by Merry Farmer
She, on the other hand, didn’t. The danger of her situation hit home, and panic filled her. She turned, fleeing back down the stairwell.
“Katya! Katya!”
The sound of Malcolm’s voice searching for her was a beacon she could latch onto. “Malcolm,” she shouted in return, dissolving into wild coughing.
“Katya, where are you?”
The stairwell was filling with smoke so swiftly that she couldn’t see more than a few steps in front of her. The roar and crackle of the entire building burning around her drowned out almost all sound. All the same, she continued to push forward, nearly falling down the stairs in her haste.
“Malcolm,” she shouted as she reached the first-floor landing, although her voice was little more than a croak.
“Dear God, if anything happens to you….” Malcolm’s shout seemed far too distant and faded. “I’m coming, my love, I’m coming.”
“Malcolm,” Katya gasped.
“I’ve got you.”
A pair of arms closed around her, and her head spun as she was lifted. But it wasn’t Malcolm’s arms around her, and it hadn’t been his voice to reassure her. She blinked through the blinding smoke, barely able to make out the surprisingly heroic features of Christopher as he carried her through the burning front hall toward the door.
“What are you doing, man?” Malcolm’s voice joined them a moment later. Even through a fit of wrenching coughs, he sounded like fury itself.
“I’m getting Lady Stanhope to safety,” Christopher said, coughing himself.
“But, you…but, she….”
Malcolm didn’t finish his protest. The three of them burst out of the front door—which was ringed with flames—and into the chill of the night street. The contrast was so sharp that Katya instantly began to tremble in Christopher’s arms. She clasped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. There was as much pandemonium outside as there had been inside. A fire brigade had just arrived, and men were shouting orders. Dozens of spectators had gathered to watch from the park across the street, where Christopher took Katya. As soon as they were well out of the way of the flurry of activity, Christopher stopped.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked.
Katya attempted to reply, but all that came out was coughing so vicious that it made her gag.
“What are you doing to her, you fool?” Malcolm demanded.
Katya was too busy feeling as though she would cough her lungs right out of her body to pay much attention to him…until her world tipped off-balance once again as Malcolm wrenched her from Christopher’s arms.
“I’m not sure that’s—” Christopher started.
“Mind your own business, you usurping buffoon,” Malcolm growled.
He tried to clutch Katya tightly, but between coughing and indignation, she pushed away from him.
“What…in blazes…are you doing?” she managed to wheeze, doubling over. Her ball gown was singed all over and burnt through in several places. She hadn’t been aware of it catching fire or of someone putting it out, but she wasn’t surprised.
“My whole life,” Malcolm raged between coughing fits of his own. “Bringing Shayles down has been my whole life. And you robbed me of that.”
It took Katya a moment to realize he was shouting at Christopher, not her.
“Inspector Craig asked—” Christopher began.
“All I’ve ever wanted was to make that man pay for what he did to Tessa,” Malcolm raged on. Katya straightened enough to see the mad fury and grief in his eyes. “That was my victory. Mine! Not yours. And Katya….” His words faded into a coughing fit that ended in retching.
“Malcolm, hush,” Katya wheezed.
“Lady Stanhope needed help,” Christopher defended himself. “You were distressed yourself and—”
“Christopher saved me,” Katya tried to explain, her head throbbing and her lungs burning.
“It’s always going to be someone else instead of me, isn’t it?” Malcolm demanded of Katya, ignoring Christopher entirely. “I’m never going to be the hero in your eyes.”
“That’s not true,” Katya said, although her words were without the true emotion she felt behind them.
“I was never good enough for Tessa either,” Malcolm raged on. “I was her way out, but nothing more. I can’t even avenge her without someone else taking the credit.” Two, clean, damp lines cut through the caked soot on his face, from his eyes across his cheeks.
The pain Katya felt through her body and soul doubled. “Was Shayles arrested?” she gasped, coughing hard enough to turn herself inside out.
“He was,” Christopher told her.
“This is my battle, not yours,” Malcolm shouted, agony sharpening his voice. “Stay out of it.” He pushed Christopher aside and gripped Katya’s arms, his eyes reflecting the fire of the club burning down as he stared at her. “I’m never going to be what you want, am I? I’m never going to be young enough or clever enough or…or just enough, am I? I’ve wasted my entire life chasing you and trying to bring Shayles down. I could have lived. I could have made something more of myself, but I’m just a lonely laughingstock with nothing to show for it. Tomorrow, the papers will rave all about how brave Sir Christopher Dowland was and how his efforts brought an end to Shayles’s evil. He wasn’t even involved until last week. And what will they say about me?”
“I’ll insist that your name is mentioned as one of the key operators in this,” Christopher said.
If Katya could have warned him to keep his mouth shut, she would have. But between her coughing and the sorrow that burrowed so deeply into her soul that it left her paralyzed, she couldn’t summon up a word.
“This is not your battle,” Malcolm bellowed at Christopher. “This is not your war. You interloper. This is my life, my love, and you stole it from me.”
“I didn’t—” Christopher clamped his mouth shut before he could say more and make it worse.
Malcolm took a step back, the red-orange light of the fire illuminating him. He was a man of passions in the best of times, but the sheer agony in his expression was enough to sap the last of Katya’s strength. She tumbled to her knees in the damp grass, clutching her stomach as she coughed. Christopher leapt to crouch beside her, holding her up, but she tried to push him away. The help he thought he was offering was only making things worse. In that moment, Katya needed to be miserable, needed to feel pain. Because she couldn’t shake the horrible feeling she was as responsible for Malcolm’s misery as Shayles or Tessa or anyone else. She could have been more open with him. She could have told him about Natalia, told him all the reasons she’d refused to marry him. She could have told him about Robert and the way her life had been stolen from her. But pride had kept her silent. Teasing him had been more enjoyable than being honest with him. She’d taken the easy way out for too long.
At last, after a long silence filled with the crackle of fire and the crash of part of The Black Strap Club caving in, shouts and screams and mayhem, none of which were half as potent as the desperate rise and fall of Malcolm’s shoulders as he stared at her, Malcolm wiped his face and shook his head.
“What have I been doing all these years?” he asked in a voice so calm and quiet it sent a chill down Katya’s spine. “Why have I wasted so much time?”
No answers came. Malcolm turned to the crumbling club, heaving a sigh, shoulders slumping. He shook his head again, then turned and walked away.
Katya opened her mouth to call out to him, to beg him not to go, but her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t feel as though she had the right anymore. Instead, she clutched her stomach and bent over, coughing and retching as her lungs and her stomach convulsed, as her world dissolved around her.
“My lady, let me take you to a hospital,” Christopher said, closing his arms around her and attempting to lift her.
“No,” Katya croaked, pushing him away. She tried to stand, but Christopher had to assist her.
“Really, Lady Stanhope. You’re quite
unwell. You need to see a doctor,” Christopher insisted.
“I just want to go home,” she sobbed, shocked at how weak she sounded.
“But there’s a hospital not far from here,” Christopher said.
Katya shook her head and pushed against him, but she couldn’t extract herself from his support. “Please. Just take me home.”
Christopher made an uncertain noise, glancing around as if someone else might come to help them. There were masses of people on the scene, but everyone was busy watching the club burn down.
“You’re friends with Viscount Helm,” Christopher said at last. “He used to be a doctor. Could I take you to his house?”
Katya shook her head. “Take me home.” She sagged against Christopher, making it possible for him to lift her at last. “But you can send for him to come to my house,” she conceded.
It was the last thing she would concede. It was the last order she would give as well. In the blink of an eye, age had caught up with her. All she wanted to do was go home and hide under her covers until the pain within her stopped, but she feared it never would.
Chapter 12
“My lord, what happened?” Galston greeted Malcolm as he stormed through his front door.
“Nothing,” Malcolm grumbled, brushing past the man and down the hall toward his study. There was a large decanter of scotch waiting for him there, and he intended to drink most of it.
“But your clothes, my lord,” Galston said, following him down the hall.
Malcolm glanced down at his scorched and sooty clothes and paused. He was close enough to a mirror to peer at his black and sooty reflection. The fire seemed like a minor detail in the travesty of his evening. The destruction of The Black Strap Club was nothing to the desolation of his life’s work. His friends would laugh at him, call him childish for raging against the way things had turned out, and tell him to be happy that Shayles was captured at all, but to see a newcomer take credit for everything? To see Dowland rescue Katya and carry her to safety? To see the way she clung to Dowland? She could deny her involvement with the young dolt all she wanted, but Malcolm had seen the connection between them with his own eyes.
“My lord?” Galston prompted. “Would you care to change into something a little…cleaner?”
He’d lost his battle to bring Shayles to justice. He’d lost Katya in the process. He wasn’t going to lose anything else.
“Later,” he said, turning fully toward Galston. “Go up and pack my things. All of my things. Send one of the footmen to find out when the first train to Glasgow departs in the morning. I’m going home.”
Galston’s eyes betrayed his surprise, but he quickly schooled his expression and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
As Galston headed upstairs, Malcolm stormed down the hall and into his study. He needed that scotch to bring him the oblivion he craved. With any luck, he could sleep the whole way home on the train. With even more luck, some thief would steal his wallet, his identity, and his entire, miserable life.
“Papa?”
Malcolm stopped short inside his study as Cece rose from one of the leather couches near the fireplace. Her ball gown was rumpled and creased, but her tired face popped into a look of alarm.
“Oh my, Papa. What happened to you?” She flew across the room, reaching for him.
Malcolm dodged her, too miserable even to let his daughter comfort him. “Mind your gown,” he said, his voice heavy with defeat. “I’ll ruin it.” He marched past her to the table holding his liquor. “What are you doing here anyhow? I would have thought that ball would go on until morning.”
“I wasn’t enjoying myself.” Cece followed him to the table. “Not after Inspector Craig took you and Lady Stanhope away.”
Malcolm’s hands shook as he poured his scotch, but at the mention of Katya’s name he flinched so hard the lip of the decanter smacked against the tumbler, ringing like a crystal bell. “You should have stayed and enjoyed yourself,” he grumbled.
“How could I?” Cece took the decanter from him and finished pouring. She stopped before the tumbler was even halfway through, handing it to him. “I’ve been so worried about you. Especially since news of the fire reached me.”
He glanced up at her in surprise. “Who told you about the fire?”
She fixed him with a flat stare. “It’s all over town already,” she said. “Rupert and I had just made up our minds to leave the ball when someone ran in off the street to tell one of the footmen at Spencer House there had been a series of explosions near Kensington Palace that had caused a massive fire. I think he might have assumed the palace was on fire, but Rupert and I knew better.”
Malcolm huffed humorlessly, which caused a fit of coughing. He steadied it with a gulp of scotch, or at least tried to. In actuality, the liquor made his coughing worse.
“Dear Papa.” Cece tried to slide closer and rub his back, but Malcolm pushed her away.
“Leave it to gossip to get the story even more wrong than it already is,” he croaked.
“What is the real story?” Cece asked. The innocence in her eyes was almost painful. She was young and likely still believed life would treat her fairly and give her everything she desired. She had yet to learn that the world was a cruel place, where the people you loved didn’t love you in return and where justice could only be had with a price.
“We raided the club, as Craig had planned,” he forced himself to tell her. She had a right to know. In an indirect way, Shayles and his club were part of her story too. “The raid was a success. Shayles was caught unaware and arrested. But he must have known this day would come. His entire club was piped with gas. Somehow he managed to open all the valves and set the place on fire.”
Cece gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “How could he do that? What would have happened if there had been an accident before? Didn’t he care at all for the people who might have been caught in a disaster like that?”
“No,” Malcolm said. “Shayles never cared for anyone other than himself. And he must have been desperate.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes, trying to remember as much as he could about the moments in the dungeon. The pipes were shiny copper. They must have been newly installed. Shayles had released the gas in his dungeon and perhaps other rooms nearby, but someone else would have had to take similar action in the rest of the house. Shayles had had accomplices, which could explain why the house exploded in stages instead of all at once. Either way, mountains of evidence had likely been destroyed, which was precisely what Shayles would have wanted.
Malcolm slammed his tumbler down on the table. As likely as not, Shayles had destroyed his club as yet another way to rob Malcolm of the victory he’d been striving for.
“There’s more, Papa,” Cece said, resting her hand over his on the table. “I can see it in you.”
Malcolm glanced sideways at his daughter. She looked so much like Tessa, so much like the woman he’d rescued but failed to win, sought justice for, but failed to avenge. Why shouldn’t he be honest with her?
“I’ve been a damned fool and I’ve wasted my life running after something I’ll never get,” he said, the smoke he’d inhaled turning his voice into a wolfish growl. “All those years, and in the end, it was Christopher Dowland who played the hero and enabled Craig to arrest Shayles. Christopher Dowland.” He spat the name like a curse.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Cece sighed, squeezing his hand. “That must have been difficult for you. I know how much you’ve been longing to defeat Lord Shayles.”
“Oh, it’s more than that.” He straightened, facing Cece, then turning away, uncertain where he wanted to direct the full force of his anger. “As the club was burning and coming down around her, who did Katya turn to? Christopher Dowland. She clung to him like he was her savior.”
Cece’s brow knit in confusion. “Did she say why?”
“They’re lovers, obviously,” Malcolm growled, then fell into another coughing fit.
Cece rubbed his back, and he didn’t have the energ
y to push her away. “I really don’t think they are,” she said quietly. “As far as I know, they’re barely acquainted.”
“You didn’t see the way she looked at him,” Malcolm argued, part of him feeling like a mad idiot for justifying it all to his eighteen-year-old daughter. But Cece was there for him. She might very well be the only person to ever fully be there for him when he needed her. But with her attachment to Rupert, Katya’s son, how much longer would that last? He would lose once again.
“I can imagine that the peril of the fire was alarming and confusing,” she said, failing to sense the darkening of his mood. “Perhaps Lady Marlowe was terrified. Perhaps she latched onto the first person to offer her help.”
“I should have been the first one to offer her help,” Malcolm shouted, startling Cece into stepping back. “I should have been the one protecting her.” The ache of guilt that squeezed his heart came as a surprise. He pushed it away, latching onto anger once more. Anger was far easier to feel than the shame of failure. “She’s been making a fool of me for years, but I’m not having it anymore.”
He poured himself another glass of scotch, splashing the liquid over the tray, then downing far too much in one gulp. The result was a mess on the table, scotch streaking his sooty hands, and a coughing fit that caused him to retch and left his throat raw.
“Papa, you need to clean up and go to bed.” Cece surged forward to slide her arm around his back in spite of the soot in an attempt to steer him toward the door. “I’m sure everything will seem better in the morning.”
“No.” Malcolm shook his head, but his energy was draining as fast as a gutter in the rain, so he didn’t push her away. “We’re going home.”
“We are home, Papa,” she said.
“Home to Strathaven Glen,” he clarified. “Immediately. On the first train. So go pack your things.”
“Scotland?” Cece stopped short, staring at him with wide eyes. “Are you saying we’re going to Scotland?”
