by Lyn Stone
“What do we do?” she asked. “Wait, I know! Prop against the wall next to the shelves and crouch down. I’ll climb your body.”
He didn’t argue, just did as she said. “Have a care you don’t fall,” he warned as she braced a foot on his leg and climbed until her feet were on his shoulders.
She held on to his head with one hand and balanced herself against the wall with the other as he straightened slowly. “Can your bad shoulder take my weight when I stand?” she asked, and felt him shift to aid the attempt.
“Go,” he said, grasping her ankles.
“I’m going to stand now,” she gasped. “If I can manage.”
“Keep one hand on the wall, other on the shelves for balance, but don’t pull on them.”
She rose slowly and carefully. He felt the slight jerk as she yanked the fuse from the cask of powder and heaved a sigh of relief. “Done.”
“Move the fuse well away from it,” Caine said. “Are you steady up there?”
“So far. Are you steady down there?” she gasped.
“Did I mention that I love you?” he asked, tightening his grip on her ankles.
“Hush. You’ll make my knees weak. Is this fuse far enough over?”
“I can’t see a thing with your gown over my head. Ready to dismount?”
“How should we do this? Getting down might be harder than getting up, I think!”
“Walk your hands down the wall and lower yourself to a crouch if you can. There. Now, slide one foot at the time until you straddle my neck.”
The skirt of her nightrail completely covered his head and her bare thighs surrounded his neck. “This feels rather wicked.”
“Not a position I favor at the moment.” Grunting with the effort, he squatted low so that she could reach the floor and helped her off. Then he whirled her around and grabbed her to him, raining desperate kisses all over her face until he settled on her mouth for a passionate kiss that seemed all too brief.
Breathless, he broke the kiss and groaned. “Is there anything you cannot do?”
She sighed, nuzzling his neck. “Well, I can’t pick locks. When the powder doesn’t explode soon after he lights the fuse, he might come back to finish us off.”
“I’ll be ready for him this time. I can take his knife,” Caine assured her.
“Yes, but he has your pistol.”
“Damn.” He leaned against the wall under the window and drew her into a hug as he looked around the cellar. “We need to get out of here.”
Grace thought about her uncle’s actions. “You know, he could have cut our throats and had done with it. I thought he planned to, but he didn’t. That would have been much more reliable than blowing us up, don’t you think? I mean, suppose the powder was too damp or the fuse proved faulty? He hired others to do murder until they failed him. Maybe he lacks the fortitude for killing face-to-face.”
“What of his strangling Sorensen?”
“Hired, I expect.”
“Then there’s your parents,” Caine reminded her. “He confessed to that.”
“Poison, most likely. No wounds visible. Again, he was probably removed from it.”
Caine was not convinced. “Perhaps you’re right, but if he leaves us alive, he knows we will talk. So he’ll come back in—”
“Or set fire to the manor!” Grace guessed.
“Oh, God, it just occurred to me…” Caine’s face changed, his expression one of horror. “Something quicker and more to the point than fire. If he brought in one cask of powder, there could be more. We have to get out of here now.”
Caine approached the shelves on the far end of the room away from the gunpowder shelf and rapidly began taking down the baskets and slatted boxes containing victuals. “Stack these against the wall over there so the floor’s clear in front of the shelves,” he ordered.
Grace obeyed without question, talking as she worked. “He could say it’s our word against his. We have no proof. How do you think he got the gunpowder down here in the first place?” she asked, huffing with exertion as she hefted a box of turnips.
“Delivered it himself. Harrell would have thought nothing of it if Wardfelton arrived dressed as a deliveryman. Harrell had ordered some. Providing the guards with ammunition, as well as supplying it for the autumn hunt Harrell mentioned would require three or four casks of powder, the very reasons we need to vacate this room in a hurry.”
“There’s more powder?” Grace asked, glancing up at the one barrel on the shelf. “Out there? With him?”
“Very probably.” He motioned for her to stand back against the far wall. “Shield the candle. I’m going to tip this and hope it falls apart with the crash. We need a battering ram. Stand clear.”
He braced a foot against the wall, gave the shelving a tug and it fell. Grace winced at the clatter. She watched as he pried apart the boards. “There!” he said, lifting one of the long and sturdy side pieces. “The interior walls are not so thick, just partitions really. Mortar’s old and crumbly.”
“You hope,” Grace muttered.
“I pray,” he admitted. “Shield the candle.” He gripped the board, backed against the outside wall and ran across the room. The board bounced and knocked him backward. Three times, he ran at it, striking the same place with the makeshift battering ram.
“I think it’s giving way!” Grace exclaimed.
He hit it again and once more. One stone fell through to the other side. She cheered. Relentlessly, he banged the board at the surrounding stones. In moments, he had an opening a good two feet across and almost that high.
He paused for a few seconds and they heard a loud thump. Both looked up at the window. A barrel rested against it. LMN WORKS was stenciled on the side next to the pane, plainly visible in the steady candlelight.
“Go, Grace! Squeeze through to the wine room and go up the stairs. Get to the other end of the house and, for God’s sake, hurry. Shout fire and wake everyone as you go. Get everyone to the far end and out through the conservatory. Count heads and make them stay together.”
She grasped his arm as he lifted her through the hole. “But you—”
“Will be right behind you. A few more knocks and I can get through. Hurry now. Most of the men who sleep below will be out on guard but I’ll check below stairs on my way to the stairs at the far end. Go on now. Run!”
Grace hit the floor of the wine cellar, felt her way to the stair there and ran through the pitch-dark kitchens. “Fire!” she screamed the instant she reached the vestibule. She lifted her gown and tore up to the first-floor bedrooms. “Wake up! Fire in the house! Everyone, go north side! Servants’ stairs! Hurry!”
Neville emerged with a lamp just before she reached his door. “Fire?”
“Gunpowder! Root cellar! Wardfelton!” she gasped. “Help me get the others out the north end.”
“Caine?”
“Waking those left in the cellar quarters.” She hoped.
“Go on out,” he said with a not-so-gentle shove. “Trent and I will clear the house.”
The earl shuffled toward them, the countess huddled close. “Come!” Grace said, taking the earl’s other arm. “We must hurry.”
“Where are we going?” Lady Hadley demanded. “It’s still dark.”
“To the end of the hall and down the servants’ stairs,” Grace replied, trying to sound calm when she could hardly get her breath. “Mind you don’t trip on your gown, Lord Hadley.”
“I smell no smoke! Nose is as good as ever,” the earl declared, lifting his head and sniffing loudly. “Where’s this fire, gel?”
“In the cellar, sir. Let’s move along now.
”
Several of the maids, including Jane, rushed by them. “To the conservatory and out!” Grace called to them. “Jane! Keep everyone together on the terrace!”
Judd approached at a trot, his nightcap askew, lamp in hand. The tweenies flew by, catching up to Jane and the others. “I let Mrs. Oliver and Mrs. Bowden out through the library door,” Judd informed her. He had Mrs. Bowden’s large ring of household keys in his hand.
“Good. Anyone else on the ground floor?”
“No, my lady. Nor upstairs. Should we form up with buckets? I’ll fetch Mr. Harrell and the lads.”
“Leave it for now. Give me the keys and your light.” They had reached the servants’ stairs. “Go down with Lord and Lady Hadley. I’ll be there directly.”
Grace could not leave without knowing Caine was safely out of the root cellar. What if the other stones had not come loose? What if he were trapped there when her uncle blew it up? She turned and ran, the keys banging against her wrist.
She had just reached the kitchens when the world erupted.
*
“Where the devil is she?” Caine demanded, plowing through the crowd gathered on the terrace just as dawn was breaking. “Grace!”
He saw Judd. “Have you seen her? Did she come out earlier?”
“No, sir. She took the keys from me upstairs,” Judd told him. “She went back down the main hall. Perhaps she went out the library door where Mrs. Oliver and Mrs. Bowden were. I told her they were there.”
“Oh, God,” Caine muttered, closing his eyes against what he already knew. She had gone back for him. The root cellar would be demolished, probably the entire southeast corner of the manor, including the kitchen.
He had been halfway through the lower level when it blew, relieved that he and the servants he’d awakened down there escaped injury and were only shaken. Now he might have lost her.
Might have lost Grace. He grabbed a lantern from one of the footmen, reentered the house and took the hallway at a run.
“Caine, wait!” he heard Neville shout behind him.
“Grace is still in here!” he shouted back.
“We’re with you,” Trent called.
“Go back outside!” he ordered. “The walls might not be stable at the other end.”
But he knew they would not go back and they did not. He ran on. Dust still filled the air as he reached the back of the vestibule. The kitchen area was in ruin, windows shattered, debris everywhere. He saw her then, covered in dust, lying in a heap, nightdress up to her knees and her bare feet curled together like a sleeping child’s.
“Oh, Grace,” he whispered, kneeling beside her still form. He lifted her gently and held her against his chest.
Trent fell beside him. “Is she…”
“No!” Caine shouted, rising with Grace in his arms. “Trent, get the doctor!” He saw Neville standing there, mouth agape. “You! Find Wardfelton and bring him here. I mean to kill that son of a bitch!”
Neville and Trent ran out the maw that had once been the kitchen door and dashed to the stables.
Caine carried Grace out of the rubble and down the hallway to the stairs. There, he trudged up to her room, kicked open her door and laid her on the bed. She had not moved.
Mrs. Oliver appeared. “Is she…”
“She breathes, but God only knows for how long,” he murmured, brushing the hair out of her eyes with a trembling and dust-stained finger. “Fetch water and cloths to bathe her. And a fresh gown. Trent’s gone for the doctor.”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” she said softly, and disappeared.
“Grace?” he whispered, leaning close to her ear. “Grace, can you hear me?”
Nothing. Not a twitch of an eyelid or any movement at all.
Caine took her limp hand in his and held it, two fingers on the pulse at her wrist. The vein was hard to locate and the beat seemed slow, almost not there at all. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mrs. Oliver nudged Caine’s shoulder. “Jane’s bringing water. Let’s try a vinegarette, sir. That might bring her around.”
He moved to let her closer. “Do it.”
She waved the small bottle just beneath Grace’s nose and gained a weak cough.
“Enough,” Caine said, moving Oliver’s arm to the side. “It might hurt her to cough if anything’s broken.”
“Or it could help clear her lungs if she’s breathed in too much dust,” Mrs. Oliver said. “Have you felt her head? Maybe she was just knocked out.”
He ran a careful hand over Grace’s head, examining it inch by inch with his fingers. “Nothing there that I can feel,” he said. He continued, testing her shoulders and arms.
Mrs. Oliver stopped him when he reached her ribs. “Best allow me, sir,” she said firmly, and took over.
Caine watched as the older woman did a hasty examination of Grace’s form, right down to the toes.
“I don’t believe anything’s broken unless it’s the neck or back,” she told him.
“Oh, God,” Caine groaned, covering his face with his hand.
“Now, now, sir. Not likely that’s the case, is it? Hardly a mark on her, save a few scrapes. Not that we can see anyway. I need to undress her and be sure.”
Caine shook his head, but he didn’t know what damage the blast might have caused her. The only explosion he had ever witnessed was that of the shell that nearly blinded him. Not the same thing at all. Grace had no visible wounds other than abrasions on her arms, probably from climbing through that small hole in the root-cellar wall.
Jane arrived with a basin of water and the other things he’d asked for. She set them down and went to Grace’s wardrobe for a gown.
“If you’d leave us to it now, sir, we’ll see to her,” Mrs. Oliver said. “We’ll take every care,” she added, laying a hand on his arm.
“No. I’ll stay,” he declared.
“Sir, we’ll have to undress her. It’s not proper, your not being her husband yet and all.” Her kind eyes met his. “Think of her.”
He could not think of anything else. “Just outside the door, then,” he said reluctantly. “If you find any hidden hurt she suffered, come and tell me.”
“Straightaway. Without fail,” Mrs. Oliver promised.
Caine leaned against the wall in the hallway, waiting. After a quarter hour, Mr. Harrell approached, hat in hand. “Sir, the search is on for Lord Wardfelton. Mr. Neville said we should fan out and take any strangers into custody, since none of us would recognize the man but him.”
“Oh, you’ll know him, I expect. No doubt he’s the one who delivered the gunpowder.”
Harrell’s eyes widened. “That Mr. Trueblood? I thought it strange you would request a barrel put in the root cellar. He said you wanted it there for house use and it would be safe to do if it was kept well away from sparks. The rest he put in the outbuilding with the tools as usual.”
Harrell covered his face with a hand and groaned. “Sir, he asked for work. Said he was home from the war. Said he needed something more steady than delivery work.”
“So you hired him.” Caine barely held his anger in check as Harrell nodded. “Well, it’s done. We did need more guards and how could you know? So, did he actually work, other than bringing the powder?”
“He patrolled like the others.”
“So I thought. And had the opportunity to roll all the barrels next to the house after we disabled his fuse on that one he had planted inside.”
Harrell swallowed hard and ducked his head. “I’m sorry, sir. He had paperwork from LMN factory where we usually order.”
“Where everyone in the south of Engla
nd usually orders. Go, join the hunt and run him to ground, Harrell. I mean to kill him.”
“Sir? Best haul him in to the London authorities, don’t you think? He is a noble.”
“Noble, hell. He’s a blackguard who needs to die,” Caine declared. “And I’ll kill him even if I hang for it.”
Harrell shrugged and offered a grim smile. “Aye, well, I doubt it’ll come to that. Accidents happen all the time, don’t they, sir. I’d swear to it.”
“Go on, then. He’ll be harder to track if he reaches the city.”
Caine paced, impatience mounting, waiting to see Grace again, waiting for the doctor to come, waiting for Neville and the men to find Wardfelton. He should be doing something. But what?
Judd came up. “We’ve begun the cleanup, sir, now that it’s light enough to see well. Perhaps you and the family will want to return to London until we’ve repaired what can be fixed.”
Caine sighed. “Lady Grace shouldn’t be moved, so of course I’ll be staying.”
“How is she, sir? Everyone will want to know.” His concern touched Caine. Grace had made herself a part of Wildenhurst. The staff doted on her.
“As soon as I know myself, I will send word. In the meantime, have Lord and Lady Hadley’s things readied and the carriage prepared for travel. They need to be away by midmorning.”
“Right away, sir. What of Lord Trent and Mr. Neville? Shall I pack for them?”
“No. I expect they will stay, at least for today. Have someone bring food from the village until we can arrange a makeshift kitchen. Perhaps the fireplace in the drawing room will serve since it’s the largest. Salvage what you can, but take care. The whole south end might collapse without its support.”
“What of sleeping arrangements for the night, sir?”
“The master suite won’t be safe, but that will be unoccupied anyway with the Hadleys gone. The upstairs maids will have to sleep elsewhere, too, perhaps the north end of the attic.”
There was so much to do, so many things to see to, and all Caine could do was worry about Grace’s survival. “You and Mrs. Bowden take charge of the household. Arrange it anyway that’s convenient for operation. Use your own judgment and only come to me if there’s a crisis.”
