A Lesson in Chemistry With Inspector Bruce Read Online Free Page A

ran up a flight of stairs and down the corridor. She hesitated at the door. Professor Russell was known to lock the door at five minutes past. Lifting her eyes in prayer, she turned the knob. Small victory, the door opened.
    Fiona pushed on the frame and peeked in. The classroom was large and filled with fresh-faced lads, a number of older students, and one or two ladies, including little Miss Perfect, Hortensia Smythe—“Smythe with a y not an i, and an e at the end. Don’t forget!”
    The professor was still calling roll. Perhaps there was a chance to slip into class. Stepping inside, she shut the door and held her breath. Predictably, Owen Spencer sat in the first row and watched her every move. When he raised both brows and nudged his deskmate, Fiona squinted a ferocious warning at him. Even from the corner of her eye, she was quite sure the instructor was not Professor Russell. The man behind the podium was a good deal taller with a head full of dark hair that most people would call . . . longish. And the voice was different, much younger.
    “Miss Fiona A. Rose?”
    Her foot froze midstep and caused a terrible wobble. Then her book bag slipped off her shoulder and hit the floor—with a thud. A loud thud. She watched in horror as her Chinese lacquered pencil box and composition books scattered across the floor.
    A smattering of scoffs and titters accompanied her plunge to her knees. She quickly scooped up the fallen items and shoved them back in her satchel. Keeping her head down, she reached for her pencil box only to find it in the hands of a pleasant-looking young man with dark eyes and a grimace—or was he attempting to suppress a grin?
    Nose to nose with her new instructor, Fiona could hardly ignore his soft brown eyes flecked with copper and long lashes that . . . blinked at her. She caught her breath. There was something familiar about him. She knew him from somewhere, or had she just seen him about the school?
    They stood up together. “And you are Miss . . . ?”
    “Fiona A. Rose.” She stammered. “Present, sir.”
    “Mm-hm.” His gaze lingered a bit too long. “And the A stands for . . . ?”
    “Fiona . . .” Her eyes darted about the room. “Aphrodite Rose, sir.” A rising flush crept up her neck.
    He leaned close and spoke softly. “I was prepared to let you take a seat more or less unobserved, and then this unfortunate spill.” Fiona swallowed. There was something intimate about his mild upbraiding.
    “You’re not Mr. Russell,” she stammered.
    He handed over her pencil box with the chinois motif. “No, I am not.” He grinned—something on the severe side, admittedly, but a grin nevertheless and at her expense to be sure. “Please, take a seat here.” He gestured to the empty chair front and center, squelching her hopes of slinking into the back row.
    “But . . . I’d rather not.” Her desperate whine sounded more like a squeak.
    “I’d rather you did, Miss Rose. That way, I can keep an eye on you.” Amidst smirks and titters from the class, the young professor returned to his podium and finished roll call.
    Fiona settled into her seat and stared at the blur of letters and numbers that made up the periodic table on the wall. Was it possible she might feel less humiliated if she had received a proper reprimand from the professor? A warm flush rose from her neck to her cheeks. Somehow she very much doubted this sting of color was caused solely by embarrassment.
    “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Archibald Bruce, and I am here to help you prepare for the major chemist examination.”
    She lifted her gaze and found him staring straight at her. She must have appeared shocked, or at least greatly surprised. When one’s mouth drops open and one’s eyes grow large and round, what else could it be? Too late now, he’d seen her expression. Fiona ignored her pounding heart and tried for a calm, attentive look.
    Archie Bruce! He obviously didn’t