Her steps quickened to a run as he rose and hurtled into the blackness.
“No!” Evelyn screamed. “Casper!” She hoisted her skirts, petticoats tangling, and charged over the cobbles.
Why? Everyone was safe.
Dodging the Phoenix firedrakes and bawling porters, she sprinted for the steps, but firm hands grasped her waist, hauling her back.
“No!” she wailed, fists beating her assailant.
“Evelyn!” And she spun to Lord Ernest, his eyes wild.
“Why?” she howled.
“I don’t know! Something about his damn study.”
“But everyone’s here. It’s that stupid painting,” she cried. “It’s not worth his life. I’ll kill him.”
“Almost out, keep that pump going,” shouted a Phoenix man to the exhausted porters. Two more darted down the basement steps with cloths of wet hessian. “Careful,” he bellowed after them. “The ceiling might fall.”
Evelyn sagged in Lord Ernest’s arms. Please God, no.
The shawl ripped from her shoulders.
“I’m going in after him,” shouted his brother. “Wet this for me.”
Evelyn grabbed a panting Copperhouse as he scurried past with a full bucket, doused the shawl and tied it about Lord Ernest’s mouth whilst he dampened his clothes.
With a deep breath, he bounded up the steps, just as a choking figure stumbled from the smoke, white shirt begrimed and waistcoat ripped.
“Casper!” And they thronged forward, dragging him to the pavement.
Spluttering and shoving down a sack, the duke bent double, hands to knees, whilst Lord Ernest wrenched the material from his brother’s mouth, beating upon his back as he heaved in lungfuls of air.
He was alive and Evelyn fell to her knees, but then chasing the relief came downright anger.
It besieged her, steaming and so sodding furious.
“You bacon-brained cod’s head! What the hell do you think you were doing?” she bawled, rising to wallop his arm.
“I–” A cough stole his words.
“You could’ve died, you pudding-headed coxcomb!” Another clout.
“I–” He panted for breath, face smudged as a chimney sweep and blond hair skewwhiff. So damn handsome.
She bashed his shoulder. “And all for–”
“Cleo…” he rasped, pointing to the sack which began to hop about.
Lord Ernest fell upon it, tearing open the knotted top, and a pair of ears pricked up, followed by disgruntled whiskers. “Dear heaven, we thought she was out.” And he gathered her into his arms. Cleopatra opened her mouth but a mere croak emerged, raw and dry.
“I locked the study and I’ve the only key,” Casper yelled. “Then I remembered that thing was on your shawl.”
“You beetle-witted lummox,” she roared. So gallant and noble. “I thought you hated that cat.”
“Well you love that thing,” he bawled back, “and I… I loveyou.”
“You buffle-brained numbsk–” What did he say?
