But there was no time to ponder such things. There must be a doorway nearby to a stair leading down to the kitchen, perhaps disguised as mere paneling, for only servants would use it. She studied the wall as she went, disliking the way all eyes on the portraits seemed to watch her struggle.
The farther she advanced, the more her throat burned. Odd. Was she not moving past the fire? She bent, coughing away the discomfort, then stopped, horrified.
Smoke billowed out from a crack between floorboards and wall, from a door blending in against the dark wood. She shoved her shoulder against the paneling, and it gave. Air thick with smoke hovered near the ceiling inside of a small antechamber. Clara dropped to a crouch. Eye to eye with the legs of furniture, it appeared to be a sitting room, but no time to speculate whose. Flames crawled up the draperies on the far window, as did muffled shrieks behind a farther wall. Despite the heat, Clara’s blood turned to ice. Someone was trapped, and she’d never be able to do this alone. Was there enough time to get help?
There’d have to be. Whirling, she ran back to the drawing room. The stench of burnt fabric and sweat violated last evening’s scent of pine and fresh holly.
“More fire!” she hacked out as she bolted across the threshold. “It’s worse, and someone is trapped.”
Ben and Mr. Pocket, soot blackened and chests heaving, paused in whaling their draperies against what remained of the flames. Mr. Minnow stood to the side, clutching his portion of ripped brocade to his chest, hair askew but otherwise untouched by labor of any kind.
Mr. Pocket exchanged a glance with Ben, then they both sprinted toward her. Ben hollered over his shoulder at Mr. Minnow, “Finish the job, man!”
Gaining her side, Ben dipped his head. “Lead the way.”
By the time she returned with the men in tow, smoke belched from the door like an angry dragon. Ben and the inspector charged into the room. Fear barreled into her heart—and squeezed. Was she to lose him again now that they were just starting to make amends?
Her hands curled into fists. Not if she could help it.
She tore back to the drawing room and raced over to Mr. Minnow, who stood exactly as they’d left him. The last rogue embers smoldered not five paces from him.
What a wastrel! She snatched the draperies out of his hands. “Mr. Minnow! Either put the rest of those flames out now or we shall all perish.”
He gaped, arms flapping at his sides. “But how am I to do so?”
“Remove your nightshirt and bat them out.” She huffed, then flew back to the real danger.
And real it was, more so from the smoke now than the flames. Inhaling the better air of the corridor, she charged into the room—just as glass shattered. Like a flock of demons, the black cloud poured out the window Ben had broken. Slowly, the room cleared, leaving behind the hacking and coughing of Ben and Mr. Pocket, her own labored breaths, and a dull thumping accompanied by a mewling cry.
Ben wheeled toward the sound. “There!”
The men dashed to the far wall, where a board had been nailed across a door. What on earth? What kind of villain barricaded helpless victims, then set fire to ensure their demise?
Grabbing a candlestick fallen to the floor, Ben wedged a corner of it behind the wood and pulled. The board crashed to the floor with a clatter. Mr. Pocket yanked on the knob, and Jilly flew out the door like a bat from an attic, screaming all the way. From the depths of the attached room, Mr. Tallgrass’s curses swelled as black as the former smoke—but that was all. No real smoke or flames infected that room.
Ben dropped the candlestick. “Thank God.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Pocket rubbed a hand over his shorn head.
Clara shuddered, afraid to believe. Where might the next fire spring up? She picked her way past a tipped-over chair, edging to Ben’s side. “Is it over? Truly?”
A muscle stood out on his neck like a steel rod, until he blew away the tension with a deep sigh. “Let us hope so.” He cast her a sideways glance, and a shadow darkened his face. “You are trembling. Come, I’ll see you to your room.”
Offering his arm, he slipped his gaze to Mr. Pocket. “I believe you can handle Mr. Tallgrass, can you not, Inspector?”
Mr. Pocket leaned a hand against the doorframe and coughed, long and hard, then straightened as if he’d not just nearly hacked up a lung. “Righty-o. I’ve managed worse. See to the lady, Mr. Lane.”
Wrapping her fingers around Ben’s arm, she allowed him to lead her from the charred room and up to her chamber, grateful for his strength. The morning’s peril and chaos had poked holes in her courage, draining her dry, so much so that she stumbled at the top of the stair.
Ben covered her hand with his strong fingers, steadying her. “Are you all right?”
The sleeve of his nightshirt molded against hard muscle, and for the first time, she realized she wore naught but a robe over her chemise, a thin one at that. No, she was definitely not all right.
“I am fine,” she answered.
God, forgive me.
Willing her feet to behave, she managed to make it to the door of her chamber without further misstep. A miracle, really, for the heat of the man at her side—the one her body remembered despite what her mind might say—sped her heartbeat until it was hard to breathe.
She wanted to ask him to hold her. To wrap his arms around her as he had yesterday out in the woods and pretend nothing had changed between them. But when he pulled away and his sleeve rode up his arm, a black number marred his skin. She stared, wanting to turn away from the awful sight yet completely helpless to do so. The mark of a felon stared back at her. He was not the same man. How could he be? The Ben she’d known—gentle and kind, compassionate almost to a fault—might never be the same again. Loss squeezed her chest, and a small cry escaped her lips.
Ben shoved down his sleeve and lifted her face to his. “Do I frighten you?”
She swallowed, throat burning as much from his question as from the remnants of acrid smoke. How was she to answer that? She feared the things he’d seen and had to do to survive, the sometime feral gleam in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. But him? Did she fear this man who was to have been her husband? Did not the same heart still beat inside his chest?
“No, you do not.” She turned and fled into her chamber, closing the door between them. Leaning her back against the cool wood, she panted, fighting to catch her breath. It wasn’t a lie, for in truth, she was even more afraid of the queer twinge deep inside her belly.
Hunger, yes, but for more than breakfast.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ben strode to the door of the sitting room, tugging at his collar. Air. Just a draft of it. A moment on the front stoop to escape the leftover smoke permeating the manor. No one would miss him. At least no one had when he’d disappeared earlier to pen yet another batch of letters pleading for a fresh look into his case. Even should he gain his freedom by staying here the full twelve days, there was still the matter of recouping his estate funds from the Court of Chancery.
As he passed by, he smiled at Clara, who played cards with Miss Scurry. Near the hearth, Mr. Tallgrass pestered his brooding young attendant with instructions on properly roasting a chestnut. Mademoiselle Pretents looked out the window. Minnow hovered near Clara. And the inspector sorted through a box of ashes in hopes of finding a clue as to how the fire had started or a hint of who’d been wicked enough to intentionally trap Mr. Tallgrass and Jilly.
As Ben approached the threshold, a servant darted in, dropping a curtsy in front of him.
“Begging yer pardon, sir, but it’s Boxing Day.” The woman peeked up at him, then tucked her chin.
“And?” he asked.
She clutched and reclutched handfuls of her apron. Timid little thing, apparently. “There’s a line o’ tradesmen downstairs what are expecting their Christmas boxes, sir.”
He ran a hand along his jaw. Why would she think it necessary to tell him such information? “Then I suppose you should give them the
ir due, hmm?”
“That’s just it, sir. There are none.” She lifted her face, eyes shimmering. “I din’t know what else to do, who else to go to.”
So she came to him? He flattened his lips to avoid a glower, for surely such a look would push the woman into hysterics. “Has the butler not returned?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Dram, the housekeeper, she’s gone as well. Why, there’s naught but a handful of us servants to manage, and most of those are still cleaning up from the fire.”
Who invited guests without hiring proper staff? He grunted, for offering his true opinion would not be fit for mixed company. “Can you not simply send the tradesmen away?”
She wrung the life out of her apron. Were it a chicken, it would long since have died. “I tried, sir. I did.” Her voice pitched to a whine. “They won’t listen to the likes o’ me. I fear I shall be overrun with the brutes.”
The tone must’ve reached Clara’s ears, for she rose and crossed the carpet, stopping alongside him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
Mr. Minnow trailed her. “Is there a problem, Miss Chapman?”
Ben smothered a growl. Must the man track her like a dog on a scent? Ignoring Minnow, he spoke to Clara. “It seems some tradesmen are expecting their Christmas boxes, yet there are none to be given.”
“Oh.” Her brow crumpled. “That is dreadful.”
“Miss Chapman.” Miss Scurry, having been left alone at the card table, gathered her box and joined them. “Has the reckoning come?”
Clara smiled at her. “Don’t fret, Miss Scurry. Just an issue of not having Christmas boxes for the tradesmen.”
“Eh? What’s that?” Mr. Tallgrass craned his neck their way. “Tradesmen expectin’ boxes? Flappin’ beggars!”
The little maid cringed and stepped behind Ben. Laughable, really, that she’d seek refuge behind a convict. If he rolled up his sleeve, revealing his brand, would she run away as Clara had?
Whirling from the window, Mademoiselle Pretents threw out her arms. “Shoo them away, imbécile. We are not their masters. We are the guests. They can have no claim against us.”
Ben sighed. This was getting out of hand. “True, yet without the master in attendance, I suppose we are all the tradesmen have as his representative.”
His proclamation lifted the inspector’s head from his study of the ashes. A grey smudge smeared the tip of his big nose. “How do you know it’s a him, Mr. Lane?”
“Mere speculation, Inspector. Nothing more.” He slipped a glance at the little maid. “Go about your business, miss. I’ll see to the tradesmen.”
The woman darted out the door and down the hall.
Clara turned to him, admiration deepening the blue of her gaze. “How will you manage that?”
Indeed. How would he? But for the glimmer in Clara’s eyes, the embers of respect, he must come up with something.
“Fie!” Mr. Tallgrass’s voice rasped. “Grab some of the candlesticks and whatnot from around here, man, and shove it in a box. Give that to ’em. That’s how I’d manage, and with a kick to their backsides to help ’em out the door besides.”
“But these things are not ours to give.” Clutching her box tighter, Miss Scurry whimpered, her mobcap flopping nearly to her eyes. “Oh! The reckoning of it all.”
“Well.” Clara bit her lip, a sure sign something brewed in that pretty head of hers. “I think I have an idea. I propose we each retrieve whatever trifles we can spare from our travel bags. An extra handkerchief. A hair comb. Perhaps a peppermint you’ve forgotten about and have tucked away in a pocket. I, for one, have brought along my sewing basket and may find an overlooked needle and thread to spare.”
“Oh, lovely! Such a beautiful idea.” The lines on Miss Scurry’s face disappeared. “I may have just the thing.” She shoved back her cap with her free hand as she disappeared out the door.
Ben watched her go. Hopefully she wasn’t rushing off to wrap up her mice. Still, Clara’s idea was worth a shot.
Mademoiselle Pretents flounced over to Clara, jabbing the air with a pointed finger. “My jewels have already been stolen, and now you want to take more? No! I will not have it.”
The inspector set his box onto the side table nearest him, then rose. “Mademoiselle, unless you’d like me to rummage through your things, I suggest you find something to donate.”
“Are you threatening me, Monsieur?”
He halted in front of her and folded his arms. “Without doubt.”
“Gah! I have no more to say to you.” Her face pinched, nearly squeezing her dark eyes closed. “Any of you!” She stormed out of the room like a winter squall.
The inspector chuckled. “That’s the best thing she’s ever said.” Then he tipped his head at Clara. “A generous proposal on your part, miss. The world could use more like you.”
Pink bloomed on Clara’s cheeks, quite the contrast to Mademoiselle Pretents’s angry red. Ben tried not to stare, but the temptation was beyond a mere mortal such as himself. Ahh, he’d missed that innocent flush.
“I couldn’t agree more, Inspector,” he murmured, the words sounding huskier than he had intended—which only deepened her pink to the blush of a June rose.
“Well, I think it’s a bunch o’ flap.” Mr. Tallgrass shifted on his wheeled chair, listing to the side. “Oy me rumpus. Jilly!”
“I’ll leave him to you this time.” The inspector grumbled under his breath as he passed by Ben and fled the room.
Carping and cussing spewed out Tallgrass’s mouth the entire time Jilly propped him upward. “First my bones are rattled, then I’m fed fare what ’tain’t fit for a street sweeper, and next someone tries to burn me in my own chamber. Now this? No! I ain’t gonna give no one nothing. Tradesmen be hanged, I say.”
Mr. Minnow puffed out his chest and blocked Clara’s view of the man. If nothing else, he was a protective fellow. Then again, so was a rodent over a piece of Stilton.
“I’m certain I may find some trivialities that will suffice, Miss Chapman. Shall I see you to your room to retrieve some of yours?” His arm shot out.
Clara tucked her hands behind her back and stepped closer to Ben. “Thank you, but no, Mr. Minnow. I am sure I can manage on my own.”
Minnow deflated, cast a withering look at Ben, then slunk away like a tot who’d been told no for the first time.
Clara watched him go and took another step toward Ben. Not that he minded, but such daring while Tallgrass eyed them?
“I was hoping to have a word with you,” she said.
He looked past her, over at Tallgrass, who’d blessedly gone back to berating Jilly and her chestnut roasting skills at the hearth. Still, one never knew when the man would lash out at them again. He guided Clara to the door with a nudge to the small of her back. “Out in the hall.”
In the foyer, the lion head stared down at them. Ben smirked. Was this really any better?
Clara removed something from her pocket and held out her hand. A gold coin stared up at him.
He looked from the coin to her. “You’re offering gold to a thief?”
She shoved her hand closer. “Go on. I should like your opinion of it.”
Narrowing his eyes, he plucked the coin from her palm. Lightweight. Roughened edges. Perhaps over the centuries people had shaved bits off during times of dire need. One side was worn more than the other, a cross, or maybe an X, was at the center—impossible to read the letters ringing it. He flipped it over.
“Secundus casus.” He tasted the words like a foreign fruit. At first he’d thought it an old Roman coin, but none ever read thus. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”
“Someone slipped it under my door yesterday. Can you tell me what it says?”
“Second chance,” he drawled, but by the time the translation finished rolling off his tongue, he knew—and sucked in a sharp breath. “This was my charade last night, Clara.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know.�
� Behind him, the eyes of the lion burned into his back, and he stiffened. “The mysteries are starting to pile up in a great heap, are they not?”
“Sounds ominous.” She tipped her face to his, searching his eyes for God knew what. “Should I be afraid?”
“No. As you told Miss Scurry, don’t fret. Be watchful, yet don’t worry. I would not willingly allow any harm to come to you.” He reached for her hand and pressed her fingers around the coin, holding on longer than etiquette allowed. The warmth of her skin burned hotter than a summer day. How he’d missed this, a simple touch, hushed words shared by them alone. The way her blue gaze looked to him for strength. Desire stoked a fire in his gut.
He pulled away before he wrapped her in his arms and never let go. “Keep that coin. For whatever reason, someone wanted you to have it.”
“But who? And why?”
“Sometimes all we have are questions.” He shook his head. Lord knows he’d had his share of them while rotting in a gaol cell. “But there’s really only one that matters.”
She blinked, an endearing little wrinkle bunching her nose. “What’s that?”
“Is God in control, or is He not?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Second chance. Second chance. With each stab of Clara’s needle through the fabric, she mulled over what the coin in her pocket could possibly mean. Though she’d had nearly an hour to herself in the sitting room to think on it, nothing came to mind.
Ben entered, breaking her concentration. He strolled across the carpet, hands behind his back. “How goes it? Am I the last one to donate to your worthy cause?”
“No, I’m still waiting for Miss Scurry and Mr. Minnow’s contributions.” After she nipped the thread with her teeth, she tucked away her needle and held up the finished project for Ben’s inspection. “As for me, I’ve sewn six pouches from fabric scraps. Not brilliant, but serviceable. And far better than what the others have dropped off.”
“And that would be… ?”
12 Days at Bleakly Manor Page 6
