NINETEEN

When a noise awoke Letty again, she was surprised to find that it was still dark. She propped herself up to listen more intently. Something quiet and furtive was moving outside the door.

The noise, whatever it was, stopped and did not recur. Hearing nothing but Patrick’s deep breathing beside her, Letty decided she must have been mistaken. Her nerves must still be on edge from the trial. Pulling the coverlet over herself, she snuggled closer to her husband’s warmth and tried to go back to sleep, since dawn was hours away.

Then it came again. An almost undetectable scraping sound, all the more disturbing for its faintness. Someone was awake and moving about the second floor of the house. Perhaps one of the servants had returned early. Curious to see who it was, she put on her wrapper and slippers before peeking into the hallway. A faint glow that spilled from the banked fire revealed nothing but the house’s old walls and marble floors.

She was about to return to the warm bed when a new light flickered under the narrow space at the bottom of the adjacent door. The one that led to Patrick’s study. The light disappeared briefly, then returned, strong and steady.

With three paces, she was in the hallway and flinging open the door. A tall, gangly form slowly straightened from lighting the fire in the grate. A broad grin crossed his face, and he seemed unconcerned at having been discovered.

“Bill Burns! What on earth are you doing here?”

X

Bill Burns picked up Patrick’s thick unbound manuscript from the desk and held it up. “This is it, isn’t it? The book yer husband’s been working on? I heard all about it. A shame, really.” He shook his head sadly and raised it above the flames.

“Put that down!” Letty’s command turned into a scream as Bill unceremoniously dropped the sheaf of papers into the fireplace, where the corners of the pages immediately began to curl and turn brown. She dashed toward the fireplace to rescue them, but he grabbed her, pulling her against his chest with one iron arm while his free hand covered her mouth.

“See,” he said into her ear. “Watch it burn. Pretty, ain’t it? I always did like fire. Maybe ’tis because of my name.”

Struggling helplessly to free herself, Letty watched in horror as the cover of Patrick’s manuscript singed and little pieces of flame began to lick the edges.

“So you thought you could kick me out, merely for claiming my rights.” Bill’s voice was a low growl. “Told us we’d have auto-no-my, didn’t you? That we could make our decisions and live with ’em, right or wrong. Well, ’twas a lie, wasn’t it, Mrs. Marlowe? Soon you’ll find no one messes with Bill Burns and gets away with it.”

Letty wondered why Patrick hadn’t come running to save her after hearing her scream. Now the big hand was cutting off her oxygen, making her head swim. Just when Letty thought she would faint, Bill loosened his hold slightly, and she gasped for breath.

Bill still held her tightly against him, however, and Letty was aware that he could snap her neck merely by tightening his arm. She did not dare scream again, but perhaps she could stall him.

“Were you behind all of it, then?” Her voice was breathless. “The rumors about New Hope? The fire at the vicarage? Simon’s arrest?”

Bill grinned with pride. “Quick, aren’t you? Although I must admit, Nora did her part well. ’Twas a bit o’ luck, my meetin’ that Clapham fellow in the pub at Grayton after you sent me packin’. He offered to pay me to cause trouble, and trouble is what Bill Burns does best.”

So Lord Clapham was involved in this after all, she thought.

“That London fellow pays well for a bit o’ mayhem, he does,” Bill went on. “Sadly, that pretty Nora dumped me once she met the gen’lmun. Figured her prospects were better with a rich man, I s’pose. Truth is, we made a right good team, the three of us. Stirred things up around here right proper.”

At his low chuckle Letty was tempted to scream again. She reminded herself her best tactic was to keep Bill talking, loudly enough that Patrick would hear them through the wall of the adjoining chamber and know their danger.

“So you’re the one who introduced Nora to Lord Clapham?” she guessed, raising her voice as loud as she dared.

He nodded. “Clapham set me up in a cottage near Graytown, where I could inform him of goings on at New Hope and stir up the waters. Then, when he learned Nora would do anything for a kiss and a promise, he came up with a ripping plan for both of us. Seems Clapham had his own reasons to hate New Hope, eh, milady?”

“I suppose he thinks so.” Letty’s eyes were on the sheaf of papers, fully ablaze. There was no hope of rescuing it. Despair stabbed through her.

“Tomorrow,” Bill said, watching it with equal fascination, “the good folks of Grayton will awake to find there’s been a fire at Blackgrave Manor, with the master and mistress its unfortunate casualties.”

She jerked her attention from the flaming book and renewed struggling and kicking to free herself.

Grinning, Bill tightened his arms. “You left us no choice. The trial failed to discredit your husband, like we planned. Once the full story of the African expedition comes out, Marlowe’ll become a bleedin’ national hero! Clapham said something drastic must be done tonight, to prevent him from being elected at the meeting tomorrow.”

Bill’s grip tightened further, and she clutched at his forearm with both hands. “And like I said, milady, when there’s something drastic to be done, you’ll find there’s none better to do it than yer humble servant, Bill Burns.” Without warning, he released her so suddenly that Letty fell to the floor. He seized a faggot from the fire and in a one swift motion set the draperies aflame.

Gasping for breath, Letty watched the flames creep up the heavy fabric. Why hadn’t Patrick responded to her scream or their voices? She remembered how unnaturally heavy his sleep had seemed. Was it possible that his tea had been drugged? She had spilled most of her own into the saucer. Either way, the fire would soon burn through the wall to the next room, and there were no servants to alert the master of Marlowe Manor, or to rescue him—or her.

All this passed through her mind in a moment, before she remembered the ironwood statuette that stood on the desk. Bill had paused facing the window, watching the fire grow with apparent satisfaction. Letty pushed herself to her knees and scrabbled through the cluttered letters and books. Yes, there it was, half-hidden in the clutter. Her fingers encircled it, tightened. Perhaps there was a chance …

Bill was beginning to turn when she hurled herself toward him. The blow caught him not on the head, as Letty intended, but glanced ineffectually off his shoulder.

Snarling, he grabbed her wrist and painfully unloosed her fingers one by one from their grip on the statuette. Then he tossed the figurine into the fireplace and slapped her across the face with all his strength.

Letty’s cheek exploded with pain. She sprawled full-length on the floor. By now the burning draperies were casting sprays of yellow sparks across the room, and some of the loose papers on the desk were beginning to curl, a sign that they too would shortly burst into flame.

The wavering firelight distorted Bill’s face, making him look like one of the demonic African masks hanging on the wall behind him. Giving her a contemptuous look, he stepped out of the door without another word and slammed it behind him. The key turned with a loud click.

Bill must have planned to lock her in here all along, Letty thought, wincing as she touched the side of her face. How else would he have thought to pocket the key? Either he was more clever than she had given him credit for, or Lord Clapham had given him precise instructions.

The air in the room was already thick with smoke, and intense heat pressed against her. The window was not a means of escape. The blazing curtains provided an impenetrable barrier.

Letty struggled with the doorknob as the hopelessness of her situation came crashing down on her. There was no way to force the lock, and she was not strong enough to kick down that thick, mahogany panel. That fact did not prevent her from trying, however. Gritting her teeth, Letty pulled the heavy desk over, braced her back against it, and kicked the door repeatedly. Perhaps, eventually, the bolt might weaken. If she didn’t burn to a crisp first.

The door didn’t budge. Nothing happened except her legs got tired and the room grew hotter. Sweat poured down her face.

In desperation, Letty changed tactics. She rammed the door full force with her shoulder, crying out with pain as soft flesh struck solid oak. Gasping, she clutched her shoulder, wondering if she had broken any bones. Again, her effort showed no effect whatsoever.

She leaned her head against the door, coughing and gasping from the acrid smoke that stung her lungs. What could she do next? Then, woozily, Letty remembered that the study had originally been built as an antechamber to Patrick’s bedroom. There must be a connecting door hidden under all those maps papering the wall.

Careless of John Forster’s laborious, hand-drafted work, she ripped down the charts. Half-blind in the smoky gloom, hardly able to breathe, she desperately ran her hands across the paneling underneath.

The heat was scorching Letty’s back when her questing fingertips found a long, vertical piece of molding that must be the frame of the old doorway. She located the knob and twisted with all her strength. The door did not budge. It may have been painted over or boarded up for lack of use. Nevertheless she threw her entire weight against it, as she had against the door to the hallway. This time, to her shock, the door screeched outward on rusted hinges. Caught off balance, she fell into the relatively cool darkness of Patrick’s bedroom, sobbing with relief.

For several moments she lay on the Persian carpet, gulping clean air into aching lungs. But there was no time to waste. Forcing herself to her feet, Letty whirled and slammed the door to the antechamber. Perhaps the barrier would contain the fire long enough for them to escape. Even on this side, the panels of the door felt hot, and the metal doorknob burned her palms.

“Patrick! Wake up!” Letty frantically tugged at the limp arm dangling over the side of the bed. Patrick’s stillness despite the commotion caused new fear to leap inside her. What if he was not merely drugged, but dead? She shook her husband until his dark head flopped against the bolster like a dying fish.

Her efforts had their effect: Patrick stirred and muttered, and weakly attempted to push her away. “Mmmf. What … doing?”

Letty’s relief, although sharp, was premature. Somehow, she knew, Patrick must walk on his own feet out of this room. She couldn’t drag him; he was nearly a foot taller than her, and most of it solid muscle.

Using words she hadn’t known were in her vocabulary, and which would have shocked Aunt Caroline witless, Letty dashed to the washbasin in the corner and soaked a pair of handkerchiefs in the water before flinging the rest of its wet contents onto his face. The cold water roused him sufficiently to open his eyes. He stared at her with surprise before his eyes fluttered shut again and his head fell back onto the bolster.

“Patrick!” Her voice was sharp. “Wake up! The house is on fire. We must get to safety.”

He opened his eyes. Her desperate words had penetrated his stupor. Bracing her legs, she tried to maneuver him out of the bed. Patrick’s head lolled against her shoulder, but he obediently sat and slowly put his feet on the floor.

“Stand up and walk, dash it,” she said fiercely. “Here, put this handkerchief over your face. It will help keep the smoke out of your lungs.”

His eyes focused on her for a moment, then turned, bewildered, to the ghostly white tendrils curling under the doorway she had slammed shut. “Smoke?”

“I told you, the house is on fire. Bill Burns set it because … Never mind, I’ll explain later. We must leave, now.” Letty held the other wet handkerchief to her face while pulling on his arm.

Patrick seemed to understand for, leaning heavily on her, he got to his feet and allowed her to guide him toward the door leading to the hallway. When she opened it, black smoke poured into the room, filling the air with a bitter smell and causing them to cough.

Perspiring from the heat of the fire and the effort of balancing Patrick’s heavy weight, she worked their way down the hallway to the curving stairs that led down to the entry hall. As she watched in horror, a long yellow flame reached out of the library and ignited the peeling, old wallpaper in the hallway like quick match. The fire raced across the hallway like a living thing, barring their progress and spreading around them.

Already, the fire had spread to the first floor. Flames ringed the bottom of the staircase and licked the banisters. She prayed that the weakened stairs would not collapse under their weight—if they could get through the line of fire confronting them. Maybe if they hurried …

“Stairs … can’t … hold us,” Patrick said, his fingers digging painfully into her arm.

Quickly she cast for another solution, although her eyes were stinging and her lungs laboring to breathe. “Maybe we could tie sheets together and climb through a window. I read in a novel once that—”

Patrick shook his head. “No time. Servants’ stairs. Quicker.”

They raced back along the hallway, as quickly as Patrick could stumble, away from the threatening flames. The activity seemed to revive him somewhat, and his weight on her shoulder lessened a little.

The fire had not yet reached the narrow, steep stairwell used by servants, but the atmosphere was stifling as they made their way down the worn wooden steps, and she was fully aware of their vulnerability if the flames trapped them here.

They made it into the kitchen, only to find billowing smoke now filled the entire house. Her eyes stung painfully, and red-tinged shadows blinded her. Her laboring lungs could hardly breathe the acrid air. A door somewhere to their right led outside, but intense heat prevented them from going that direction.

She could no longer see Patrick, but felt his hand clutching hers tightly. The great house’s aged timbers groaned loudly, expanding and cracking. An explosive crash upstairs told her that part of the ceiling had collapsed. Letty desperately tried to think of another way outside. A second door by the servants’ quarters led toward the rose gardens, but could they reach it in time?

Tightening her fingers, Letty shouted directions above the roaring of the fire. Patrick pressed her hand to indicate that he understood, and they began to run, clumsy and stumbling, through the flames that scorched their feet. Slapping out their burning clothes, they hurried into the recesses of the servant’s quarters, where the fire had not yet fully engulfed.

As they moved, she held her arm in front of her to prevent them from blundering into a wall or other objects, but her shin banged on several sharp corners before her fumbling fingers found the latch. The metal felt surprisingly cool against her palm, blistered from the hot doorknob she’d grasped in Patrick’s study.

Together they staggered into the fresh night air, turning to see the entire house ablaze. Letty fought for breath, lungs burning from smoke. Rubbing stinging eyes, she stared at the sight of flames pouring out the windows and roof.

Patrick bent over with hands on knees, coughing and wheezing. “Are you … all right?” His gasped question was barely audible over the thunderous flames. She nodded between her own coughs.

Patrick shook his head to clear it. “The servants. Is everyone out?”

“You gave them the night off, remember?”

“So I did. Thank … goodness. What about …” Her husband’s face grew stricken. “Curse it, Leticia! My manuscript!” Patrick straightened and turned to bolt back into the house.

“Are you mad?” she shrieked, grabbing him by the shoulders. “It is already gone. Bill destroyed it. He threw it into the fire, in front of me.”

He paused as her words registered. At that moment, what remained of the upper floors caved to the ground with a deafening crash. Sparks spiraled hundreds of feet into the sky like red stars. Patrick’s arm went around Letty’s waist while they watched the flames illuminate the midnight sky like a giant roman candle. Both of them were silent.

There was nothing to say.