A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce (7 page)

Fiona felt a twitch at the ends of her mouth. “As I said, your staff does seem unusually . . . admiring.”

Archie met her gaze directly, then exhaled an exasperated, decidedly masculine sigh. The kind she occasionally heard from her father when Mother was being particularly trying. “I would just like you to know—even though this will seem awkward and . . . premature—whatever transpired between Miss Mowbray and myself is long in the past.”

Fiona’s heart was pounding so loudly, she could barely hear his words. She was quite sure Archie was implying an interest in her, beyond that of teacher and pupil. A gray dusk had settled over the city and the lamplighters were out and about. Her gaze swept from the street scene to Archie. “It may well be in
your
past, but I’m not so sure about Miss Mowbray’s.”

“I will insist she curb her remarks, but I’m afraid I must ask you to pay little mind to what she says in the days ahead.” He rubbed his hand over the stubble of chin beard. “Ouch.” He shook his hand, and turned it palm side up. Fiona peered over his shoulder.

“Quite a nasty burn,” she said. “I have something wonderful—near miraculous—for that when we get home.”

Archie grinned. “A secret Rose and Company salve?” Fiona leaned close, to get a better look at the injury. Gently, she traced a finger over the circular outline of red in his palm. “From the scorching hot doorknob?”

He nodded. “Must be, though I don’t remember it hurting much at the time.”

“And when might you have thought about the pain? When you were sent flying down the stairs?” She looked up into his lovely dark eyes. “You could have been badly injured, or worse, and I would have . . .” Fiona caught herself before she said something . . . premature.

Liquid brown eyes glowed in the evening lamplight. “And you would have . . . ?” His gaze dropped to her mouth.

“I . . . would have . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper. A piece of netting had fallen in her face, which he returned to her hat brim. His body was hard and warm against hers, and so close she could easily detect the subtle mystery of his man scent. They were so very close now, a sudden lurch of the carriage might be all it would take. . . .

“Kiss me again, Fiona.”

She taunted him with a narrowed gaze. “If I kiss you now, we won’t be able to keep our minds on schoolwork.”

“If you don’t kiss me now,” his breath buffeted softly against her lips, “concentration will be impossible.” Then, as if the streets of London had conspired with Cupid himself, the carriage hit a bump in the road.

Chapter Seven

V
elvet lips pressed gently to his own. And Archie responded to her, deepening the kiss. “Good God, I have missed this mouth,” he murmured. He probed with his tongue, teasing her lips open, and she returned his ardor with a surprising intensity. Her lips brushed back over his as her tongue tangled and thrilled his own, heightening his desire.

Quite suddenly the carriage stopped.

Breaking the kiss, his mouth traveled to the tip of her chin and down the hollow of her throat. He swept an arm around her waist and pressed her against his chest—felt the rise and fall of her breasts, heard her soft, sweet moan. Mysteriously, his tongue found a sensitive spot behind her ear and she trembled. Good God, his entire body thrummed with his physical need of her. He’d wanted her for years, and now he held her in his arms again. “It appears we have arrived at Rose and Company, chemists to the tony Knightsbridge set.”

Fiona eased away, and he released her just enough to capture her gaze. He was about to ask if the kiss they’d shared was as good as the one of memory, but she reached behind her and pressed the door latch. “Come, Alfred,” she coaxed, and climbed down from the cab.

Bewildered by her sudden exit, he handed over the leash, paid the driver, and followed her inside the empty shop. She stood by a cabinet full of exotic soaps, waiting for him. He approached her slowly. “Fiona, I hope I didn’t offend—”

She grabbed his coat lapels and kissed him so unexpectedly she sent a shock of arousal coursing through him. She remained very close and spoke softly. “We have neighbors, the Greens, who own the millinery next door. Ida Green, their daughter, is better known as the Brompton Square Tattler. I wouldn’t want her to go round gossiping about us.” Fiona moistened her lips, a nervous habit he enjoyed immensely. “Sorry to be so abrupt,” she added.

Archie kept his grin soft, playful. “You may kiss me abruptly, any time you wish.”

Fiona blushed with color barely seen in the dim light. He reached up and touched her cheek with the back of his hand—just to feel the heat. “I believe you promised me breakfast for supper, Miss Rose.”

“That I did, Mr. Bruce.” Fiona latched the front door and pulled the shade.

“Is that you, Fee?” Mrs. Gallagher called down into the shop.

Hurrying past Archie, she and Alfred scrambled up the stairs. “Wait until you see whom I’ve brought with me, Mrs. Gallagher.” Archie followed along, hands clasped behind his back. This is the way it would be with this quixotic young woman. At times she could be confounding and elusive—she had evaded him in Edinburgh—and yet, even years later, Archie continued to be intrigued.

He climbed the steps feeling as though he were in a familiar dream. Something he had dreamed before—perhaps many times. Something he had yearned for all his life.

He had grown up in a reserved home. His father, Bennet Angus Bruce, taught advanced mathematics at a preparatory college in Edinburgh. A detached man by nature, he spent a great deal of time reading and had required Archie to study vigorously. Archie’s one extracurricular activity had been football. “A fine mind needs fresh air to help circulate the flow of ideas” as Bennet Bruce would say.

Archie’s mother was quite the opposite, warm-hearted and eternally convivial. And his two sisters were both flibbertigibbets, whom he loved dearly and missed terribly. From their letters, it seemed Mother spent a good deal of time and effort these days in pursuit of the right sort of husbands for Abigail and Nettie.

After university, Father had advised him to stay in academia rather than become director of the crime laboratory for Scotland Yard. Mother had encouraged him to have an adventure in London—“but don’t tell your father.”

For the past year, his world had become one long forensic science project—every experience, every thought, every physical sensation the subject of objective observation and analysis. Like his father, he was inclined to introversion, though his mother’s influence had allowed him the social skills to make friends. There just hadn’t been much time this past year, the exception being his brief dalliance with Vivian. So far, London had been a somewhat lonely experience, punctuated by moments of great triumph and, yes, adventure.

Archie followed Fiona and Alfred through the parlor. In Fiona, Archie recognized a possible kindred spirit, one with a devilish difference—her dazzling smile.

Fiona settled him at a small breakfast table and disappeared into a pantry. When she returned she cleaned his palm with warm water and a medicinal-smelling soap. “I have befriended a wonderful physician by the name of Olivia Erskine, who shares many of my beliefs about hygiene and skin care. She has an extensive knowledge of plant extracts and has collected some marvelous recipes from around the world.” Fiona opened a jar of salve and spread it carefully over the burn. “This happens to be a simple maceration using pulp from a cactus plant. I added a bit of citric acid as a preservative.”

“My word, that is rather soothing.” Archie leaned forward. “Cactus, you say?”

“From the American Southwest. She and I are talking about a small enterprise related to my Rose and Company soap business.” Fiona clamped the lid back onto the jar. “Try not to touch anything, until that absorbs—” She halted suddenly. “I just remembered, her son-in-law is a Yard man. She’s quite keen on him—a Mr. Kennedy, I believe.”

“Zak Kennedy?” Archie nearly choked. “He’s the number two man at Special Branch, under Melville. No wonder she’s keen on him. He’s quite famous, for a detective.”

“Small world, wot?” Fiona reopened the jar and spooned the gelatin-like mixture into a . . . Archie blinked rapidly as she removed a condom from a paper packet and expertly unrolled the rubber. He was sure his expression caused her soft laugh. “We often use a condom for small preparations of salve or lotion. I expect your burn will be gone in a few days’ time, but you must reapply frequently.” She rolled down the rubber and closed it off with a paper fastener. “This way you can carry it about with you.” She placed the condom in his good hand.

He enjoyed watching Fiona do—well, almost anything. She was wonderfully orderly with a dash of vivacity. And her handling of the rubber goods was most . . . entertaining.

She was a surprisingly independent young woman, who was also entirely capable. Apparently Fiona came and went as she pleased and traipsed around London unescorted. Which was not entirely unusual for a young businessperson, he supposed. Besides, she came from a close-knit family who often referred to themselves as an enterprise—Rose & Company, which, oddly enough, included the housekeeper and, at times, house pets.

As the aroma of fried eggs and ham wafted into the breakfast room, a puddle of drool collected on the floor beneath the hound, who periodically wagged his tail and raised his brows in the direction of the kitchen. Mrs. Gallagher served up breakfast, as well as a meaty bone for Alfred to chew on. Between bites, Archie quizzed Fiona on prescription orders. “As you well know, the dosage you receive on a prescription is written in Latin. Shall we go over a few? Please translate,
Omni mane,
” he asked, forking a bit of soft egg onto toast.

“Every morning,” she answered.

“I may sometimes give you the abbreviation.” He chewed happily.
“Ex aq.,”
he asked.

“With water.”

“Ter die sumendus.”

“To be taken three times a day.”

“What is meant by the
misce fiat
?” Archie sliced into a juicy piece of ham.

Fiona took a sip of tea. “Directions from the prescriber indicating the form in which the physician requires the prescription to be dispensed. For example, a mixture, an ointment, a pill, et cetera.”

Archie grinned at her. “Nary a hesitation, my dear.”

“That’s because it’s just you and I, and Mrs. Gallagher, and Alfred,” Fiona huffed. “The moment they stand me in front of those steely-eyed pinched faces, I’ll—”

He cut her off. “No, you won’t.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Fiona frowned. “You do realize you’re adding to the pressure—especially when I disappoint you.”

“Quite impossible. You could never disappoint me, no matter how many times you failed the
viva voce
examination.”

“That is because you are my—acquaintance.” She settled on acquaintance, but she would have rather called him something much more intimate.

“Acquaintance?” He teased. “Then tell me,
Miss Rose,
how does percolation differ from maceration?”

Fiona sat up straight. “Percolation differs only slightly from maceration in that the powdered drug is dampened with the . . .” She patiently described the delicate, exacting process of percolation, an extremely time-consuming operation—to the letter.

Archie sat back and stared, in awe. It was obvious Fiona had been raised by a chemist, but she had also paid a good deal of attention to process. “You do realize you’d pass the exam with flying colors—if it weren’t for those steely-eyed, pinched faces.” He sopped up what remained of a runny yolk with his last bite of toast.

Fiona eyed his clean plate. “Would you care for another slice of ham, or an egg or two?”

He sat back and sighed. “Completely full—excellent breakfast, Mrs. Gallagher.”

The housekeeper collected a few dishes off the table. “Nice to have a young man with a big appetite around.” Fiona stood up with her plate. “Let me have that, dear. You and Mr. Bruce run along now, finish your studies.”

Fiona led the way into the parlor. “Shall we work here or in the study?”

Archie leaned back into the kitchen entry. “If he’s a bother, I can take him with us.” He nodded at Alfred.

The housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you wish to tag along with those two, or stay here in the kitchen with Mrs. Gallagher and yer bone?” Alfred continued to gnaw happily.

“I believe I have my answer.” Archie turned back to Fiona. “Shall we try the study?”

She led him into a room lined floor to ceiling with books and furnished with a middling-sized secretary and two comfortable-looking armchairs.

“Blimey, your father’s got an original copy of Meyer’s
Modern Theories of Chemistry
.” Archie glanced over his shoulder. “May I?”

“Of course you may.” He pulled the book from its shelf and settled into the overstuffed club chair across from Fiona. Instantly immersed in the text, he slipped his spectacles on and thumbed through the pages. He glanced up to find her watching him. “Sorry. I find some of the early postulating about the order of atomic weights fascinating.”

Fiona smiled. “When I was twelve, I became obsessively interested in the periodic table. More to the point—the missing elements of the table. I was quite sure it was a puzzle that could be solved, if one thought about it long or hard enough.” Her eyes flicked upward, along with the corners of her mouth. “I convinced father to help me paint the elements on the ceiling of my bedchamber, so that it might be the last thing I viewed at night and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes in the morning.”

“When one is twelve, all things seem possible.” Archie shut the book and set it on the chair arm. “Is it still there?”

Her nod was impish. “Would you care to sneak up into my room and have a look?” Her mouth grew wider and more sensuous the longer she smiled at him. And then there were those mysterious gray-green eyes which promised . . . mischief.

She stood up and poked her head out the open door. “Mrs. Gallagher does the week’s shopping list on Wednesday night for market day.” Without looking back, she waved him up onto his feet, and he took her hand.

“Lead the way, Fiona.”

She snaked around the vestibule table and led him up a flight of stairs with a turn in it. Once they were on the third floor, she opened the first door off the simple hallway. Her room was small, by any standard, and dominated by an intricately curved iron bed frame topped with brass finials. A number of fluffy white pillows and linens covered the mattress. Archie pivoted in place. The ceiling angled over a gabled window, then flattened out above her bed. The elements were painted across the upper surface in a kind of spray of orderly stars. He placed his hands on his hips, silently skimming the letters and numbers. “I can see where you added a few over the years.” He spoke softly.

Fiona stood beside him, her head craned back to read the table. “Ten new discoveries. Sixty-six and eighteen were added just last year.”

He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her near to him. “And what might be the names of those two elements, Miss Rose? Or might I call you Émilie du Châtelet?”

There was a sharp gasp for air, before her knees buckled. He held on and moved her to the edge of her bed. “Sit down for a moment—I can’t have you swooning on me.”

“This is not a swoon . . . it’s a . . .” Fiona sat down and caught her breath. “In the cab earlier, you said, ‘Kiss me again.’” She chanced to look at him. “Were you by any chance referencing . . .” She swallowed.

“You kissed me in the gallery of the ballroom.” He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Although, I suppose the enchanting young woman might have been Madame du Châtelet—plenty of ghosts lurking about the Library Hall.”