by Karen Ranney
“He could not have been happy about the delay in Douglas’s diamond process.”
He looked directly at her. “He was not, Lady Sarah.”
“Enough to do something foolish, Simons?”
He moved to the sideboard and rearranged the placement of her bonnet and gloves. A few moments later, he gave a half shrug, a curiously self-deprecating gesture. “His Grace is what he is, Lady Sarah, but I have been with him for more than a decade.”
She remained silent, waiting.
“In all that time, Lady Sarah, he has done good deeds, and those which I regretted.”
He looked up at the ceiling.
“I very much fear that this deed shall be ranked among those I regret.”
She folded her hands in front of her and faced Simons, willing her expression to reveal nothing of what she felt.
“Is my husband here, Simons?”
The majordomo looked down at the intricate marble flooring. “He is, Lady Sarah.”
“Of his own volition, Simons?”
He took a deep breath, exhaled it. “No, Lady Sarah.”
She reached out and gripped his jacketed arm with her bare hand, the very first time she could ever remember touching the man.
“Can you release him, Simons?”
“It would mean my position, Lady Sarah.”
She nodded. “I know. But there are other places that need you, Simons,” she said. “Chavensworth, for one.”
“I doubt His Grace would allow me to be employed at Chavensworth, Lady Sarah,” Simons said with a small smile.
He was right. Chavensworth would not be a haven for Simons.
“Then I shall have to convince the duke to release him myself,” she said. “Is His Grace at home?”
“Yes, Lady Sarah, but I believe he’s dressing for his entertainments this evening.”
“Tell him that I’m here, Simons,” she said. Would her appearance change his plans?
She walked down the hallway to the duke’s study. Several weeks had passed since she’d been here. Weeks in which she’d been married, buried her mother, discovered family in Scotland, and surprisingly, and delightfully, found love.
And all this had happened in a matter of weeks.
She took one of the high-backed chairs in front of the fireplace. How odd that she’d never been invited to sit here, but always stood like a penitent before her father’s desk.
As she sat and waited, it occurred to her that Douglas’s freedom could be accomplished effortlessly. After all, there was no need for brute force, when she, herself, held the perfect weapon.
Sarah began to smile.
“They only hire me to clean up!” the young man said, his voice choked for the simple reason that Alano had him up against the side of a stall, his hands around the younger man’s throat. The horse inside was spooked by the two men, his eyes almost as wide as the stableboy’s. “I only work in the stables. I don’t know anything about what goes on in there.” His frantic eyes darted toward the town house.
“Have there always been two carriages here?” Alano asked calmly.
The boy shook his head. “The other one was here one morning when I came in. Never saw it before.” The hand that had held the pitchfork, now tossed several feet away, shakily pointed to the bay where the carriage rested.
“And the driver?”
If anything, the young man’s eyes bulged out even more. Alano released his grip somewhat.
“I don’t have anything to do with that. I don’t. I see the trays, and I hear the noises, but I only sweep up here. That, and shovel out manure.” He glanced at the restive horse next to him. “Prince, here, needs a lot of shoveling. A lot.”
Alano dropped his hands. “Where’s the coachman?”
The young man looked up at the loft above the stable. A set of stairs angled up from the side of the stable. At the head of the stairs was an old door, now closed, and probably locked.
“How many people guard him?”
The stableboy didn’t hesitate. “Just one. Sometimes, he leaves, but he comes back.”
“Is he there now?”
The boy nodded.
What was there about this boy that reminded him a little of Douglas? Douglas’s eyes had been filled with intelligence. Douglas was also more pugnacious—Alano doubted he would have allowed himself to be overpowered so easily. Perhaps they shared one trait—both had the same aura of desperation, the same panicked look. Douglas had grown out of it.
This boy was dressed in little more than rags, and his hands were richly callused. His hair needed a trim and a good wash, and it wouldn’t be a bad thing for him to have a bath. But Alano had watched him for several minutes before sneaking up on the lad, and he’d diligently performed his job, even though it was apparent no one had been watching.
“Ever want to be a hero, boy?” Alano asked, grinning.
“I’ve never been a hero, sir.” He clenched his fists, all the while eyeing Alano with some caution.
“Well, it’s about time you started, don’t you think?”
Alano bent and retrieved the pitchfork before turning and striding to the other side of the stable. As he began to climb the steep steps, he glanced back to find, to his surprise and satisfaction, the stableboy following him, having taken the precaution of arming himself with a shovel.
One way or another, they were going to rescue Tim, then Douglas.
Everything was in readiness. A brazier of sorts had been built in the fireplace. The crystals were growing on their frames, and although they weren’t as large as he would have liked, he had no intention of remaining a guest of the Duke of Herridge for a few weeks. They would simply have to be large enough for his purposes.
The normal process was to remove each filament from its frame and set the filament into the fire. Within moments, the filament burned away, allowing the crystals to drop to the base of the fire. After a matter of hours, the flames were extinguished, and what emerged were diamonds.
As he’d learned at Chavensworth, however, the larger the crystals, the more unstable the process. He was going to duplicate what he’d done then, not by using larger crystals but by dropping three or four filaments into the flames at the same time.
The resultant explosion should be powerful enough to startle the guard somewhat and cause him to come running. His fists would do the rest. He grinned and felt substantially better for the first time in three days.
He removed the filaments from the first and second frames, draped them across the flames, and waited.
The door suddenly opened to reveal Simons standing there.
“His Grace will not approve, Mr. Eston, but then, I can’t say I approve of his actions, either.” Simons opened the door wide. “You’re free to go. Please do so in the next five minutes. I’ve sent the guard on an errand.”
Douglas looked down at the brazier and shook his head. “Damn it, Simons, you might have let me know you were getting a backbone. I’m afraid it’s too late!”
Alano traded his pitchfork for the boy’s shovel, slamming it into the door. It flew open, hitting the wall at the same time the man seated on the other side of the room stood.
Tim was lying on a cot, held there by ropes around his ankles and wrists, a cloth stuffed into his mouth.
The guard advanced on Alano with an oath. The boy at his side rushed the man, the pitchfork wielded like a spear. He was really taking his new role as hero seriously. Alano reached out and grabbed his arm at the last moment.
“We’re here to free Tim,” he said. “Not kill anyone.”
But he wasn’t about to be pummeled by a muscular oaf, so Alano released the boy and hit the guard over the head with the shovel. The man fell to the floor with a thud.
“Are you sure you didn’t kill him, sir?” the boy asked.
Alano shrugged, strode to the other side of the room, and pulled the rag from Tim’s mouth.
“Where’s Douglas?” Alano asked, as he began working on the knots on the r
opes binding Tim to the cot.
“Don’t know, sir. I was waiting for him by the carriage when two men grabbed me.”
“Are you up to a rescue mission?” he asked. “I suspect the Duke of Herridge is keeping Douglas as another unwilling guest.”
The boy at his side spoke up. “We’re being heroes, sir.”
Tim and Alano shared a wry look.
“Care to join us?” Alano asked, as Tim cautiously sat up, rubbing his ankles, then his wrists.
Tim’s response was quick, profane, and more than satisfying.
Alano glanced at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Jason, sir.”
Alano smiled. “A good hero’s name, Jason. Shall we?”
He stepped over the prone body of the guard, heading for the Duke of Herridge’s town house, Tim and Jason behind him.
The Duke of Herridge entered his library with an affable expression on his face, as if he were remembering something particularly pleasant.
Sarah didn’t particularly want the Duke of Herridge to be happy. She stood and turned in his direction.
“Let Douglas go,” she said, then added the one comment that would ensure Douglas’s release. “If you do not, I will let all of London know what you’ve done, and why. I’ll tell everyone you’re penniless. You pride yourself on your heritage and your name. I’ll make you a laughingstock.”
His face changed. His eyes narrowed, and his expression stiffened.
She knew him so well, and knew herself even better. Countless times, she’d stood before his desk, either here in London or Chavensworth on his rare appearances there. She’d been called upon to explain each infraction, each character trait, and each defect of her nature.
How very odd that he couldn’t affect her now, not as long as there was a doubt they were even related. Did he know? Is that why he’d felt nothing but contempt for her the whole of her life?
Until this moment, she’d not realized how much she was like the Tullochs of Kilmarin. Proud, determined, and not about to back down in the face of a bully.
“I will do it,” she said. “And take great pleasure in doing so. But I’ll never say a word if you release Douglas.”
“Do you think I care what the world thinks of me?”
She didn’t get a chance to respond. A great rumbling roar began in the sky and rolled around and through the house. Sarah had this sudden, horrifying thought that a giant had taken his balled fist and thrust it through the roof all the way to the wine cellar. Shards of wood and plaster rained down on them. All she could do was put her arms over her head and curl into as small a ball as she could, wishing that women’s fashions had some contingency for emergencies such as this one. A full hoop was no assistance to survival.
The sounds, raucous and grating, continued for what seemed like hours. She couldn’t breathe, and dust filled the air in huge, billowing clouds. She was suddenly being pressed against a chest, hearing Alano’s voice from far away. His words made no sense, and she repeated them again in her own mind in order to decipher them.
“The damn fool blew himself up.”
She said it again, and this time she sat up, pushing herself away from Alano with both hands. Horrified, she stared at him, but he was in darkness. Everything was dark.
There was a flickering light somewhere behind him, and she suddenly realized it was fire. The two of them began to crawl toward what had once been the door.
Were they the only ones to survive?
She looked up. Part of the ceiling was gone and the floor above that as well. The night sky shone crystal clear and black and beautiful.
He was beside her, pushing against her shoulder to guide her. At least his touch proved he was alive, and so was she.
“The damn fool blew himself up.”
She began to scream, but the scream was in her mind. She rose to her knees, but the fire behind them silenced her. Slowly, she stood and held her hand out to him.
“Don’t say that,” she said.
His figure was coated in white, his face covered in dust. Did she look as hideous? How very odd that she didn’t care.
They stared at each other for long moments, the roar of the fire behind them the only sound. That, and the bells of the fire brigade ringing in the distance.
“It’s true.” Alano’s voice was calm, compassionate, the tone of it gentle, as if by saying the words softly she wouldn’t be affected by them.
“No.”
Alano glanced behind him and said something. She turned and headed for the street, uncaring whom he addressed or why. The fire was spreading, pushing her from the house. At what was once the front door, and was now only long pieces of shardlike wood, she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. Alano was on one side of the Duke of Herridge, Tim on the other. The sudden elation she felt at seeing Tim was instantly balanced by the thought that Douglas had been here.
The damn fool blew himself up.
Oh, dear God.
She almost fell, her legs suddenly so weak she didn’t think she could make it out of the house. Alano was suddenly there, holding on to her, supporting her.
“Step over this now,” he said as if he were coaxing an infant to walk. The smell of a fire was growing closer, and she knew she should be afraid, but it didn’t seem real.
That was it. This was a nightmare. She was home at Chavensworth, and she was missing Douglas. If she awoke, stretched out her hand, she would find him beside her. Naked and manly and shockingly attractive.
She needed to tell him how beautiful he was. She needed to say the words. He should know that every time she saw him, her heart beat a little faster.
“We must find Douglas,” she said. The words were almost impossible to say.
“She’s been hurt,” someone said.
“No,” Alano said, “she’s grieving. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
She tried to pull away, but Alano was gripping her so tightly that she couldn’t free herself.
With every step there was an answering crunch as she trod on glass and slivers of wood. Debris still fell on them occasionally, and everyone was shouting.
The steps were there, finally, and she stumbled down them, hands outstretched as she headed for the carriage. Edmunds was standing there, staring at the destruction, his mouth open.
Alano was still beside her, and now he shouted something to Edmunds. He jerked to attention and sprinted to the door of the carriage.
“We’ll get you out of here, Lady Sarah,” Edmunds said.
“No.” She turned to face Alano. She knew that the fire had begun to spread because she could see his shadowed features limned in orange light.
“Don’t you see,” she said, far more calmly than she thought possible. “He can’t be dead.”
“I’m not altogether sure anything could have survived, Lady Sarah,” Alano said. “The top floor is gone,” he added.
She turned to face the ruin of what had been the Duke of Herridge’s town house. Alano was right. The top floor was gone, not to mention there was now a large hole in the middle of the second floor. Half of the front of the house had also disintegrated in the blast.
“Come now, Lady Sarah,” Alano said, leading her to the door of the carriage.
Someone shouted, a woman screamed, and suddenly the rest of the roof caved in, a billowing cloud of dust, dirt, and ash swirling toward them.
“The damn fool blew himself up,” Alano repeated.
She hated Alano at that moment. Hated him because he’d had years with Douglas while she’d only had weeks. She hated him because he said aloud what no one else had the courage to say, and in doing so had solidified Douglas’s fate. She hated him because there were tears rolling down his face, and she had nothing inside—not heart or soul. Even her mind was numb, unable to make sense of what had happened.
“Lady Sarah, please, the safest place is in the carriage.”
“I won’t leave,” she said.
Edmunds came and stood beside her
.
She glanced up at him, and repeated, “I won’t leave,” she said. “I will not.”
He nodded. “Let me pull the carriage up the street, Lady Sarah. Away from the fire.”
She nodded but refused to enter until the carriage was parked a little distance away.
Alano and Tim were pressed into service to help extinguish the blaze. Edmunds stood by the horses. “Go and help. I know you want to. I’ll sit in the carriage.”
“I’d rather take you home, Lady Sarah.”
How very odd that the image of Kilmarin came to her at that moment. Kilmarin, with its jutting towers and sprawling mass.
“There is time enough for that,” she said, not wanting to admit that she really didn’t want to see Chavensworth at the moment.
She would have to sleep where Douglas had slept, gripping his pillow. When she cried, it would be silently and alone, where no one could try to give her comfort.
There was no comfort to be found.
“If you’re certain, Lady Sarah,” he said.
“I am,” she replied, wishing he would just leave her. “Go.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see an otherworldly scene: black shadows and licking orange flames, clouds of great white dust, and above it all, a clear ebony sky.
She reached up and opened the carriage door, taking great care when folding the steps down. Slowly, she placed her foot on the bottom step, then the next, reaching out to pull herself into the carriage. Once there, she rearranged her skirts with the decorum she’d always been taught. Her dress was ruined, of course. The fabric was torn in two places and the whole of it covered in that odd gray dust.
Nevertheless, she sat with ankles crossed below her skirts and hands folded atop them. Somewhere, in the night, she had lost her bonnet. But then, she’d also lost her husband. All in all, a bonnet wasn’t that important. Not like a husband.
She closed her eyes and willed herself not to cry. There would be time for tears for years and years into the future. For now, all she had to do was get through this night. How many more hours were there until it was morning? She needed to know so that she could count them off in her mind. If she had some goal to strive for, she might be able to make it without screaming.