Page 56

Preston’s chest burned, and he found himself coughing. His throat felt like it was on fire. His eyes felt full of sand.

Above everything was the sound of roaring and crackling, and below that were voices crying and yelling. The acrid smell of smoke was heavy in his nostrils… He lay on something very hard and stone-cold, apart from his head, which was cushioned. All that stirred uneasiness inside him. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He felt a cool and soothing touch on his forehead. He opened his burning eyes. Penelope’s face was above him, lit with an orange-red glow against the absolute blackness of the sky above.

“Preston,” she said with a big smile and teary eyes. “You’re alive! You woke up! Thank heavens.”

He coughed and tried to sit up but failed. Through the pain in his throat and chest, he found his voice to ask her, “Penelope, are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she croaked. “How are you feeling?”

“What in the world is going—”

But she didn’t need to reply. His gaze fell on the burning building…his burning home. He lay in the middle of the inner courtyard, watching fire consume the London home of twelve generations of the Dukes of Grandhampton. Flames burst through every window of the right wing and even through the roof. The entrance was aflame, but some of the furniture and art stood in the inner courtyard. Myriad sparks flew into the dark sky. Ladders were put against eight windows that were not yet in flames, and his loyal footmen and other servants were saving more furniture, paintings, vases, rugs, and anything they could put their hands on before the fire engulfed the building.

Three fire engines—big wooden constructions on wheels, like carriages without windows—stood in the courtyard, and firemen in the green uniform of his insurance company, Lindsay and Jensen, pumped the handles to get water into the hoses, while six or seven firemen stood with hoses that shot water into the fire.

But with a fire like this, everyone knew not much could be done. It was too late, Preston feared. The men were wasting their time.

“I sent word to Sebastian and the Duchess of Ashton,” said Penelope, “asking them to send the fire engines of their insurance companies and their men. I don’t know when they’ll arrive.”

It could take hours to gather a brigade. Volunteers and firemen would need to be summoned and gathered, then horses would need to be readied, and then it would still take a while to get the heavy and poorly maneuverable engines through London’s streets.

He sat up and felt cold. The blanket fell from his shoulders, and he realized he was naked.

Three hoses from each of the engines were connected to holes dug in the middle of the courtyard. The firemen must have dug into the ground to chop into the wooden water pipes. When the fire was out, they’d plug the holes before burying the pipes again.

More people ran in and out of the courtyard with buckets of water. Where were they getting it from? Preston wondered distantly. Perhaps the neighbors, the Viscount of Kitson or the Marquis of Cornforth, not wanting the fire to spread to their properties, had sent their servants with water from their troughs and cisterns.

But nothing would stop it, Preston knew. The fire raged like an unstoppable giant, completely consuming the wing of Preston’s and Penelope’s bedchambers, the library, the study… And soon the rest of Chalworth Place.

“Is everyone out?” he asked.

“Yes, everyone’s safe. The horses are being brought out of the stables. Sam is preparing a carriage to take us to Sumhall.”

“Good,” he said, trying again to sit up and finally succeeding.

Then a thought hit him like a blast. “Damnation!” Wrapping the blanket around himself he scrambled up to his feet, coughing, his head reeling. “Penelope, your studio! Your paintings!”

“Forget about my paintings. Everyone’s alive. That’s what matters. I’ll paint more.”

“But the Danaë…and The Shipwreck…and Spencer’s collection…”

And Spencer’s last letter to him. And all those little mementos of his brother that were left in that burning hell, never to be returned.

“I’d like to help,” he said, walking to the fire brigade chief. Ice-cold cobblestones dug into the bare soles of his feet. “What can I do?”

Penelope tugged him by his hand, and to his shame, his head spun so much he staggered. “Nothing, Preston. You cannot do a thing. You will go to Sumhall where a physician will examine you.”

As though hearing her words, hooves and the rattle of wheels sounded behind them, and Sam pulled the carriage to a stop nearby.

Preston set into a coughing fit. Penelope was right. He couldn’t do a damn thing like this. He just wanted everyone to be safe.

Mrs. Brown and Porter hurried to him, seeing that he was standing.

Mrs. Brown, still in her nightcap and nightgown, tugged the edges of her shawl around her shoulders. “Your Grace, thank heavens you’re awake.”

When his coughing eased, he rasped, “I’m glad everyone seems to be safe, Mrs. Brown. Look, besides Her Grace and myself, there are at least two seats inside the carriage. More if someone wants to sit at the front and stand at the back where the footmen ride. Mrs. Brown, perhaps you’d like to come along and bring those servants who aren’t feeling well with us to Sumhall. Then Sam will return for the rest of the staff.”