Residents in robes and nightcaps gawped from upper windows, a bucket brigade panted as pails were heaved to and fro, and firemen in blue Phoenix livery ran hither and thither.
A fire engine horse whinnied in fright, setting the mews animals bellowing, a milk cart had been abandoned by the railings, and dogs barked in frenzy, the smell of smoke and fear pervading the square.
And all outside No. 6.
The Rothwell abode.
Where thick smoke plumed from the basement.
He raced towards it, Uncle at his side. Dread. Terror. Panic.
God in heaven…
Descending the basement steps was a squat man, leather hose clenched in his fist, handkerchief tied about his mouth, whilst fire porters cranked the handle to provide a continuous flow of water.
The servants – Casper’s servants – struggled to keep the lead-lined trough of the fire engine filled from the pump on the square’s corner, buckets slopping and Copperhouse bellowing as they passed them one to another.
And at the front…
“Ernest, what the hell’s happened?”
He yanked his brother around, hugged him brief and hard. “Is everyone safe?”
“Yes, thank God.” And Uncle took over the position, hauling a bucket and sloshing it high. Ernest swiped at his soot-grimed brow whilst dressed in only shirt and breeches. “A maid discovered a fire in the kitchens at dawn, rang the gong. We got everyone out, and the stable lad ran to the Phoenix office, but they’ve only just got here. We were throwing buckets until moments ago.” A raw burn streaked his brother’s forearm.
“And Evelyn? She came home last night?”
“They’re all at the Rakecombe’s. Her sister caught a fair bit of smoke as we ran through the hallway.”
“The hall is afire?”
“No. Just smoke. Worse might be your study as the fire is below it, but–”
“Bloody hell.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “My study.” And he threw off his jacket, wrenching at his cravat.
“Casp? What is it?” Ernest grabbed his arm. “Everyone’s here, I told you.”
But no time as he now noted the insidious black haze puff from below the front door, the pump waning as exhausted fire porters swapped over to turn the crank.
He dunked his cravat in a bucket, wrapped it around his mouth and hurtled up the steps to thrust the door wide; smoke assailed him, eyes stinging.
“Casper!” he heard Ernest cry but no time.
He had to reach the damn study.
Evelyn darteddown the steps of the Rakecombe residence, having left her sister in the capable hands of the duchess.
Every occupant of the square now rushed to help, aware the fire could spread to their own abodes if not brought under control.
Glancing up, she could see the bucket brigade still filling the engine tank; the clacketing pump heaved, bellowed, and–
Commotion stirred in front of No. 6 as a man lunged up the steps.
What was he thinking? And she hastened her step past dawdling gawkers.
The door was shoved inwards, the man crouching beneath the spirals of grey that poured forth.
A blond gentleman who looked like…
