by Liz Carlyle
Kemble shot a triumphant smirk at Gareth, then turned to Antonia. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said magnanimously. “Was celibacy your idea, or was your husband impotent?”
“He was impotent.”
“Ah, I thought as much,” said Kemble. “Did he blame you?”
Antonia shook her head. “I blamed me,” she said. “He seemed frustrated with himself.”
Clinically, Kemble let his eyes run down Antonia’s length. “Well, you cannot possibly have disappointed him in any way,” he said, as if he discussed the merits of a piece of furniture. “If you could not please him, then the man cannot possibly have expected another bride to bring him back from the dead—so to speak.”
“Oh, good Lord!” said Gareth. “Antonia, you may leave the room, since Mr. Kemble seems intent on breaching all bounds of civility.”
“No, I think I shall stay, thank you,” said Antonia. She was watching Kemble almost raptly now.
For his part, Kemble was lost in thought. “So we must now ask ourselves how he meant to remedy this situation,” he muttered to himself. “What, precisely, did Warneham want? And what confluence of events might have given it to him?”
“Oh, he wanted an heir of his blood to dispossess me,” said Gareth. “And frankly, I would have been pleased had he found one.”
“Yes, there was no other motivator that I can see,” Kemble agreed.
“Perhaps he meant to claim our old friend Metcaff?” Gareth sourly suggested.
Kemble looked at him in amazement. “Your Grace, you are perfectly brilliant!”
“Am I? How? Could he have done so?”
“No, the notion is ridiculous, but…” Kemble’s words trailed away as he turned to look at Antonia. “Is there any chance, ma’am, however slight, that someone might have murdered Warneham on your behalf?”
Antonia’s blue eyes widened. “Lord, no.”
Gareth shot her a questioning look. “That maid of yours is a bit of a battle-ax,” he said quietly. “And she very nearly killed me.”
Antonia looked askance at him. “Oh, Gabriel, that’s utter nonsense. Nellie wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“Oh, I think Nellie would hurt anyone she thought capable of wounding you,” Kemble asserted. “But I do not see how she could have learnt of his plans to dissolve the marriage. And even if she had, she might have thought it a good thing.”
“I daresay you are right,” Gareth reluctantly admitted.
Kemble finished his sherry and pushed his glass away. “Well, I think we can do no more here for today,” he said musingly. “Tomorrow it is going to rain—heavily, I think, if my sinuses are any judge—but the day after, Your Grace, perhaps we should go up to London if the roads are dry? I would very much like to hear what this barrister has to say for himself.”
“Yes, perhaps we should,” said Gareth wearily. “Let me think on it for now.” Together, they all rose. Antonia set a hand to her temple.
“Will you be so kind as to excuse me from dinner tonight, Your Grace?” she said a little stiffly. “I feel a bit of a headache coming on. As Mr. Kemble says, it is probably just the rain approaching. Perhaps I shall have a tray brought up.”
Gareth bowed. “By all means,” he said. “It has been a difficult day for us all.”
On that note, Antonia left the room, taking what little warmth and comfort there had been along with her. Gareth felt downcast and thwarted. As if his outburst this afternoon at the pavilion had not been enough of a fiasco, his meddling in Warneham’s death might now prove to be Antonia’s undoing. And he was not at all sure she could forgive him for any of it.
Chapter Sixteen
G abriel lay perfectly motionless, listening to the sway of the Saint-Nazaire and the creaking of the ropes which bound her. The ship was still as death save for the scuttling rats below. The other hammocks hung empty from their pegs, lifeless, shriveled cocoons, their occupants long since flown ashore, in search of drink and sport.
Just then, footfalls sounded on the deck above, some heavy and certain, others light and hesitant. The sound of someone being dragged, perhaps. Raucous, raspy laughter. The beam which held the door above slid free, and Gabriel froze with fear. A tremulous light appeared, followed by a stumbling tangle of legs. More laughter. Gabriel peeked around a timber beam to better see. Creavy and Ruiz. He began to shake with dread. And then he saw. No, they would not be coming for him tonight. They had dragged a woman down between them, her arms bound behind her, her blue dress ripped from sleeve to waist.
Ruiz shifted his hand from her lips, and she screamed. Creavy backhanded her, bloodying her mouth and sending her hair tumbling down over one shoulder. “Ooh, I likes me a tart wiv a little fight in ’er,” Creavy crooned, rubbing a strand of her hair between his filthy, gnarled fingers. Gabriel could see the woman’s eyes widen with fear.
“Dios mío! Get on weeth it!” Ruiz sounded impatient.
Creavy ripped down the rest of her dress until her breasts were exposed; small white orbs heaving in the lantern’s light. Ruiz held her tight as Creavy unbuttoned his trousers and threw up her skirts. Gabriel drew the blanket over his head as she screamed. Then the screams became a whimper, and the whimper a slow, mournful sobbing.
He should do something. Anything. Offer up himself, perhaps? But he did not—he was too afraid—and the whimpering went on, long into the night. Gabriel held himself deathly still beneath the blanket, sickened by the sounds of the woman’s suffering. Sickened by his own pathetic weakness.
Gareth dined alone that night in the small dining room, feeling lost and more desolate than he wished to admit. This was the shape of things to come, he very much feared. He pushed away his plate and let his eyes drift over the empty room. He had foolishly begun to rely upon Antonia, almost without realizing he’d been doing so.
Antonia was someone with whom he could discuss his questions and ideas about Selsdon. And in spending time with her, he had begun to see pieces of the laughing, vivacious girl she had once been and hints of the gracious, levelheaded woman she should have become. It was not too late for her.
When a footman came in to clear his plate, Gareth waved away the next course. He had no appetite—not for food, at any rate.
After dinner he took his glass and his bottle of port and went not to the study, as had become his habit, but to the cream-and-gold parlor, where he had first laid eyes upon Antonia. Where, just this morning, she had told him of her plans to do precisely what he had recommended—leave Selsdon. In this room, he always imagined that he could smell her; smell the faint scent of gardenias and something else—something clean and a little sweet.
Cradling his port between his legs, Gareth slumped in a wide leather armchair opposite the row of French windows and stared morosely out into the gardens, toward the shadowy row of estate buildings beyond. The days were growing rapidly shorter now, and at this late hour, he could see only their looming dark outlines. The near end of the granary. The stables. The carriage house. Orderly, well-kept buildings of slate and stone and timber, all in a row; all as neat and tidy as he wished his emotions were.
She was going to leave, she had said, as soon as her maid was well enough to travel. That might well be tomorrow, or possibly the next day. She had not said that her going was permanent. But Gareth had the strangest premonition that it would be. Once Antonia arrived in London, if her father’s power and influence could indeed restore her to even some modest level of society, what would there be for her to return to? If she had formed any attachment to him—if she had harbored any silly, romantic notions—his revelations this afternoon would have shattered it.
On that thought, Gareth drained the dregs of his wine. Perhaps, deep in the recesses of his mind, that was precisely what he had meant to do. Perhaps there was a part of him that wished to drive Antonia away; a part that feared the sort of intimacy she would require. He poured a second glass of port and slid a little lower into his chair. He was not perfectly sure when the light on the horizon caugh
t his eye—well, caught was the wrong word. It was more of a slow awareness that something was not right.
He looked up to see that a warm, rosy light limned the roofline of the carriage house beyond the gardens. Gareth blinked and scooted up in his chair. Not daylight, surely? No. It was too isolated. Too vivid.
“Fire!” he bellowed, coming out of his chair. The glass of port tumbled to the floor. “Fire,” he called again, going to the bell and yanking vigorously. He rushed down the passageway toward the great hall. A footman usually slept on the cot in Coggins’s office. Gareth pounded on the door. “Fire!” he bellowed again. “Get up, for God’s sake!”
The door flew open. One of the younger footmen stood in his shirtsleeves, eyes bleary. “Y-yes, Your Grace!”
“How many people sleep above the carriage house?” Gareth roughly demanded.
“Six, I think.” The footman was awake now. “What’s amiss?”
“There is a fire,” he said.
“Christ Jesus!”
“The carriage house, from the looks of it,” said Gareth. “Wake all the servants who aren’t ill. I want them at the stable well in five minutes—with buckets!”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He was throwing on his coat now. His hands were shaking.
Gareth was already halfway down the corridor when a thought struck. He turned around and shouted at the footman, who was partway up the curved staircase. “And send someone to the village,” he added. “I want Osborne up here. Now.”
Once outside, Gareth dashed onto the pergola and looked about. From this angle, he could see that the glow had heightened beyond the roofline of the carriage house. Behind him, doors were slamming and chaos was erupting. He set off at a run, but feet came pounding after him.
“It’s a bad one.” Kemble’s voice rang out behind him. “I saw it from the library. Are there servants above?”
“The stable staff,” Gareth shouted. “Come on! We’ll cut through Watson’s office.”
Watson had not yet locked up for the night, thank God. Gareth bolted inside to see that the back windows were alight with a sickening glow. Dashing around the desks and tables, he pushed through the back door, which gave onto the service courtyard. A set of carriage doors had been flung wide, and flames were rolling out onto the cobblestones and licking their way up the doors.
Kemble drew up beside him. “It’s going up the walls—inside and out.” He ran to the windows on the other side. “Fire! Get out! Fire!”
Flames were licking up the wooden doors and trim. In seconds, two of the window frames were afire. “We’ve got to get upstairs,” said Gareth, circling along the courtyard in search of the staircase. “Find the stairs. Some of the lads are ill, and likely full of laudanum.”
The stairs. The stairs. Where were the bloody stairs?
“Fire! Fire!” Kemble cried, pausing to peek inside the next set of doors. “Over here!” he shouted at Gareth. Quickly, they unbolted the doors, but the fire was licking its way up and over. The heat in the courtyard was becoming fierce.
“Wait! We need water!” Gareth ran to the trough near the well and doused himself. He scooped another bucket and crossed the courtyard to drench Kemble. “Take off your neckcloth,” he ordered. “We must wrap them round our mouths.”
Together they did so, then dragged open the second set of doors. The right-hand wall was already aflame. Behind them, servants were dashing into the courtyard. Mrs. Musbury was barking orders to line up at the well. Just then, above them, an explosion blew out a window. Glass rained down on the cobbles. Gareth dashed inside, Kemble on his heels.
“Your traveling coach!” Kemble shouted through the roiling smoke. “We can pull it out by the tongue!”
“No, go up! Up!” Gareth words were muffled by his neckcloth. He waved toward the stairs. “There!”
Together, they thundered up the steps. Kemble paused at the first landing. “No,” Gareth cried, pointing upward. “That’s storage.”
At the top, there was just one door. Gareth flung it open. The room was filled with tack and supplies. “Over there!” Kemble gestured through the faint smoke.
Gareth could see flames licking at the top of the window casing. He set his shoulder to the interior door and burst in to find a sort of parlor with a rough-hewn table and two cupboards. The next door, surely? “Fire! Get up! Fire!” he bellowed, shoving through it to find three beds, and Terrence standing at the window in his nightshirt, his expression petrified.
“Terry, get out!” Gareth’s shouts were muffled by the cloth. “Good God, man, get out!”
Terrence turned and ran directly into Kemble. The other two men roused quickly. “Who else sleeps up here?” Gareth demanded.
A second groom was shoving on his shoes. “The stable boys,” he answered. “Through there.”
“Is there a second staircase?” Kemble shouted from the tack room. “Because we are going to need it.”
“No stairs that a’way.” Talford, the coachman, was yanking on his breeches. “Just windows.”
Kemble slammed the door tight. “Mary, Jesus, and Joseph!” prayed Terrence. “We’re going to die.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Kemble, returning. “Hurry along now! We’re going out a window.” He shooed them forward, away from the thickening smoke, like a goose herding her goslings. The roaring heat was oppressive now.
Gareth was rousting the stable boys. “What’s happening?” he shouted back at Kemble. “Have the stairs caught?”
“I fear so,” said Kemble. “Find a window.”
“Which window is lowest?” Gareth shouted at the coachman who was behind Kemble.
“Through there,” said Talford. “It’s a tad lower on the laundry side.”
They were essentially circling around the estate shops’ courtyard. People were beginning to cough. Gareth had no clue where the laundry was, but he pushed his way into a room full of old furniture. He went to the left window and threw it open. “We need a ladder!” he shouted down. “A ladder—round to the laundry side! Hurry!”
Coggins looked up. “Right away, Your Grace!”
Gareth closed the window to cut down the draw. “How bad is it?” he asked Kemble.
“It’s stone—but with dry timber framing,” he said grimly. “The stairs are going and your coach is afire.”
“Musbury’s got a bucket line going on that side,” Gareth said. “Let’s get that back window up and see how far down it is.”
This window was stuck from disuse. It took the both of them to shove up the casement. Behind them, the stable boys and grooms were filing in.
“The stairs are falling in,” Talford shouted through the smoke. “It’s out that window or nothing.”
The youngest boy began to cry. One of the grooms was wheezing. Kemble had his head out the window, assessing the view. Gareth set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look, we can jump out if we must,” he said. “The worst you’ll get is a broken leg.”
This, unfortunately, did not comfort the lad, whose sobs became great, gulping heaves.
Kemble drew his head in. “It’s pitch black on that side,” he said. “But I’d judge it no more than seventeen feet.”
Just then a clatter arose from below. Gareth leaned out to see a tremulous halo of light moving across the grass, and one of the footmen dragging a ladder.
“Put it there!” ordered Coggins, holding the lamp aloft. “Your Grace, we have it! You must come down at once.”
Gareth drew his head back in. “You,” he said, grabbing the youngest boy. “You go down first.”
The boy cast a glance out the window. “I c-cannot, Your Grace,” he sobbed. “I—I am afraid.”
Gareth grabbed one of the grooms. “You go first,” he said, winking. “You must catch the others if they fall.”
The groom had one leg out the window as the ladder scraped into place.
“All right!” cried Coggins. “Come on down!”
The groom wasted no time. “Next!” cried C
oggins. “Your Grace, you must come down!”
Kemble shoved forward another stable boy. “Youth before beauty!” he trilled. “I daresay I shall have to go last.”
This stable boy made his way gingerly out as the men below bellowed orders up at him. “Set your hand on the sill! Shift your foot! To the left, now. Steady.”
Just then, fire burst to life through the most distant doorway. “There goes the tack storage!” Kemble shouted. “And likely some solvents, too.”
Gareth grabbed Talford, the coachman. “What’s in there? Any idea?”
The coachman winced. “Turpentine, certainly, Your Grace. Linseed oil. And some old paint, I daresay.”
“Bloody hell!” Gareth grabbed the next groom. “Down you go. Hurry.”
This man was more nimble than he looked, and down in a trice. Gareth grabbed the youngest boy again. “Now you must go,” he said sternly. “If you fall, someone will catch you.”
“B-but it’s dark,” said the boy. “H-how will they see me?”
“Well, wait another minute, and the frigging roof will be afire,” said Kemble under his breath. “That ought to light it up rather nicely.”
“Kemble, hush.” Gareth pushed the boy forward. “You must go now, so that the rest of us may follow.”
It seemed an eternity before the boy was down. “Kemble, go,” Gareth ordered.
“I’m afraid of heights.” Kemble waved one arm. “Mr. Talford? Your ladder awaits.”
Just then, something in the distant room exploded. Gareth looked back to see a small fireball roll beneath the old parlor table. Glass shattered, and a cry rang out from the courtyard side.
“Another window blew,” said Kemble grimly. “Now we’ve got a cross draft. We don’t have long now.”
Talford was almost down. Gareth grabbed the next stable boy, a big lad with a red nose and rheumy eyes who had been hanging well back from the others. “Come on,” he said. “Down you go.”
The lad backed away, almost cringing. “You must go next, Your Grace. I shall go last.”
