoon he would walk through the orange groves, brushing past trees laden with the heavenly scent of the pale white blossoms.

His caress lingered at the tender spot below her earlobe. “Mingled with the salty taste of . . . Fiona’s skin kissed by sunshine.”

“I worked in the garden today,” she moaned softly. “I always forget to wear a hat.”

His mouth twitched some, and continued on across her cheek. She closed her eyes and he felt a shiver run through her. At last he arrived at the soft-pillowed lips of the young lady. He covered her mouth for some sweet ravishment with his tongue. Fiona gently encouraged him to explore deeper, teasing, then releasing. Her lips brushed down his neck, as his hands moved over firm breasts. He used his thumbs to tease sensitive tips.

She moaned again.

“I believe that was your second cry of love today—or third if you include the sweet little mewling in the hansom.”

Nuzzling his shoulder, Fiona hid her head against him and acted rather shy for a brief moment. Suddenly she lifted her head as if she wanted to speak, but could not find the words.

“What is it, Fiona? You need never be afraid to tell me anything.”

“It happens only when we are together—when you kiss and caress me.” Her cheeks flushed as she looked him in the eye, earnestly. “I am wet.”

“And where, exactly, are you wet?” Archie pressed his lips tightly together, for he was near beside himself with shock as well as amusement at her candor.

Without a trace of guile, she narrowed her eyes. “You know where.”

Try as he might, he could not stop himself from laughing. “Yes, I believe I do know where.”

She drew her lips into a pout and he was near to spellbound. “Come, lie down with me,” he said. Archie shifted a few pillows and settled beside her. Side by side, they stared, momentarily, at the sweep of stars that made up the periodic table. He suddenly had a startling thought. “Fiona, how many years ago, exactly, did you turn twelve?”

“Seven—well, a bit more than seven.” Fiona turned onto her side. “Why?”

“Good God, that means you were how old at University of Edinburgh?

Fiona blinked at him. “I turned sixteen when I was there.” Her muffled laughter was soft, musical. “Nothing to worry about. I’m nineteen now—perfectly respectable.” She nodded to the chart overhead. “Potassium.”

“Not too respectable, thank God.” Archie scanned the periodic table, then returned to her. “I had no idea you were quite so young, Fiona.”

She frowned. “And you are far from mature in years. Might I ask your age?”

He answered her frown with a mock sort of seriousness. “Vanadium.”

She grinned. “Three and twenty.”

She propped herself up on an elbow. “And you never answered my question about this . . . dampness. Not comical or amusing, Archie, please explain to me why I should not be alarmed by this.”

He had to collect himself a bit before he could speak and not spoil the moment by erupting into anything smirky that might hurt her feelings. He held her close and kissed her temple. Smoothing a wisp of her hair back, he spoke quietly. “When a woman’s body gets ready to receive a man, it makes this slippery, lovely wetness when aroused. This wetness causes the act of intercourse to be very pleasurable for both the man and the woman.”

Fiona’s brows knit together. “Mother never said a word about wetness.”

“Do mothers generally speak so frankly with their daughters? My father never mentioned as much to me.” Archie swept an arm over the curve of her bustle and pulled her close.

Fiona frowned. “Was that terribly uncouth of me?”

“I found it powerfully arousing.” Her expression eased and he could not help but entertain the idea of a bit of slippery at the apex of her lovely limbs. The very thought caused him to make a slight adjustment to his trousers.

“Just so you know, I never forgot our kiss in the gallery.” Her smile was sheepish, and so very Fiona.

“That makes two of us.” He gently stroked her back. She was a scientist at heart, curious and experimental. Granted, she was a bit of a freethinker, and independent, and there was something almost wild in her nature. And that wildness called to him now, just as it had three years ago in the gallery.

Her mouth landed on his in a soft, sweet buss to the lips. “Open,” she whispered, delivering luscious kisses in such a pleasing manner that it encouraged him to kiss her with equal tenderness. Archie spoke to her in a husky voice. “Someday soon, I’m going to do many wonderful things to your body, Fiona.” Moving further down, he continued his affections to her neck, stopping to run his tongue over the delicate bones at the base of her throat.

A rusty, squeaky whine came from outside Fiona’s window. She rolled away and sat up straight. “That’s the mews gate. Mother and Father are home.”

At bit dazed, he followed her downstairs and back inside her parents’ study. Fiona flopped into a chair and Archie took up exactly where they’d left off. “The names of elements sixty-six and eighteen, Miss Rose?”

Chapter Eight

A
rchie vaulted over a luggage cart and ran through the train station to catch the seven thirty-five train to Bush Hill Park. At the end of the platform, Agent Gunn opened a compartment door and waved. Archie jumped aboard, stepping around two rifle cases on the floor. Stashing his attaché case under the seat, he spied the companion gunpowder canister poking out of a satchel.

“I heard you had a bit of excitement at Whitehall yesterday.” Finn stretched out crossing booted legs at the ankle. There really was something genuinely imposing about the man.

Archie settled in opposite Finn. “Shrapnel shell. Just like the one in your satchel, there.”

Finn stared. “Are you telling me this is a live shell?”

Archie nodded. “And volatile—do handle with care. The one in my lab quite literally flew past Alfred’s nose. The concussion sent us both flying.”

The agent tilted his head. “Quite a nasty scratch there along your chin. Tell me everything—from the time Alfred takes his morning relief at the lamppost, until you pick yourself up off the pavers.”

Archie stared wide-eyed. “How do you know—?”

“The hound’s pissing habits? Whether you know it or not, we all keep an eye on you and Alfred. You’re both very important to Special Branch.”

“You could very likely do without me. Not sure if you could get along without Alfred.” Archie grinned. “I hadn’t thought we’d made much of an impression with the undercover men.”

Finn’s gaze was deadly serious. “Trust me. We can’t afford to lose either of you.”

Archie outlined the events of yesterday morning and filled in details as Finn asked questions. “What kinds of profiles, scenarios are you looking at—inside or out?” the agent queried.

Archie exhaled a breath. “Both, at the moment.”

Finn resettled himself into a corner of the compartment. “Inside first. Any suspicions? Anyone acting a bit off their regular game—something you’ve noticed, but never acted on?”

Archie stared at the satchel with the shell in it. “There may be a couple of suspects. No one I wish to name right now.”

“Names are safe with me, and you need to tell someone, Archie, in case one of them gets to you or the hound.” The slightly amused operative scratched his chin. “It will help us in your homicide investigation.”

Archie nodded, even grinned. “You make your point, Finn.”

The agent shifted uncomfortably. “All right, since you refuse to cooperate, shall we discuss the possibility of an outside perpetrator? You have to be looking at Grey de Ruthyn.”

“At the top of the list.” Archie mentioned other suspects, but they both kept coming back to the sly arms trafficker. “You almost captured him at the opium den, Finn.”

“Almost is not going to get him arrested. The man’s a peer, Simon Grey,
Baron
Grey de Ruthyn. We’ve got to catch him in a
flagrans delictum
—red-handed—to bring up charges.”

Archie raised a brow. “And how goes the case?”

“You’ve seen the man in action—a sly fox that one. He lives quietly, travels incognito, even his women are carefully selected. And he has never allowed his picture to be taken—that we know of. Even when he is out and about he wears that brimmed coachman’s hat—think about it. You got a fairly good look at him, but what did you see, exactly?

“That leap out the window and onto the roof makes him a spry, athletic man, dark hair . . . possibly. Not sure about the eyes . . .” Archie shook his head. “I see what you mean. . . .”

Finn shrugged. “For obvious reasons, I’m behind the scenes now. Melville’s got Flynn Rhys posted across from a known trafficker’s stash in Shadwell Basin, Wapping.”

He leaned forward. “How is Mr. Rhys’s leg these days?”

“The cast stays on another six weeks. Flynn’s fit to be tied—but then when isn’t he?” The agent gazed briefly out the train window. “He’s cooped up in a flat overlooking a warehouse—nothing to do day and night but observe the comings and goings.”

“And how is he holding up?”

Finn snorted a laugh.

“Poor miserable chap—I shall arrange to pay him a visit,” Archie said. Over a month ago, Flynn Rhys’s body had been pulled out from under a pile of rubble beneath the St. Katharine docks. He’d been working a kidnapping case with another agent, Rafe Lewis. The explosion could have killed him and Detective Lewis both. The man was lucky to escape with a broken leg.

Archie settled back into the upholstered tufts of his seat. The trip to Enfield would take less than twenty minutes. Already the terrain was greening some, market produce growers mostly and a few villages here and there. It didn’t take long for his thoughts to return to Fiona and the intimacies they had shared last night. She was younger than he had thought—but it also made sense. He smiled to himself. In some ways she was refreshingly lighthearted, the fey Miss Fee—almost mischievous at times. And she could also slant those luminous gray-green eyes and smile in a way that instantly caused a great deal of hardness.

In Edinburgh, after the night of the ball, Fiona had vanished, never to be found. He had made numerous inquiries but gotten nowhere. Eventually, he had tucked his encounter with the capricious creature into a corner of memory, and over the years, she had become more dream than real to him. Until two days ago. And what a marvel these past two days had been! At times, he felt a bit lightheaded—other times, blindsided. She was in his thoughts regularly now, as if they’d never been apart. He might have lost Fiona Rose once, but that would never happen again.

Finn tipped his hat over his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”

The factory sent an escort to meet them at the Underground station. The middle-aged man with a ruff of red whisker introduced himself. “Winslow Purdy at your service.” Archie and Finn loaded rifles and gunpowder into the back of a dogcart.

“Watch the potholes. We’ve got a live shrapnel bomb tucked under the seats,” Finn warned the driver, as he climbed up into the cart and took a seat across from Mr. Purdy.

Archie sat up with the driver but angled himself to speak to their guide. “Might Sir Frederick Abel be here in Enfield, by any chance?”

“Why, he arrived at the mill just yesterday,” their guide exclaimed. “I’m told he’ll be at Waltham Abbey, the Royal Gunpowder Mill, for the rest of the week.”

“Sir Frederick is ordnance chemist to the War Office. I understand he is making headway in the area of smokeless gunpowder.” Archie turned to the special agent and toggled both brows. “Interested?”

Finn stared. “Very.”

Archie returned to their escort. “Mr. Purdy, might I suggest we forgo the tour of the Royal Arms Factory and head straight for Waltham Abbey?”

FIONA SMILED AT the mild-mannered, somewhat effusive gentleman. “Do you personally test all the products you offer for sale, Mr. Cole?”

The toiletries purchaser for Harvey Nichols bobbed his head with enthusiasm. “Whenever possible, Miss Rose.” He sat down beside her and carefully unwrapped the delicate pleated tissue of her latest sample. He brought the soap to within an inch of his nose and inhaled with a sigh. “Oh, my word.”

“Orange Blossom,” Fiona offered, “with hints of ginger and green papaya. Ginger increases the skin’s radiance and decreases inflammation, while the astringent properties in green papaya are a natural exfoliant for the skin.”

He closed his eyes and passed the soap under his nose, again. “You must allow me a prediction. Fiona Rose of Rose and Company shall one day be known as Britain’s most beloved soap maker. Flawlessly hard-milled, exquisitely scented, and forgive me if I am too bold, but your soaps are wonderfully sensual. Roger and Gallet have nothing on you, Miss Rose.”

“I wanted you to be the very first to try Orange Blossom.” Fiona pulled on gloves and stood up. “Sorry to run, but I have class today and still have chores to finish up at home.”

“I’ll send an order over in the morning. Let’s start with four dozen. I know, I know—twice as many as I usually start with, but I have a feeling about Orange Blossom. This one could become as popular as Spicy Carnation.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Cole.” Fiona flew down the stairs, completely elated. Perhaps she might actually be able to make a go of soaps, lotions, and other toiletries. At the mezzanine level, she dipped into a small but very exclusive department featuring silk unmentionables from Paris.

Several days ago, she had spied a darling corset with matching stockings and garters in the palest shade of lavender. Now she prayed it was still there. She turned the corner and there it was, still on the display. Embroidered violets dotted the bodice at regular intervals and the most delicate matching ribbon had been stitched in and out of eyelet lace along both edges. Beneath the corset, a camisole and pantalettes were so sheer, they were positively scandalous. As Fiona approached the display case, she became aware of movement behind her—just a hint of shadow at the edge of her vision. Good Lord, she hoped it wasn’t Walter. The fastidious man did frequent the shops on Sloane Street, but the very idea of him lurking in the intimate apparel department of Harvey Nichols was disturbing.

Fiona spun around. Nothing.

She backtracked and peered down half a flight of stairs. Why did she feel as though something or someone was just beyond the bend in the stairs? Tentatively, she descended the first step. “May I help you, miss?”

The voice from behind caused her to jump and nearly fall. Fiona caught hold of the banister and turned. A fresh-faced shopgirl stood behind her, smiling. “Is there something I can help you with, miss?”

Fiona pointed to the lavender corset. “I’ll take that—stockings, garters, pantalettes—the entire assemblage.”

As she walked home, the fresh air invigorated, but the strange feeling of being watched was back. Fiona dashed across Brompton Road and into the square.

“Pssst, Miss Rose.”

Fiona stopped and squinted at the tree slightly off the path. She could just make out the brim of a bowler hat. Fiona stepped into the foliage and peeped around the old plane tree. “Walter? Whatever are you doing lurking about the garden?”

Walter jerked upright. “I’m not lurking, Fiona—I’m surveilling. According to Miss Green, there have been strangers spotted about Brompton Square. In fact, you have been sighted with one of these outsiders—twice.”

Fiona frowned. “My word, aren’t you and Ida the prying peepers.”

Walter leaned on his umbrella handle. “Might I inquire as to who is occupying so much of your time, Fiona?”

She might have flushed some—her cheeks felt a bit hot. “Not that it is any of your business, but the gentleman happens to be my tutor.” She backed out of the shrubbery. “Please inform Ida that if I catch her spying and tattling on me again, I will discontinue my Rose Freckle Lotion.” Fiona sighed. “Sorry to be mean about it, but she’s got some cheek, spying on me like that—you and she both. Rather a low point for you, Walter.”

Starting down the path, Fiona stopped and turned. “Just last week, the gardeners cleared a patch of stinging nettle out of that thicket. Do be careful.” The sound of Walter beating back bushes with his umbrella caused her to bite her lip and smother a chortle.

Fiona hurried inside Rose & Company, which was bursting with customers. She quickly tied on an apron and retrieved Mrs. Hartley’s prescription and Miss Lucy Campbell’s throat lozenges. She liked working in the shop when it was busy; it kept her mind off the coming afternoon and evening. After class, she had agreed to accompany Archie to a lecture at the Royal Society and he had mentioned dinner afterward. “Shall I put that on account, Mrs. Hartley?” Fiona thought about her own package stuffed under the counter and smiled.

ARCHIE AND FINN backed a fair distance away while several technicians defused the cylinder. “Shrapnel shells are essentially antipersonnel artillery munitions,” Sir Frederick Abel explained. “The shell is fired, which sets off a timer, which triggers the first charge, which then travels the length of the shell to a much larger charge at the rear, which explodes and disperses the shrapnel.”

Finn’s eye roll amused Archie. The agent knew more about weaponry, firearms anyway, than any man on the force. As soon as the shell cap was detached, they moved in for a better look. “See here, this is an igniferous fuse, note the U-shaped powder channel. When the detonator in the tip ignites the powder, the length of time it takes to burn represents the length of the time delay.”

Archie nodded. “In the case of the exploded shell in my lab—could the shock of, say, the shell falling onto the floor set it off?”

Sir Frederick, a large man of husky build, smoothed his mustache absently. “Depending on the height of the drop, if the shell tip hit the ground at a ninety-degree angle, or close to it”—the man shrugged—“I’d have to say very likely.”

While Sir Frederick ran tests on the gunpowder inside the shell, Archie accompanied Finn out to Waltham Abbey’s ordnance testing field to fire the confiscated weapons and ammunition. Finn systematically sighted targets further away. “Blimey, these weapons have an impressive range.”

“How’s that?” Archie asked, curious.

“The higher the muzzle velocity, the flatter the trajectory and the less drift. A significant improvement in accuracy, especially at a distance. All of Europe will soon be using a form of this smokeless gunpowder, and their arms factories will be manufacturing weapons that hold up to the wear and tear of firing bullets at the higher velocity. Whatever this is, it’s not guncotton. It’s something much more refined.”