“My dear—” the Duke began.
She cut him off. “There are quite a few tenements in the square. Do you really want to search all of them when I can point to the one that the crone came out of?”
“Becca’s right,” Alec shot back. “Come on!”
52
Mobray rammed his head straight into David’s solar plexus, sending both men flying to the floor and the knife spinning away from David’s hand. Kendra considered going after the knife, but the men were between her and the weapon. The air filled with grunts and groans, and the unmistakable sound of fists connecting viciously with flesh and bone.
Her own breath whistling through her teeth, Kendra focused on maneuvering the arrowhead between her fingers in order to use it to saw through the hemp rope. It was an awkward angle, and time had worn the stone’s edge down to the sharpness of a butter knife. She leaned forward, putting effort into the back-and-forth motion.
Something thudded, and glass shattered. She shot a quick glance toward the men. They’d gotten to their feet, locked in what looked like a wrestling embrace, crashing into the workbench with enough force to send several beakers flying, liquid splashing across the floor. A strong chemical stench rose up. Mobray and David ignored the debris. Glass crunched under their feet as they fought, their faces twisted in rage. No one had to tell her that this would be a fight to the death.
Shit, shit, shit. Kendra continued to saw desperately at the rope. One of the three woven strands broke free. Despite the cold, sweat rolled down her brow, stinging her eye. She shifted the arrowhead slightly and continued to rub.
She tried to block out the heavy breathing, the cries of agony and anger, but gave a startled jolt when a howl rose up. “Die, you bastard!”
David had fallen to the ground now, with Mobray straddling him, using the chain of the shackles as a frontal garrote against David’s throat. His arms trembled as he pressed down, his bruised and bloodied face a mask of fury.
Fingers cramping, Kendra nearly doubled over in her efforts to saw through the rope. There was another scream and she looked again at the men. David’s hand swept the ground, finding a glass shard from one of the destroyed beakers. The flame of a nearby candle struck sparks off the glass as David plunged it down in a violent arc, slashing Mobray’s cheek open. Blood spurted in a macabre fountain. Mobray reared backward, clasping his face, a momentum that allowed David to dislodge the man. Mobray fell, his body twisting to the side, the shackled hands stretching.
“No!” Kendra screamed, because she’d seen what Mobray had. Their battle had brought them around to where the knife lay forgotten on the floor.
Kendra held the arrowhead necklace by its chain and hoisted herself to her feet just as Mobray seized the knife and thrust it into David’s stomach. As she watched, David fell backward, sprawling across the floor, blinking rapidly. His chest continued to rise and fall in quick, jerky movements.
Mobray managed to lurch to his feet, breathing heavily. He bent over and spat out a stream of blood. Then he looked over at Kendra, and their gazes locked. Ice pricked at the back of her neck. Kendra knew that he wouldn’t let her leave alive. I’ve heard too much.
Slowly, the captain turned and grasped the hilt of the knife. David let out a harsh cry when Mobray yanked it out with a sickening sucking noise. Kendra put all her strength into pulling the rope apart, straining against the hemp. Her legs were already mobile, but she needed her hands free for defensive maneuvers.
Mobray’s head turned, his eyes tracking her movement like a cobra.
“You can’t keep Spain a secret anymore, Captain.” Kendra yanked against the rope, and thought it gave a little.
He smiled. Kendra noticed that his teeth were smeared with blood.
“Everybody who knows about Spain is dead,” he said, and took a step toward her. “Or soon will be.”
“Other people know. Evert told them. You don’t think he told the captain of the Magdalena his story when they were sailing to England?”
That gave the captain pause. But after a moment, he shook his head, his lip curling back into a contemptuous leer. “A Spaniard. Do you really think anyone would believe a foreigner over me?”
Kendra pulled harder, and relief flooded her as the last strand gave way. She shook her hands free and moved backward, keeping her eyes on Mobray’s instead of the knife that he held. She saw the exact moment he decided to attack, and dodged as he leapt forward, swinging the knife in a wild arc. She whirled around, aiming a strong kick at Mobray’s kneecap. She missed, but hit his thigh instead, the impact sending him staggering to the side. Although he didn’t lose his grip on the knife, he was disoriented enough for Kendra to rush forward and slam her fist into his nose. Pain stung her knuckles, but satisfaction surged through her when she heard bone crunch, and Mobray screamed. She darted backward.
“Bitch!” He shook his head like a wet dog, sending droplets of blood everywhere.
Nose swelling, face twisting in rage, Mobray charged. Ironically, the shackles keeping his wrists together made counter defensive maneuvers difficult—Kendra couldn’t grab his wrist and twist his hand behind his back to subdue him.
Heart pounding, she raced toward the pallet, whipping one of the blankets off the bed. She whirled and snapped it at Mobray. Never bring a blanket to a knife fight. Still, it made him hesitate. And that was all she needed to spin the blanket into a bulky rope and toss it around Mobray’s hands and the knife like a lasso. Before Mobray could react, she rammed her shoulder into Mobray’s chest with enough force to send pain reverberating all the way down her arm.
Mobray staggered backward, but recovered quickly. With his hands disabled, he managed a sharp kick to the shin. She yelped and stumbled backward. Jerking her gaze away from Mobray, who was already disentangling himself from the blanket, Kendra scanned the room for another weapon. Her breathing, already ragged, hitched when she saw David move behind Mobray. In an unsteady movement, he rolled to his knees, and used the workbench to pull himself up.
Hearing the movement, Mobray glanced behind him. He hesitated, as though deciding who was a more dangerous opponent. Apparently, Kendra wasn’t it, because Mobray whirled around, lifting the knife as he began to advance on the wounded man. Kendra was stunned when David smiled suddenly. For one strange moment, everything seemed to freeze. Then David grabbed the candelabra off the workbench, and launched it at Mobray. It fell a good twelve inches from Mobray’s feet. Mobray looked like he was going to laugh. But everything changed in the next second. David hadn’t missed, Kendra realized. The flames hit the chemicals on the floor, and in a dazzling swoosh, the puddle ignited, racing across the surface to where Mobray was standing. In a matter of seconds, Mobray’s leather boots and pantaloons had caught fire.
He screamed, a high-pitched, animalistic howl that sent a shiver down Kendra’s arms, and dropped the knife. His shackles rattled as he tried to beat down the flames that were devouring his pantaloons, but the fire was like a living thing, and leapt to his greatcoat. Shrieking, Mobray ran around in panic as the inferno engulfed him. Spinning, flailing . . . then, as suddenly as he’d been consumed, he collapsed.
Kendra reeled back. The fire jumped to the workbench and walls. Great billows of black smoke competed against the hot orange and red flames. Glass shattered; wood beams creaked dangerously. Kendra grabbed her cloak, pressing the material against her nose. Through the haze and fumes, Kendra saw David fall to his knees. She started in his direction, her instinct to rescue him from the flames, but she knew it was too late. Even as she watched, the fire attacked him like a greedy beast, roaring over him. Within seconds, he was consumed.
Kendra stumbled back, choking despite the material across her nose. For the first time, she realized that the fire was all around her, climbing the walls, speeding across the ceiling. Heart pounding, Kendra ran for the door. A sharp crack pierced the roar of the fire. She glanced up just as the ceiling caved in.
53
My God! Fire!” the Du
ke gasped as soon as the carriage came to a stop on the narrow lane leading to Trevelyan Square. Already crowds had gathered, men, women, and children racing to bring buckets sloshing with water.
“Form a line! Form a line!” The cry rang out in the square, pulsing with the kind of panic every Londoner understood. The city had gone up in flames too many times for anyone to take the matter of fire lightly.
Alec shoved the door open, jumping down. “Kendra!”
He started to run, but the Duke caught his arm, dragging him back. “Alec, no!”
Their gazes locked on the building that was burning the most aggressively, smoke as black as the night pumping out of windows and into the night sky. Long orange-yellow-red tongues chased after it.
“Sweet Jesus,” Muldoon muttered as he climbed down from the carriage, automatically turning to assist Rebecca.
“Oh, dear heaven . . .” Rebecca’s voice trembled, caught on a sob, and Alec turned to see tears in her eyes.
His gut twisted sharply, despair ripping through him. Then he yanked his arm from his uncle’s restraining grasp and bolted toward the inferno.
“Alec!” the Duke shouted after him.
Vaguely, Alec heard other shouts, strangers thinking he was a madman running toward his death. They might have been right, but he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t imagine living if Kendra died inside that burning building. Fear of that possibility thrummed through his bloodstream and lent wings to his feet. Ahead of him, the door was open; he kept running. Within seconds, he crossed the threshold into the mouth of Hell.
Kendra gasped and choked as acrid smoke slithered into her lungs and stung her eyes. Most people didn’t die from being burned to death in fires, she knew; they died of smoke inhalation. Even with her cloak held tightly to her nose as a safeguard, her head was beginning to swim, her vision to blur. The heat was oppressive, pressing against her, sending greasy rolls of sweat running down her face. She could feel her hands burn, and with a jolt realized that she’d caught on fire. She swatted the flames out and kept moving.
Behind her, sharp cracks, shrieks, and groans filled the air as walls began to collapse in the devouring flames. I’m in a house of horrors, she thought. She realized she’d made it to the stairs. Her knees were wobbling, but she began to descend, jerking back when a burning beam crashed down right in front of her.
Fuck. There was no way . . .
She had to go through. She had to.
Gathering her courage, she ducked under and knew the instant her cloak had caught on fire. She abandoned the garment and kept on down the steps. She tried to hold her breath. A wave of dizziness assailed her. She missed a step, and plummeted down one flight of stairs, the pain dazzling. On the landing, she sucked in air, which was filled with oily black smoke. Coughing violently, she tried to push herself off the ground, conscious of the roar of the fire all around her.
“Kendra.”
She raised her head, and wondered if she was hallucinating. But then Alec was reaching down to haul her up, too solid for a hallucination.
“I can walk,” she gasped, but buckled over in a fit of coughing.
“Christ,” he swore, swinging her up into his arms, and raced down the last flight of stairs as burning embers flew like a horde of irate fireflies around them. She clutched at his shoulders as they burst out of the building. Sleet was falling lightly. Grateful, she lifted her face to the sky as Alec carried her away from the flames. People handed buckets of water down a long assembly line to toss on the blaze, and several burly men pumped water from an old-fashioned (to her, anyway) wagon. Kendra stared in disbelief at the hose, which was squirting out a miserable stream of water. No wonder London had burnt down so many times.
“Is that Rebecca . . . and Muldoon?” Her voice was an unrecognizable croak.
In the line was Rebecca, looking bedraggled and bizarre in her evening dress, as she handed off the wooden bucket to Muldoon. Rebecca spotted her, and waved enthusiastically, and then turned to give Muldoon an impulsive hug. Even from the distance, Kendra saw the reporter’s start of surprise. Almost instantly the two broke apart and hurriedly went back to working the water line.
“I believe it is.” Alec set Kendra carefully down on her feet, like she was made of glass. He brought his hands up to cup her face, laughing softly. “You are a mess, Miss Donovan.”
She gazed into his soot-streaked face and had to grin. “So are you, my lord.” She leaned into him, her arms going around his waist. If Rebecca could hug Muldoon . . . “Maybe we make a pretty good match after all.”
54
Three hours later, after a long bath and a lot of soap to scrub away the smut and the sharp stench of smoke, Kendra sat in the Duke’s study, gingerly sipping a strong tea doctored with honey and lemon to ease the dryness of her throat and occasional coughing fit. It would take a few days for her lungs to recover from smoke inhalation. Her blistered hands, currently slathered with an ointment made of lavender oil and honey and bandaged with strips of linen, might take a little longer. On the plus side, her headache from being coldcocked was pretty much gone.
A gust rattled the windowpane, drawing her attention. White snowflakes swirled against the darkness. Earlier, at Trevelyan Square, sleet had turned to snow, which had sent up a rousing cheer among the volunteers fighting the inferno. Everyone knew that without Mother Nature’s helping hand, the blaze could have been much more serious. As it was, the fire had leapt to two other tenements before it had been finally extinguished by the snowfall.
Kendra had been caught up in the jubilation of the crowd, but that joy had quickly ebbed, replaced by a somber reflection. The bodies of Captain Mobray and David Larson would remain buried in ash and rubble until morning, when Sam could return with men to dig out the corpses. Both would end up on Dr. Munroe’s autopsy table. Kendra had told Sam that she’d seen Mobray burn to death, but whether David had succumbed to his knife wounds or perished from smoke and flame, would eventually be revealed by Dr. Munroe.
It probably didn’t matter. It certainly wouldn’t ease Bertel and Astrid’s suffering. Sam had the unenviable task of informing them that their son was dead.
Muldoon had a thousand questions for her. She’d managed to deflect most of them until Alec had cut the interview short. The reporter had then hurried off to the Morning Chronicle to put together a story for the morning edition, but Kendra had dealt with enough journalists in her own time to know that she hadn’t seen the last of the reporter. That was good. Kendra was hoping Muldoon would bring Mobray’s perfidy to light. She was a little more ambivalent about having David’s madness dissected for the public. Or Evert’s fate.
Still, she pushed aside those troubling thoughts as they’d piled into the Duke’s carriage to drop an exhausted Rebecca at her residence before continuing on to Grosvenor Square, where they’d shocked the staff with their grubby appearance.
“No one knows about the lad—Evert—except for us,” said Sam as he entered the study. He’d returned five minutes earlier—perfect timing, since she, Alec, and the Duke had only just settled in the study. Sam had also bathed and changed into fresh clothes, but he still appeared rumpled and weary, his eyes hollow following his visit with the Larsons. Even the glass of whiskey that Alec thrust into his hand couldn’t erase the sadness in his golden eyes.
Sam continued, “He was a war hero. I’m not sure we ought ter change that.”
“Nothing should be able to change that,” Kendra muttered hoarsely. But, of course, she knew that wasn’t true. In this era, suicide wasn’t just a tragedy. If it became known that Evert Larson had taken his own life, his reputation would be besmirched, his soul damned for eternity.
“I think Mr. and Mrs. Larson have suffered enough,” said the Duke, his own gaze bleak. “To know that their child was in such despair and there was nothing they could do . . .”
“Mr. Larson told me they begged Evert ter come home, but he couldn’t bear the idea of their pity.” Sam took a swallow of his whiskey,
his gaze on the fire crackling in the hearth. He shook his head. “He also told me why Evert chose Trevelyan Square to hide himself like a hermit. Apparently, Mr. Larson and Sir Giles own much of the property there. It was something they invested in together. They abandoned it after they had their falling out, and it quickly fell into disrepair.”
“Snake said anyone left in the area had fled because they’d seen a demon,” Kendra said softly. “Evert lived for two years in that small Spanish village with people accepting him. But the moment he returned to England, people regarded him in horror. I can’t imagine what that did to his mental state.”
They fell silent for a long moment. Evert might not have wanted pity, but it was difficult not to feel sorry for him.
The Duke broke the silence. “I wonder if the Larsons will remain in London. There is nothing here for them now.”
“They won’t go,” Kendra stated. “They won’t leave their son’s grave.”
Sam sighed heavily. “After Munroe’s finished with his examination, they’ll be able ter take their son’s remains and have a proper funeral.”
“I wasn’t talking about David.” She looked at the Bow Street Runner. “You don’t think they’d dump Evert’s body somewhere where they couldn’t visit him, do you?”
He frowned. “I never thought about it, but I reckon you’re right. They must have buried him somewhere.”
“They buried him in their garden, and put up the stone rune as a monument,” Kendra said, remembering when she’d first seen Bertel standing outside in the cold. He’d been visiting his son’s grave; she just hadn’t realized it at the time. “Bertel said they hadn’t been able to give him a decent burial, not that they hadn’t buried him.”
She let that sink in. “In their own way, they were just as bad as Sir Giles,” she said. Her throat tightened. This time it wasn’t because of the smoke, but anger.
Sam regarded her. “How so, lass?”
Betrayal in Time Page 39