by Lynsay Sands
Crying out, Maggie threw herself to the side, tumbling to the floor as the lamp sailed past. She heard it smash against the wall, and a whooshing sound made her glance weakly over to see that oil had sprayed everywhere. The fire was quickly following.
The flames seemed alive, like fingers of some monster hungry to consume her. Her last thought before darkness claimed her was that she was going to die.
"We are late."
Lady Barlow peered at her nephew through the growing gloom inside the carriage and bit her lip to keep from smiling. The man was quite put out. He had arrived at her town house a good hour ago, earlier than she'd expected, and she hadn't been ready. Neither was she ready by the appointed hour, and she had left James cooling his heels in her salon while her maid had fussed over her. By the time she had made her grand entrance into the salon, the man was seething.
Far from being impressed with all the work her maid had put into her appearance, James had turned from his pacing with relief, snatched his aunt's hand, and nearly dragged her out of the house without her cloak or gloves. She had rebuked him quite firmly for the unseemly behavior, taken her time donning the items, then walked out to the carriage at a dignified pace. The whole while he'd pranced about her, almost begging her to move quicker.
Vivian had nearly burst into laughter at his antics, but she hadn't thought he would appreciate her amusement. She'd managed to stifle it behind a stern expression.
The boy was terribly eager to collect little Lady Margaret, which Vivian saw as terribly encouraging. James hadn't shown the least bit of interest in any of the other available ladies of the ton in years. She had despaired of his ever settling down and presenting her with a little grandniece or grandnephew.
She sighed to herself at the thought. Babies. She did love babies. Unfortunately she had not been blessed with any of her own. It had been both a tragedy and a blessing when her dear sister had died at sea and left her young children in Vivian's care. As much as she had grieved the loss of her sibling and brother-in-law, she had taken James and his sister to her bosom with love and devotion, treating them as her own. Without those two to look after and chase, she felt sure she would have grown into a bitter old woman. Any babies either child produced would be a further blessing. And now Vivian was becoming rather hopeful that Lady Margaret might be the one to lure James to the altar and begin producing such added wonders.
Her gaze slid to her nephew, and she smiled a little slyly at the normally calm and dignified man's fidgeting. Then, forcing her expression to a more serious mien, she murmured, "This shall be good for Margaret. Having the child at the opera with us should raise a lot of curiosity about her, and then the Willans always have a lot of eligible bachelors at their balls. Perhaps we can find her some suitable husband material."
She was not disappointed at the sharp way James glanced at her. "What?"
"Well," she murmured comfortably, "her brother did die saving your life. It does behoove us to find her a good, strong, well-set husband to take care of her."
"She doesn't need a husband," he protested at once, looking put out by the idea. "She can take care of herself."
"Nonsense. Once she is married she can give up writing those dangerous articles. She is taking too many chances, as it is."
James stared at her in horror for a moment. It had obviously not occurred to him that his aunt might take it into her head to see the girl settled. It was also obvious he didn't like the idea. At all. Good, she thought as she watched him shift. There was no reason for him not to want to marry the girl off unless he was interested himself. Oh, yes, she would see the stubborn cur married by the end of season, or her name wasn't Lady Vivian Jean Barlow.
"Dammit! I told Crowch to drive quickly. What is he doing?" James grumbled, drawing her attention. She glanced at him in time to see his head disappear out the window to address the driver. "Crowch? What is the holdup here? We are nearly at a standstill."
"Sorry, m'lord. There appears to be some problem up ahead. A fire, I think. There is smoke filling the road, and gawkers are holding up traffic."
"A fire?" Vivian asked, catching the man's explanation and leaning curiously toward the window.
Her nephew went as stiff as a board. "Can you see where it seems to be coming from?" he asked.
Vivian felt anxiety strike her at the dread in James's voice.
"I'm not sure, m'lord. It looks to be coming from somewhere near Lady Wentworth's. It could be one of her neighbor's homes, or hers.... I can't tell from here."
James was out of the carriage before Vivian had even digested Crowch's words. Leaning out the window of the door her nephew had just pushed closed, she peered up the street in concern. A black cloud of smoke was billowing up into the darkening sky.
James ran. He ran so fast his heart was thumping violently and loudly in his chest, deafening him to the startled gasps and complaints of the people he was pushing and shoving past in his desperate effort to reach Maggie. The fire couldn't be at the Wentworth town house. It couldn't be. But even as he tried to reassure himself, he knew that he was wrong, and cursed himself for not preventing this somehow--for not doing more about the danger she was in and seeing her safe.
He stumbled through the last of the onlookers, crashing against the gate separating the town house from the street. His hands clenched on the pointed metal spears as he gaped in horror at the burning building. Smoke was billowing out of several broken windows in the house and rising to merge into one large cloud that blackened the already inky sky.
"Maggie," he said under his breath. He had already started to pull the gate open when a hand settled on his shoulder.
"M'lord?"
James started to shake the hand off, but the man's next words made him pause.
"She ain't in there, m'lord. She's all right."
Turning sharply, James stared at the speaker, not recognizing him for a moment. "Johnstone?"
"Aye, m'lord." The man's expression showed some concern.
"Where is she?" he asked sharply, grabbing the man's coatfront in agitation.
"My man got her out." When James looked blank, the runner raised a soothing hand. "Ye remember? Ye said to put a man on her until we discovered whether someone were after her or not." His gaze slid grimly to the burning house and the brigade working to put it out. "Well, it looks like someone is after her after all."
"Where is she?" James repeated, his voice harsh. He didn't care about anything else at that point but seeing for himself that Maggie was safe. Seeming to finally realize that, Johnstone tugged free and started to lead his employer back through the crowd.
"This way, m'lord."
"James?" a voice called.
He hesitated in the street, then paused to rush back to meet his aunt. She was hurrying breathlessly through the crowd toward him. Frowning up the road, he saw that his carriage was still some distance back, and realized that his aunt had followed him on foot.
"Perhaps you should go back and wait in the carriage, Aunt Viv," he suggested as he reached her side.
"Is Maggie all right? Is that her town house?"
"Yes, it is hers."
"Is she all right?" his aunt asked again with growing alarm. James hesitated. He wanted to insist that his aunt return to his carriage and wait there, but he knew she would merely argue and delay him. Unwilling to waste time convincing her, he took her arm and hurried over to where Johnstone now stood leaning into a hack.
Reaching the runner's side, James released his aunt to step up and peer past the shorter man's shoulders into the carriage. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. When they did, he found himself staring at a crumpled female form in the arms of a large, dark shadow.
"Jack says she was unconscious when he found and dragged her out of the house. He sent a lad to fetch me at the office and waited with her on the front lawn until the fire got too hot. When I got here, I had him get her in the carriage. I was going to take her to yer town house, but by that time t
he gawkers had clogged the road. We couldn't get out of here," Johnstone told him apologetically, stepping aside to allow James to fill the open door. Then he added, "She hasn't regained consciousness yet."
James didn't hesitate. Leaning into the hack, he lifted Maggie out of the other man's arms, then straightened with her. "Come," was all he said. It was enough; his aunt, Johnstone, and the man named Jack all trailed obediently back along the street to his carriage.
"Can you get us out of here, Crowch?" James asked grimly as the driver leaped down from his bench to open the carriage door.
The coachman hesitated, his gaze moving over the vehicles now ahead of and behind them, then he considered the empty half of the road where carriages should have been traveling in the opposite direction, but weren't. He nodded determinedly. "Aye, m'lord."
"Good man," James said. "Take us back home."
"Your home or Lady Barlow's?" the driver asked.
"My home," his aunt promptly answered. When James frowned, she explained, "It is closer."
James's gaze dropped to the pale, smoke-smudged face of the woman he held; then he nodded and stepped up into his carriage. His aunt followed, settling on the bench seat across from him. James settled Maggie carefully in his lap, her head against his chest, her lower legs and feet taking up the rest of the seat. Johnstone paused long enough to order his man to join Crowch on the driver's bench, then clambered in as well, murmuring apologies as he settled next to Lady Barlow.
They were all silent as Crowch maneuvered the vehicle's horses, turned it on the lane, and headed them back the way they had come.
It was a very short ride back to his aunt's house, and James leaped out of the carriage--Maggie cradled to his chest--as soon as Crowch opened the door. He was grateful to see that Johnstone's man had already rushed ahead to announce their arrival. Meeks opened the door just as James reached the house, his eyes goggling at the sight of Lady Wentworth in James's arms.
"Another accident, my lord?" he asked in alarm, quickly stepping out of the way so that everyone could enter.
"Another one?" Lady Barlow echoed sharply.
James grimaced, but shook his head. "Not an accident, Meeks, and we will be needing a doctor this time. Send someone for Lord Mullin."
"Are you sure he is back?" Aunt Vivian asked with concern.
James nodded. "He returned yesterday," he responded, then breathed a heartfelt, "Thank God."
Robert had always been fascinated by medicine. That fascination had led the younger man to train in the field despite there being no necessity for him to work for a living. That training had been put to use when he was called to war. Robert had been the medic for their platoon, and James had watched him save many men he'd been sure were lost. James would trust no one else with Maggie's life.
"I shall see to it at once, my lord." The butler moved off down the hall to see to the matter as James carried Maggie into the salon. He laid her gently on the very same settee he had placed her on the day of the faux tea party. The room was dark for several moments, but then Johnstone thought to collect a candle from the hall. He used it to light several more tapers in the room, and within moments the salon was filled with a soft glow.
James almost wished it weren't. Up until that point he had thought her merely smoke-smudged; now that he was seeing her in the light, he could see that a good deal of what he'd thought were smudges were really bruises. The side of her face was one large welt, her lip was cut, one eye was blackened, and there were bruises around her throat.
"She fought," Johnstone commented approvingly, moving to peer over James's shoulder as his employer brushed the hair away from Maggie's forehead to reveal a nasty cut at her hairline. Then, apparently noting the blood that had soaked into her hair and ran back along her scalp, the runner added, "Landed on her back after the blow."
"I shall go fetch some water and a cloth, and be sure Meeks sent someone for the doctor," Lady Barlow hurried from the room.
"What happened?" James glanced toward the runner Johnstone had called Jack. The man stepped forward at once, his gaze going to Lady Margaret with a frown.
"I was watching from across the street. The servants all left in the early afternoon. She was alone in the house, far as I knew. Then, just before sunset, I noticed a sort of glow coming from some of the windows on the lower floor. I knew it wasn't candlelight, and thought I smelled smoke." He shrugged, his expression grim. "Had a bad feeling. Decided I'd better take a look-see. I tried seeing in the front windows, but all I could learn was that the light was coming from the back of the house. She didn't come to the door when I knocked, so around I went. I saw someone runnin' out into the gardens as I came around the corner. I was gonna chase after him, then saw that the back door was partway open, and that the kitchens were on fire--so I headed for the house instead. She was lyin' in the center of the kitchen floor."
He shook his head. "Everything else in the room was afire, but it hadn't reached her yet. 'Twas just nipping at her skirts. I ran in and pulled her out, then carried her around to the front of the house. I stopped a passin' boy and gave him a couple coins to fetch Mr. Johnstone here." The man frowned, looking regretful. "I should have given him a couple more and had him fetch the fire brigade, too."
"Ye did fine," Johnstone said. He patted the larger man on the shoulder. "The brigade came right quick. How's ye hand?"
The question drew James's attention to the fact that Jack hadn't gotten away without injury. His right hand was red and blistered. He had rushed into a burning building, but James hadn't considered what that entailed.
"Oh, dear." The murmured words drew his attention to the fact that Lady Barlow had returned. How much of the man's words she had heard was anyone's guess, but now she rushed to Jack's side with the bowl of water and the cloth she had brought.
"Fetch more water and cloths, Meeks," she ordered, then urged the injured Jack to a nearby chair. Once she had cajoled him into sitting, she set the bowl on his leg, picked his arm up by the wrist, and plopped his hand into the water. Seeming to think that took care of the immediate problem, she turned to where James and Johnstone still hovered by Maggie and eyed them like two misbehaving children. "Now, you had better tell me about this previous incident Meeks mentioned...and why exactly you still have Mr. Johnstone in your employ...and why you had this poor man watching Maggie!"
"He was keeping an eye out--just in case something like this happened." James answered the last question first.
"And Mr. Johnstone?"
"Lord Ramsey asked me to look into who was causing all of these accidents," Johnstone answered with a shrug.
Lady Barlow nodded, then speared her nephew with her eyes. "What about this 'other incident' Meeks mentioned?"
James winced. It was a question he really would have preferred not to answer. He had sworn Meeks to silence about that day, so his aunt was not aware of the little incident at all. She knew nothing about the faux tea party, the invitation to which he had signed her name, or anything else about that day. Answering her now would definitely get him in hot water. She wouldn't be at all pleased to learn he had used her in such a way. Nor, probably, that he had used blackmail and lies to get Meeks to go along with him. Nor that he had put Maggie in a compromising position by tricking her into traveling somewhere to be alone with him.
Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer her immediately by the arrival of Lord Mullin, "Robert!" James said with relief. "Thank you for coming."
"Not at all." The younger man shed his overcoat as he crossed the room, Meeks on his heels. Pausing at James's side, he exchanged the garment for the bag Lady Barlow's butler had been holding for him, then turned his attention to Maggie. "What happened? I gather there was a fire? Was she burned?"
"I don't think so, but she has a nasty head wound," James said. "She's been unconscious for at least several minutes."
Nodding, his friend nudged him. "Let me have a look at her, then."
James stood at once and moved. He watch
ed Robert poke at the wound on her forehead and lift her eyelids one after the other. When he started to look her over for other injuries, James turned away. Leaving his aunt and Robert to tend to the wounds of both Maggie and Jack, he urged Johnstone from the room.
"Have you come up with anything, yet?" James asked as he led the Bow Street runner into the library and closed the door.
Johnstone shook his head. "Not much," the man admitted regretfully. "I found a couple of people who witnessed the incident where she was pushed in front of the hack. A couple people remembered it happening, but couldn't say whether she had been pushed in front of the carriage or just bumped. No one remembered a scarred man being there except for that driver. I've nosed around to see if there's any ill will toward G. W. Clark, but no one's rushing forward with information. I'll keep at it, though."
"Aye. You do that," James murmured, rubbing a hand wearily along his neck. "This has to be connected to Lady Margaret's articles. There is no other reason for anyone to wish her harm."
Johnstone shrugged. "There doesn't appear to be. Usually such murderous attempts revolve around some sort o' monetary gain, but there doesn't appear to be anyone to gain from her death--except for her cousin, perhaps. He would probably inherit the town house and the money she invested if she died, but I looked into that and the lawyers still haven't located him. No, I believe ye're right, m'lord. It has to be connected to her articles."
"Did you look into Drummond?"
"Aye. It's not him. He's dead."
"Dead?" James glanced over in surprise and the runner nodded.
"Aye. Got his neck stretched. Rumor is that the judge who tried him was one of the victims of his flammery."
James frowned. "Then it must be because of one of her other articles."
Johnstone nodded. "Well that's the problem: it could be one of the articles she wrote, or one her brother wrote. Anyone who discovered Clark's identity now wouldn't necessarily know her brother was the writer before his death, and would blame her for it. Do you know how many articles they have done between them?" he asked in disgust. "The suspects are in the hundreds."
"Damn."
"Aye," Johnstone agreed.
