by Anna Bennett
Alex had to find Beth.
He was running for the ballroom when the first screams from within pierced the air. “Fire!”
Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT
As Alex tried to enter the house, scores of guests stampeded out of the French doors and spilled onto the verandah, frantic to escape the smoky ballroom.
He shouted above the commotion. “Not this way,” he said, guiding the throng backward. “There are no stairs off the verandah. Gentlemen, escort the ladies through the ballroom and through one of the other exits. Quickly make your way outside and move away from the house.”
He squeezed past the guests and moved to the center of the ballroom, where smoke floated toward the high ceilings, filling the room like a dreary London fog. Several footmen scurried to and fro.
“George,” he called to one of them. “Where’s the fire?”
The young, gangly man swallowed. “The ground floor, your grace. Mr. Sharp just ordered Richard to sound the alarm and send for the fire brigade.”
Shit. His study was on the first floor, which meant Beth … dear God.
“Spread the word that everyone—staff and guests—should meet in the square across the street,” Alex said. “Make sure all are accounted for.”
“Yes, your grace.”
The footman dashed off, and the butler strode over. “I’ve asked Thomas to check every room on the second floor,” he said, stifling a cough. “And Richard is doing the same on this floor.”
“I’ll take the ground floor,” Alex said, already moving toward the exit. “Have you seen my grandmother?”
“Yes, your grace. The dowager seemed a little shaken but otherwise fine. Miss Lacey was helping her down the back stairs.”
Alex halted in his tracks. “Miss Lacey was with her?”
Mr. Sharp blinked. “Yes. Wearing her red cape. She had her arm around your grandmother.”
Alex blew out the breath he’d been holding. Relief flooded his veins. “Thank you. I’m glad to know they’re safe.” But he’d feel better when he saw them both for himself. “I’m going to do a sweep of the ground floor, then we’ll all meet outside and wait for the brigade.”
The butler’s jowls trembled. “It’s a tragedy, your grace. First your parents and your uncle’s house … and now this. I’ll have the staff save what we can—the silver, paintings, some of the furniture. Is there anything in particular you’d like us to fetch?”
Alex considered the question. His heart tripped in his chest as he thought about his father’s beloved desk, his mother’s antique ring, and the portrait of his parents—the only one he possessed—that graced the wall in the front hall. The more practical side of him thought about bank notes, ledgers, and jewels.
But in the end, none of those things truly mattered—especially if a life was lost.
Alex clasped the butler’s shoulder. “Let’s ensure everyone makes it out safely. Then we’ll do what we can to save the house.”
Mr. Sharp gave a dutiful nod and coughed again. “The fire seems to be located in the front of the house—probably in your study. The main stairway is filled with smoke, so I’m directing everyone toward the back stairs.”
“Well done. Now you go outside too. Find my grandmother and Miss Lacey and instruct them to wait in the square. Under no circumstances should they—or anyone—return to the house. I’ll meet you there shortly.”
“Understood, your grace.”
Alex ran toward the main stairway. He needed to be sure that no one was left there, either overcome by smoke or paralyzed with fear.
As he descended the stairs, the cloud of smoke thickened and his eyes stung. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Beth and he were supposed to meet in the study at midnight—just as a conflagration began there. He’d thought he’d managed to stay one step ahead of his mysterious adversary, but he’d been outmaneuvered once again.
Alex stepped into the front hall, ducking to keep his head below the heaviest haze of smoke, and turned around. “Is anyone here?” He called out. “You need to leave the house at once!”
The only reply was sputtering crackle coming from the direction of the study. Grey ghostly tendrils emerged from beneath the closed door, greedily reaching out and up.
He stalked to the door, tried to turn the knob, and found it locked. And warm.
Holy hell. As he pounded the door with his fist, he reminded himself that Mr. Sharp had seen both his grandmother and Beth making their way outside. Surely, they were safe.
Perhaps one of the staff had wisely closed the study door to slow the spread of the fire. They would have checked the room before locking it—to be certain no one remained inside.
But Alex needed to be sure.
He pounded again and shouted. “Is anyone in there?”
“Alex!”
No. The voice, feminine and husky, sounded like Beth’s. But it couldn’t be.
“Beth—is that you?” Fear and dread sliced through him, nearly ripping him in two.
“Help!” she said, coughing violently.
Dear God. “I’m coming!” He took a step back then charged at the door using his shoulder as a battering ram. The door rattled on its hinges but didn’t open.
He tried again. The lock held.
Jesus, how could this be happening?
Desperate, he looked around for something to smash the knob and grabbed a walking stick. He swung the handle at the knob like a sledgehammer, but the stick snapped in two.
“Hold on, Beth!”
Lord help him, he had to reach her now. Smoke could already be filling her lungs. Flames could be licking at her skin. Every second mattered.
With strength fueled by fear, he kicked the knob with the heel of his boot, over and over, until it hung limply and the door cracked open.
Waves of smoke and a wall of heat assaulted him, and he squinted as he peered inside. The largest flames were in the center of the room, on and around his desk, and around the windows, where the blaze consumed the heavy curtains.
It was frighteningly similar to the fire that had taken his parents.
Hell if he’d let it take Beth from him.
“Beth!” he called above the roar.
No response.
He took one more deep breath of air near the doorway and rushed into the room, running through the flames, over the piles of wood and paper. His nose and throat burned. His heart pounded as it had when he’d been a boy of six, terrified and clinging to his father.
In the midst of the suffocating heat, the realization hit him. Any six-year-old would have done the same. He wasn’t responsible for his parents’ deaths. Not really.
Besides, he was no longer that boy, and Beth was counting on him.
He found her on the other side of the flames, curled in the corner next to the bookshelves.
Dropping to his knees, he took her face in his hands. “Beth, it’s me. I have you, and I’m going to carry you out of here.”
As he swept her into his arms, her limbs dangled lifelessly. Her gown was singed around the hem, and her cheeks were smudged with ash. She looked peaceful, almost like she was sleeping. But she was pale and still. So, so still—like his mother had been. Dear God. Don’t let him be too late.
His own breathing grew labored. His lungs burned. He gasped for air.
I’m taking you out of here, Beth. And you’re going to be all right. You have to be.
He counted down in his head. Three, two, one. Go.
Holding her close, he raced through the flames, out of the study, and through the main hall. He yanked open the front door and trotted down the steps, coughing and hacking. His arms shook as he laid her gently on the walkway in front of the house. “You’re safe,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m with you. Don’t leave me now. I need you.”
A few people who must have seen him emerge from the house shouted and ran toward him, but he didn’t take his eyes off Beth. After all they’d been through, it couldn’t end like this.
Desperate
for a sign of life, he pressed an ear to her chest.
And heard the faintest of beats.
He thanked heaven … but her breaths were shallow, and in the pale moonlight, her lips had a blueish hue.
No, the heartbeats weren’t enough. He needed to know she would be all right. Frantic, he gently shook her.
“Beth.” He cradled her head in his palm—and felt something sticky. Wet.
His stomach fell like a rock. Please … don’t let it be.
But it was. Her hair was matted with blood.
Chapter THIRTY-NINE
Beth’s throat burned, and her tongue felt as dry as the sawdust that littered the floor of Alex’s study.
The ache in her head radiated, invading her limbs like poison.
And though she could feel cool air on her skin, she couldn’t breathe it in. It was as though someone had bound her chest with a hundred yards of cloth and cinched the ends with Herculean strength, so that she couldn’t possibly inhale.
She should be fighting. For air, for consciousness, for life. But her body refused to obey her commands.
In the distance, she heard pleading … and her name.
She focused the last scrap of her energy on that voice—deep, rich, and heartbreakingly familiar. Alex.
He sounded uncharacteristically sad. Frightened and vulnerable. And she knew, deep in the pit of her belly, that she was the cause of his distress.
Dear God. He needed her.
Not for what she could do for him or even to fix things. He needed her for who she was.
And she couldn’t leave him—at least not without a fight.
So she struggled harder. For him, for her, for the life they could have together.
She strained against the bands around her chest, stretching them. Expanding them by just a hair. And then another.
Her strength nearly sapped, she made one last desperate attempt to inhale deeply. If she could only manage a proper breath, she’d be able to find her way back to Alex. Surely, she would.
Ignoring the pain and the burning and the fear, she gasped and gulped, coughing until blessedly clean air flooded her lungs.
Her head throbbed.
Violent spasms racked her body.
The horrors of the night bombarded her—the blow to the head, the burning study, smoke everywhere … and the discovery that Alex had not been forthright with her.
But he was there, holding her head on his lap. Promising her that he would take care of her and that everything would be all right.
How she wanted to believe him.
“Someone bring water!” he shouted over her head. Leaning closer he whispered, “I have you now, Beth. And I’m never letting go.”
She forced her eyes open and gazed into his earnest, devastatingly handsome face. She wanted to tell him that she loved him. But when she tried to speak, only a croak came out.
He pressed a cool ladle to her lips, and she drank gratefully, even though the water tasted like smoke.
“You’re injured,” he said softly, as though he regretted having to deliver the bad news. “I’ve already summoned the doctor, and you need to remain still until he arrives.”
She nodded, wincing at the pain in her head.
“Who?” he asked, low and lethal. “Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know,” she rasped. “Someone wearing my cape.”
He blinked and looked up, like he was trying to piece the parts together. Worry flicked across his face, alarming her once again.
“Alex?”
Gazing intently at her, he asked, “Were you with my grandmother after the fire started?”
Was she? The events of the night jumbled in her head, and the throbbing in her temples muddled her thinking. “I don’t think—”
“Beth!” The frantic cries of her sisters pierced the intimate cocoon of her conversation with Alex.
“My God, we’ve been looking all over for you,” Meg blurted. She fell to her knees beside Beth and grasped her hand. “What’s happened to you? Are you all right?”
“I was hit on the—”
“Sweet Jesus, Beth!” Julie crouched on her other side, her beautiful face ghostly pale. “You’re bleeding all over the—”
“That’s enough,” Meg snapped at their younger sister. She exchanged a look with Alex, then turned back to Beth. “Save your strength, darling. We will unravel it all later. For now, you must rest.”
Alex tugged off his cravat and gently wound it around her crown.
Julie removed her cloak and tucked it around Beth like a blanket. “There,” she said soothingly.
Beth’s heart raced. Being treated with kid gloves was a thousand times more frightening than the blood.
But she needed to focus. Something still wasn’t right.
“Where is your grandmother?” she asked Alex.
His forehead creased in concern. “She’s probably with all the staff and guests, across the street. I asked Mr. Sharp to look for her.”
“I didn’t see her in the square,” Meg said.
“The last time I saw her, she was in the ballroom,” Julie mused. “Moving toward the door with Beth.”
“It wasn’t me,” Beth choked out. “Someone else has been wearing my cape.” She looked at Alex. “You need to find your grandmother.”
He frowned. “I will, just as soon as the doctor arrives.”
“Meg and Julie will stay with me. You must go,” she urged. “Find her before…” the unthinkable happens.
“You should go,” Meg agreed. “We’ll care for Beth.”
Julie nodded vigorously. “The Lacey girls stay together. No matter what.”
Hearing their old mantra—the one they’d clung to after their parents’ deaths—made Beth want to cry all of a sudden, but she swallowed back a sob and smiled at Alex. “I shan’t go anywhere. Promise.”
“Very well,” he said reluctantly.
He reached for the folded blanket that a footman offered and tenderly tucked it under her head as a pillow, replacing his thigh. The blanket was softer, and yet …
“Take care of her.” He spoke to Meg and Julie, but the adoration that shone in his eyes … that was all for Beth. “And please do not go anywhere, because before the night is through, there are two matters I wish to discuss with you ladies.”
Meg arched a brow. “Do you?”
“With us?” Julie squeaked.
Alex drew himself up to his full, considerable, height. “Indeed. I must first issue an apology, and second … I’d like to seek permission to court your sister.”
Beth’s heart fluttered. Though she was dizzy and sprawled on the sidewalk with the devil of a headache, a seedling of hope sprouted in her chest.
Because the shocked expressions on her sisters’ faces said that just now, her relationship with Alex had crossed over from the realm of fairy tales into a world that was indisputably, incontrovertibly, and gloriously … real.
* * *
Alex had to wrench himself away from Beth, and although he hated to leave her, she was right. His grandmother was likely in danger.
He sprinted to the square across the street, grateful that the bucket brigade had already arrived and begun to work. Darby barked out orders, quickly organizing the mob of volunteers into a line stretching from a well one block away to the front door of Alex’s house. Men, women, and children—some of them neighbors wearing robes and slippers, some guests still dressed in their costumes—started passing buckets of sloshing water up the line.
They’d prevent the fire from spreading to his neighbors’ homes. They might even save his house.
But his town house was the least of his worries.
Alex spotted Mr. Sharp in a grassy area, distributing blankets to a pair of older women dressed in Egyptian garb. “Please accept my apologies for the disruption in the festivities,” his butler was saying—as though the out-of-control fire was comparable to an unscheduled break by the orchestra. “We shall round up some refreshments at t
he first available opportunity.”
“Mr. Sharp,” Alex called.
The butler made his apologies and hurried over. “Your grace, I am glad you’re here. I’ve been asking all the guests about the dowager duchess—and none of them has seen her since she was in the ballroom. I could have sworn that she and Miss Lacey were making their way outside. But I saw that you rescued Miss Lacey … is it possible that the dowager is still in the house?”
Alex’s heart pounded, and he prepared to charge back into the flames. “It is possible. Or she might have made it out and left with someone. Are all of our guests accounted for?”
“I believe so, your grace. Though I’d feel better if I had a list. We asked a member of each party to confirm that everyone in their group made it to safety. Some are helping the brigade. Others, anticipating a long night, have left to fetch supplies for the volunteers.”
Alex clutched his head, desperate to think what clue he might have missed. Newton and Coulsen had both shed their costumes, rolled up their shirtsleeves, and joined in the fire-fighting effort. Haversham sat against the trunk of a tree, passed out.
If his suspects weren’t responsible for the fire, who was? Beth had said her attacker was a woman … and so was the person who’d sent him the note asking him to meet in the study.
“Are any of the guests wearing a red cape—similar to Miss Lacey’s?”
“Not that I’m aware of, your grace. Although, now that you mention it, I recall seeing a red blanket … draped over Lord Haversham.”
“Holy hell.” Alex ran to the drunken marquess, snatched the cape off him, and examined it under the lantern Mr. Sharp held aloft. “It’s Miss Lacey’s,” Alex said, dread turning his blood to ice.
“Haversham,” he shouted, shoving the marquess with the toe of his boot. The man groaned and squinted as though he already suffered from the king of all hangovers. Alex shook the cloak in his face. “Where did you get this?”
“Jesus, Blackshire. What kind of host are you? First you endanger our lives with a fire, and then—”
Alex reached the end of his fuse. He grabbed the marquess by his magician’s robe, hauled him to his feet, and slammed him against the tree. “Where,” he seethed, “did you get Miss Lacey’s cape?”
