by The Rogue
She forced herself to wait just a bit longer, counting backward from one hundred. Her gown was soaked through to her skin in front and she was beginning to shudder violently from the chill. Inhaling deeply, she began to cry for help with all her might.
She shouted, she bellowed, she screamed so loudly she had to cover her own ears against it—yet there was no response.
The frantic horse had carried them past the warehouse and customs district into the marshland surrounding this area of the docklands. It was a wasteland, where her cries only mocked those of the seabirds inhabiting the marsh.
Finally, her throat sore and her ears ringing, Jane let her forehead fall onto her arms. The cold ate through her, multiplying all her aches and shading her fear with grim necessity. The surrey pressed fiercely into her flesh and her position—her ever bedamned helplessness—made the panic begin to rise once more.
She braced her hands on the cobbles and tried again to pull her legs out from beneath the surrey. Then she twisted frantically, trying to shove at any part of it she could reach, hoping to dislodge it. She jostled it mightily, only to feel it settle more firmly down onto her.
“No!” She tried again, harder, rocking it to and fro above her. Nothing happened. Breathless, she stopped and tried to control her panic. She would be found soon. After all, she lay to the side of a finished road. Roads carried traffic, so all she had to do was try to stay warm until someone passed—
A sharp familiar smell drifted beneath the surrey. Jane sniffed, trying to place it. As she watched, something began to drip down the side of the surrey to land on the marshy ground before her eyes.
Rain?
She touched a finger to it, then lifted it to her nose.
Lamp oil? Oh, no.
In her struggles, she must have spilled the lantern’s reservoir. That could be dangerous if the oil set fire to the surrey’s wooden frame.
Jane held very still. At first, she saw nothing, heard nothing. She relaxed slightly. If it was only spilled oil, she had nothing to worry about.
Then she smelled the first wisp of smoke.
Ethan trotted his horse eastward down the dark corridor of warehouses known as Commercial Road. If this was, indeed, the route Jane’s captor had taken, it would have provided complete secrecy at this time of early dawn. Later the place would be bustling again with the transfer of goods to and from the docks, but now it was as silent as a grave.
The road forked and Ethan paused. To his right, the warehouses continued, clear to the East India Docks. That way would provide excellent cover for a kidnapper.
To his left, the road traveled over unused marshland. It was a fast route to the docks, bypassing the warehouses, with open spaces all around and no shipping-industry traffic to block it. Most passengers likely went this way.
As he hesitated, he heard hoofbeats coming up from behind him. He didn’t bother to turn. He knew who it would be.
Collis reined in his horse next to Ethan. “Shall we split up then?” he asked without preamble.
Ethan nodded, relieved. There were some advantages to this partnership, it seemed. He rarely had to explain anything to Collis.
“I’ll go to the left.” He had no real reason for his choice, only that the windswept dimness seemed to call to him.
“I’ll ride with you,” Collis said. He signaled for some of the others to take the right-hand route and rode beside Ethan at an easy canter.
For some time there was nothing to see but gray mist. Ethan was forced to slow them to a stumbling trot, for the horses could not see ahead at all.
“I’m thinking we ought to have stopped for torches,” Collis muttered.
Ethan peered ahead. “Someone has a fire going up ahead. Probably some mudlarks warming their hands. We can take a burning brand from that if you like.” He wasn’t willing to stop, but this snail’s pace was eating at his nerves. He wanted to fly after Jane. They had to catch up to them before they reached the ships or they would never find them in the sea of masts waiting at the docks.
He urged his horse faster, toward the small orange fire in the distance. Someone must be burning wet wood.
The smoke from the wet wood and the scorched horsehair-stuffed cushions sliced into Jane’s throat like a knife. She coughed and gagged, but never stopped her frantic activity.
Reaching as far as she could, for she’d already used up everything near her, she scooped up another handful of sloppy black mud and smeared it energetically into her hair.
Above her, the fire crackled and smoked. On the bright side, the surrey was quite wet. On the dark side, the wet wood burned anyway when covered in lamp oil and smoked mightily while doing so.
She had already coated what parts of her gown she could reach. She was fairly sure that her exposed ankles and calves were sufficiently dampened from the mud around her.
The smoke filled the canopy of the overturned surrey, floating like a threatening black fist above Jane. She twisted herself to lie as close to the edge as possible, gasping for the cleaner air that the flames above her pulled beneath like an inefficient draft.
Suddenly, it wasn’t dark beneath the surrey any longer. Twisting, Jane gazed up in horror as the floor began to burn through. As she watched, the fire found the drier interior and flared with hot new life.
Ducking her head, covering her hair with her hands against the falling shower of sparks, Jane screamed until her burning lungs gave out.
Ethan held up a hand to halt the others. “Did you hear that?”
Collis pulled his horse back and turned his head. “What—”
But Ethan was gone, kicking his reluctant horse into a full gallop. The fire ahead was brighter now, larger. As Ethan neared it, he saw with horror that it was a surrey matching the description of the one taken by Jane’s captor—what was left of it, anyway.
The thing was overturned and engulfed in flames. Ethan flung himself from the saddle, ripping his coat off as he ran.
“Jane! Jane!” Oh, God. She could not be inside, could she? Had he heard a scream coming from it or had it only been a seabird’s cry?
A single small cry came from beneath the crackling roar of the fire.
“Jane!” He dove at the surrey, slapping at it with his coat, trying to find some way to her. Hands pulled him back. “No! Let me go! She’s underneath!”
Collis and several Liars dragged him back from the flames. Ethan struggled desperately. “No! No, she’s—”
“Ethan, it’s too late,” Collis cried hoarsely. “It’s too late!”
Ethan fought against their restraining hands, punching and kicking wildly. They dragged him to the ground, pinning him there with the weight of several bodies.
Collis shouted for the others to find water and the Liars scattered to fill their hats with any standing water they could find.
The surrey burned on, lighting the scene with hellish orange light.
Suddenly the pile of bodies surged upward. “No!” Ethan fought his way free, taking down any man who reached for him with Herculean strength. He laid Collis out with a merciless blow to the jaw and ran to the flaming surrey.
Careless now of the heat, he took hold of the side of the surrey. The metal trim was so hot it seared right into the flesh of his palms. He didn’t release his hold, but only ducked his face away from the flames that danced over the undercarriage.
With a single mighty heave, he lifted the surrey up and pushed it over.
It fell crashing and splintering upright onto its flaming wheels, leaving only a blackened still form behind it on the ground.
Cold water splashed Ethan as he fell to his knees next to Jane’s body. Without much caring, he realized that his sleeves were on fire. The Liars around him beat the flames down, using wet hats and coats to put them out.
Then, when he was no longer aflame, they backed silently away, leaving him next to the burning surrey with Jane.
“Janet?” His voice broke in his throat. Horrified, he reached one hand to her blackene
d hair, expecting it to crumble to ash beneath his touch.
Instead, his fingers met wet slime. Mud? Just then, she sputtered hoarsely.
Ethan gave a laughing, startled gasp. He reached for her, pulling her limp, soaked, muddy form into his lap. “Janet?” He pushed her filthy hair back from her face with equally filthy hands. “Janet, breathe, my darling. Breathe.”
He felt her chest heave mightily and held her while she coughed out the smoky air filling her lungs. As she gasped and choked in his arms, Ethan let his forehead drop to her wet neck as he clutched her tightly to him, rocking her in the light of the flames, surrounded by a circle of cheering men.
Jane lived. At this moment, it was enough. It was more than enough.
Jane drew one blessedly cool breath after another, safe in the circle of Ethan’s arms. The skin of her arms was scorched and she was fairly sure she’d lost some hair, and her head pounded like a smith’s hammer on an anvil, but she was alive and she was with Ethan.
Finally, her breath came slower and easier, though her lungs still burned. She opened her eyes to see Ethan’s dirty face hovering over her own.
“You’re a sight,” she said huskily.
He laughed damply, clutching her more tightly. With wonder, Jane realized that his face was streaked with tears.
“You’re a much worse sight,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.
Jane realized that his shoulder was wrapped in bandages beneath his open shirt. She reached one hand to touch, then pulled back when she realized how dirty her fingers were. “Are you injured?” Her voice was only a croak.
He blinked down at the bandages as if he’d forgotten all about them. “Oh.” Then he shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”
Someone laughed nearby. Jane turned her head to see a handsome dark-haired man grinning at them and rubbing his jaw. “I thought you couldn’t fight,” he said to Ethan. “You took out six of us with a bullet wound in your shoulder!”
“I never said I couldn’t fight,” Ethan replied absently, stroking the mud from Jane’s cheek with his thumb. “I said I didn’t want to.”
The man laughed again. “Until now.”
Jane blinked at the man, confused. Then she abruptly remembered something. “Oh!” She fumbled in her pocket, her scorched fingers clumsy. She pulled out a strip of sodden card paper and handed it triumphantly to Ethan. “Here!”
He let go of her long enough to take it from her. Her heart ached to see his burned and blistered fingers. He held the nasty wet thing tentatively. “What is this? It’s ruined, I’m afraid.”
Jane smiled and laid her head on his shoulder once more. “Good, for that is your Chimera’s passage ticket off English soil.” She heaved a blessedly deep breath and closed her eyes. “I picked his pocket, just as you taught me.”
The man stood in the fog’s concealment, watching the group gathered around the burning cart. He’d made it to the ship in time, only to be put off when he’d been unable to prove he’d bought passage.
Check and mate. There would be no obtaining the passage ticket now. Of course, there were other ways of returning home.
Ire swirled within the man as the Liars succeeded in rescuing Lady Jane. He’d sacrificed the gambler Maywell, one of his best pieces, in this game and he’d still been neatly checked.
He felt his pulse pound with unaccustomed fury. Odd. He usually managed to keep his emotions cool, but the bloody damned Liars—
The man took a deep breath. He was the Chimera, the myth, the man of many faces who appeared and disappeared at will. And not checkmated, not yet.
As his anger diminished until not a ripple of emotion marred the glassy pool of his concentration, the man smiled slightly. If he was not meant to leave this damp, stinking island yet, then so be it.
There was always work to be done here. At the moment, he rather relished the idea of taking on the Liars again. And if they thought him struggling to find his way out of the country . . .
His smile widened, but did not reach his flat pale blue eyes.
Time to set up the game once more.
Chapter Thirty
Jane leaned her head against the back of her chair and allowed her eyes to close for a long, lovely moment. She was clean and wore a borrowed dressing gown, seated before the fire in a bedchamber in a most curious place, a gentlemen’s club, of all things.
She strongly suspected that this was the same club Mother had told her about, but she was playing innocent for now. Later, however, Mr. Ethan Damont had some explaining to do.
Her hands were bandaged and all her scrapes and cuts and bruises—there was a dismaying amount of them—had been inspected and dressed by the gruff, kindly Dr. Westfall. She raised her head and opened her eyes to smile at the man, who was even now putting his supplies back into his doctor’s bag.
“How are Mr. Damont’s hands, Doctor?” She’d ridden back to the club in Ethan’s arms, before him on his horse, but when they had arrived, he’d handed her over to the other Liars without a word. She hadn’t seen him since.
Dr. Westfall grunted without turning. “His hands are burned, of course. The damned fool, sticking his hands in the fire. Most people learn better before they turn two.”
Jane began to protest that he’d been injured saving her, but the good doctor only raised his hand to stop her. “No, my lady, I don’t want to know. I don’t ask, and this lot doesn’t tell, and we’re both the happier for it.”
She smiled, understanding all too well. “Will he recover full use of his hands? They were so blistered . . .” The memory made her trail off as she pictured the raw, seared flesh of Ethan’s magnificent, talented hands.
The doctor did up the clasps of his bag, finally turning to her. “My lady, Mr. Damont will recover eventually. And when he does, I fully intend to win back the small fortune he took from me earlier this year.” The man’s eyes twinkled despite his gruff tone. “Now, does that please you?”
Jane smiled. “Yes, Doctor.”
He strode to the door. “You’ve the constitution of an ox, my lady, but even you must rest now.” He wagged a finger at her. “You’ll not stop the headaches until you do.”
Jane pressed a fluttering hand to her throat and batted her lashes. “An ox? Why, you are too kind, sir!”
The doctor let out a single booming bark of laughter as he opened the door. Mr. Tremayne was waiting outside and Jane saw him give the doctor a startled glance.
The doctor brushed past him with another grunt, although Mr. Tremayne greeted him politely. Then Mr. Tremayne tapped politely on the doorframe. “May I enter, my lady?”
Jane leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, if you tell me how Ethan is, Mr. Tremayne.”
Collis glanced away. “Oh, he’s all right. He’s probably resting now, as you ought to be.”
Jane gathered herself up. “I don’t want to rest. I want to see Ethan.” She started toward the door. “Will you take me to him?”
Collis stopped her with a gesture. “Damont . . . well, you see . . . he has this cat . . .”
Jane frowned at him. “Speak, Mr. Tremayne.”
Collis sighed. “Ethan isn’t here. He went home.”
Jane’s heart sank. “He went home? He left me here, without so much as a word?”
Collis shrugged. “I’m sure he would have said goodbye, but with the doctor here . . .”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Tremayne, you seemed fluent in English before.”
He blinked at her, then flushed. “My God, you are a ferocious creature, aren’t you? I think you two might very well deserve each other after all.”
Jane nodded. “Thank you. I think so as well. Now tell me why he left, and pray do not wax inarticulate.”
Collis folded his arms and grinned at her. “He said, and I quote, ‘I’ve caused quite enough wreckage in her life.’ ”
Jane sighed. “I knew it. I knew he was still trying to chuck me.”
Collis tilted his head to smile at her. “Well, are you simp
ly going to stand there and let him?”
Jane’s head ached. In fact, her entire being ached, within and without. She felt weak. Drained. How could she keep fighting Ethan’s persistent retreat from her? How could she bear to lift up her sword again?
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I think—I think I’m going to have to think about it tomorrow.”
Collis seemed disappointed, but he nodded. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you to rest.” He turned to go but stopped at the door. “By the way, Dalton sent a message to your cousin to let him know you were safe and sound.”
Jane froze. “My—my cousin?” How had they known?
Collis looked at her oddly. “Yes. The current Marquis of Wyndham is your cousin, isn’t he?”
Jane let out a horrified breath. “Mr. Tremayne, I need my clothes, quickly!”
Ethan let himself into his empty house, fumbling the key with his bandaged hands. The burns hurt, but the physical pain was only a dull echo of the ache in his chest. He felt as if his ribs would cave in from the pressure of it.
The house seemed more empty than it ever had before. Ethan gazed about him dispassionately at his most prized possession. Bricks and mortar, that was all he saw now. Yet it was more than Jane had.
He went to his study and went straight to his desk. There, in an inner drawer, he found what he sought. He pulled the inkstand closer and clumsily uncapped the ink using both bandaged hands. Then he pulled a sheet of foolscap from another drawer and wrote silently for a long moment, his customary scrawl even larger and less legible than usual.
He folded it, but didn’t bother to light a candle to seal it. There was no Jeeves, so there was no fire in his hearth, no lit candles awaiting him. There was only a cold, empty house that he didn’t want anymore.
Jane had come bloody close to dying because of him. More than once, actually. She’d told him the story of her journey in the trunk while they’d ridden back early this morning and he’d been horrified at how close she had come to suffocating.