The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Lucien," said Charles in a very cold voice. "You have just insulted me one time too many. If you weren't my brother, I'd call you out right here and now."

  "Pointless, Charles. You would only lose. For that reason, I would never accept the challenge." Dismissing Charles, he took Amy's hand and raised it to his lips. "My dear Miss Leighton. Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

  "I am, Your Grace. This has been the most magical night of my life and —" she looked at Charles — "now that your brother's here, it just got a hundred times better."

  "Have I misled you in any way, disappointed you in any form?"

  "No, Your Grace. I don't know what Lord Charles is so upset about."

  "There. You see, Charles? There is no harm done. If you truly cared about Miss Leighton, you wouldn't begrudge her the chance to enjoy herself — and perhaps make an advantageous match. It's obvious that you don't have the courage to make an immediate offer for her, but I daresay there are many here tonight who would."

  Charles's eyes narrowed; he had caught the wicked little gleam in Lucien's eyes, and suddenly, belatedly, he understood.

  "You conniving wretch," he said, his eyes blazing as he began to see how neatly he'd been manipulated.

  Lucien, knowing the game was up, only raised a brow and smiled.

  "You set this all up to try and force my hand, didn't you?"

  "Now, really, Charles. What reason would I have to do that?" He looked up as Gareth approached through the throngs. "Why hello, Gareth. Your brother here has just accused me of interfering in Amy's life. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculously absurd?"

  Gareth's mouth dropped open; he was caught in the middle and he knew it.

  Lucien straightened one glove. "And here I was having such fun watching her enjoying herself. Really, Charles, the look on your face when you first saw her in that gown was worth more than all the tea in China —"

  Sudden screams reverberated throughout the room.

  Turning, Charles saw it all. A young serving maid, just setting a Christmas pudding soaked with flaming brandy onto the refreshment table, had turned to laugh at something one of the footmen had said — and in so doing, suddenly tripped. The pudding flew from the tray and instantly both the girl's petticoats and the tablecloth were on fire.

  Panicking, she leaped to her feet and ran, shrieking, for the door, where the flames caught the bunting that hung there and whooshed toward the ceiling.

  "Help, somebody help me!"

  The music crashed to a stop and people began to scream.

  "Help, help!"

  Charles, with Gareth right behind him, was already sprinting through the crush after her, shoving stunned dancers out of the way, grabbing up a tablecloth as he raced past and sending china crashing to the floor in his wake. "Gareth! Dump the punch, get the cloth off that other table and stamp on it! And get everyone out!"

  Chapter 29

  The old authority was back in Charles's voice.

  But even as Gareth saw his brother tumble the screaming maid to the floor and smother the flames consuming her skirts, even as he and Perry worked to put out the burning tablecloth, even as he saw Lucien calmly escorting the queen and her attendants outside, he knew it was too late. The fire had already spread to the bunting, to the decorations, and to the heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes.

  In moments, the room was on fire.

  An exodus of people surged toward the door that led outside, some crying out to loved ones, some coughing, the musicians running past carrying violins, cellos, and other instruments. A few loyal servants began pulling priceless art from the walls, but already Charles, with the sobbing young maid in his arms, was shouting orders.

  "Leave them! Get out of the room and onto the lawn! Everyone get outside on the lawn and stay there!"

  He carried the girl outside, relinquished her into the care of Nerissa and Amy, and, coughing from the smoke, grabbed Gareth's arm. "Get a bucket brigade started! Keep the area around the door wet until we get everyone out!" Pressing his handkerchief to his face, he raced back into the ballroom.

  The room was rapidly dimming. Inside, the settee and chairs were on fire. The screens that had been erected to give people a private place to talk were aflame. Fire was racing up the walls, engulfing the paintings, roaring up the drapes. Looking up, Charles saw thick black smoke gathering along the ceiling, banking back down, bringing a wave of intense heat with it that felt like a blast from an open oven. He could no longer see the great chandelier above his head.

  Eyes watering, the handkerchief pressed to his nose, he hurried around the room, dragging the last people out and shouting for Gareth, lost in smoke over by the door, to keep the bucket brigade going. And now the heat was building, beginning to parch his face, to dry his eyes and the inside of his nose. It was getting hard to breathe. Impossible to see.

  I've got to get out of here.

  "Is anyone left in here?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. He worked his way along the edges of the room, desperately searching among the chairs and remains of screens. The fire was roaring now, trying to drown out his voice, the smoke stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth and throat. "If anyone's left in here answer me!"

  "Charles! Come on out, I've got the last of them!"

  Disoriented, coughing so hard he could barely draw breath, he sprinted toward the sound of his brother's voice. Every breath was agony. Black smoke was halfway back down the windows now, meeting ugly yellow-gray smoke coming back up. And there was Gareth's hazy form, still directing the bucket brigade and keeping the exit door wet until Charles could come safely through. He grabbed Charles's arm and hauled him roughly outside, slamming the door shut behind him and dragging him away from it and onto the cool grass.

  "You sure everyone's out?" Charles managed, through retching coughs.

  "I think so; Lucien just sent riders off to Ravenscombe to call out the villagers, we need all the help we can get!"

  "What about the other door, from the ballroom to the main wing? Did anyone close it?"

  "Bloody hell —"

  "'Sdeath, we've got to shut it so the fire doesn't spread down the corridor to the main part of the castle!" He shouted to the bucket brigade, standing outside now but still feverishly hurling water at the door, around whose edges sinister tongues of flame were already licking. "Stop!" He ran forward and grabbing arms and shoulders, manhandled people away from the door. "The main building!" he yelled, trying to be heard over the shouting, frightened guests. "The main building!"

  They looked at him uncomprehendingly; then, Charles yanked the last of them back just as a huge ball of smoke and flame exploded every window in the ballroom and hurled shards of glass and wood everywhere. The force of the blast threw him against Gareth and both brothers went down, but Charles was instantly on his feet, hauling the bucket brigade to theirs, never stopping to consider that by pulling them away from the door, he had just saved their lives. Calling them to him as he had once done his soldiers, he ran back around the burning building, his feet slipping on broken glass, never slowing as he tried desperately to reach the other door before the fire did.

  He charged in through a servant's entrance and sprinted headlong back toward the ballroom. Every step brought him closer to the fire roaring behind the door — it was shut, thank God, thank God — like a furnace in hell. Behind him, the bucket brigade came running, some with sooty faces, one or two men cut and bleeding.

  "Soak the door, and then the hallway!" Charles shouted. "Start a line from here to the moat. Move!"

  Gareth was right behind him. Frantically, they both grabbed buckets, each load of water hissing up in steam as it hit the smoldering door, working against time, working against fate, and then Lucien was there, shouting to be heard over the terrible roar of the fire on the other side of the door.

  "Gareth!"

  "What? Lucien, get outside!"

  "Gareth!" Pointedly ignoring Charles, Lucien yanked Gareth out of the line. "Listen to me! The king is
still upstairs with Andrew, do you hear me? The King and Andrew are still upstairs!"

  ~~~~

  The king, his three attendants, and Andrew had all been up on the roof, examining Andrew's Contraption, when the fire broke out. They never heard people screaming two floors below. Never knew what was happening down in the ballroom. By the time they did know, it was too late.

  "I say, Andrew, I am looking forward to seeing your invention in action!" the king was saying as he watched Andrew crank back the giant catapult and position the flying contraption for its impending display. "The medieval catapult idea is most ingenious, what? So let me make sure I understand this. All you have to do is strap yourself into the harness, release that lever, and bang, you're off, eh?"

  "Well, yes . . . something like that, Your Majesty. Perhaps you'll come back down to my laboratory, where I can show you the drawings so you may see exactly how it works?"

  The little group headed back toward the stairway that led down to Andrew's laboratory just above the ballroom.

  The king sniffed and drew out his handkerchief. "Speaking of medieval, I really must speak to your brother about updating his kitchens. I fear his chimneys must not be ventilating properly. What a damned lot of smoke is in the air tonight, what?"

  They went down the stairs, opened the door to Andrew's laboratory, and froze.

  The room was hot. Unnaturally, terrifyingly, unbearably hot. And as Andrew, horrified, looked around, he heard an angry, rushing roar, faint shouts from people outside, and saw that all around the room, ominous black fingers of soot were creeping up the walls.

  "Dear God —"

  At that moment, a giant explosion rocked the building itself, throwing them all to their knees and sending row upon row of volatile chemicals and solutions crashing to the floor. Flames burst forth and Andrew knew only one thing:

  He had to get the king out.

  Now.

  He grabbed the old wool coat he often wore when it was chilly up here, threw it over the king's shoulders, and, apologizing for manhandling him, helped him to his feet. The attendants assisting His Majesty on the other side, they all made their way toward the door.

  "By God, Andrew, if this is your idea of a joke I am not amused!"

  "I can assure you, Your Majesty, this is no joke. The building's on fire and we must get you out!"

  Already the room was clouded with smoke, and Andrew dared not think of what would happen when the gases from his burning chemicals mixed and began filling the air, dared not think what must be happening below, dared not think about his poor, poor flying machine on the roof just above, dared not think of anything beyond getting the king out of here, down the stairs, and to safety.

  He reached the door. Found it shut and barred. Damn! The explosion must have sent the bar he used to keep Lucien out when he was working, crashing down. His eyes stinging with smoke, unable to see what he was doing, he tried to remove it but it was stuck fast in its slots. He threw his weight beneath it and shoved with all his might.

  Horrible, noxious fumes came roiling up from behind him.

  We're going to die, Andrew thought — and at that moment, the bar gave beneath his frantic shoves, the door crashed inward, and a figure came stumbling in through the smoke.

  It was Charles.

  "You can't get out that way!" his older brother shouted. "The stairway's on fire!"

  Charles, who'd instinctively charged up the stairway before Gareth could even react to Lucien's words, now stared past Andrew. Somewhere off in the billowing, poisonous smoke behind him, bottles were exploding, great timbers were beginning to crash down, part of the floor already starting to give way. Charles sank to his knees, crawling through the smoke as he fought to reach the stricken king.

  "Your Majesty! I beg you to forgive me for suggesting such a thing, but please, get down, get down on your knees and crawl! The air is cleaner down here, cooler, and you'll be able to breathe better! Now follow me! We've got to get you out of here!"

  With an arm around the king to support him, the three attendants coughing and gasping just ahead and beside him, Charles, on his hands and knees, fought his way back to the door. Great torrents of dense black smoke were rushing back up the stairway from which he'd just come but if they were lucky, they might be able to get back through before the fire entirely blocked off their escape.

  He could hear Lucien downstairs, somewhere beyond the smoke, shouting for him.

  "Charles! This way!"

  "God help me, I can't see, I can't breathe," the king cried, "I can't breathe!"

  Charles, with the attendant's help, managed to get the king down the first step, then the next. The fire, growing hotter by the second, baked him through his hot clothes, seared his nose, sinuses, trachea and lungs with every agonizing breath. He half fell, half stumbled down each step, trying, as best he could, to shield the king from falling debris as he went. A chunk of burning wood glanced off the back of his neck, branding his skin like a hot poker; beneath his gloved hands, the stone was blistering hot. And there, finally, just visible through the smoke, he could just see Lucien and Gareth, charging up to meet him.

  "Well done, Charles, well done!" said Lucien, leading the coughing, gasping king out of the stairwell and to safety, the heavy woolen coat slipping from the royal shoulders. Charles, coughing violently and unable to see beyond the burning agony in his eyes, felt Gareth grab him and half-carry, half-steer him out of the stairwell and into the smoky but untouched corridor, still under siege by a rapidly growing bucket brigade.

  Lucien, who had relinquished the care of the king into his gathering entourage, turned back toward the stairway, frowning.

  "Charles, where is Andrew?"

  "Right behind me —" he was seized by a racking spell of coughing and sank to his knees. "He . . . came down the stairway . . . right behind me."

  "No, Charles. He did not."

  Charles dragged open burning, watering eyes, shook his head to clear it, and stared at Lucien. His brother's face had gone very still. Very pale. And then Charles saw something in that black stare that he'd never thought to see, something that was reflected in his own suddenly cold bones.

  Fear.

  "I'm going back in after him," Gareth vowed, spinning on his heel.

  Lucien's hand shot out and seized Gareth's shoulder. "No. You stay here with your brother. I'm going back in."

  Gareth's eyes were wild. "'Sdeath, Lucien, the whole stairway's on fire, you'll be killed!" he cried, struggling to tear free.

  "I will not leave Andrew in there, and I will not allow you to risk your life in an attempt to save him. You have a wife and family to think of, Gareth. I do not. Now do as you're told, damn it!"

  He shoved Gareth away from him, sending him sprawling to the floor. As Gareth stared up at him in hurt surprise, the duke of Blackheath turned his back on both brothers and strode quickly toward the closed door, determined to meet his own death, if need be, with all the courage and dignity that had marked generations of ancestors before him.

  "Lucien," Charles gasped, trying to stagger to his feet. "Wait. Wait!"

  But Lucien did not wait.

  Charles was on his feet. Gareth was right beside him. The two younger brothers exchanged glances; then, as one, they ran toward Lucien, who never turned around, who ignored them as he did the heat and choking black smoke that came surging down out of the stairwell as he opened the door.

  Charles seized the duke's elbow, yanked backwards with all his strength, and hurled him violently into Gareth's waiting arms. The force with which he threw Lucien tumbled both his brothers to the floor.

  "Hold him there, Gareth, and don't let him up," Charles ordered, his eyes blazing into Lucien's as he donned the wool coat that had been on the king's shoulders, seized a pail of water from one of the bucket brigade, and raising it high, poured it over himself. "And if he tries to follow me, hit him. Hard. Do you understand me?"

  Gareth's eyes gleamed. "I understand perfectly — captain." And then
, restraining Lucien with one arm locked around his neck, he watched Charles walk away, his pride and admiration in his brother renewed.

  But Charles never saw it. The dripping coat pulled up and over his head, he was already through the door and heading back up through the smoke.

  ~~~~

  It was like stepping into a furnace.

  Smoke clogged the stairwell and banked down and around him. Already, the ancient panelled wood of the stairway was charring, and by the time Charles got halfway up the stairs, it was on fire.

  "Andrew! Andrew!"

  No answer.

  He held the wet coat over his head, trying to give himself a pocket of air to breathe, trying to keep the blinding, stinging, smoke from his eyes. Growing dizzy, unable to see, he reached out to get his bearings. Just as quickly he jerked his hand back, cursing with the pain. "Andrew! By God, where are you?"

  He charged up the rest of the stairs. Behind him, flames were already licking, blocking the way out, chasing him up the stairway. The heat intensified, sucking the water from his coat, baking him inside of it. His earlobes must surely be on fire. His eyebrows were shrinking up into tiny singed knots. By God, Andrew, where the devil are you? Had his brother bolted back into the laboratory and barred the door? Had he fled to the roof, desperate to save his precious flying machine? Had he jumped out a window to dubious safety?

  Please, God, let me get to him in time!

  He ripped open the door to the laboratory, staggered inside, and slammed it shut behind him, trying to buy just a few more seconds, knowing that way of escape was now permanently blocked.

  "Andrew!"

  Nothing but the savage roar of the fire, all around him.

  "An-dreeeeeew!"

  It was like being blind all over again, only a hundred, thousand, million times worse. Coughing, wheezing, unable to see through the smoke, Charles fell to his hands and knees and began feeling along the floor, so hot now that it was roasting his palms through his gloves. Horrible, toxic chemical fumes mixed with smoke and pushed into his face, up his nose, trying to drive him back, trying to drive him toward unconsciousness and death. He shoved a fold of the damp coat against his face, strained the air through it, and continued searching the floor, his palms blistering, his knees screaming with the agony. And there! His desperate hand found a leather shoe; a silk-clad calf. A still arm.