The conservatory looked as if it were made of fire. Flames leapt into the sky, their reflections writhing across the panes of glass. Men ran, shouted, threw buckets of water, tiny against the towering blaze.
Charlotte hurried to join them. The air was furnace-hot, the night loud with the sound of glass shattering, loud with the roar of flames.
Someone caught her arm, jerking her almost off her feet. “Get back.” It was the earl. His grip was hard, painful. He shoved her backwards and turned to yell at the men. “Get back! Everyone get back!”
In the chaos, it took several minutes before his order was obeyed. One of the gardeners, almost sobbing, refused to lay down his bucket.
“Is it worth your life, man?” Cosgrove shouted. “Get back.”
They clustered some distance from the conservatory, gardeners and stablemen and servants from the house, some in nightshirts, others half-dressed, faces red in the firelight, silent, like mourners at a funeral.
Cosgrove came to stand beside her. “It can’t be saved.”
“No, sir. Do you think the house, the woods—?”
“There’s no danger unless the wind picks up.” The last word was swallowed by a huge woomph of sound as the dome of the conservatory collapsed. Shards of glass and flaming splinters of wood sprayed outwards.
“How was it heated, sir?”
“By stoves.”
“It weren’t the stoves, sir,” one of the men standing nearby said. “This started outside.”
Cosgrove turned swiftly to look at him. “Are you certain, Cray?”
“As certain as I am of anything, sir. The fire started in more than one place. And it started outside.”
“Arson.”
“Without doubt, sir.”
Cosgrove scowled, one cheek flame-red, the other lost in shadow. “Barnaby.” The word was low, savage.
“Maybe not, sir,” Charlotte ventured. “It could be—” she glanced at the man, Cray, and spoke obliquely, “—one of the others.”
Cosgrove considered this for a moment, his face fierce in the firelight, then turned abruptly away. “Where’s Sugden? Sugden! Do you still have that bitch? The one that can smell rabbits half a county away?”
“She died, sir.” One of the men, a stableman by his garb, turned away from watching the fire. “But I have one of her last litter.”
“Fetch it,” Cosgrove ordered. “Let’s see if it can pick up a scent.”
But the dog, when it was brought, was little more than a pup. It was delighted to greet Cosgrove, delighted to jump up and lick his face, but confused by its master’s commands. When brought closer to the fire, it cowered from the flames.
“It’s no good,” Sugden said. “Sorry, sir.”
“Not your fault, man.” The earl turned and gave rapid orders to the assembled servants, some to watch the fire, others to search the woods.
Charlotte watched as men scattered, to dress, to fetch lanterns. She chewed on her lower lip. A dog had more chance of finding any tracks than a man.
She backed away from the fire. When she was no longer illuminated by the flames she ran round to the front of the house. The back, with the stableyard and the sleeping quarters for gardeners and grooms was busy, but here, looking down towards the lake, all was silent.
In a little shrubbery beneath the looming cliff of the terrace she found what she needed. Here, shielded by topiary, she could hide. There was even an empty urn in which to conceal her clothes.
Charlotte stripped out of the clothing she’d thrown on less than fifteen minutes ago. Her breath plumed in front of her face, silver in the moonlight. Pieces of gravel were like lumps of ice beneath her bare feet.
She hopped from foot to foot, shivering. She’d never tried being an animal before. What if something went wrong? What if—
If she thought about it too much, she’d be too afraid.
Charlotte squeezed her eyes resolutely shut. “I want to be Bess,” she said under her breath, building an image in her mind of her father’s dog, brown and long-legged.
The itching came—as if a legion of insects crawled over her skin, under her skin, inside her bones—and then was gone.
Charlotte opened her eyes.
Disorientation washed over her. Night didn’t look like this. The color was wrong. The shapes of the shrubs were wrong, towering over her. She inhaled. Smells filled her mouth and nose: the stink of smoke, the scents of grass and soil and dead leaves, the whiff of a dead animal decaying.
Charlotte gagged.
She pressed herself into the gravel, eyes squeezed shut, trying to anchor herself, trying not to vomit.
Gradually the smells became less overwhelming. The urge to vomit faded.
Charlotte lay panting, her heart racing in her chest. Cautiously she opened her eyes. Shrubbery loomed above her, bushes as tall as trees. Her nose told her they were yew, and it told her that a dead creature, a mouse perhaps, was rotting at their base.
She half-rose at the sound of running feet, so loud the runner must be upon her—and then her eyes caught movement near the woods. Two of the gardeners, lanterns in hand.
She crouched while noises rushed at her. Shouts. The crackle of flames. Breaking glass. The hooting of an owl. The clamor of night insects. Sounds blended together in a cacophony; she heard people moving in the woods, crashing through the undergrowth, heard them running across the silvery expanse of lawn, their boots crunching the frost. And then a voice jumped out at her from all the other sounds, unmistakably Cosgrove’s—the deep timbre, the note of authority.
Charlotte stood. She shook herself. The movement felt odd as it traveled down her body. She was too long, too low. She had four feet planted on the ground and a tail.
Charlotte walked from the shrubbery, placing each paw with care. Right, left, right, left. Her progress was slow and awkward. After a few paces her legs tangled. She overbalanced and fell over.
She lay on the cold gravel, shivering. Men shouted in the woods. Glass cracked in the fire. A full moon hung overhead, almost as bright as the sun. What was wrong with her? Dogs walked on four legs without any difficulty.
But she wasn’t a dog. She was a human in a body that was the wrong shape.
I can do this.
Charlotte huffed a breath and pushed up onto all four paws. She fastened her gaze on a point several yards distant. Don’t think about how many legs I’ve got, just walk.
She reached the spot without tangling her legs. It took a moment to realize that the strange sensation coming from her hindquarters was her tail wagging.
Charlotte headed back to the fire. Her legs moved of their own accord, a natural rhythm—fast, faster—until she was trotting, her paws making soft crunching sounds on the gravel.
Two men watched the blaze, the rest had dispersed.
The fire looked quite different through her dog’s eyes. The flames were no less fierce, but they were an odd color, the intense reds and oranges gone.
Charlotte circled the conservatory, a slow and slinking path that kept her in the shadows. Dozens of smells overlaid each other. Burning timber and charred vegetation. The horse smell of the stablemen and earthy smell of the gardeners. Lord Cosgrove’s scent, faint but distinct, and a scent that she recognized, to her surprise, as Christopher Albin’s. There were other smells, too—rich, damp soil and layer upon layer of flower scents—and a smell that was oddly out of place, yet familiar . . .
Whale oil. She smelled it on the ground.
Someone had used it to fuel the fire.
Charlotte trotted away from the fire, casting in a wide arc, sniffing, trying to catch the scent of whale oil.
There. Faint but distinct. Heading towards the driveway.
Charlotte lengthened her stride. She was running as fast as a man. Faster. As fast as a horse. It was exhilarating. Her muscles bunched and stretched, bunched and stretched, the frosty ground flashing beneath her paws.
The scent of whale oil led down the driveway. Before the gatehouse, it swung into the woods. Two horses had waited here, concealed in the trees. A pile of droppings steamed gently, the scent rich and sweet. None of Cosgrove’s men had found it yet. Would their human noses smell it, or would they continue blindly past?
The two horses had ridden through the woods, squeezed through a gap in the high yew hedge, and headed east along the road.
Charlotte followed, stretching her legs into a long, ground-covering gallop.
She didn’t know how long she ran for. Perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour. She passed Sir Barnaby’s manor, with its tall Tudor chimneys, passed farmhouses, passed cottages. Her pace slowed from headlong gallop to steady lope. Above her, the moon hung, heavy and full. Milestones gleamed whitely. Was this the sixth she’d passed? The seventh?
The scent of horses, of men, of whale oil, grew stronger. How far was she behind now? A few minutes?
A village came into sight. She smelled woodsmoke, heard voices and the clatter of horses’ hooves.
Charlotte slowed to a cautious trot. Light spilled onto the road ahead of her—an inn, with an ostler leading away two horses, and a coach-and-four standing ready to depart, a postilion astride one of the wheelers and another mounted on the outside leader.
Her nose told her that the two men standing beside the coach had lit the conservatory fire. They smelled of sweat and smoke and whale oil, of horse, of leather and wool, but each had a distinct odor; one was sourer, the other had a musty, sweeter scent.
She halted. She couldn’t follow a coach-and-four.
Lamplight lit each man’s face as he climbed aboard. Charlotte stared intently, trying to memorize their features. Perhaps it was because she had dog’s eyes, but the two men seemed unremarkable. She couldn’t even tell what color their hair was.
The carriage door slammed shut, the horses moved forward, and the whole equipage swept out of the village.
Charlotte sat down, panting, her tongue hanging from her mouth.
The innkeeper carried his lamp inside and closed the door, shooting the bolts. Sounds came from the stableyard, but all was dark and silent in front of the inn.
Charlotte slunk across the street and plunged her muzzle into the horse trough, drinking greedily. Her long dog’s tongue got in the way. She choked and fell into a fit of coughing.
The ostler came round from the stableyard. “Away with you!” He shied a stone at her.
The road stretched endlessly in the moonlight. Running was beyond her; the most Charlotte could manage was a weary trot.
When Sir Barnaby’s manor came into sight she stopped and lay down on the road, legs trembling, laboring for breath.
Not much further now.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Exhaustion pressed her into the dirt. It would be so easy to lie here, to sleep . . .
An owl hooted. Charlotte jerked her eyes open and staggered upright. Her pace this time was little more than walking. When she reached the Hazelbrook woods she left the road, squeezing through the hedge.
It was darker between the trees. Thick layers of dead leaves were soft beneath her paws. Water burbled—the river she’d forded that morning with Lord Cosgrove. Thirst spurred her into a slow, lumbering run. She charged into the water and lay down, too tired to stand.
“Can’t see nothing that looks like tracks, sir.”
Marcus raised his lantern and looked around. Trees loomed out of the darkness. This was futile. Far better that he return to Hazelbrook, saddle one of the horses, and ride over to confront Barnaby.
Movement caught his eye. He swung around.
A dog came through the trees, walking slowly. Even at this distance he saw its ribcage heaving.
“Whose is that?”
“Never seen it afore, sir.”
The dog halted and stared at him, its eyes gleaming in the lamplight. It was dark brown and short-coated, with a long muzzle and legs.
Marcus walked over to it. The dog didn’t cower from him, didn’t snarl, just stood there panting.
He reached down and patted it. Its coat was wet. Its body trembled beneath his hand. “You’re exhausted, poor creature.”
The dog gave a deep sigh, as if it understood his words and agreed, then nudged his leg and walked away between the trees.
Marcus stared after it. That nudge had been like a wordless goodbye. How strange.
He turned back to the gardener. “Tell the others to stop looking. We won’t find anything in this dark.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus made a cast through the woods, repeating the order, and then plowed uphill through the trees. No point searching when he knew who’d lit the fire.
With each step, his rage grew. It was the same sick fury that had consumed him after he’d learned of Lavinia’s affair. How could a man he’d grown up with, a man he’d counted as his brother, do this?
He’d just broken out of the trees—full moon, red glow of the fire—when he heard his name being called. “Lord Cosgrove! Sir!”
“Here!” He raised his lantern.
Gravel crunched as someone came towards him, half-running. “Sir . . .” It was Albin.
“What is it, lad?”
Albin halted and gulped for breath. “I followed them, sir.”
“What?” Excitement surged in his chest. “Who? Tell me, lad. Quickly!”
“Don’t know who they were, sir.” Albin bent over, braced his hands on his knees, panted. “Two men. They had horses in the wood.”
“You ran after two men on horseback?”
“Yes, sir.” Albin sat down on the ground. His hair was wet with sweat, plastered to his brow. “They weren’t that far ahead. I thought—I didn’t want to lose them.”
Marcus crouched alongside him. “Where did they go? Mead Hall?”
“No, sir. They rode to the next village.”
“Betchworth?”
“Don’t know what it’s called, sir. The one past Mead Hall.”
“East? That’s Tewkes Hollow.” Marcus stared at his secretary in disbelief. “You ran all the way to Tewkes Hollow?” He put his lantern on the ground. “Impossible.”
“It’s true, sir.”
Marcus gripped Albin’s shoulder. “I don’t doubt you, lad. But . . . Good God! That’s all of seven miles!” The lad was trembling with exhaustion.
“They took a coach-and-four, sir. From the inn. It left just as I got there.”
“Where were they headed?”
“I don’t know, sir. I . . . I thought you’d want to question the innkeeper yourself.”
“By Jove, yes!” Marcus stood. “Come on, lad. Let’s find out who they were—and where they went!”
He hauled Albin to his feet, but it took only a few seconds to realize that the lad wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He shivered convulsively, close to collapse.
Marcus slung Albin’s arm over his shoulder and helped him back to the house. “What would you like most?” he asked, as he half-carried Albin up the steps to the front door. “A bed, or food?”
“Something to drink, sir.”
Candles blazed in the entrance hall. Marcus gave rapid orders to his housekeeper. “Mrs. Kerr, blankets for Mr. Albin, and a tankard of ale and some hot food.” He steered the lad into the library. “And see that the fire is built up in here.” He eased Albin into the armchair closest to the fireplace and turned to his butler. The man’s face was anxious and unshaven. “Gough, send round to the stables. I want a horse saddled for me. Now!”