The Harlot Countess (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

The moment he alighted from the carriage, Simon knew something was wrong. There was an eerie stillness to the night and a strange odor—

“Do you smell smoke?” Quint asked, sniffing the air.

Simon’s heart stopped. He had no idea of knowing which house was on fire, but painters frequently used flammable substances. If the fire was anywhere near Maggie’s studio, the entire building could go up in a flash.

“Look there.” Colton pointed. “Smoke in the back.”

Sure enough, plumes of black-gray smoke wafted from the rear of Maggie’s town house. “Oh, Christ,” Simon said and took off at a run toward her front door. “Colton, rouse the fire brigade!”

He threw open the door and raced in, Quint on his heels. The acrid smell, now decidedly worse inside, hit his nose. Was the fire in one of the bedrooms ? The kitchens? He had to find Maggie as quickly as possible.

Blood roaring in his ears, he flew to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Just as he hit the landing, Quint yelled, “Watch out!”

Simon spun to see a disheveled Lord Cranford leap out from behind a corner and heard the unmistakable crack of a pistol. He ducked, covering his head. A body hit the ground, and Simon whirled to see Quint on the carpet, clutching his neck. Blood welled from beneath the viscount’s fingertips.

Before Simon could help Quint, Cranford put a hand to the balustrade and vaulted over it, landing on the stairs below. Simon sprinted and gave chase, leaping over Quint’s prone body to reach the steps. Acting on pure instinct, he sprung off the top step, catching Cranford’s shoulders and knocking him off his feet. The two tumbled and slid down the staircase, Simon using his larger frame to advantage, directing most of the punishment of the fall at Cranford.

When they finally hit the bottom, Cranford didn’t move. His eyes were open and he seemed to be gasping for breath. Simon shook him roughly. “Where is she?”

Colton appeared through the front door. “Flames are coming from the top floor in the back. Fitz is fetching the brigade. I’ll handle this bastard. Go, Winchester!”

“Quint’s been shot,” Simon shouted. “He’s on the landing. Get him to safety first and then send a groom for a doctor. Cranford is in no shape to do us any more harm.”

Simon raced back up the stairs, now thinking only of Maggie. On the landing, he saw Maggie’s servant hurrying down from the upper floors. “My lord! I cannot get in to her studio,” the woman said. “The door’s locked and the heat is something awful in there.”

“Is there another way in?”

“The roof !” the woman said urgently. “There’s a vent on the roof !”

Simon started toward her. “How do I get up there?”

“There’s a door at the top of the servants’ stairs. Follow me, my lord.”

By the time Simon stood atop the studio, he was forced to hold the air in his lungs and squint through the thick clouds of smoke. His panic doubled when he realized neither of them could fit through the small opening. How in the hell would he get her out? He kicked at the window and screamed to be heard above the roar of the fire.

“Maggie! Can you hear me?” He heard no response and feared the worst. He ran to the edge of the roof and bent over to look for another way into the burning studio. Startled, he saw a figure clutching the front of the neighboring town house. His knees nearly buckled.
Oh, thank God.
“Maggie!”

He could see her lips moving, knew she was yelling, but couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of the fire. She began waving her hands, indicating he should move away. All he cared about was getting to her.

He retreated a few steps, drove his legs full speed, and leapt across to the adjoining flat roof. Once he landed, he hurried to the edge and leaned down. She tilted her head to look at him. With her hair disheveled, and soot on her face and clothing, she’d never appeared more beautiful. His chest pulled tight, he called, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, panic etched into her delicate features. “The window is locked. I cannot get inside! Hurry, Simon.”

He straightened and quickly located the door to the inside—and kicked it with all his might. The wood splintered and another few heavy blows gained him entrance. He navigated the stairs and the top floor until he spotted Maggie through a bedchamber window.

Seconds later, he lifted the sash and was reaching for her. Once her feet hit the floor, Simon dragged her into his arms. “My God, woman. You gave me a—”

She pushed him away roughly. “No time for that. Fire. Solvents. Explosion. Move!” She shoved him toward the hall.

Simon grabbed her hand and raced out of the room. As they continued toward the ground, they yelled of a fire to alert anyone who may be within the town house. They were halfway down the main stairs when a crashing thunder echoed, shaking the building, and Simon tugged her more firmly to the street.

They flew out the front door and onto the walk. Chaos had ensued. It seemed all of Mayfair had lined up along Charles Street, not to mention that the fire brigade had arrived. Men were shouting and giving orders while others struggled to keep the throng of people at bay. The pump poured water toward Maggie’s house—to little effect. The flames had engulfed the interior of every floor, and Simon cringed at each
snap
and
pop
of burning furniture or timber. Maggie might still be inside, if not for her quick thinking.

Maggie began striding toward her house, but Simon put a hand on her arm. Ignoring her surprise, he enveloped her into a tight embrace. He could feel her body trembling against his own. “You nearly scared the life out of me, Mags,” he whispered into her soot-covered hair. “Try not to ever do that again.”

She gave a weary chuckle and squeezed him. “I shall try, Simon. Now let me go see to my staff.”

“And I need to look in on Quint,” he said grimly.

“Quint? Why?”

“Cranford shot him.”

She gasped, turned, and began pushing her way through the crowd on the street, leaving him to follow. When they found Tilda, he learned that Quint had been taken to a neighboring house, with the doctor having arrived moments earlier. He pulled Maggie aside before leaving to check on his friend.

“I fear your house may not make it.” He wiped a black smudge off her cheek with his thumb.

“I fear you are correct.” She raised a brow. “I wonder why you seem pleased by that information.”

“First, everything lost can be replaced. That you are safe is what matters. And second”—he leaned to her ear—“I’m smiling because I happen to know where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”

 

 

The heat stung Maggie’s eyes, the air so hot she could scarcely breathe. Panic and smoke filled her lungs. She fought her way up off the floor, struggling to avoid the flames—but they moved too fast. She couldn’t get away—it was as if her legs were stuck in treacle.

She screamed for help.

“Maggie, wake up!”

Maggie awoke with a start, a gentle hand shaking her shoulder. Sweat trickled down her brow and she was gasping, every muscle clenched.
A dream,
she told herself. It had only been a dream. She was out of the fire, alive.

“Maggie, are you all right?”

She turned and found the Duchess of Colton at her shoulder. “Fine. Just a bad dream,” she rasped. Her throat was still sore from the soot and smoke. Julia seemed to understand and helped Maggie take a sip from the glass of water on the table.

“I hated to wake you,” Julia was saying, “but you were thrashing about and moaning. I grew worried.”

Maggie swallowed and relaxed into the pillows. Bright sunlight peeked through the unfamiliar draperies. True to his word, Simon had insisted on bringing her to Barrett House early this morning. The fire had waned by dawn and there had been little left for her to do. Cranford, it turned out, had died from the fall down the stairs. So Simon had seen to both the constables and to Quint, who had been shot in the neck. The injury turned out to be a minor one, thank heaven. The ball had torn through the soft tissue and missed anything vital.

“Where is Simon?” she asked Julia.

“He went to see someone. He sent for me so that you would not be alone.”

“How is Quint?”

“Recovering. He’ll be as good as new in a few weeks, apparently.”

“That is a relief. If anyone had died . . .”

“I know, my dear.” She smoothed Maggie’s hair off her forehead. “We were all terribly worried about you. Would you care for chocolate? Tea? Toast? I’ll send down for whatever you’d like.”

“Chocolate and toast, please.”

Julia rose, went to the door, and spoke to someone in the corridor. When she returned, Maggie asked, “Did Simon tell you Cranford was not the one responsible for Cora’s attack?”

“Yes. Which means whoever did it could still hurt someone else.”

“Yes, precisely.” Maggie stretched, the lingering effects of the nightmare waning. “I wonder who Simon needed to see so early. I should think he would still be abed as well.”

Julia glanced down, not meeting Maggie’s eyes, as she smoothed her skirts. “He went to see the Home Secretary.”

“The Home Secretary? At this hour?”

“He wanted to clear up this business about Lemarc. Though I don’t see how he can, without admitting the blackmail scheme or turning the artist over—both of which he already said he would not do.”

Maggie sat up straighter, her stomach dropping. “So what will he say?”

“He’s hoping his word will be enough. That once he promises the cartoons will stop and that Lemarc is not attempting to inflame the masses into revolt, the investigation will cease.”

“How can he do so without drawing attention to his association with Lemarc?”

Julia pressed her lips together. “He cannot, obviously. He plans to admit knowledge of the artist’s identity—without naming you, of course.”

“What? But that is . . .”
Stupid
was the kindest word Maggie thought to use.

“Yes. I told him it was unwise,” Julia said, reading her mind. “But he said better the suspicion rest on his own head than over yours.”

Maggie closed her eyes.
Oh, no.
To align himself with an artist accused of seditious activity would destroy all of his standing in Parliament. Heavens, forget his political career; he’d be lucky not to be brought up on charges himself.

She had to do something. Her mind raced to come up with a solution, a way that Simon need not shoulder the blame. This was all Cranford’s fault. If he were still alive, she’d kick him. She inhaled sharply, a thought striking her.

Cranford . . . Yes, that made sense. Perhaps there was a way to use him after all.

Struggling, she sat up and threw the bedclothes off. “Julia, help me dress. I need to get to Mrs. McGinnis quickly.”

 

 

“We find ourselves in an awkward position, Winchester.”

Henry Addington, Viscount Sidmouth, leaned back and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. In his early sixties, Sidmouth currently held the position of Home Secretary, leader of the Home Office—the group calling for Lemarc’s head on a well-polished salver. “These cartoons are quite dangerous.”

Simon had traveled to White Lodge, the viscount’s residence in Richmond Park, where he’d waited for over an hour in the hopes of seeing Sidmouth. He’d rather be at home, in bed with Maggie, but the sedition situation was too critical to put off.

Earlier in the week, Home Office representatives had once again visited Mrs. McGinnis and frightened the shop owner in another attempt to learn Lemarc’s identity. So he needed to convince the Crown that Lemarc hadn’t drawn the seditious cartoons as well as reassure them the person responsible had been dealt with. Perhaps then the investigation would be withdrawn.

“And as you know, we take threats of sedition seriously, especially after Peterloo. These cartoons demonstrate why the Six Acts are so instrumental in preserving peace in the realm,” Sidmouth said, referring to the laws that prohibited perceived treasonous or seditious actions.

“Inciting seditious behavior was not the artist’s intent,” Simon said, smoothly. “Nevertheless, I have it on good authority the cartoons of this kind will cease.” Simon did not want to go into too much detail, even though his brother-in-law hardly deserved protection. But his mother and sister would suffer if the blackmail and forging scheme were revealed, not to mention that any subsequent investigation might lead to Maggie’s identity. Keeping the story vague would suit all involved, he reasoned.

“I find that interesting. Are you acquainted with the artist, perhaps?”

This was the slippery spot. “In a roundabout way. We have a mutual acquaintance.”

Sidmouth stroked his chin. “Not the artist’s intent, you say. So what was his intent?”

“What does any artist want? To gain notoriety. To increase sales.”

“Are you prepared to tell me this artist’s name?”

“No. I’ve given my word to keep his confidence. But he has promised to stick to more appropriate subject matter in the future.”

Sidmouth did not care for that answer. His long face pulled into a frown and he stared out the window. After a fashion, he said, “I quite liked your father, Winchester. He was a good man. I know you’ve had the responsibility from a young age, and by all accounts you’ve done a fine job with it, but this situation creates a bit of a dilemma for me. I’ve made promises, you see, that I would bring down Lemarc. Make an example of him. Can’t very well do that if you won’t tell me who the blackguard is.” He pinned Simon with a hard stare. “Isn’t you, is it?”

“No, indeed.” He held the man’s gaze. “I am not Lemarc.”

“And there’s no chance you’ll turn him over, is there?”

“Absolutely none, I’m afraid.”

“Are you prepared for the repercussions of withholding that information from me?”