The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  "Yes, and a sort of little balcony at the front. My butler Percy loves to identify the stars."

  "Come on." Her hand snaked out to grab his arm and tug him up after her.

  He tried to draw back with a shake of his head. "But we don’t know how bad it is up there."

  "We can’t get out down here. So what other choice do we have? Come on."

  Since she was already tearing up the stairs as fast as her little legs would carry her, Alistair had little choice but to follow. Viola was right. They had no way out belowstairs. The only way to go was up.

  But the smoke was billowing more and more fiercely on the upper storeys. She draped her face with the edge of her cloak, while he clapped his handkerchief to his mouth and nose and kept ascending steadily.

  Lungs bursting from the effort and the longing for fresh, clean air, they made it to the attic level at last. Then Alistair began pushing open doors.

  He gagged in horror. There was little light, but it was easy to see the glistening, dark stains, the arms flung out, bodies contorted in the final paroxysm of death.

  "God in Heaven!" he gasped. He clutched one of the footmen by the shoulders.

  Viola shook her head and began to drag him away. "They’re all dead. Come on, we need to find Percy’s room quickly."

  "But who would do that to these poor—"

  "Never mind that now."

  She shoved into a door to her left and at last found what they had sought. The French windows led out onto a platform with a rather impressive brass telescope on a tripod.

  Viola immediately leapt up onto the landing outside, whilst Alistair tried to check Percy’s pulse.

  But the butler, still fully dressed, and with a book in his hand, was dead. He had obviously come up to fetch something to occupy himself with whilst he waited for Alistair to come home, and had been taken by surprise.

  Alistair felt his lungs sear with rage and panic. Who would have done such a thing...

  "Come on, we haven’t much time," Viola urged.

  Alistair scrambled up after her and looked around. On either side were the two other townhouses which sandwiched his, but neither of the windows looked large enough to slip through even were they open, which they were not.

  "What about that house, the fourth one along?" she suggested.

  "But it’s too far—"

  "The roofs are sloping but there’s the ornamental slate work and a gutter and —"

  "It’s madness," he protested.

  "We haven’t much choice, have we? Do you want to go back down? Do you?" she demanded impatiently, the seconds ticking past.

  "No, it would be certain suicide," he agreed at last.

  "Good. Get your shoes and socks off and follow me."

  "But—"

  "What? What’s wrong?"

  "I hate heights. Always have," he admitted with chagrin.

  She grasped his hand firmly now. "Don’t worry. I’ve got you. We just need to take a few steps, like we’re strolling down the street, really, and we’ll be safe. I promise."

  "I don’t think I can," Alistair confessed with a shake of his head.

  Viola was sympathetic, but they were running out of time. She decided to take a firm tack, as a parent would with a child. "Well, anything has to be better than burning to death. We’re going, do you hear me? You need to get justice for your friends and clients, all the people they've killed tonight. And I have to pray to God that my brother isn't amongst the dead. I have to find Sebastian, one way or the other. Do you understand, Alistair?"

  "Yes, yes. You're right, of course. I'm coming to help you now." He sat down quickly and began to yank off his socks and shoes.

  Her lace-up boots and stockings took a little bit more time, but she threw modesty to the winds and with one yank also snapped the tapes on her petticoats, then tucked the hem of her dress up through her legs from the back and tied it off at the waist.

  Alistair hadn’t seen so much bare leg for months, and it was an arresting sight. Not least because the young woman was so incredibly lovely.

  His loins were as scorched as the house as he watched Viola get to her feet with a lithe grace and begin to climb over the metal railing of the balcony and down onto the slate tiles of the roof.

  "God, they’re getting hot. We haven’t much time. Alistair, if you’re coming with me, you need to do it now!" she insisted as he continued to stare at her with equal parts of longing and fear.

  "All right, I’m coming." He stalled for a moment tying the laces of their shoes and boots together, and stuffing their hosiery into them. He was about to drape them around his neck, but she held her hand out for them.

  "I’ll take them. We don’t want you to be distracted. Don’t look down. Focus on the back of my head and put one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, heel to toe. It’s about six inches wide. If you think you’re going to fall, lead against the slope. If we can get to the third house we can try the window."

  They crept past the second house with its impossibly small window, and moved painstakingly on to the third.

  But it was a small lozenge window, which she could fit into, just barely. But with Alistair’s broad shoulders, it was no use at all.

  "It’s no good."

  "You can—"

  "What, and leave you here? No chance, Alistair. You’d fall for certain. Come on, the next house over ought to do it for us. Don’t look down. You need to think about what we’re going to do now that they’ve killed all your servants and your house is burning to the ground."

  "Those poor buggers," he said with a catch in his voice.

  Viola’s heart lurched in her chest as she looked back and caught sight of his anguished silvery eyes. Most men of Alistair’s class would have worried more about their property. He put his staff first.

  It was a revelation. She had never met anyone like him. Their family had not been very wealthy, but she had certainly met enough arrogant aristocrats in her day.

  Alistair must be from a very distinguished background to be so prominent in his profession, yet he had treated her with dignity and respect despite thinking her a trull. Had praised her intelligence, declared she could help him sort through the clues as though she were his equal.

  She felt him stumble behind her, but she adjusted their balance quickly. "All right?" she asked.

  "Fine, just hurry," he said through gritted teeth.

  "At least it’s not raining."

  "Where the hell is the fire brigade?" he wondered aloud.

  She had to admit she wondered too. After all, the roar of the flames could undoubtedly be heard all over the street, and the burning home was visible from the entire row of houses opposite.

  Yet, the street was eerily devoid of life. Surely in a fine neighbourhood such as this, one of the houses had to be entertaining? A soiree, card party? Someone coming home from supper? Alistair’s neighbours had to be aware that something was seriously wrong. The stench of smoke was unmistakable.

  Alistair’s thoughts were running parallel to hers. The Barkers and the Edgehills might well be out, but surely their servants should have noticed something and raised the alarm?

  Then there were his old friends the Oldhams straight across the street. He knew they were having a card party. They had invited him, but he had cried off, pleading pressure of work, and told them next time he would be glad to attend.

  And he knew the Sturgesses two doors down from them were supposed to be celebrating the engagement of their eldest daughter. The ball was supposed to get under way at ten, and he had promised to stop in to toast the bride. Yet there was not a sign of a single guest, no carriages rolling up, though it had to be past ten.

  "I need you to mash my fingers."

  "What?" Viola asked in confusion.

  "I need to know if this is real or a nightmare."

  She did as he asked. "It’s all too real. And why would you conjure up a complete stranger to share your nightmare?"

  He blushed. "Perhaps because I ne
ed you. Because I’ve been alone too long. You may be a figment of my imagination, but never in my wildest fantasies before this week have I ever conjured up a woman as lovely as you."

  He felt his loins tighten as he recalled the dream. Sweat broke out under his arms as he remembered the lake of fire.

  Viola felt the hot colour flood her cheeks, and almost took a mis-step.

  "Kind of you to say so, but you need to focus on this next roof, not on the sway of my hips."

  "And the smell of your own sweet fragrance."

  She blinked. "I haven’t got any perfume. I can’t even afford eau de cologne."

  "No, I mean you smell all woman to me, with a hint of honey and hyacinths."

  "I don’t think we should be having this conversation," she said primly.

  "I’m sorry. I can just smell it wafting up from, well, your bosom, your hair, your er—" He wanted to kick himself when she stiffened.

  "I can’t smell anything but smoke."

  "I truly am losing my mind then. All I can smell are hyacinths, and a spring meadow full of fresh sweet clover."

  "That picture, on your wall—" she paused, not able to put into words what had happened.

  "Yes?"

  "It’s just, well—"

  "What about it?"

  "I don’t know. It’s nothing."

  "No, tell me," he said as they neared the next roof.

  "It, well, it told me there was a fire."

  "What do you mean, told you?" he asked, frowning.

  "I don’t know," she sighed, stepping carefully onto the next set of tiles, testing her weight on the slate. "One minute it looked fresh and green, the next minute it was, well, black. I smelled the meadow, like you said. Then the smoke."

  "I should have run back for you straight away. But someone tried to slit my throat. While I wrestled with him, his accomplice ran out and bolted us in. So I thought my best chance was to fight the blaze."

  "You should have called me."

  Alistair let out a braying laugh. "I was trying to protect you. But it seems you’ve saved me again."

  Viola pressed his hand. "Nearly there. Good, a nice big window, and look, it’s been left open."

  She struggled to lift the window a bit higher and told him to enter first.

  "Ladies should—"

  She gave him a wry look and shook her head. "This lady isn’t terrified of heights. Go on, get in."

  They expected to be challenged when they scrambled inside, but all was silent and dark. They made their way down to the third, second and first floors without meeting a soul.

  Alistair looked around, feeling as edgy as a cat. He could feel his spine prickle. "I don’t like this one bit. The Verders live here. A most boisterous family. Lots of children and servants. Yet this place is as quiet as a cloister."

  "Should we try to rouse someone?"

  "I’d just as soon not get caught wandering about someone else’s house."

  "At the very least we can stop and put on our shoes, though," she suggested, untwining the laces from around her neck.

  He nodded. "Good thinking."

  They separated one shoe from the other and sat on the stairs. Once Alistair was finished, he flung open a couple of doors on the ground floor, but all was still and silent.

  "What the hell is going on? Surely someone has to be home..."

  But three or four more rooms revealed not a soul. As they wandered through the empty house, Viola began to feel more and more uneasy.

  "Never mind that now. We need to get to your office. How far away is it?"

  "Two streets over. Come on."

  She jerked her skirts back down over her ankles and began to follow along after Alistair, struggling to keep up with his long-legged strides. At the corner he realised he had been less than gentlemanly, and took her hand.

  "Forgive the liberty, but we haven’t got time for a restrained, leisurely stroll. It’s getting late and I need some answers."

  "Well, one thing is for sure. You won’t be going to trial tomorrow."

  "Or work," he gasped. "Oh my God. My chambers!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  The orange glow which he had seen in the distance was now visible as they turned the corner. The entire court was on fire, the flames roaring out of the windows into the street with such ferocity that even from where they stood they could feel the heat.

  Viola grabbed his upper arms as he tried to move forward. "Alistair, I have a terrible feeling about this. Your home, your friends, your chambers."

  "I know. And those men at the prison. I mean, I know some of the guards, quite a few of them in fact, but I didn't recognise a single one of them. And everyone acted as though they had no idea who I was. As if, well, I didn’t even exist.

  "I don’t mean to sound like I’m boasting, but there can’t be a single person involved with the justice system in London who doesn’t know my name, even if they don’t know me by sight. Though with this damned silvery hair of mine, like a wolf’s pelt, it’s easy enough to spot me. God, what the hell is going on?"

  Viola shook her head. "I don’t know. All I know is that your whole street was empty and your own servants killed. They can’t have murdered an entire row of respectable people in so short a time. They’ve been got out of the way. My guess is so that even if you did happen to survive the fire, you would have no one to help you. No one to turn to in a time of crisis."

  "But this is madness. Who on earth would have the power to make so many people disappear? Twenty families? All their friends? It makes no sense!"

  "Well, we can’t stand here arguing about it now. You said they wanted you for murder at Newgate. They’ve seen me now too. We need to get under cover."

  He looked left and right, and then said, "We’ll go to Philip’s. He’s about six streets away past the offices. We need to skirt the fire, though. Let’s go this way."

  He took her hand again and then they were running on, until Viola was sure her sides would split. "I can’t. Alistair, slow down."

  "I’m sorry, I just need to see my friend, make sure he’s all right."

  But the closer they got the more alarmed Alistair became. He could still smell smoke. And rather than the odour diminishing in the freshening breeze, it seemed to be getting stronger.

  "Oh, God, no! No!" he rasped, gripping her arm so hard she was sure it would snap in two.

  The scene was different from the other two fires, which had been frighteningly still and silent. Here the entire street had turned out, and were trying to encourage a young serving maid to jump into an opened blanket as she screamed hysterically out of a first floor window.

  He sprinted to the front of the house, Viola running as fast as she could to keep up. "Your master and mistress! Where are they?" Alistair bellowed.

  "God, we’re trapped! All trapped. Help us!"

  "Your master and mistress! Are they home? The children? Where are they?" he demanded more urgently.

  The girl was weeping and babbling incoherently.

  "Get the children. Try to lower them from the window. Where is Philip?" Alistair shouted.

  But he couldn’t be heard above the roar of the fire and the din of excited voices all trying to give the hapless girl advice.

  More maids had now come clustering around the window. One of them yanked the shrieking woman out of the way and took her chance in the blanket. She leapt, landed and bounced. One of the men yanked her by her skirts to stop her from sailing out, and they all went tumbling onto the ground.

  But she was on her feet in a minute, winded, but beckoning for her colleagues still trapped to follow her example as the rest of the street poured out with more blankets and well-meaning offers of tea and sympathy for the traumatised young woman.

  "Jump! Jump!" she wheezed to her co-workers.

  Alistair had by now run up to the front door, which he could see had been bolted in several places from the outside. The sturdy oaken portal was far too solid to batter through. Alistair bashed his fists agains
t it impotently, and then began running down the street again. He knew there was a mews and series of stables at the back of the house. He was determined to get in and rescue his friend and his family.

  Viola charged on after him, though she was sent sprawling as she skidded on a rotten cabbage leaf and slid about six feet on her stomach.

  Alistair turned to help her, but she yelled, "I’m fine. Go on!"