The Taste of Innocence (48 page)

Malcolm swore. He debated, but given Jennings’s last action, laying his hands on the man’s reins was imperative.

After another glance around, he walked farther along the path, then circled down, eventually entering the cleared patch at the rear of the cottage. The back door was unlocked.

It went against the grain, but there was nothing he could do other than leave a note. Tearing a leaf from the tablet he always carried, he wrote in block capitals, the better to disguise his hand.

His message was simple: come and see me to night.

He left the note open on the table, weighed down with a glass.

There was nothing anyone else could deduce from those words, but Jennings would know precisely what they meant.

Quietly leaving the cottage, Malcolm strode away.

He reached Finley House as the last of the light was fading from the sky. Using his latchkey, he entered and made his way through the silent, empty house to the library at the rear, the only room other than his bedchamber abovestairs that he used.

Slumping into the armchair before the hearth, he mentally shook his head, still trying to grapple with the tangle of events that had so unexpectedly trapped him in its coils. Glancing up at the clock on the mantelpiece, he saw the card he’d left propped against it—an invitation from Lady Conningham to dine with her family and other guests that evening.

The sight was a vivid reminder of all that had somehow, entirely unintentionally on his part, come to be put at risk by his scheme. Charlie, Sarah, and their life together, here in the peace of a gently rolling countryside.

He hadn’t appreciated how precious such a reality was, not until he’d seen it, then experienced it—in large part vicariously through Charlie’s and Sarah’s eyes. Until then he hadn’t known that lurking deep in his psyche was a longing for just that sort of life. He realized that now, knew how much on one level he envied Charlie, yet he in no way begrudged Charlie his good fortune. Perhaps because Charlie was so very like him, not just in looks but in mental ability, in their shared acuity, their liking for finance and the simple joys of making money.

Admittedly, Charlie walked unswervingly on the straight and narrow while he found excitement along murkier paths, yet that was a reflection of the influences and guidance each had received in his formative years, rather than any intrinsic difference. Charlie had had his family and the Cynsters; he had had…no one, unless one counted his late and unlamented guardian, Lowther, who’d been forced to put a pistol to his head rather than face the scandal of his involvement with the white slave trade.

In business Charlie might walk in the light while he spent half his time in the shadows, yet at base they were remarkably alike.

Malcolm’s lips twisted in self-deprecation. Lowering his gaze, he stared at the flames licking over the logs his house keeper had left burning in the grate. No matter how much he might fantasize, he knew he could never have what Charlie now had within his grasp. What truly irritated, however, what got under his skin and irked, was Charlie’s refusal to appreciate what was offered him, what life had laid on his plate, to grasp it and be suitably thankful.

Perhaps it was the five years between them, the maturity, and the encroaching loneliness of which day by day—every day he saw and appreciated what Charlie had—he became more sharply aware, the sense of opportunities missed, of a life with so little beyond money to show for it, so bleakly devoid of all personal human achievement, that made the chance Charlie had before him so obvious—and so fired Malcolm’s determination that Charlie should seize it.

He couldn’t have it, but Charlie could.

Vicarious living, indeed, yet that was all he had open to him. And with Charlie so like him…strangely, it mattered.

Which meant he had to tell Jennings to forget about the orphanage. His inability to contact his henchman and settle the matter stung—he hated any sense of not being in control—yet presumably Jennings would find his note and, as always, obey; he would come to the house late to night, sliding through the dark so no one would see him.

Malcolm glanced at Lady Conningham’s invitation. Unable to attend church due to his search for Jennings, he’d sent a note to Morwellan Park that morning; the lad he’d sent had returned with a few lines from Charlie assuring him Sarah’s injury was minor and that she was already back on her feet.

That being so she’d almost certainly be at her mother’s dinner, and he wanted—felt compelled—to see for himself, to reassure himself that she’d suffered no lasting ill from Jennings’s overenthusiasm. That impulse was strange to him, fueled by an emotion he didn’t understand; he knew he didn’t feel about Sarah as Charlie did, yet seeing her through Charlie’s eyes, he’d come to admire and respect her in a way he’d never done with any other female. But he didn’t just wish her well; he wanted her and Charlie to be happy.

He couldn’t have that life, but Charlie could—and if he had any say in the matter Charlie would.

Malcolm rose. Jennings wouldn’t arrive until midnight; there was no reason he couldn’t spend the evening at the manor, in excellent company, assuring himself that Sarah was well and, if the opportunity offered, steering Charlie, oh-so-subtly, to accept and embrace all his wife offered him, all that he could have.

Ironically amazed at finding himself championing such an act, he headed upstairs to change.

Charlie looked across the Conningham Manor dining table and counted his blessings. Sarah sat opposite, transparently recovered from her ordeal, with only the occasional twinge tweaking her lips when she stretched too far or inadvertently brushed her sore back against something.

He’d spent all day on emotional tenterhooks, wanting to wrap her in protective layers, yet he knew how irritating she would find that, and while she’d smiled at his careful questions, she’d made it clear she considered herself all but fully restored.

The light in her eyes, the soft, natural blush in her cheeks as she laughed at something Malcolm, seated beside her, had said, reassured and comforted him as no amount of words could.

Despite her interaction with Mr. Sinclair, Sarah was intensely aware of Charlie’s regard—of the focus that hadn’t shifted in the least, not since yesterday when he’d walked in to find her in the manor’s back parlor. His attention, his care, had been unwavering. That morning, he’d left her sleeping, allowing her maid to wake her only when it was time to dress for church. He’d guessed, correctly, that she hadn’t wanted to miss the ser vice, inevitably raising speculation as to why. But immediately they’d emerged from the church at the head of the congregation, he’d whisked her straight to their carriage and home, avoiding the usual ambling and chatting on the lawn.

She’d steeled herself for it, and had been quietly relieved not to have to exert herself mentally or physically. On reaching home, when she’d insisted she would be fit enough, he’d agreed to send a groom to her mother to confirm their intention to attend this dinner, but had countered by insisting she rest until then; bringing various reports and news sheets, he’d settled in the armchair in her sitting room and silently kept her company while she napped on the chaise.

They’d shared the light luncheon Crisp had brought in, then she’d napped some more until it had been time to bathe and dress for dinner.

Charlie had been openly solicitous during the journey in the carriage. On reaching the manor, she’d made a point of allaying her mother’s concern; the last thing she wanted at this point—when Charlie was at last growing easy with her—was for her mother and sisters to descend, with the best of intentions no doubt, but she wanted to cling to those moments alone, make them last for as long as she could. To give him as much time to practice as she could. They would be going to London soon to join Serena and Augusta at Morwellan House for the Season; that would be time enough to allow others into their joint life.

Until then she wanted to concentrate on fusing their lives, and it seemed he was one with her in that.

The knowledge made her glow. She was entirely conscious of how happy the change in him had made her, and if beneath it all she felt a trifle vulnerable, as if this were all too good to last, then that was her cross to bear—her challenge—and she had every intention of meeting it and keeping her lingering uncertainty to herself until it died.

While the dessert course was laid before them, she let her gaze travel around the table. She knew everyone and everyone knew her; it was a comfortable occasion.

Barnaby had been absent all day, combing nearby villages and hamlets for the elusive agent. He’d returned, disappointed but still determined, just in time to change and join them in the carriage. He was presently seated beside her mother, entertaining her with some London scandal; the absorbed expressions on all the nearby faces confirmed his reputation as a raconteur.

Mr. Sinclair was chatting with Mrs. Ravenswell; Sarah turned to Lord Finsbury on her other side—just as a distant pounding erupted.

Someone was hammering violently on the front door.

Sarah exchanged a startled glance with her father as the conversations around the table died; men’s raised voices, tones urgent, became more audible.

Then the door was thrust open; Johnson, the butler, swept in. One look at his face had all the men rising.

“My lord…” Johnson looked at her father, then at Charlie. “It’s the orphanage, my lord—it’s on fire!”

Ten chaotic minutes later, mounted on one of Lord Conningham’s hunters with Sarah beside him on a dappled mare, Charlie thundered north—toward the garish red glow that was lighting the night sky, crackling and smoking on the high ledge above Crowcombe, cast into sharp relief against the dark bulk of the Brendon Hills rising behind.

He glanced sharply at Sarah, noted her pale, set face. Barnaby was riding on her other side, with Malcolm beyond him. Various grooms and stable hands from the manor followed, as many as could find mounts; the gardeners, carting various implements, had set out in a dray via the road. All the other, older men at the dinner table had taken their carriages home as fast as they could to dispatch their house holds to assist.

Looking ahead, Charlie inwardly swore. From what he could make out through the haze of smoke enveloping the site, the back wings of the orphanage, at least two of them, were well alight. The main part of the house seemed unaffected as yet; squinting, he could make out its gray bulk against the glare from the flames rising behind.

He glanced again at Sarah. She’d insisted on riding with them; while he would have much preferred she traveled more safely with the dray, knowing how much faster the cross-country route was and how vital she would be in imposing order on what was sure to be pandemonium, he’d muzzled his protests and put his efforts into ensuring she was on a sound horse, one calm enough not to balk at the smell of smoke.

Looking ahead, he didn’t bother swearing, but saved his breath. He was going to need it.

They jumped the stream, then flowed up the slope. They had to halt on the other side of the fence; no horse would willingly jump it, facing the inferno twenty yards away. They all slid from their saddles, appalled at what they saw; tying his reins tightly to the fence rails, Charlie took Sarah’s—she was so stunned she was standing staring—and did the same for her, then he turned to her; grasping her shoulders, he drew her to face him.

He caught her eyes. “They need you.” She blinked, then drew in a breath and nodded, and looked again at the conflagration. Grasping her waist, he hoisted her over the fence, then vaulted it himself. The rest of the men followed.

It was difficult to know where to start. Charlie paused for a second, taking stock, then grabbed Sarah’s sleeve. “Gather the children—all of them—and get them back beyond the edge of the forecourt. Right back off the gravel.”

She nodded, blinked, and coughed as a cloud of smoke swirled around her. Catching up her cloak, she covered her nose and mouth and darted into the fray.

Gathering Barnaby and the other men with a glance, Charlie headed for the rear of the building.

He’d been right. Two of the wings were wreathed in flames. The third, northernmost wing had a charred, smoldering blackened patch at one end of the thatched roof; the patch glowed and darkened as it spread, but the thatch hadn’t caught fully alight.

Men were trying to heave water onto the thatch, but the roof was too high. All they could do was douse the walls and pray. Others were fighting to keep the flames roaring through the two burning wings from attacking the main house. With its stone walls and slate roof, it had yet to be affected.

The smoke was intensifying. Charlie made his way past men from Crowcombe village who’d been the first to arrive to help. Armed with charred blankets and sacks, many were trying to beat the flames into submission while others rushed back and forth with buckets and pails, throwing water as high as they could.

Chaos and confusion reigned, along with a certain raw-edged panic. The men from the manor found sacks and pails and ran to help. Charlie stopped long enough to direct the men to concentrate on the sections where the wings met the main house. “The rest of these two wings are gone—we can’t save them.” He stopped to cough, then pointed toward the main building. “The best we can hope for is to save the main house.” He went along the southerly wing, pulling men away, shouting and pointing until they understood.