The room was stifling. The uncharacteristic heat of the evening made worse by the crush of bodies and the lack of fresh air. Winterbourne’s guests had been arriving in a steady stream all evening. The salon had likely been designed to comfortably accommodate one hundred people, perhaps one hundred and fifty. Morgan glanced around the room and estimated the current capacity to be at least twice that number.
All in all, the party would doubtless be deemed a smashing success. The orchestra was excellent, the room was stunning, the guests included the best names in all of London society, and the wine and spirits were generously dispensed in an effort to compensate for the heat. To that end Morgan noted that quite a few of the company seemed to be overindulging in the libations, turning the already overheated crowd somewhat rowdy and edgy. But that hardly presented a hazard at present. There would be ample time to pay for their overindulgence tomorrow morning, when they awoke clutching their heads in misery.
He returned his attention to Julia. She had left the elderly couple and stood surrounded by her aunt, uncle, and cousins. Other than her obvious discomfort at being cornered by her relatives, she was fine. As a change of pace, Morgan decided to do something gallant and rescue her from her predicament.
Before doing so, however, he scanned the crowd one last time. His gaze fell on a little girl of perhaps six, trying and failing to stifle a yawn as she moved through the crowd carrying a tray of canapes. She wore a ridiculously formal emerald green gown; her curly blond hair — elaborately swept up earlier — now fell about her shoulders in weary disarray. The child was part of a passing fad, but one that was currently all the rage. Beautiful, impoverished children dressed in rich clothing who assisted the servants, almost as though they were part of the decor. There were a dozen boys and girls like her in the room, all wilting with the heat and noise and lateness of the hour.
While Morgan watched, a glob of hot wax dripped down from the candelabra above her and fell on her sleeve. The little girl issued a cry of alarm and jumped to the side. If the candle itself had fallen, catching the long train of her gown…
As that grim thought took root in his mind, a flash of flame appeared just over the child’s head.
Morgan froze, unable to move. The moment seemed to stretch out forever. He knew with stark, gut-wrenching certainty it was all happening again. The little girl. The flame.
So quickly. It happened so quickly.
His pulse leaped to his throat as his muscles tensed in readiness. A split second before he lunged forward to grab the child a second movement caught his eye. The motion of a man’s dark sleeve reflected within a glass pane just above the little girl’s head. A man was standing on the terrace outside the grand salon. He had struck a match and lifted it to the tip of his cigar. What Morgan had witnessed was a reflection of the flame within the glass. That was all. Nothing more. Nothing dramatic. Merely an illusion. A trick of the eye.
Morgan swallowed hard, clenching his fist around the glass he held. Lifting the brandy to his lips, he took a deep swallow. Unfortunately the drink did little to steady his nerves. The fleeting image of the little girl and the flame had left him shaking, drenched in a cold sweat. As he turned away, the man he had seen lighting the cigar waved to catch his eye. Morgan recognized Joseph Perryman. Seizing the excuse for a temporary respite, he managed a tight smile in return and left the room, stepping outside to join his friend.
Julia scanned the room once again for Morgan. She wasn’t desperately in need of her husband’s presence as much as she was desperate to be extricated from her present situation: keeping company with Marianne and Theresa. It wasn’t that she disliked her cousins. She simply had nothing in common with them. They were both completely feminine — in a manner she found completely annoying. At the moment they were engaged in a pastime they clearly found to be of the utmost enjoyment — issuing scathing critiques of the other guests’ ball gowns.
“Did you see Lady Vackerby?” Marianne inquired in a hushed whisper, leaning forward in conspiratorial delight as she cast a sly glance at the woman whose gown had so deeply offended her sensibilities. “I mean, really. Purple lace? And she hasn’t even the dignity to—”
A shrill scream pierced the echoing din of laughter and conversation that filled the grand salon.
Marianne paused abruptly.
A second scream followed the first. A shocked, quizzical hush fell over the salon at the unprecedented disturbance. The orchestra paused, as did the guests who filled the crowded dance floor. Heads turned. An eerie, unnatural silence hung over the assembly. Then an audible gasp echoed through the chamber as horrified understanding set in.
Julia’s gaze shot to a twisting, hissing wall of flame that licked up the damask draperies near the room’s main entry. Within seconds the cloth covering the adjacent table simmered and writhed, catching flame as well.
For what seemed an infinitely long moment — although it was probably no more than a fraction of a second — a frozen stillness seemed to hold everyone in place.
Then pandemonium broke out. Cries of fire! mixed with shrill screams of terror. A few lone guests called for buckets of water as they bravely raced toward the flame, swatting at it with whatever was near to hand. The vast majority, however, surged toward the doors that led to the terrace, the salon’s only other exit. A panicked tumult of pushing and shoving instantly engulfed the room.
With a great roar and a hiss, the tall swath of flaming drapery abruptly tore away from the rod on which it hung and fell to the floor, collapsing on top of the men and women who had attempted to flee through the main entrance.
What had been an anxious crowd disintegrated into an outbreak of mob hysteria. Screams flooded the room. One moment Marianne and Theresa were standing before her, the next they were gone, whisked away in the tumult. Julia stood frozen, unsure what to do. She desperately scanned the salon for Morgan, somehow confident that he could bring order to the melee. No sooner had that thought seized her when she was struck by another. Should she look for Lazarus? If he was behind this, surely he remained nearby. Unfortunately the moment of indecision cost her. She felt a hard blow knock her from behind, nearly driving her to her knees.
She quickly regained her balance, and in the next moment she was moving — but not of her own free will. She found herself carried away by the same desperate tide that had seized her cousins. Her feet were swept out from under her as she was dragged forward by the violent current of bodies streaming through the room. Julia fought to break free from the mob, but she had no control over the direction in which she was moving. It was all she could do to stay abreast of the chaos.
The woman beside her gave a shriek of terror, then fell and disappeared beneath the teeming throng. Horror clogged Julia’s throat as she tried to reach for her, but her arms were pinned against her sides. There was nothing she could do. She was trapped, totally engulfed by the mob. Panic began to seize her. The crowd was rushing toward a series of four narrow glass doors that led to the terrace — narrow doors that couldn’t possibly accommodate the thick swell of bodies.
Heat and smoke filled the room. The sound of shattering glass rose above the cries and wails of the mob. She watched as the terrace doors rushed toward her. Then the momentum of the crowd abruptly shifted. Terror seized Julia as she realized that she was about to be, not unceremoniously flung through a door, but crushed against a section of wall that separated the wooden door frames instead.
She tried to move, but her body, held captive by the stampeding masses, refused to obey. It was all she could do to turn her head, taking the blow to her temple rather than her face. For a moment she feared her knees were going to buckle beneath her. But somehow she managed to remain upright. She felt the crowd weaken behind her, then surge forward even more forcefully, as though attempting to use her as a battering ram to break through the wall itself.
The mob pressed against her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. No matter how desperately she tried, she couldn’t gulp in enough ai
r. Hysteria wrapped around her throat, further constricting her breath. Her heart raced, her pulse drummed in her ears. Smoke billowed through the room.
Then the crowd surged forward once again.
She slammed against the wall. Weakness seeped through her limbs. There was no more fight left in her. She felt bruised and broken, dizzy from the effort required to remain conscious.
Hysteria faded to acceptance. Her limbs relaxed as a state of mild euphoria seized her. From lack of oxygen? she wondered. It didn’t matter, she realized, letting the thought go. She was floating now, and she felt wonderful.
As her eyes fluttered shut, she caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man who looked remarkably like Morgan. He was fighting his way through the crowd, an intense expression on his face. Coming to rescue her, she thought. A nice fantasy, but one she knew wasn’t real. Nevertheless, her dark rescuer did possess a fierce kind of beauty. There was something magnificent about him… something noble…
The thought brought a soft smile to her face.
The mob shoved against her once again. Julia hit the wall hard. Her legs buckled as her body at last gave way, slipping beneath the crowd.
Morgan stood at the window of Julia’s bedchamber. It would be another blistering day, he thought. Although just midmorning, heat already filled the air, casting a thick, yellow haze over the city If he looked intently enough, he imagined he could see remnants of smoke from last night’s conflagration. Was it dull shadows he saw in the distance, or soft flakes of gray ash clinging to the rooftops and tree limbs? The sound of gentle rustling of bedsheets prevented him from pursuing the question further. He turned immediately, his gaze moving toward his wife’s bed. She studied the room in cloudy confusion, as though attempting to get her bearings. As her gaze locked on his, understanding seemed to set in, for her expression instantly sobered.
Releasing a soft sigh, she said flatly, “You’re frowning at me.”
Was he? Evidently the relief he felt at seeing her awake was not as apparent as he assumed. Lifting his shoulders in a light shrug, he replied simply, “My apologies. I’m not accustomed to seeing bruises on your face.”
She raised a hand and gently probed her swollen left temple. “I must look a sight.”
He ignored that. “How do you feel?”
She shifted experimentally and grimaced. “As though my body were used as a battering ram to break through a wall.”
“So you do remember what happened.” Morgan crossed the room and lifted a small vial of amber liquid from the nightstand near her bed. “If the pain is very bad, I have a sedative—”
“No,” she said, waving it away. As she glanced down at herself and saw that she was attired in her nightgown, a subtle blush crept over her cheeks. She focused on sitting up. Morgan leaned forward to assist her, seizing a plump pillow and propping it against the headboard to make her more comfortable.
“Dr. Hammill was here to see you last night,” he said. “Fortunately, you don’t have any permanent injuries. Apparently the bone stays in your corset offered some protection; your ribs are bruised but not broken.” He paused, shaking his head. “How do women breathe in those contraptions? It boggles the mind.”
“The male mind, perhaps, not the female one. When it comes to the latest fashion, breathing is secondary to looking shapely.”
“You don’t need it.”
She shrugged. “I’m not entirely vain, merely practical. My gowns won’t fit without one.”
“Then we’ll order you new gowns.”
Julia went silent. A deep frown marred her brow as she toyed with the lace edge of her sheet. She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself for the worst. Then she looked up at him. Studying his face intently, she asked, “How many?”
He knew instantly that she was referring not to the number of gowns she could expect but to the number of people who had been injured in last night’s fire. He let out a sigh and reached for a chair. The piece was delicate and fragile, made to match the suite of feminine furniture that filled the room. He turned the chair around and straddled it, resting one arm across the embroidered back as he met her eyes.
“Seven injured, including you,” he replied directly. “One fairly badly — a Mrs. Edgar Addison. Like most everyone, her injuries were a direct result, not of the fire, but of the pandemonium that ensued. Apparently she fell and was trampled beneath the crowd. She suffered several broken ribs and a broken collarbone, as well as numerous bumps and bruises.”
Julia nodded. “I think I saw her. The train of her gown was caught, and she was pulled under. I tried to reach her, but I couldn’t move. My arms were pinned against my sides.” She stopped abruptly, giving a slight shudder. “What about the children who were in the room?”
“One boy suffered a broken wrist. The rest were unharmed,” he assured her quickly. “Some were lifted bodily and carried from the room by whoever was near, the rest managed to dart out through a side door. The servants’ exits to the kitchens were overlooked completely. Everyone attempted to herd through the narrow doors that led to the terrace.”
“There was no way to avoid it. There was so much smoke and confusion, so much panic and shoving. It was like being caught in the most sinister of currents. If only people had remained calm. Then there might have been time—”
“I don’t know how you could have avoided panic,” he interrupted. “From what I heard, the fire was both abrupt and terrifying.”
She frowned. “You didn’t see it?”
“Not at first. I was on the terrace speaking with a friend when the flames erupted.”
“But you went back inside.”
For a moment he wondered if she remembered seeing him fight his way through the mob for her. But before he could suggest as much, her gaze moved slowly over his clothing. A mirror hung on the wall opposite her bed. Glancing into it, Morgan experienced a shock. He knew he hadn’t yet bothered to bathe, but he had not been aware just how dreadful his appearance really was. Flakes of filmy ash clung to his skin and hair. His white linen shirt was coated with streaks of grimy black soot. A long, narrow slash split the side of his trousers nearly in two.
“You look as though you tried to extinguish the flames single-handedly,” she remarked.
He grinned. “Or like a chimney sweep.”
A whisper of a smile crossed Julia’s face at his jest, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. “Lazarus?” she asked.
He released a dark sigh. “Possibly. I don’t know. The servants remember placing two candlesticks on the table where the fire began. An accidental bump could have knocked one over and started the fire.” He paused, shrugging. “It was hot and crowded in the room, and many of the guests had been drinking excessively. A careless stagger would have been enough to start the inferno.”
Although she nodded in agreement, she didn’t appear any more convinced than he was. “It just seems…”
“A bit too coincidental?” he supplied.
“Yes. Particularly in light of the fact that you and I were both in attendance.”
“Overstating our importance a bit, is it not?”
“Then there’s the matter of Lazarus’s letter,” she continued stubbornly. “What were his exact words?”
“‘When I have assembled you, I will blast you with the heat of my anger and smelt you with it,’” he supplied, having already reread the letter numerous times since their return from the Winterbournes’ gala.
Her eyes shone with victory. “There. You see? ‘When I have assembled you.’ Clearly he’s referring to a grand ball or a large assembly.”
“Or when he has assembled you and me,” Morgan countered. “Difficult to remember that we are dealing with someone who isn’t at all sane. We can’t apply our own standards of rationality to his dealings. There is also the fact that the fire was not begun in his usual manner. His earlier acts were always performed in secrecy, usually in the early morning hours, when the chances of his being discovered were practically nonexistent.”
Julia let out a sigh. The victory he had seen in her eyes a moment before turned to an expression of utter frustration. “So what have we learned after the events of last night? Either the fire was coincidental or it wasn’t. Either Lazarus was there or he wasn’t. Furthermore, if he was there, he may or may not have had a hand in setting the fire. This entire disastrous episode could have been accidental.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Their conversation came to a lull. Unable to stop himself, his gaze moved slowly over Julia as though drawn there by some irresistible force. Sitting with her linens gathered about her waist in messy disarray, her fiery hair cascading down her shoulders, and her prim nightgown buttoned up to her throat, she looked unbearably fragile and delicate, lost in the enormity of her bed.
Morgan had always viewed women in a sexual way. But the impulse he experienced at that moment was decidedly asexual in nature. He wanted to climb into bed with Julia and do something positively ridiculous: gather her into his arms and cuddle her against him until they both fell asleep. It must be his own exhaustion that was twisting his thoughts, he rationalized. Whatever its cause, the urge was as unwelcome as it was unexpected, for it set off a silent alarm in his mind. A warning of sorts, but of a different kind of danger. His control was slipping away.
Forcing his thoughts back to the events of last night, he said, “When the fire first broke out, I saw you standing alone amidst the pandemonium, almost as though frozen.”
“True,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “But not by fear.”
“Oh?”
She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “I didn’t know whether to look for you or to begin immediately hunting for Lazarus. It seemed as though I should have been doing something, I just didn’t know what that something was.”
“I see,” he replied. “In that case, might I offer a suggestion in the event that you ever find yourself again in a room that is engulfed by flame?”
With This Kiss Page 18
