She was going home.
Theridetooklongerthan she expected.
The streets were thick with traffic, and the air had grown warmer, stifling from too many bodies moving through the city. Elizabeth barely noticed. She was too focused on what she would say. Her father must be made to understand the urgency, yes, but she fancied that her first duty would be to reassure him that she was well and safe. She did not believe for a moment that he could have been convinced by whatever message His Highness had sent.
She imagined stepping through the front door, the shock on the servants’ faces, the relief. Her father would be in his study, buried in his work, too busy to notice the lingering soot on his jacket from the House of Lords. She would sit before him, calm, respectable, explaining everything in crisp, logical terms.
And then—he would make it right.
That thought comforted her.
And then, quite suddenly, it did not.
A strange acrid smell burned in her nose, something sharp and bitter.
Smoke.
She barely had time to register it before the coach slowed, then stopped altogether.
A crowd had gathered on the street. The driver turned toward her, adjusting his cap. “Might be a delay, miss. Something happened just up ahead.”
Elizabeth frowned. “What sort of something?”
The man gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Fire brigade’s still there. House caught flame, sounds like. Not much damage, though. Lucky that.”
Her fingers sank into the fabric of her borrowed skirt, lifting the hem out of her way. She reached for the carriage door, ignoring the driver’s call of, “Wait, miss!” and stepped down onto the street, pushing past the crowd until she could see it.
Her home.
Or what remained of it.
The front of the house stood untouched, pristine white stone, a perfect facade of normalcy. But above—
The windows were blackened.Herwindows.
Smoke curled from the upper floor, the sharp scent of charred wood still thick in the air.
Elizabeth barely registered moving forward, pushing through the mass of onlookers, her body numb, her mind struggling to make sense of what she was seeing.
The voices came in scattered fragments, bits of conversation floating through the thick, acrid air.
“…Marquess of Ashwick’s house…”
“…Lord above, look at the damage…”
“…Heard it started in the bedchamber—a coal bucket too close to the embers…”
Elizabeth’s feet slowed. Her stomach clenched. She did not know what to think, but she knew enough to sense that was a lie. The hearth in her room had not even been lit when she left.
“…A maid’s mistake, sure enough…”
“…I heard it was the daughter’s room…”
“…Young miss is like enough dead from the smoke.”
A chill crawled over her skin.
She turned sharply, her gaze darting over the crowd, seeking a face, a familiar presence, something—anything—to tell her this was all some terrible mistake.
