A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis by Jillian Stone Page A

simple wooden chair stood. “Not exactly Claridge’s.”
    She plunked herself onto the mattress. “This is heaven.” Fanny looked up at him and smiled.
    She forgot his past sins. For the moment. And he forgot about bedding her. For tonight. He tempered a devilish smile into something more benign. “You take the bed. I’ll curl up on the floor.”
    Supper turned out to be mutton roast on a hard bunand a bowl of strong hot broth. Rafe demonstrated a bit of pub sandwich savvy and dunked the crusty bread into the bouillon. “Mm-mm,” she murmured, dipping her own sandwich into the bowl and swishing it around.
    “Done like a seasoned pub crawler.”
    She held out her empty glass.
    “One last sip, Fan. Your eyelids are ready to close.”
    Her hair was a riot of loose pins and massive curls come undone. And her flushed cheeks and somnolent expression? Entirely beddable. Like a child fighting sleep, she jerked upright. “You killed a man today.”
    “I did.” He uncorked the bottle and poured them each another taste.
    She chewed on a last bite of bread. “Does it bother you?”
    “I learned a hard lesson my first year with the Yard. Took a bullet in the chest. An inch or two over would have killed me.” He held up his glass and she clinked a toast. “Here’s to cheating, stealing, fighting, and drinking.
    “If ye cheat, cheat death.” His brogue came out in full force.
    “If ye steal, steal a woman’s heart,” she answered in kind.
    He grinned. “If ye fight, fight for a brother.”
    “If ye drink, drink with me.” She tossed back her head along with the whiskey. A beauty who could swill down a dram. Rafe took her glass and set both empties on the wooden tray at the foot of the bed.
    “I no longer wait around to be shot at.” He stretchedout his legs and adjusted his shoulders against the hard ladder back of the wooden chair.
    She sat on the edge of the bed and shivered. He leaned forward and lifted her foot to his knee. “You need sturdy boots and—” He unbuttoned a black peau de soie shoe and motioned for the other. “Try not to take offense, but I recommend a change of gown. The natty blokes behind us, along with the local police, will be asking after a young lady in mourning costume.”
    She thought a moment before nodding. “Good.” She perked up and moistened her bottom lip with her upper. “I greatly dislike mourning attire. And I don’t believe Papa would mind, under the circumstances.”
    “Actually, you look rather sophisticated togged up in black silk.” He rubbed her toes. “Your feet are cold.” She pulled her legs away.
    “Can you undo your bustle without assistance?”
    Though her eyes widened, she boldly lifted her skirt. She untied a string around her waist, stood up, and wiggled. A leather and metal frame the size and shape of a rugby ball slipped to the floor. As she stepped to the side, he picked up the apparatus and hung it from a single hook on the back of the door. By the time he turned around, Fanny had slipped under the bedclothes.
    He sat down on the edge of the mattress. “You’ve had a long day.”
    “A long two days.” Fluffing the pillow, she turned from him and sighed. “Buried Papa at four o’clock yesterday afternoon, and who of all people makes his unwelcome appearance but Raphael Lewis.”
    He pulled up the covers. “Bothersome chap, but he means well.”
    Without looking back she reached out. Icy fingers gripped his hand. A bit of shock had set in. He lay down above the covers and wrapped Fanny in his arms, spooning against her.
    She stiffened in his embrace. “You’ve suffered a shock,” Rafe murmured. “As soon as I warm you up, you’ll be off to sleep.”
    After a long silence, she uttered a soft, indignant harrumph.
    “May I take your hair down?”
    “You may not.” She swatted his hand away.
    “Might I ease your stays a bit?”
    “Will you stop?” Fanny sighed. “I don’t believe in corsets—can’t catch a breath. Dreadful