Chapter Nineteen
January 21, 8:11 a.m., sunrise
On his way out of the castle Sebastian met whispers cut short at every turn. Some fool of a footman claimed he’d seen the Black Earl pacing the ramparts. Ridiculous. Even McNaught, whom he would have thought immune to such superstition did not belittle the gossip as he usually did. He helped Sebastian into his coat and cautioned him against walking out so early. Superstitious fools the lot.
Indignation spurred him to walk from Pennhyll at a rapid pace. Pandelion trotted at his side. Snow had fallen during the night, and he could see a set of footprints in the formerly pristine snow. Small feet. Olivia, he was certain. Every now and then the hem of her gown or cloak had skimmed her tracks, blurring the shape. He cursed under his breath. No matter what sort of dreams he had about her, Olivia Willow was not his concern. Not after tonight. She could live her own life, damn her to hell, with Hew or James or no one at all. He was not responsible for her present status in life, nor her future one.
He reached Far Caister in record time. Fifty-six seconds ahead of his usual pace. And, despite having pushed himself, his legs didn’t wobble, and his lungs didn’t burn. In short, he didn’t feel like he’d been thrown overboard and left to drown. Mightily pleased to feel as if he could cover the return journey at the same clip, he hardly slowed as he entered the village. At the Crown’s Ease, the innkeeper stepped out just as Sebastian reached the door. Broom in hand, Twilling touched his forelock in a now ritual greeting. “Best of the morning to you, Milord.”
“Mr. Twilling.”
He leaned on his broom. “Right bit of business up at Pennhyll since last I saw you, milord.”
Sebastian gave him a look.
“Preparing for your night of dancing and carousing. A merry success, I hope.”
“Thank you.”
“The young lads and lasses here are prepared to dream of their future wives and husbands.”
“Codswallop.”
“Oh, aye.” He took a bit of bacon from his apron and when Sebastian gave the nod, offered it to Pandelion. “I’m predicting a good business at the Crown’s Ease, my lord.”
“Indeed?”
“Geoffrey Peterman’s cows broke through his fence last night. Still chasing after them, I expect. Seven of Calvin Barfield’s ewes dropped twins yesterday, and six of ’em sickly things.” He tugged on the end of his nose. “Nyllie Williams near cut off his foot when his best axe slipped and then broke.” The innkeeper nodded slowly, but his twinkling eyes gave him away.
“Don’t tell me.”
“Not five minutes ago I saw Harry Leroy, and he swore he saw the Black Earl pacing the ramparts of Pennhyll.”
“You can’t believe that nonsense.”
“I reckon I do. I’ll sell twice the amount of ale what with all the tale-telling there’ll be tonight. May the good ghost send me as brisk a business every night.”
Sebastian laughed. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Twilling.”
He moved out of the doorway. “Kettle’s on, milord.”
“Later. I’m feeling fine, and I think I’ll walk to the end of town and back.”
Twilling took up his broom. “Watch your step, milord. Trouble’s afoot whenever the Black Earl’s about.” He put a finger alongside his nose. “I can feel it when the old man steps out.”
Sebastian set off, pulling up his coat collar against the chill. The Black Earl, indeed. Overheard, the sky turned from pearl to pale blue. A wagon blocked the street he meant to take so he veered left down a street of grey shadows. He came up short when he recognized the tobacconist’s and then the stationer’s shop. Between them was the door to Miss Willow’s flat. Was she inside? He stood while the sky shifted from between palest blue and orange. More color emerged. He felt like he’d forgotten something and that any moment he would remember what. But he had no reason for being here but coincidence. A rope of mist curled from the upper window of the Willow’s flat. Strange, considering the lack of wind. The round and acrid scent of smoke floated on the air. An orange glow flickered at the window and then, with a thump that rang in his ears, the glass shattered. He threw an arm over his head, twisting away from the shards and splinters raining down.
The wagon driver dropped the sack he was loading and rushed down the street. “Fire!”
Smoke billowed from the upper windows of the building. Someone started ringing a bell. While the other man pounded on doors, rousing people from their homes and beds, Sebastian tried the entry door and found it shut fast. What if Olivia were inside? She’d walked to Far Caister this morning. He knew it. Where else would she have gone but home? The door flew open just as he raised his leg to kick it. A wide-eyed woman hugging an infant to her chest stumbled out, followed by a man carrying a trunk. A window opened to the street and someone started tossing out furniture. More people came out, laden with belongings. Children cried. Men called to each other. Women cried out for loved ones.
“Olivia.” He didn’t see Olivia anywhere. An obese woman clutching a ragged blanket staggered into him, nearly bowling him over. She gripped his arms, eyes red-rimmed. He thought his heart would stop.
“Mrs. Goody?” She nodded. “Is Olivia still up there?”
“Aye, and her mother.”
He thrust the woman into a pair of waiting arms and raced up the stairwell. The higher he went, the thicker the air and the harder it was to breathe. Smoke curled from under the door to Olivia’s flat. He stripped off his cravat and wrapped the fabric around his nose and mouth. Two kicks shattered the door. Fire consumed most of far wall and threatened the ceiling. Smoke cut off his breath. He stooped for better air lower down. The mantel was on fire, but the painting of Olivia’s father and brother hadn’t yet caught. He lunged across the room, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket.
He found Olivia in the second room, dragging another woman toward the door, sobbing, pleading, praying as she inched them closer to the door. A roaring, crashing boom shook the structure. The roof caving in. Timbers big enough to crush a man. Ashes stung his eyes, embers skittered in the hot air. Beneath his feet, the floor bucked like a living thing, hot and treacherous.
He scooped the older woman into his arms and grabbed Olivia’s arm. He mouthed the words, “Follow me.” Smoke tore at his throat, and he could only pray that Olivia understood what to do. He made for the inner doorway. From across the parlor, he saw the wagon driver balanced at the top of the stairwell, motioning with one frantic hand, the other arm flung over his mouth and nose.
Heat pulsed, the sound of the flames deafening. With Olivia’s mother cradled against his chest, Sebastian headed for the stairs, Olivia behind him, clinging to his coat. A shout rose when they came out. Someone held out his arms to take Olivia’s mother. Thank God. Jesus, thank God. He swallowed great gulps of air and staggered from the building. He turned, expecting to see Olivia and to pull her into his arms. Someone pounded on his back, striking his wounded side such a ringing blow he doubled over.
“Your coat, milord!”
The garment was on fire. He stripped off his greatcoat and flung it smoldering into the snow. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he scanned the crowd for red hair. She wasn’t here. “Olivia!” He grabbed a man lugging a full blanket over his shoulder. “Olivia Willow. Have you seen her?”
“No, milord.”
He lunged toward the building. Someone blocked his way, but with a roar of despair, he shoved the man aside and sprinted up the stairs. Air thick with ash and smoke and heat dropped him to his knees. One of the massive ceiling beams creaked, a long, slow sound that vibrated between his ears. The floor quivered, and the air danced before his face. He looked, trying to see through the smoke. There. A flash of red near the inner door.
He crawled toward the color. Flames licked through the floor behind her, a line of spreading orange surrounding Olivia’s inert figure. He stretched an arm and got hold of her hair. He pulled with every ounce of strength he possessed. She slid forward. His fingers curled around her arm, then her torso. He hauled her toward him. The ceiling beam dissolved in flame and crashed with a whoosh of scalding air. The floor where she’d lain collapsed into flame. Sweeping her into his arms, he lurched to his feet. He wheeled toward the stairs, sliding and skidding down.
Another roar rose up when he burst into fresh air. Olivia slid free of his arms, collapsing in a fit of coughing, sinking to the street with her arms tight around her chest. “Mama?” she said, when she got a breath.
“Safe” he said. Soot streaked her face, her eyes were red. The fire had singed her curls. Another cheer pulsed on the air which mystified him until he realized it was snowing. Huge flakes drifted onto the street. Several landed on Olivia’s head. He whipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. The hem fell to her knees. He kept his arm around her shoulder, pulling until she gave in and leaned against him. “My heart,” he said. “You’re safe.”
Mr. Verney hurried up. He wore a coat buttoned over his nightshirt and his bare legs stuck out over the tops of his boots. “Praise be to heaven. I heard the commotion and came running—Are you all right, my lord?” The vicar put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Help her over here. We’ll have them safe and sound at the vicarage in no time.” Those arrangements were made, for someone offered a cart at hand, another a blanket, and Olivia’s mother was soon settled. Verney smiled as he prepared to get into the cart. “If you’ll have a servant send down her clothes from the castle, milord. Come, Miss Willow.”
With one arm still around Olivia, Sebastian grabbed the horse’s head. “Take them to Pennhyll.” His voice felt raw, stripped.
“My lord?” said Verney.
He signaled to the driver. “I’ve a doctor there to look after them both.” He looked at the driver again. One glare resolved the matter in his favor. Pandelion appeared, and at a signal from him, jumped into the cart.
News of the fire reached the castle in advance of their arrival, but he avoided discussion upon the need of seeing to Olivia and her mother and then a claim of wanting a bath and a change of clothes, which, in point of fact, he did. He’d bathed and was dressing when Fansher came in. He carried a satchel in one hand. “Ned.”
“I heard the news,” he said. “Are you all right?”
In answer, he spread his hands.
“Sit down. I want a look at you, young lad.”
“Have you seen to Miss Willow and her mother?” He stripped off his shirt.
“In good time.”
James poked his head into the dressing room while Ned removed the bandage. “A moment?”
Sebastian lifted a hand, beckoning to him. Hands thrust in his pockets, James sauntered in and threw himself onto a chair. “That scar of yours looks a sight better.”
“Will I live, Ned?”
“Mm.” He probed Sebastian’s ribs.
“Ouch.”
“Serves you right.” Ned straightened. “I want a longer look, later. No excuses, then.”
“Fine.”
McNaught came in with fresh clothes. James frowned. “Not that waistcoat. Something bright. Where’s that one with the gold stripes?”
McNaught’s mouth drooped. “If only he would wear it.”
“What’s wrong with gold stripes, Sebastian?”
“See to Miss Willow and her mother, Ned.”
Fansher put away his watch. “You need to rest, Captain.”
Sebastian glared at him. “For God’s sake, Ned, will you go to them?”
“Anxious, are you?” Ned gave him a look which Sebastian returned with measure. “On my way.”
“Stroke of luck you were in Far Caister when the fire broke out, Sebastian,” James said when Ned had gone and McNaught had disappeared to fetch the new waistcoat. Sebastian busied himself with fastening his shirt.
“I walk there every morning, James.”
“To Miss Willow’s apartments?”
He turned, put a hand to James’s mid-section and pushed him enough to make him take a step back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were implying something distasteful.”
James laughed. “I must have forgotten who I was talking to. You’re not that sort, are you?”
“No, James. I’m not. If ever I take Miss Willow to my bed, it will be as my wife.”
McNaught returned and Sebastian put his arms into the sleeves of a new waistcoat.
“Not likely, since can’t stand the woman. Can you?”
“Leave it be.”
“I want to marry her.”
Sebastian made a face.
“I’m serious.” James raised his hands. “But you’ve warned her off me, interfered at every turn.”
“What if I have? She deserves a husband, James, not a dissolute nobleman who’ll cast her aside as soon as he’s bored. You told me, quite pleased with yourself, I might add, that you meant to deceive her.”
“I know what I said.” James paced. “But I don’t mean it any more.”
“You’d do anything, you said. Except marry her.”
“All that’s changed. You were right about her all along. I’ve known for days now that I’ve fallen in love with her. Head over heels, Sebastian.”
“You’re too late. She’s going to marry her cousin.”
James stopped pacing. “I’m a better catch by any measure.”
“Her cousin never once mentioned his ability to support bastards as if that counted in his favor.”
“She cannot abide her cousin.” He drew a breath. “I’ve written to my mother. Told her I’ve met my future wife.”
“That’s your affair, of course.”
“Tell her you were wrong about me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“But you are now.”
“She’s a grown women, James, and I am not her father. It’s her cousin who’s responsible for her. Settle things with him.”
“She doesn’t care a fig for him, that’s plain as day. But she’ll listen to you. Tell her I’ll agree to any marriage settlement she proposes.”
Sebastian pushed aside McNaught’s hands and buttoned his own coat. “Fifty-five thousand pounds should do it.”
“Done. I’ll have my solicitor send you a copy of the contracts.”
“Splendid.”