by Amy Jarecki
“Good morning, You’re Grace,” said Smith as he entered with a breakfast tray and the Gazette.
“It is morning.” Fletcher replaced his quill. “Though I daresay I see nothing good about it.”
“You might change your mind when you have a look at the news.” Smith set the tray beside the books of account on the table. “There’s an article about the Earl of Hamilton acquiring a steam-powered fire engine that pumps a whopping two hundred gallons per minute. The report said it’s a Whiteside pumper. Have you heard of them? I do not believe I have had the pleasure.”
Frowning, Fletcher picked up the paper and handed it back to the butler. “Yes, I can personally attest to the power behind the flow, but I highly doubt that machine can stand up to the rigors of battling a real fire. If you recall, it was but two months ago when I came home soaked from head to toe by a Whiteside calamity.”
Smith tucked the Gazette under his arm. “Pity. This says Hamilton tested it on an old warehouse in the west end and it out performed a hand-stroked pumper four to one.”
Fletcher bit into a crumpet. “Hogwash. Reporters always embellish the truth.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” But Smith didn’t bow and make himself scarce as usual. “Were you aware that after the inventor’s untimely death, his wife, a gentlewoman, mind you, improved the piston and cylinder, more than doubling the amount of steam harnessed by the engine? Perhaps that is the reason you caught the brunt of its discharge though, I daresay, they were very discourteous if they trained the flow on you.”
“She improved it did you say?” Fletcher asked, ignoring the discourteous remark.
Smith swatted the paper as if the article contained the biggest news of the year. “I did. Lady Georgiana must have a great deal of tenacity. Evidently, the student became the master in this instance.”
Tossing the half-eaten crumpet onto the plate, Fletcher pushed his chair back, clenching his fists against his urge to cuff the man with a hook. “Enough. In my opinion, the student became the charlatan.”
Smith hesitated for a moment, the expression on his face falling before he bowed. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“Just throw that damned Gazette in the rubbish bin. I never want to lay eyes on it again.”
Beneath his skin, the ire simmered like steam ready to burst while Fletcher waited until the butler left the room. Then he picked up the chintz coffee pot and threw it at the hearth. Blast it all, he didn’t want to be reminded of Georgiana Whiteside. Not ever. She may have perfected her steam engine, but she had used him. She’d made him believe her still the grieving widow—too distraught to fall in love—that she was fragile and needed to proceed slowly.
How she must have laughed behind his back while she tricked him—brought him warmed chocolate as if she were thoughtful and dear and kind. Georgiana didn’t care about him. She had no intention of continuing their liaison—or falling in love with him.
He’d known it as soon as he saw her at Richmond Park—and her damned mother had told him where to find the woman. Were the pair of them in cahoots? Let’s toy with the Duke of Evesham and make him realize the extent of his unsuitability as a member of the nobility.
He grabbed a dish and threw it as well.
To hell with the lot of them!
***
“With the orders that have come in, this meager workshop will not be able to sustain your operation for long,” said Lady Eleanor as Roddy ran ahead with her valise.
Georgiana looked to the exposed rafters. The workshop was naught but an old stable, and a small one at that. “No, but it is a start. And if we work on one machine at a time, we ought to manage.”
“Definitely in the short term. Thank heavens the foundry agreed to manufacture your cylinders.”
Together, they strolled out to the waiting coach. “I have you to thank for that.”
Eleanor slid her reticule up her arm. “I only wish I were able to stay longer.”
“You’ve done so much already, I have no idea how I can repay your kindness.”
“It has been fun. And if you need anything at all—”
Georgiana grasped Eleanor’s hands. “I will be placing all my orders through you, my dearest.”
“Thank you.” After a kiss on the cheek, Eleanor turned to Roddy. “You take good care of Her Ladyship, young man.”
“You know I will.” He offered his hand and helped her into the hackney. “She has made me an apprentice. I reckon my ma would be proud were she alive.”
Georgiana gave the boy’s back a pat as he handed the bag to the footman. “She’d be very proud.”
“Yes, my lady. Ah…do you mind if I run to town? The lads invited me to play a game of cricket.” Roddy had already made friends with a few of the local boys in town. He fit right in as if he’d grown up in Thetford.
Georgiana waved as she watched the coach start away. “I think you ought to go. We’ve already put in a good day’s work and you deserve to have some fun.”
With a youthful grin, he started off. “Thanks, my lady.”
“Be home by supper.”
Sighing, she walked back through the iron gate, and along the overgrown path to the cottage. There had been so much to do, she had needed the caretaker’s help in the workshop every waking hour. And thank heavens for Eleanor. Without Her Ladyship, supplies to fulfill the next two pumper orders would have cost twice as much, and would have taken thrice as long to arrive.
She opened the old door with its medieval blackened-iron nails and stepped inside. “Mrs. Tees, I’ve decided that tomorrow Mr. Tees must spend some time in the garden,” she said softly.
It wasn’t necessary to speak loudly in a two-room cottage. But the housekeeper didn’t respond. Aside from Roddy, Mr. and Mrs. Tees were the only servants Georgiana employed, and they had both been an immense help after Daniel’s death with Mr. Tees taking on the role as her assistant in addition to his caretaking duties.
Alone, Georgiana stood for a moment with her hands folded. The cottage seemed cold and empty without Eleanor. Against the far wall was a meager kitchen with a hob and cooking utensils hanging from a rack suspended from the ceiling. A copper bed warmer and a broom propped in one corner and a rocking chair in the other. There was a table with four chairs, but nothing terribly comfortable aside from the feather mattress on the bed in the back room.
Mr. and Mrs. Tees lived in the caretaker’s cottage out the back, which was even smaller. And Georgiana had fashioned a pallet for Roddy in the loft of the workshop. He seemed to like it in Thetford and had been over the moon with glee when she’d asked him to be her apprentice.
As melancholy stretched in her chest, Georgiana moved to the rocker and sat. This was the first time she’d been by herself since arriving home one month past. And nothing had been the same upon her return. The cottage didn’t look as cozy as it once had when Daniel had carried her across the threshold. Back then, Georgiana was so young and happy she wouldn’t have cared if he’d taken her to a stable to start their married life. She rubbed her hands on the wooden armrests worn smooth by years of use. The chair had been Daniel’s mother’s, but bless it if she was unable to remember him ever sitting there. Her heart grew heavy as she looked to the table where he oft sat and read. She could no longer picture him there, either.
In his place, she imagined Fletcher sitting in his shirtsleeves. He looked comfortable that way—his dark skin contrasting with the white linen. A lock of black hair dangled over one eye as it often did.
But she’d lost the Duke of Evesham forever. Evesham would never sit at her table, let alone come to Thetford.
Had Georgiana deceived him as he’d accused? A familiar lead weight sank to the pit of her stomach. She’d not meant to deceive him. Furthermore, on that horrid day at Richmond Park, he’d assumed the worst and stormed away before giving her a chance to explain.
I should have told him about the pumper the instant he pulled me out of the pond at Green Park. Or, better, when Dobb
s announced Evesham was in the parlor with Mama, I should have gone down, apologized for the incident, and wished him well in his future endeavors.
Curse her ill-begotten mood. She ought to be happy—elated to have orders for the pumpers. No more would she be counting every farthing, worrying about how she might make ends meet. But instead, her insides felt as if the duke had reached in and torn them out.
A sob grated in Georgiana’s throat as she leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. All her life, she’d tried so hard to be a good person. She’d tried to be a good wife. She’d tried to make the fire engine work. For what? To save lives and homes and peoples’ keepsakes.
Why did she feel like a wretched soul? Why, after all the years of sweating and suffering in the dank, cramped workshop, did she feel as if her life were in shatters?
Her gut wrenched while tears streamed through her fingers.
Bless it all, she’d lost her bloody heart to a duke. She loved a man she could never have—not a rake, but a man who supported a home for unwed mothers and purchased pearls just to watch a woman smile.
Worst of all? He would never be hers.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The air at Jackson’s was filled with enough pipe smoke to make anyone’s eyes burn. Fletcher sat at the rear table and glared at a fist full of worthless cards.
“What’s your wager?” asked the dealer.
“Aye, Evesham,” said Lord Hamilton, who somehow had eluded his wife for the evening. “You haven’t had a decent hand all night.”
Snorting, Fletcher tossed his cards onto the pile. “Tell me something I do not already know. I’m out.”
He sat back and watched the game progress until Brum caught his eye and gave a nod from across the hazy room. Two minutes later, the boxing champion stood beside him. “You look as if we fed you a plate of rancid beef.”
Fletcher tapped the stack of coins in front of him. “Your man is quite adept at dealing corrupt cards if you ask me.”
Snorting, Brum looked to the dealer. “Mr. Almond is one of our finest.”
“I can see why,” said Hamilton, gesturing with his pipe. “There’s no question he knows how to play for the house.”
Grumbling under his breath, Fletcher waved the man’s smoke away from his face. “I say, Jackson, you’ve taken so much of my coin this night, I think you owe me a week of free boxing lessons.”
Brum rapped the back of the chair. “A bloody week? You’ll ruin me.”
Fletcher collected his money and stood just as a man barreled through the door, his eyes wild. “Fire! All hands needed—Windmill Street!”
Ice shot through Fletcher’s blood as he locked gazes with Brum.
Hamilton sprang to his feet and motioned to his man. “Come, there may be time to fetch the pumper from the warehouse.”
But Fletcher barely noticed the earl. “God’s blood, the women’s home is on Windmill Street,” he growled as he started for the door.
Brum caught his arm and pulled him toward the kitchens. “This way. We’ll arrive faster if we go through Percy Mews.”
“Good man.”
Fletcher followed the boxer through alleyways even he wouldn’t dream of visiting in broad daylight, let alone at night. It smelled of piss and rotten food. The place was infested—and not only with rats. He felt hidden eyes upon him. But who in their right mind would set upon a beast like Brumley Jackson and a man nearly as large?
As they raced around the corner, tendrils of smoke seeped through the air like the breath of a dragon.
“Ballocks!” Fletcher shouted as he caught sight of the Benevolent Home for Unwed Mothers. An eerie glow of amber oozed around the building, while smoke billowed from its windows.
“Damn,” Brum cursed as they both began to sprint.
A hand-stroke fire engine had been rolled into place, but the stream was barely effective.
“We need more men!” someone shouted.
Onlookers stood as if in shock. Fletcher grabbed a man by the arm and yanked him toward the machine. “Your job is to ensure there’s a steady flow of men pumping. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man and there will be a reward in it for you if we manage to put out the fire before it spreads.”
Fletcher signaled to Brum and raced through the door.
Thick smoke hung in the air as Mrs. Whipple carried two children on her hips as she hastened down the stairs. “Your Grace!”
“Out. Quickly!” Fletcher took the children from her arms and led the way to the street. “What happened?”
“I think it was those varlets who’ve been threatening us—the same religious zealots who attacked the kitchens with hammers.”
“Good God.”
“Hurry, ladies!” she shouted, standing on the footpath and counting heads.
“Is everyone accounted for?” he asked, while mothers pulled the children from his arms.
“Where are Angela and Beatrice?” When none of the residents responded, Mrs. Whipple clutched her hands over her heart. “Dear God, their rooms are at the rear!”
Craning his neck, Fletcher caught the flicker of a red flame leap across the roof while black smoke billowed above. “Where, exactly?”
“Third floor—But you cannot possibly go in there, Your Grace. ’Tis far too dangerous.”
Fletcher removed his coat and handed it to her. “Give this to anyone who’s cold.”
Brum did the same. “I’ll go with you.”
Leading the way, Fletcher headed for the door. “It’s the third floor rear rooms. I’ll try the stairs. Do you think you can make it around back?”
“If I cannot, then my name’s not Jackson.”
“Good man.” Without another word, Fletcher ran into the house, the smoke twice as thick as it had been only moments ago. Haunting cries from an infant resounded through the eerie silence. His eyes stung and he removed his neckcloth and held it over his nose and mouth while he barreled up the steps.
The infant’s cries grew louder as he approached the third floor.
“Help!” a woman shrieked as he stepped out on the landing.
Fletcher wiped the tears from his eyes as he peered through the thick haze. Flames blocked the corridor, making it impossible to reach them. “Stay where you are. Do you have water?”
“Y-yes,”
“Wet a blanket,” he shouted. “Wrap it around you and huddle in the hearth.”
“But there are four of us!”
“Do it, I say,” he bellowed as he dashed into a room, yanked a woolen blanket from a bed, and charged back to the corridor.
Batting the blaze furiously, he snuffed the flames only to watch them rekindle as he drew the blanket away.
“Haste! Please!” the woman screamed, her voice filled with panic.
“Nearly there,” he lied, his muscles torturing him from the effort. Dear God, tendrils of fire leaped up the stairs at his rear. If unable to douse the fire now, he’d burn for certain.
But Fletcher wasn’t ready to meet his end. Throwing the blanket aside, he dashed back into the bedchamber, grabbed a mattress and threw it into the corridor, sprinting across only seconds before it burst into flames.
The infant’s cries screeched so loud Fletcher’s inner ears vibrated. He gnashed his teeth against the pain, slamming the door behind him. “Stay down!” he commanded, breaking the window with a chair. Fletcher dropped to his stomach as a burst of flames knocked the door from its hinges. But the oakwood proved strong enough to keep them from being incinerated.
As if the fire drew back to gain momentum before its final attack, Fletcher rose and shoved his head out the gaping window. “Brum!”
“There’s a ladder right below the sill,” boomed the boxer’s deep voice.
Fletcher swept the infant and child into his arms. “Come, ladies!”
One of the mothers dashed to his side. “Please! Take the children first.”
He gave her a nod. “You must follow immed
iately. We only have seconds to spare.” He looked to the eldest child. “Wrap your hands around my neck.”
As the young lad did as told, Fletcher nudged him onto his back. “Now hold on as tightly as you can, do you hear?”
“Yes, sir.” The fear in the little boy’s voice made Fletcher’s gut twist in a knot the size of a cannonball.
“Here we go,” he said, with no time to stop. The infant wailed, sucking gasps of smoky air. “I’ll have you down in no time.”
Using one hand on the rungs, Fletcher hastened to the ground and stood back. One of the women was right above, the other stood at the window.
“Mama!” called the tiny child above the infant’s shrill cries.
Brum helped the woman down and she immediately took the baby from Fletcher’s arms.
“’Tis safe!” he shouted to the mother above. “Climb out!”
“I can’t!” she cried.
“Mama!” the boy yelled again.
Any moment, the fire would leap through the open window and take the woman with it.
Fletcher swung the child from his back straight into Brum’s arms. “I’ll not stand here whilst he watches his mother die!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he raced up the ladder. “I’ll catch you. You can do it. One leg at a time.”
She looked back while smoke billowed behind her, and the deadly red glow of flames crackled only feet away. “I-I’m afraid.”
“Do it, I say!”
Her hands trembled as she reached forward.
Acting swiftly, Fletcher grasped her wrist and pulled her screaming over his shoulder. “I have you,” he growled while flames leaped from the place where she’d been standing.
