The Resurrection of Lady Somerset

by Nicola Beaumont

Jonathon had thought he understood the depth of true loss. When his father had tossed him into the street, he thought then he had lost everything.

  But he had been mistaken.

  The full measure of loss was imbedded deep within the realm of the unknown. One lost so much more with the imagination than one ever could in reality.

  His fear turned to anger, then attempted to manifest into resignation, but he refused to allow that.

  Once he and Cyril reached Blackwell House, he coaxed himself to remain calm. He could not walk up to a gentleman’s door and outright accuse him of kidnapping or…or worse. Tact and guile would have to be his instruments.

  But if he found out that Aubury had…his mind refused to give birth to the possibility of Lark’s death.

  The gate heralding the Blackwell property was ajar. Jonathon, an entire head in front of Cyril, slowed only enough to push it open without injuring his mount. Cyril barreled through seconds later.

  The horses skidded to a halt as the reins yanked their heads backwards. Jonathon jumped from the stallion and Cyril grabbed his elbow. “We must be calm,” Cyril said, his voice an urgent hiss.

  “I know, but I’m finding it most difficult.” Jonathon yanked his elbow from Cyril’s grasp. “I fear I’m just going to remove Aubury’s head from his body the minute I lay eyes on him.”

  “We cannot make accusations without proof. I wish to mangle the scalawag as much as you do, but the way to skin this cat is to make him lap the milk.”

  Jonathon paused, and took a calming breath. “I know,” he managed to ground out, but he shook a gloved finger in Cyril’s face. “But be forewarned. I do not know how long I can swallow my anger—and my tongue.”

  Cyril slapped his brother’s finger away. “Let us get on with it.” He walked up to the beveled door and pulled the cord. For quite some time they waited, the two of them, side by side on the steps of Blackwell House.

  Rife with anticipation and worry, Jonathon raised his hand to the doorknocker and hammered the door with more force than was necessary.

  He was on the brink of banging again when the door was finally unbolted. To his surprise, Aubury answered their herald personally. He wedged himself between the jamb and the barely open door, watery eyes peering out like stagnant ponds upon his face.

  “Aubury, doing your own serving, these days?” Jonathon said, trying to unclench his teeth.

  “Gave the servants the day off. Must keep them happy, you know, else they do you in while you sleep.” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound that immediately put Jonathon at daggers drawn.

  He stepped closer, and Cyril shot him a warning glance. Jonathon stepped back.

  “Zounds, Rexley,” Aubury said to Cyril, “looks as though you were hit by a horse.” He sniffed.

  “My brother is none of your concern,” Jonathon bit out. Are you not going to invite us in?” He stepped up, giving Aubury no tangible option.

  “Your hospitality is quite lacking,” Cyril added.

  Jonathon questioned Aubury with an arched eyebrow.

  For several tense-filled moments, no one moved or spoke. Nigel seemed to weigh the possibilities but then thrust open the door. “Forgive me. I confess, caught me in the middle of reading a letter from a friend journeying through the Americas. Quite lost myself for a moment.”

  He led them into a room that Jonathon would have been hard-pressed to name, so intent was he on studying the inside of the house. The great room was a large expanse of highly decorated artwork and an ornate spiral staircase leading up to the first floor. It surprised Jonathon how much the house looked as it had before the fire. Aubury turned watery green eyes to them. “Care for a drink?”

  “No,” Jonathon ground out with barely-checked irritation.

  “No thank you, Aubury,” Cyril intoned. “We are here on urgent business. You don’t mind answering a few inquiries?”

  “N-no. Of course not.” He moved away from them and came to stand with his back to the idle fireplace. He propped an elbow on the mantel and almost knocked a vase into the lamp that sat next to it. Quickly he pulled away his arm and put a step’s distance between himself and the fireplace.

  Jonathon moved closer to Aubury, Cyril on his very heels. “You have not seen my betrothed? The one you met at Almack’s some time ago?”

  Aubury rang his hands together. “Why would I have seen her?” His attention darted from Jonathon to Cyril.

  “We are unable to locate her, you see,” Jonathon explained, quite successfully keeping his voice even and steady.

  “That is a shame,” Aubury put in. “But why do you think I would have knowledge of her whereabouts?” His gaze dropped to his hands and he immediately stilled the nervous movement of them. He looked to his visitors. Jonathon shot a quick glance to Cyril to see if he’d noticed Aubury’s unease. He had, and Jonathon breathed a short sigh of relief that he and his brother were of like mind.

  “We have no idea of her whereabouts. We are merely checking with everyone of acquaintance,” Jonathon told him. His voice was still calm but his insides raged with the desire to shake the weasely duke into oblivion.

  “Ah.” Aubury shook his head and took a brave step towards them. He held out a hand, which now seemed suddenly relaxed. “I hope you have much success, however, I’m quite positive I shouldn’t know where she is.” He forced out a laugh. “Perhaps you scared the young gel away.”

  “You fubsy, bracket-faced bouncer. You know perfectly well that Lark is a Blackwell. What have you done with her? Tell us now before I put my hands around your blubbery neck and squeeze the worthless life out of you.” Jonathon shook his fist at Aubury, but Cyril successfully maneuvered past Jonathon.

  Aubury attempted a shocked countenance. “A Blackwell, you say? Why, that would make the lovely angel a cousin of mine own.” A dramatic hand came to his chest, and he focused his gaze on Jonathon. “Do let me know when you find her. How delightful that I should have kin after the tragic passing of my own brother.”

  The fraying string that had held Jonathon’s temper together broke loose completely. With lightning reflexes, he shoved Cyril out of the way, balled his fist, and chopped Aubury right on the nose.

  Flesh kissed flesh with a shattering sound, and Aubury’s body flew backwards.

  “Good show!” Cyril called.

  Aubury scrambled to balance, dabbing his nose with the back of his hand. Blood stained his skin. He lunged at Jonathon.

  Jonathon caught him and flung him back again. Aubury’s arms flailed and smacked the marble mantel with a crunch that could only mean broken bones.

  A photograph toppled to the floor. The crash of broken glass echoed through the room. The oil lamp wobbled then tumbled to the marble hearth, shattering instantly.

  Flame ignited the nearby rug and Aubury scampered away from the heat and collapsed, still not a safe distance from the fire.

  For a moment, Jonathon and Cyril stood transfixed. Then Jonathon turned and fled the room. “Take care of him. I must look for Lark.” The fire spread across the floor, touched a drapery hem, and skittered up the wall.

  “She may not be here,” Cyril yelled. “We must get out before the…” his voice trailed off. “…fire spreads.”

  Jonathon glanced back and witnessed as Cyril quickly closed the distance between himself and Lark’s cousin. As he bent to pick up the unconscious body, life sprang from Aubury. With a push born of sheer adrenaline, Aubury knocked Cyril to the ground.

  Scrambling from atop Cyril’s startled, prone body, Aubury dashed out of the room and up the stairs.

  Cyril could take care of himself. Jonathon had to find Lark.

  ~*∞*~

  It was a dream—a terrible nightmare. Groggily, Lark opened her eyes and tried to focus on something—anything. The pungent odor of smoke grabbed her nostrils. Fear gripped her as once again she was five years old…

  She could feel the coolness of the wooden step seeping through her cotton nightdress, chilling the soles of her bare f
eet. Her parents’ voices mingled with that of Lady Somerset’s—Auntie May—They did not sound at all happy. Auntie May sounded as if she were crying.

  Lark slid her bottom down another step and peered through the railings of the banister, trying to hear, trying to discover why her parents had sent her to her bedchamber so soon after Auntie May arrived.

  “I did a terrible thing.” That was Auntie May’s voice, cracking through the sobs. “I did not have a mind to do otherwise. When Peter told me…”

  Lark did not hear any more of what Auntie May had to say. Her attention was pulled away by a muffled noise coming from the kitchen.

  Sadie was still up. Perhaps she could be persuaded to give Lark a biscuit. Quite like a burglar, she thought with a tiny smile, she inched her way down the stairs. She could smell smoke already. Sadie must be fixing something good.

  Excitement bubbled in her tummy. Lark had completely forgotten about her parents and Lady Somerset. Sadie was going to be surprised to see her, but the old cook would be convinced to give her a taste of whatever it was she was preparing.

  Lark made it to the bottom of the stairs and tiptoed with exaggerated steps across the open room towards the kitchen. She slid open the kitchen door and froze.

  “Lark Blackwell!”

  “Lark!”

  The sound of her name brought her mind reeling to the present. Her eyes popped open and she found herself still flat on her back on the bed. She rolled to one side and inched her way to a sitting position. Her mind whirled. What was happening?

  Smoke seeped into the room from underneath the door, and Lark knew unparalleled terror. Tears sprang to her eyes. She slid to the floor and used her elbows to drag herself under the bed.

  No. No. This was not a good place to be.

  She began to inch her way back out but a rattling at the door stopped her. Someone was trying to get in.

  Aubury.

  Inside she screamed. She retreated farther under the bed and cowered out of sight. The door rattled more fiercely.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Lark!”

  Jonathon’s voice was hoarse from yelling, and even he didn’t see the logic in it. If Lark were here, even if she could hear him, she would not be able to cry out. He rattled the door again. It was definitely locked.

  Smoke pooled around his ankles like fog rolling over the glen. Time was expiring quickly. He hoped Cyril had gotten out of the house and to safety.

  He backed across the hall to the opposite wall and took a running start at forcing open the door. His shoulder connected hard as he rammed into the wood. Pain shot down his arm.

  The door did not give way.

  Urgency welled inside him as he readied for another attempt. The pain in his arm did not subside. He ignored it. If Lark were in there, nothing would stop him from retrieving her.

  With his uninjured arm, he reached up and wiped the smoke-driven tears away from his eyes. The smoke thickened. His lungs filled with it. With every breath, they burned as much as his eyes stung.

  He charged the door a second time. The wood around the latch splintered and gave way. With a fierce thrust, he shoved open the door. He swiped at his eyes again and coughed the smoke from his lungs. He could barely see through the gray haze, and then he heard scraping and scratching.

  “Lark? Lark!” He waved away the smoke to no avail and, as he staggered into the room, he was hit with such force—by a projectile so large—he was knocked back into the corridor and onto the floor.

  His head bounced off the hard wood, and for a moment floating sparks danced before his eyes. He tried to focus and scramble out from underneath whatever had captured him.

  And then he seized a glimpse.

  “Lark.”

  Happiness flowed over him, and he momentarily forgot the impeding peril. Happily, he held her captive and bathed her face in a million kisses.

  “We must hurry,” he said, when he finally was of his mind again. As he rolled her off him, he noticed her bound wrists. “Damnation!” Hurriedly, he began to work the knots in the rope.

  A sharp, cutting pain shot down his arm from his shoulder. He sucked in a smoke-filled breath then coughed out the lungful of contaminated oxygen.

  “Jonathon.” Cyril’s voice rang out.

  “Damnation,” Jonathon bit out again. “Here, Cyril.” He did not wait to see if his brother found his way before continuing to free Lark. He unbound her wrists, and she threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, too, my dear, but we must hurry.” He reached up and untangled himself from her, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder.

  Cyril’s image sliced through the smoke as Jonathon got to his feet. “Thank God you found her.” Cyril choked and sputtered.

  “What the devil are you doing in here? I told you to get out.”

  “I suppose now you are going to stand here amid the smoke and lecture me on not following your direction? Do you know there were actual flames following me up these stairs?”

  Lark began to cough uncontrollably, and both men turned their attention to her. Jonathon commenced to pull her to her feet as a shadow came through the smoke from the opposite direction. Confusion ruled him for a lapsed moment as he tried to reason how someone could have gotten past them on the stairs.

  An arm grabbed at Lark. Jonathon’s instinct blotted out reason. He jerked Lark up, and in one thrust, threw her behind him into Cyril’s arms. “Get her out. Quickly.”

  He spun back around to greet the assailant and found himself knocked to the floor.

  Through the haze, he could see Lark struggling to free herself of Cyril’s grasp.

  No, Lark. Jonathon silently screamed, but she wrenched her arm free and began to make her way back towards him. Get out, Lark! His voice wouldn’t work, only coughs emerged. He struggled to his feet.

  Another part of the banister gave way, the stairs quickly turning to ash below them.

  “Jonathon!”

  It was Lark’s first and last word. The stairs collapsed underneath her and she fell to the smoldering floor below.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jonathon heard Lark’s warning. It was a bittersweet sound. He catapulted forward and out of the way. His assailant collapsed on the landing face down. Jonathon spun around.

  Aubury.

  Jonathon pounced and pinned the man, rolled him over, and smashed him in the face with a balled, angry fist.

  Aubury’s head lolled to one side. He shook it off and grabbed Jonathon around the neck.

  The landing creaked beneath their weight. Flames rose to the ceiling from where the banister once had been sturdy and strong.

  Linked together as one, they struggled, rolling to the wall, then to the burning edge of the stairs.

  Embers popped all around but neither of them seemed to notice. Aubury, once again on top, squeezed Jonathon’s neck. He struggled for air.

  Wood cracked and splintered. A beam fell.

  Jonathon let out a guttural growl as he expelled all his energy to get out of the way.

  It didn’t work. Jonathon and Aubury were trapped.

  ~*∞*~

  She was on fire. Through the smoky haze, Lark could see Cyril easing up off the floor, his face twisted as if it hurt to move. He rolled onto his knees. His gaze met hers, and he cut through the smoke quickly.

  Cyril knelt over her frantically beating her skirts with his coat. She shrieked and rolled out of the way, completely out of her mind.

  Jonathon.

  Instinct and adrenaline gave her an edge over Cyril. She scampered to her feet, the fire in her skirts out now. He lunged and knocked her to the floor.

  She struggled to gain freedom but his weight was much too much for her to overcome.

  He grappled to gain footing without allowing her to escape.

  She twisted, trying to inch her way free.

  Her efforts were to no avail.

  Cyril picked her up and threw her over his shoulder as if she weighed naught. She beat on his back wi
th her fists.

  He ignored her and made haste towards the exit.

  She continued her tirade, flailing her legs and screaming. Still he ignored her.

  Once free from the inferno, he plopped her onto the earth. “What the devil did you think you were doing in there? Did you wish to die?”

  She scrambled off the ground. Screaming at him, she lunged forward. He caught her wrists, effectively ceasing her pummeling of his chest. She tried to speak but her throat felt like a peeled potato.

  He spun her around easily and held her stationary against his chest. “Do you swear to calm yourself if I set you free?”

  She struggled more. He tightened his grip. “Swear it!”

  She nodded. He eased his grasp and she tried to bolt.

  “Widgeon!” He held her captive. “Be sensible! Do you want to die?” He turned her to face him once again. “Calm yourself,” he coaxed, keeping his voice low and even.

  Lark nodded. Warily this time, he eased his grasp. She remained steadfast, and he freed her completely.

  She collapsed to the grassy earth. Heat rose on her face in time to the flame-light that flashed from the burning house. Tears soaked her cheeks. She swiped them away and streaks of black soot came off on her glove. Cyril turned to look at the collapsing house then fell to the ground at her side.

  Fire illuminated the sky like day. Lark stared at the house. One side crumbled, crackled, and fell to the earth in a mass of flaming embers, and once again, Lark was five years old…

  Rebekka huddled over her, trying to cover her face, but Lark did not want to be protected. She wanted Mama. She wanted Papa. She had tried to run back into the house, to find them, to save them, but Rebekka would not allow it.

  Rebekka was mean. Rebekka was a turncoat.

  The fire brigade was on the way. The bells clanged in the distance. Maybe one of them would listen to her—even if she were only a child.

  And then she saw her mama. She tried to break free of Rebekka’s hold.

  “Mama,” she cried, but Rebekka kept her captive.

  “I am sorry about your mama,” Rebekka said, drawing Lark’s attention away from the figure of her mama coming forth from the flames.