She answered the questions posed to her by the charming, but at seven and sixty, completely harmless, Sir Harrison on her right, and the equally delightful Miss Darlington on her left. The gentlemen seated across from her were notorious rogues, however. She’d ducked her head and blushed more than once at some comment they addressed to her.
Roark tapped his fingers atop the table. It was gauche to address anyone other than those seated beside you. Dankworth and Pemberton, the rakes, knew better. Although it wasn’t proper, Roark had seen to it that Miss Darlington was seated beside Adaira. The woman was intelligent and kind. More importantly, she wasn’t given to gossip. He was confident she’d do her best to put Adaira at ease.
“Lord Clarendon,” Lady Bradford said, rudely peering past two higher ranking guests to address him. “I’ve never known you to host such a large, extended house party. And my goodness,” she pressed a hand to her breast, “a ball too. Not even when Lady Clarendon. . .”
Fork halfway to his mouth, he arced a brow at her.
Faltering, she gave Roark a dazzling smile, fully realizing her blunder, he’d no doubt. Taking a sip of wine, she recovered swiftly. Leaning forward, her scrawny bosom nearly in her food and Lord Cammish’s elbow up her nose, she pressed Roark.
“Perchance there is cause to celebrate, my lord? An announcement to be made?”
He damned near choked on the peas he’d forked into his mouth. He ended up swallowing them whole rather than spew them like tiny green cannonballs onto the table. These were the people he’d insisted Adaira model herself after? Was he out of his bloody mind?
Lady Bradford sent a sly smile to Helene seated a bit further along the table. Helene returned the smile before leveling her possessive gaze on Roark.
So, they’d plotted this, had they? He took a long sip of wine, forcing the glob stuck in his throat to finish its painfully slow journey to his stomach.
He’d speak to Helene tonight, set things straight with her and make it perfectly clear they were finished. He didn’t envy the scene he suspected might follow. He perused her, and his blood ran cold. Helene glared at Adaira, pure venom in the widow’s eyes.
The count, seated to her right, openly leered at Adaira. Egads, the boor was practically drooling in his food.
A vision of mashing von Schnitzer’s face into his creamed potatoes and peas intruded upon Roark’s imagination. He gritted his teeth and lowered his clenched hand to his lap.
Thank God Adaira’s attention was commandeered by Sir Harrison. The chivalrous old flirt winked at her. She laughed, full and throaty, at something he shared. She scooted her gaze around the table self-consciously. For the briefest of moments, her lovely brown eyes met Roark’s before skittering away.
He recognized the confused melancholy pooled in their depths. His conscience pinged. This was truly trying for her. Most women he knew flourished at social gatherings. Not her. She didn’t welcome the male attention.
Most intriguing and telling. He was having a difficult time reconciling the passionate woman he’d kissed to this one, obviously wary of men.
“My lord? Have you good tidings to share?” Lady Bradford persisted.
Lady Arterbury tittered at the nosey question. Lady Bradford sent an annoyed glower across the table. Lady Arterbury raised a brow, still grinning.
Roark clenched his jaw. Lady Bradford was determined and intrusive. The only tidings he had pertained to Edgar’s release from Newgate. Not something Roark cared to share or celebrate. According to Yancy, Edgar had flown to the continent upon his release.
How many guests were aware of his brother’s change in status? Roark considered those at the table. Lady Bradford peered at him expectantly, waiting for an answer to her question. Best to answer her. It was easier to separate green from a leaf than deter the woman once she’d set her mind to garnering on dit.
He shook his head. “No, nothing special. Merely the pleasure of having some friends to visit. It’s time I put Delia’s memory to rest.”
Make of that what you will.
Lady Bradford’s hazel green eyes widened. She sliced Helene an unsteady half-smile. Pretending to be absorbed in the glazed duck on his plate, Roark observed Helene through lowered eyes. A puzzled frown crossed her features. She angled her head the merest bit in his direction. She looked between Lady Bradford and him several times.
Raising her wine goblet, Lady Bradford lifted one shoulder an inch, giving a small shake of her head.
Roark’s focus settled on Count von Schnitzer. Once Helene was informed of her new status, Roark was certain she’d beg off attending any other events at Cadbury. That meant he’d be spared the count’s presence as well.
Freidrick, the irritating whelp, had declined to join his father and cousin for dinner tonight. Just as well. Roark wasn’t altogether sure Adaira wouldn’t have given him a set down. Or drawn his cork. She packed quite a wallop. He pressed two fingers to his lip in remembrance.
The rest of the dinner passed with excruciating slowness. Every time Roark tried to catch Adaira’s eye, she glanced away. Whatever was going on? Conversations buzzed around him, but he participated little. Flicking his hand, he indicated Thom should fill Roark’s wine glass once more.
“I say, Clarendon, what a brilliant bit of excitement at the lake today.”
Roark eyed Lord Sawyer. The man was a loutish dolt, but a close neighbor and powerful lord. Slighting the man by not inviting his household to the house party was unthinkable.
Upon hearing the remark, several heads swiveled Roark’s direction, eager, he was sure, for a morsel of gossip. He pressed his lips together, then turned his most bored look on Sawyer.
After wiping his lips with his serviette, Roark nodded.
“Yes, Miss Ferguson is quite the heroine, risking her life to save the pup when the dog fell overboard. The other boats weren’t near enough to help, and it would have taken the gentlemen in her boat too long to remove their boots and coats.”
He took a leisurely sip of his wine. Those closest to him, nodded their heads and smiled, murmuring their agreement.
“Yes, indeed, Miss Ferguson was most brave.”
“What an admirable young woman.”
“It’s fortunate she’s a stronger swimmer.”
“True, and it was the puppy’s good fortune Miss Ferguson was in the same boat.”
No one dared question Roark’s word. If they had suspicions all was not as he’d suggested, his guests would voice them away from him.
He waved his hand, indicating dessert should be served. Biting into a strawberry, he cocked his head at an unexpected sound. What was that?
Thudding footsteps and frantic voices had him out of his seat and halfway across the dining room. Georgie, a stable boy, his face smeared with dirt and smoke, plowed into the room. Westbrook followed inches behind him.
Holding his side and gasping for breath, Georgie blurted, “Fire, yer lordship! The stables are afire.”
CHAPTER 23
Tossing her napkin on her plate, Adaira sprang to her feet.
The horses. Fionn!
She cast a frantic glance about the table. Chaos erupted. Women screamed and swooned while the men littered the air with oaths.
Panic gagged her as a score of men, including Father, Dugall, and Flynn, charged to the dining room’s doors.
“A moment, please.” Roark held his hand up. His calm voice rang throughout the chamber. Everyone turned anxious gazes to him.
How can he sound composed?
Gripping the table’s edge, Adaira squeezed her eyes shut, fighting waves of nausea.
Dear God, they must get to the horses.
“Lady Ferguson, can I impose upon you to entertain the ladies in the drawing room? Those wishing to assist, do follow me. Lord Harrison, I leave the o
ther gentlemen in your capable hands.”
Adaira’s eyes snapped open.
Drawing room? She wasn’t sitting and twiddling her thumbs in a confounded drawing room, listening to inane feminine drivel. She sliced a glance to Mrs. Winthrop. Red-faced, she appeared to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit. Count von Schnitzer remained in his seat, casually spooning trifle into his mouth.
Unmitigated, cowardly boor.
Roark laid a hand on Westbrook’s arm. “Please see to the needs of our guests.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler said, angling his head in acquiescence.
From the glint in his eye, Adaira would wager her savings he would rather be fighting the blaze.
Without further ado, Roark and the other men, including a slew of liveried footmen, stampeded out the door. In the ensuing confusion, Adaira edged to the French windows at the end of the room. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she slipped out unnoticed.
She rucked her gown to mid-calf and tore after the men thundering to the stables. They were joined by dozens of others, both the earl’s staff and servants who’d accompanied their privileged employers to Cadbury for the house party.
The screams of terrified horses, men’s coarse shouts, and the eerie groans and shrieks of the burning buildings shattered the night’s tranquility. Flames, fueled by a brisk breeze, shot to the heavens, lighting the sky with writhing orangey-red and yellow blades. Hell on earth.
Please let Fionn be safe.
Please let Fionn be safe.
Oh, God. Please.
Gasping for breath, Adaira reached the first of the buildings. The smoke gushing forth made it impossible to see anything clearly. The cloying heat and stench gagged her.
It appeared two of the larger structures were engulfed in flames. Coughing, her eyes watering and lungs burning from the thick acrid smoke, she peered around. Yanking her handkerchief from between her breasts, she covered her mouth and nose. Where were Father and Dugall? Where was Roark?
She grabbed the arm of a stable hand running past. Sweat mixed with soot and grim dripped from his face. He whipped around, impatience on his features until he saw who she was.
“The horses? Did the horses get out?” She shoved aside her hair which had come loose of its pins.
“Yes, miss. We moved all the stock into the pastures when the fire was first spotted.” He cast a hurried glance to the fracas taking place beyond them. “Even before word was sent to the manor we made sure the animals were safe.”
A sob caught in Adaira’s throat. “Thank God!”
“Miss, I needs go. I must help.”
Swallowing the knot of fear turned relief, she managed a nod. “Yes, of course.”
He sprinted off.
“Wait!” She shouted to be heard above the melee. “Where’s Lord Clarendon?”
The groom half-turned, yelling a response, but the wind carried it away. She hurried his direction, wincing when she stepped on something sharp with her slipper.
“Pardon?” She swiped at her hair, billowing around her face and shoulders. Dratted nuisance. This is why she wore her hair tied back. Asinine pins worked loose half the time.
He trotted back to her, pointing to outbuildings on the other side of the paddock. “His lordship and half a dozen men were over there the last time I saw him.”
Adaira nodded and smiled her thanks. She’d been to the stables but once. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the barns and outbuildings as she’d seen them yesterday. The coach house and the stable hands’ quarters were situated on the north end of the paddock, and beyond them were the pastures.
Blast, if Roark were still in the vicinity, he might see her. Keeping a wary eye on the blazing buildings, she gingerly picked her way around the corral. She must find Fionn. She wouldn’t believe he was safe until she’d seen him herself.
Scrunching her eyes against the stinging air, Adaira strained to see the far meadow. This side of the grounds was darker and a scant less frenetic with activity.
She hadn’t seen Father or Dugall yet. She searched the area where Roark was last seen. It was impossible to tell if he were part of the throng bustling about over there.
The men weren’t trying to extinguish the fires greedily consuming the two larger barns. Their efforts were concentrated on protecting the other outbuildings. Startled, she yelped in surprise as one roof, with an eerily human-like shriek, caved in. The impact was deafening. Fiery debris spewed far into the gloamy sky.
Mouth dry, Adaira couldn’t tear her attention from the snapping and writhing barn as it died a slow, grotesque death. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she stared in wide-eyed horror as the seething bones of three sides of the barn shuddered, before disintegrating into a massive crackling mound of rubbish.
A frisson of sorrow spurred her. She could imagine what Roark must be feeling. Another loud thud followed by a shower of sparks and flames shooting every which direction announced the demise of the building’s final wall.
This must be what hell was like.
Someone seized her arm, whirling her around. “What are ye doing? Does yer mother know yer out here?”
“Father!”
Adaira ducked her head guiltily. Mother would be frantic and his lordship, if he found her here, no doubt livid. Ladies of quality weren’t supposed to plod around stable grounds. In their slippers. Unescorted. At night. With buildings afire.
Her father lifted her chin. Half-wild eyes in a blackened face peered into hers.
“Why aren’t ye inside where it’s safe?” he roared, although whether from temper or the need to be heard above the furious din, she couldn’t be certain.
“I must know Fionn is all right.” She wiped at the smoke-caused tears trailing down her cheeks. She scanned the area. “I still haven’t seen him.”
Wrapping her in his arms, Father gave her a swift, hard hug. “I have, lass. He be fine.” He set her away from him. “Now, get yourself inside. I canna be worrying about ye, and I canna escort you back.”
“Dugall? Flynn?” It terrified her to think her kinfolk were battling this fiery chaos.
“Over there.” Father pointed to a bunch of men with shovels and spades.
Adaira made out the shape of her gargantuan brother hunched over, beating the flames. Flynn, she didn’t see.
Father gave her a little shove in the direction of the manor. “Go. Now. Scoot.”
She reluctantly swung around to return to the house. “Aye, if you’re positive—”
“Yer horse be fine, lass.” With a final pat on her shoulder, Father rushed to assist some men across the enclosure. She stood for a few moments more, admiring the dedication, and the willingness of the men to put themselves in grave danger.
She glanced down at her gown. She was a sorry sight, not that she cared. Those in the manor would, however. If she used stealth, perhaps she could make it to her chamber undetected. Strands of hair swished across her face once more. Grimacing, she brushed at them impatiently. They stank of smoke. For certain she was covered with sooty filth. Another bath was in order. Her lovely gown was only fit for the rubbish pile now.
Heaving a sigh, she cast one last wistful glance over her shoulder before making the return trek to the mansion. A man holding a lantern swiftly strode to the carriage house. He lifted the lamp high in the air.
Coatless, Lord Clarendon’s angular face and straight-nosed profile were illumined against the gloomy backdrop. Bathed in soft amber light, he searched for something. He twisted his head this way and that, then lowered the lantern and disappeared around the corner of the building.
Adaira’s heart pattered unevenly. He was safe. She didn’t examine the reasons for her profound relief. After all, he was the adversary, although this afternoon, he’d been more savior than tormentor. The
look in his eyes made her want to snuggle up to him, nuzzle his neck, and run her fingers through is hair.
But he was Mrs. Winthrop’s.
Even as she turned to go, a movement caught her eye. A shadow glided along the edge of the coach house. Unease slithered up her spine.
Frowning, she peered around. Everyone else was busily engaged. No one was paying her any mind. Directing her attention back to the mysterious form, she furrowed her brow. No one was there. She bit her lower lip. Perhaps she’d been wrong.
So, why were the hairs on the nape of her neck still standing upright, stiff as wild boar bristles? Moisture beaded her brow and upper lip as well as dampened her underarms.
The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) Page 23
