by Heather Boyd
The man sitting beside Small grabbed him, but then Small exhaled and slumped in his grip…and never moved again. The big man fumbled for Mr. Small’s wrist, seeking a pulse, and then exhaled. “He’s gone.”
Theodora had no strength to do more than stare.
Mr. Small was dead—and the accusation her father had killed himself, had tried to kill them all, remained.
Maitland captured her about the waist and carried her away.
“No.” Theodora could not accept anything she’d heard tonight. She clutched at Maitland’s arm as darkness closed around them. “He couldn’t have done it.”
“My condolences, Miss Dalton,” Lord Maitland said softly against her ear. “You’ll need to be braver than ever now.”
She looked up into his face, trying to see his expression in the fading light. “I can’t let Mama hear of Mr. Small’s accusation.”
He shook his head as a sudden breeze blew his dark hair into his eyes, which by day she knew seemed lightened by wisps of gold, most likely made by years of exposure to the sun and sea. “Keeping the gossip from your mother will be impossible.”
“It’s not true! Father loved us. He would never willingly leave us without his protection.” A tight band of tension closed around her ribs, leaving her almost breathless.
Maitland glanced back at the house, a concerned expression in his eyes as he set her down. “Had he had any problems in his life?”
“No, none,” she insisted. “Father was a shrewd and respected businessman. Very much liked.”
“It is possible to be shrewd, respected and liked, and deeply in debt just the same,” Maitland suggested.
“We had no money problems.” Theodora glanced at her fingers, attempted to scrub some of the soot from them as she considered the truth. “Not before the fire. My father distrusted banks so much that he kept his money close and at home. That was why he was so particular about flames. He knew the risks of carelessness as much as we did. We are destitute now because the fire destroyed everything we had saved.”
Maitland gaped at her in shock. “No.”
“Everything is gone,” her mother announced in a small voice as she joined Theodora and Lord Maitland.
“I’m afraid so, Mama.” Theodora quickly embraced her mother and held her tight.
They were both aware of her father’s distrust of financiers, and solicitors particularly. They’d discussed it, argued about it with him, but he’d never made any better arrangements. They were always uncovering pound notes tucked away in books in his library.
Now, everything that made them wealthy had been inside that burning house.
She released her mother, beaten down by helplessness, raw and with no sense of what to do next. For the first time in her life, she had no one to turn to for advice. She was responsible for herself, and for her poor mother, too.
She glanced around, noted the women who’d stood by her mother earlier had withdrawn to whisper among themselves at a distance. Given the way Mother bowed her head, she must have already heard Small’s claim that Father had taken his life.
They were already made outcasts because of a liar’s dying words.
Theodora put her arm around her mother’s shoulders again and squeezed. She addressed Lord Maitland, determined to put on a brave face. “Thank you for your assistance tonight, Lord Maitland. And please thank your friend, too. If you would be so good as to convey our respects to everyone who helped to put out the fire, we would both be very grateful.”
He nodded and glanced around at the crowd that kept whispering. His brow furrowed in consternation, and then he scowled. “I’ll have a carriage brought out. Where shall I tell them to take you?”
Theodora exchanged a worried glance with her mother. They were bound for anywhere that would take them in. Anywhere people did not expect to see proof they had funds to pay for accommodation, or anything else. At the moment, she had no idea where such a haven might be. They’d have to live on credit now, something she personally abhorred. Theodora smiled to hide her anxiety. “That is not necessary. We can make our own way.”
“I’m not leaving him,” her mother gasped, as she faced their smoldering home.
Lord Maitland gently turned her mother away from the ruins of their life. “Mrs. Dalton, perhaps you would accept an offer of temporary lodgings, at least for today. From my home, you can oversee the collection of any of your property they recover.”
“That is very kind of you,” Mother replied, nodding slowly.
“It is the least I can do as a gentleman,” he murmured kindly.
Maitland turned to Theodora. “Convince her to go in. My housekeeper is a compassionate woman who will look after you both. Ask for anything. Tea and food if you can stomach it. Clothing, too.”
Theodora glanced down, suddenly awkward. They stood about in only their nightgowns, and her mother wore a shawl, but Theodora was still wearing Lord Maitland’s coat. They undoubtedly needed his charity, but accepting a stranger’s help for life’s little necessities stung.
She’d been gossiped about before, and had hated it then, too.
She would clear Father’s name.
For now, she had no other option but to accept Lord Maitland’s kind offer of sanctuary. “We are grateful for your assistance, my lord,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
He moved to her side, looking down at her with pity. “I understand only too well how you feel at such a time, Miss Dalton. I, too, have been left behind by a loved one without understanding why. Go in, and leave me to sort this out for you both.”
“My father is in there,” Theodora reminded him.
He looked over both women’s attire pointedly. “Your mother needs you more.”
Chapter 3
Quinn’s heart stayed with the Dalton women as they headed inside and he turned to survey the destruction of their home. A death by suicide left one floundering, unable to fathom the sudden absence. He’d felt the same when his sister had died, but had been protected from gossip on the family estate. But death by suicide in London was another matter entirely. It would not be an easy matter to cover it up. Even the suspicion of suicide would bring shame upon the Dalton women, and the word was spreading quickly already, thanks to Mr. Small’s dying words.
Proof of suicide, a crime in common law, could have the Daltons’ remaining property seized and forfeited to the crown. Without the support of good friends, the Dalton women would become outcasts in society in a matter of days, if not hours.
Seeing fresh men arriving to attend the blaze, he pulled his wilting valet aside, impressed he’d been fighting the fire along with everyone else. “You’ve done enough, Rodmell.”
“Are you sure?”
Rodmell wasn’t a particularly robust man; he’d more skill for knotting cravats than working up a sweat. He pointed around them. The building was unstable now, too. “The rest of the work will be bloody dangerous.”
“As you say, my lord,” Rodmell said. He sagged, clearly exhausted.
“Go inside and clean up, then make sure the Dalton ladies are comfortable while I see what’s to be done with salvage. Tell the housekeeper to house and feed their servants, too, as I send them in. And keep them away from the windows if you can.”
“Yes, my lord.” Rodmell hurried away.
Quinn didn’t want them to see Dalton’s body removed.
Deacon reappeared, seemingly out of breath. It was such a relief to see him return that Quinn collapsed against the nearest object of support to catch his breath. “I thought you’d gone.”
“I thought I saw an old acquaintance in the crowd, but I must have imagine it. Never mind. Are you all right?” Deacon asked.
“Yes,” Quinn confirmed, taking stock of himself. He’d suffered no harm but this tragedy, today of all days, had hit him hard. “You should head home.”
“Are you sure I should leave you? I heard it was a…” Deacon didn’t say suicide, but he implied it by his silence.
“I’m sure it wasn’t. I’m sure the two deaths have nothing in common.”
Deacon opened his mouth but then closed it again. He shook his head. “About what I asked you for help with earlier…”
Quinn patted the man’s shoulder. They’d briefly spoken of Deacon’s request in the carriage already, enough to know he was sorely needed for moral support as Deacon pursued a bride. “Deacon, it would be an honor to help you find a wife, but let’s not spread that about. I’m sure you will find the perfect woman soon enough.”
Deacon nodded. “Someone smart.”
“Someone kind,” Quinn countered, slightly pained by the request made to him earlier that night. What was wrong with Deacon? He was titled and had money enough to make any woman he liked notice him. Women should be flocking to catch his eye. “You have a right to marry anyone so long as they deserve you.”
“If you say so.”
“I do indeed. Now get yourself home to bed and leave me to think over the matter for the next few days,” Quinn promised. They shook hands, and Quinn sent him on his way.
Once alone, Quinn surveyed the smoking ruin, his mood sinking. He could see far better now than he had at the height of the blaze, and it did not look promising. The outbuildings had survived unscathed but not the house. Most of the flames had been reduced to smoking timbers within the three-story dwelling. What was left to burn, the local brigade was doing a thorough job of dousing with water. He headed toward the local magistrate, a man he’d not had reason to speak to before today, and introduced himself.
“My lord. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. Mitchell Banks.” They shook hands. “Bad business, this,” the man remarked.
“It is. There could be a body inside.”
Banks deflated. “None has been found yet.”
“The daughter thought her father, Mr. Millard Dalton, might have been in the library. East side at the front, that would be.”
Banks pursed his lips a moment. “Fire was worst there.”
“I noticed that too.” He nodded. He’d known saving the house was hopeless as soon as he’d burst from his carriage after returning from the Newberry House dinner with Lord Deacon. “Whatever your men find, I want for Dalton’s widow. She’s resting in the house behind us, my home, at present. I’ll provide you with her new direction as soon as they decide where they are to go next.”
“Rest assured, you can always count on me to do the right thing, my lord. Could take my men a few days to search such a large dwelling, though. What we find of value will be sent over to them immediately, of course. The Dalton’s were prosperous people, I hear, and there is always a lot of light fingers around a wealthy home unfortunately. We’ll post men to guard the place tonight, too.” A cart rolled up. “Ah, looks like the vicar heard the news. I’d best have him cool his heels while we dig a bit deeper into the rubble.”
Quinn glanced around and noticed Mr. Small had already been taken away for burial. Since the Dalton women knew the man, he called the magistrate back to him. “Mrs. Dalton might wish to pay her respects. Where was Mr. Small taken?”
“Who?”
“The other man who died here.”
Banks’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “No one mentioned another body to me?”
“Dalton’s man died right there.” He pointed to the bare patch of pavement the poor fellow had previously occupied. He glanced at his pocket watch to check the time. “He died…oh, it must have been no more than an hour ago now.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t hear about that death. Devil take it! I hope the anatomists didn’t get him while we weren’t looking, but it happens more often than I’m happy about. I will look into it. What did Small look like?”
Quinn shivered. Anatomists. They dissected the dead with no respect. Stole loved ones from their final resting places in the dead of night usually. Quinn described what he had seen of the man while Mr. Banks took notes. “Short, I think. Fine boned. Dark hair. That’s all I know but for his full name—Mr. Dennis Small.”
Banks shook his head, and then excused himself to speak to the waiting vicar. He directed the horse and cart to wait, and then returned to supervising his men as they worked on the house.
Quinn found a spot out of the way and watched them shift their attention to the front of the house. He accepted coffee from one of his footmen an hour later, and then a cry rang out.
A body had been found.
He reconsidered the coffee and handed it back. “Perhaps later.”
Quinn walked forward until he could see clearly into what had once been a library much like his own, and gritted his teeth at the sight he beheld. The corpse was blackened, almost unrecognizable huddled against the hearth. He stared long enough to decide it must be Mr. Dalton, and then let his gaze drift away. He’d known the man only a little. The length and size seemed a match to what he remembered.
“Is that him? Is that Dalton?” Banks asked of him.
“I would say so,” he confirmed, but he looked again. He could not get out of his mind that there was something about Mr. Dalton’s remains that did not seem to fit his expectations.
Dalton had died with both arms curved over his head as if he had tried to protect himself.
That did not fit with what he’d been told to expect.
If Dalton had been dead before the fire reached him, if he had taken his own life as Mr. Small claimed, wouldn’t his limbs have been relaxed at his sides?
He faced Banks. “That is not what I expected.”
Banks scratched his head. “The victims of fires are often like that. They always try to protect their heads. What were you expecting?”
Quinn gritted his teeth. Mr. Small had most definitely been wrong to claim Dalton dead before the fire had reached him. He’d been very much alive—but could he have been saved? Quinn shuddered at the idea of burning to death. “It was suggested that Mr. Dalton had taken his own life.”
Bank scratched his head again and glanced around them. “Not the easiest way to die. Let me consider it properly. Now why did the fire start here?”
He watched Banks, who clearly had experience with such grizzly scenes, pick his way carefully through the debris with confidence, questioning and cataloging everything he saw out loud. Banks would be the man to spread the word that Dalton’s death was not a suicide, and Quinn desperately hoped that was the case.
He could give the Dalton women the peace they would need in their grief.
“It started in this room. No doubt of that. There’s too much destruction here for it to have begun anywhere else. I’d say a lamp was knocked over, somewhere near the window. Drapes caught, and it spread up and across to the book collection.” Banks poked a stick into a blackened lump of thick ash by the inner wall. “See how a little evidence of the collection remains, but only at the bottom of the pile? This was paper.”
Quinn nodded, and then tried to picture the room before the accident. Unfortunately, he’d only called on the man once, not long after they’d taken up residence across from his home, and hadn’t had any cause to return. He couldn’t remember very much, but he did recall heavy drapes around the front windows and a set of overflowing bookshelves where Banks prodded.
He glanced around, sizing up the space between the late Mr. Dalton and the doorway. The drapes were all the way across the room from where Dalton had cowered from the blazing heat. And yet Dalton had been close enough to a doorway that he could have escaped or called for help. But he hadn’t done either.
He’d stayed in this room for some reason. But why?
“Death by accidental burning. No doubt in my mind.” Banks dusted off his gloves. “I trust you’ll be happy to provide a statement, my lord.”
Quinn quickly agreed. “I’ll write my account of events and have it delivered to you today.”
“That would be appreciated.” The coroner put a cloth to his mouth then hunkered down near the corpse to study Dalton in closer detail. His attention roamed the body from head to foot, frowni
ng a little. He stood suddenly. “I’d best inquire about that other fellow.”
Quinn quickly followed him out, grateful for a reason to leave the scene. He was no stranger to death, thanks to his naval career, but he’d hoped such sights might have been spared him, now he was ashore. He’d seen too much death in battle already.
As Banks began to give orders for the removal of the corpse, Quinn turned toward his home.
There at an upper window stood the dark haired Miss Dalton, watching events unfold. He was not surprised she kept watch over the proceedings, even from a distance. She was a fierce little thing. He called Banks back to him. “Where will Dalton’s body be taken?”
“Directly to the church for burial, I expect, given the state of the corpse.” Banks pursed his lips. “I should like to speak to the deceased’s family, but it can wait until tomorrow, when they are over the initial shock.”
Quinn doubted a single day would be all that was required to achieve such a feat, but agreed. “Very good. I will make arrangements for your appointment tomorrow and let you know where they will meet you, and at what time.”
Quinn tipped his head and started toward home with a weary heart. He was pleased suicide had not been the cause of Mr. Dalton’s death, but nothing could prevent sadness over the loss.
Chapter 4
Quinn let himself into his home, noting a hushed atmosphere prevailed. He trudged upstairs to speak with the Dalton women immediately.
Mrs. Dalton, still dressed as he’d first seen her that night, appeared to be asleep beneath a thick comforter on an upper sitting room chaise. He took a step closer, but his housekeeper waved frantically at him then raised one finger to her lips to silence him. He nodded, agreeing not to disturb the sleeping woman just yet. Quinn glanced around, anxious to discover where Miss Dalton had gone.
The housekeeper gestured behind him, towards another chamber.
Quinn turned to his private office, noting the door was ajar.
