River of Fire

by Mary Jo Putney

  He dismissed all the servants except the footmen and the butler. Together they policed the studio to make sure there was nothing to ignite new fire. Then he told the servants that they could go to bed while he kept watch until morning.

  Minton said, "I shall take that duty, my lord. Your efforts were greater than everyone else combined. You are reeling with exhaustion."

  When Kenneth tried to protest, the butler said firmly, "Go."

  He smiled crookedly. "In the army, that would be insubordination."

  "This is not the army, my lord, and the most you can do is discharge me."

  "Small chance of that." Kenneth rested his hand on the butler's shoulder for a moment. "Thank you."

  Then he went tiredly up to his bedroom. He opened the door, and found Rebecca waiting for him. To his regret, she had donned a heavy robe that thoroughly disguised her figure.

  Her cool expression made it clear there was nothing romantic about the visit. She got to her feet and gave him a filled glass. "I thought you could use some brandy."

  "You thought rightly." He took a deep swallow. The brandy first scorched, then numbed his raw throat. His water pitcher had been returned full, so he washed the soot from his face and hands before turning to his visitor. "Events have moved from the realm of vague possibilities to undeniable violence."

  She bit her lip. "Then you think there is a connection to my mother's death."

  "Perhaps not, but it's more likely than the possibility that your family has two deadly enemies." He piled his pillows against the headboard of his bed and sprawled heedlessly across the counterpane, muscles and throat aching. "So far, there have been three incidents: your mother's overdose of laudanum, her fatal fall, and tonight's incendiary device. Each had been more dramatic and deadly than the one before."

  Her eyes darkened. "Anyone who risked killing a dozen innocent people over a private feud is utterly vicious. You said an enemy of my family, but my father must be the target. No one knows me well enough to want to do murder." Her mouth twisted. "Except you, perhaps."

  He said soberly, "Believe me, Rebecca, I have never had any desire to harm you."

  She glanced away. "Perhaps we should tell Father your theory that the fire is part of a larger pattern."

  He thought, then shook his head. "There's no real advantage. After tonight, it should be easy to persuade him to be careful even if he doesn't know my suspicions."

  "Very well." She got to her feet. "Good night, Captain."

  He had an almost unbearable desire to take her into his arms and draw her down to the bed. Not to make love, but to be able to hold her. To be in harmony again.

  No chance of that. With a sigh, he set his empty glass on the nightstand. "Do my efforts tonight do anything to allay your resentment of my past actions?"

  She paused by the door. "I never doubted your courage, Captain. Only your honesty." Then she was gone.

  Her unhappiness was so intense that he wondered if she was suffering from something more than anger toward him. Perhaps his duplicity had triggered some deeper source of pain. Her first youthful love had proved disastrous, and her father, though much loved, was not exactly a model of parental care and steadiness. It must be easier for her to believe that men were unreliable than that they could be trusted.

  If that was true, he might never be able to win her forgiveness, for he was far from a paragon himself. It was a profoundly disturbing thought.

  Kenneth forcibly turned his attention to the arsonist. What had the man looked like? In the darkness, he'd seen nothing distinctive. Medium build, perhaps a bit above average height.

  He was on the verge of going to bed when a soft knock sounded on the door. "Come in," he said tiredly.

  Lavinia entered. He started to get to his feet, but she waved him back to the bed.

  "Sorry to disturb you," she said, "but since you and Rebecca are still feuding, I thought you wouldn't mind."

  "You notice too much," he said wryly.

  "Someone around here needs to be normal."

  "Won't Sir Anthony wonder where you've gone?"

  "He's fast asleep." She closed the door behind her, then asked bluntly, "Is Anthony in danger?"

  "I think he might be."

  She perched on the edge of his only chair. "What can I do?"

  Realizing that Lavinia, with her perception and wide circle of acquaintances, might be helpful, Kenneth asked, "Can you think of any enemies who might want to physically harm Sir Anthony?"

  She shivered and pulled her robe more tightly around her ample curves. She looked her true age, her stark expression very unlike her usual flamboyant manner. "A man as successful as Anthony is bound to be resented, but I can't think of anyone who would want to burn him alive, along with his whole household."

  Kenneth said quietly, "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

  "Since the day we met," she said simply. "I was seventeen when I first modeled for him. I was tempted to try to seduce him, but I didn't want to be merely another passing affair. I thought that friendship would last longer, and it has." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Helen said once that if anything happened to her, I should take care of Anthony. She didn't want him to fall into the hands of some dreadful harpy who was interested only in his fame and wealth."

  Thinking this a good time to get the answer to another question, he asked, "At the time of Lady Seaton's death, who was Sir Anthony's mistress? I heard a rumor that he was very serious about the woman—perhaps to the point where he might consider ending his marriage. If he wished, he could have divorced Helen over her affair with Hampton."

  "He would never, ever have done that," Lavinia said firmly. "And certainly not for that creature he was bedding then. She probably spread the rumor herself from vanity, since she had a husband and couldn't have married even if Anthony did get a divorce."

  "The woman was?" Kenneth prompted.

  Lavinia hesitated, then shrugged. "Your stepmother."

  He felt only a small jolt of surprise. Hermione's portrait had been painted by Sir Anthony about then, she was beautiful, and wanton. He hoped his father hadn't known. "Now that she's a widow, does she have designs on Sir Anthony?"

  "He ended the affair at the time of Helen's death and has had nothing to do with Hermione again," Lavinia said with obvious satisfaction. "Helen would have been so pleased. Your stepmother is exactly the sort of creature Helen was concerned about." She grinned. "Hermione is about to get her comeuppance. I have it from a reliable source that she's going to marry Lord Fydon, very quietly since she's still in mourning. He's enormously rich, but absolutely loathsome. She is going to regret this."

  So Hermione had decided not to pin her hopes on the Duke of Ashburton; a rich earl in the hand was worth two dukes in the bush. "I hope your source is right. I assumed Hermione would never remarry because it would cost her too much. Under the terms of my father's will, everything but her widow's jointure will revert to the estate if she takes another husband. That means the London house and a number of government consoles that are in trust will come to me."

  "Oh, she'll marry Fydon. Not only is he very, very rich, but the Fydon jewels are stunning, and Hermione is in desperate need of jewels." Lavinia's eyes twinkled. "I don't know how you managed that, but you have my congratulations."

  "I did nothing," he assured her before returning to the early subject. "Are there any women who might be dangerous to Sir Anthony because of unrequited love?"

  Lavinia shook her head. "His affairs were always light and friendly, and I speak as one who has watched very carefully over the years. There are no crazed Caroline Lambs in his life."

  "Perhaps the daybook at Ravensbeck will have some clues," Kenneth said pessimistically.

  "A better source of information might be Helen's diaries."

  He sat bolt upright. "She kept a journal? I had no idea."

  "I'm not sure that Anthony and Rebecca knew. Helen kept them more to record feelings and impressions than events."

&n
bsp; "Where are they?"

  "I have them," Lavinia said calmly. "At the same time she told me to look after Anthony, Helen said that if she died I must burn her diaries. I wonder if she had a premonition."

  "But you didn't burn them?" Kenneth said hopefully.

  "No." Lavinia hesitated. "Having them is a connection with Helen. To burn them would sever another link. Yet I haven't had the courage to read them, either. It would be too painful."

  "Let me see them. Perhaps I can find some clue as to who might have set the fire tonight."

  "It's worth a try." Lavinia got to her feet. "I'm sure that you're an excellent investigator, though you've not had an easy time with this situation."

  Kenneth regarded her warily, wondering how much she had guessed. "You're an alarming woman, Lavinia."

  She gave a seraphic smile. "I merely watch the world around me. Good night, Captain." Then she slipped out the door.

  Kenneth's mind was whirling as he took off his sooty clothing. If Hermione remarried, his personal fortunes were saved. Finally he would be in a position to take a wife.

  But first he must find the villain who might have killed Helen and was now threatening Sir Anthony. He uttered a silent prayer that Helen's diaries would provide the necessary clue. Perhaps saving her father would soften Rebecca's anger.

  Yet in his heart he knew that wouldn't be enough. It would be easier to find a murderer than to heal a broken trust.

  Chapter 30

  In the morning light, the studio looked even worse than the night before. Kenneth stopped on the way down to breakfast and found Sir Anthony already there, surveying the damage.

  "This makes my blood run cold," the older man muttered. "What if it had happened while I had the Waterloo pictures here? I could have lost the best work I've ever done."

  "But you didn't, thank God." Kenneth looked around the room assessingly. Besides new plaster, paint, and furnishings, most of the floorboards would have to be replaced. "It could have been much worse. If the incendiary device had landed in your bedroom, you and Lady Claxton might not have escaped alive."

  "Believe me, I've thought of that," Sir Anthony said grimly. "How can we find the villain who did this?"

  "I don't know. A Bow Street Runner could be engaged, but such a crime leaves few clues. It will be almost impossible to investigate if the Runner doesn't have an idea where to start looking. Do you know of any deadly enemies?"

  "Of course not," Sir Anthony said irritably. "The trouble is the ones I don't know of. A man in my position can easily cause an unintentional slight. Perhaps I made a derogatory remark about a bad painting at the exhibition, someone reported it to the artist, and the fellow is out for revenge. Painters are an unstable lot."

  "I take your point. If you can think of any possibilities, let me know." Kenneth studied the charred rubble. "What pictures were lost?"

  "Portraits in various stages of completion. The most significant was the second Strathmore and Markland painting. The Marklands' version had already been delivered. I shall have to redo the one for the Strathmores." He rattled off the names of the other four clients. "Send letters to each of them about the delay. They'll have to come in for more sittings. Obviously I can't work here. I suppose the salon will do."

  Kenneth opened the scorched doors that led to the salon. "There's quite a bit of smoke damage here, and last night I noticed water damage in the drawing room below." An idea struck him, one that might take Sir Anthony out of harm's way. "Why not go to the Lake District now instead of waiting until your usual departure date? The damage can be repaired over the summer."

  Sir Anthony's expression brightened. "An excellent idea. You can stay in London until the rebuilding arrangements have been made, then join us there."

  Kenneth hesitated, not liking the idea of Sir Anthony going off without his protection. On the other hand, the enemy was obviously here in London, and probably would be for a while. Kenneth could get the rebuilding started and be on his way north in less than a week. "Very good, sir. If packing is begun right away, you could leave day after tomorrow."

  "Give the orders."

  Kenneth nodded and went downstairs. In the front hall, he met Lord Frazier, George Hampton, and other friends of Sir Anthony who had heard of the fire. He studied the faces, looking for hints of satisfaction or disappointment, but saw only curiosity and concern. As he went for breakfast, he wondered if any of them would leave to summer in the Lake District sooner than originally planned.

  * * *

  For the next day and a half, Seaton House was in an uproar of packing. By the time the carriages and baggage wagon rumbled away, Kenneth felt as if he had organized the whole Peninsular army for a major crosscountry march.

  As the carriage that carried the family pulled away from the house, he had a sudden, horrific memory of the last time he had seen Maria alive. He had felt deep foreboding about her departure, but she had laughed at his fears and ridden away.

  Logically, he knew there was no comparison. Maria had been a known guerrilla traveling through a war-torn land; Rebecca was journeying with her family along modern roads. Moreover, she would be safer away from London and her father's enemy. Yet even knowing that, the departure triggered irrational fear. Perhaps because he and Rebecca were emotionally estranged, he didn't want to let her out of his sight.

  "Excuse me, my lord, are you unwell?"

  It was Minton speaking, his brow furrowed. The butler would stay in the city all summer to supervise the rebuilding and the small staff that would remain in the house.

  Kenneth took a deep breath. "Only sorry to see Miss Seaton leaving."

  Minton relaxed. "The impatience of young love. Don't worry, my lord. You shall be with her again in a few days."

  As Kenneth went back into the house, he told himself to stop brooding. Rebecca would be fine. With luck, she might even decide that absence made the heart grow fonder.

  Yet his foreboding persisted while he visited the London fabric and furniture warehouses. It was a tiring business, but he did find suitable furnishings.

  Much of the evening was spent dealing with Sir Anthony's correspondence. It was late before he could look at the diaries Lavinia had quietly given him that morning. He hesitated before opening the first of the thick volumes. Helen Seaton might not have wanted her words read. But neither would she have wanted her husband to be killed, nor her own death to go unpunished.

  He skimmed the earliest diary to get some sense of what she considered worthy of recording. As Lavinia had said, it was a series of reflections and opinions, often undated. But Helen Seaton's voice came through with warmth and wit.

  The diary started when she was seventeen and had recently lost both her parents to a virulent fever. After her mourning ended, her guardian sent her to London for presentation. She was a great success, "despite my dreadful red hair."

  His eye was caught by Lord Bowden's name. The next few pages sketched out the story of her engagement and elopement.

  Marcus Seaton, Lord Bowden's heir, has offered marriage. I accepted, for I like him better than my other beaux. In fact, I think I am in love, though not quite sure since the state is unfamiliar to me. But Marcus is adoring and charming and intelligent. I quite like being adored. He and I shall do very well. Next week we will travel to his family seat in the Lake District to meet other relatives and see my future home.

  The next page began:

  Seaton Manor is very fine and the countryside is magnificent. I shall enjoy being mistress here. Today I met a neighbor girl called Margaret Williard. Not beautiful, but pretty and sweet and with speaking eyes. I think she is in love with Marcus, because she becomes so quiet when he is near. He is oblivious. So like a man! Margaret must surely resent me, yet she is always gracious. I hope we can be friends. Perhaps she will marry Marcus's younger brother Anthony, the mad artist. He and two of his friends shall arrive tomorrow. I look forward to meeting them....

  The mad artists have arrived. Young Lord Frazier is very hands
ome and a bit full of himself, but most gallant. He sketched me as Aphrodite. George Hampton is of humble birth and a little shy around so many people of superior station. But he is a dear, with a natural dignity that will serve him well. As for Marcus's brother Anthony—

  Dear God, I don't know what to say of Anthony.

  The next entry, a week later, was stark:

  Anthony has asked me to elope with him. To even consider it is indecent—yet how could I bear to be his sister-in-law? And would it be fair to marry Marcus now that I know I do not love him? What a fool I was to say that I thought I was in love. If one has to think about it, one isn't.

  A day later she wrote:

  Anthony and I are going to elope. We can be in Gretna Green in a day. I don't care about the scandal, or the fact that I shan't be Lady Bowden and mistress of Seaton Manor. We shall have a roof over our heads and each other. Nothing more matters. May God, and Marcus, forgive me for my wickedness.

  He continued reading, absorbed by the story of her life as a wife and mother. He smiled when he read:

  I think Anthony was a bit disappointed at first that I did not bear a son. But now he is quite enraptured by his tiny daughter with her red curls. Already he has filled half a sketchbook with pictures of her sleeping and gurgling and doing what all infants do. One would think she was the first baby ever born.

  The first volume of the diary ended there, so he got up to stretch and take a break. To his surprise, it was after midnight. Time for bed.

  But before he retired, he spent a few minutes with his pastel crayons to sketch a picture of a baby with bright red curls and grave hazel eyes.

  * * *

  For at least the fiftieth time, Rebecca thought gloomily that the worst thing about the Lake District was its distance from London. Her father paid heavily for post horses, which kept travel time to a mere four days. Four long, bruising days, when nothing could be done but hold on to a strap and think.