River Of Fire (49 page)

For Kenneth, the two days following Rebecca's discovery of his deceit passed with hellacious slowness. As he had promised, he did his best to stay out of her way. She barely looked at him. His own misery was increased by the terrible ache he sensed inside of her, but he could do nothing to ease it. So he kept busy. The drawings for the engraving series benefited.

The one positive event had been Lord Bowden's reaction to the news of the missing band of the gimmal ring. He'd understood the implications immediately. Of course, he was still convinced that Sir Anthony was the killer, but at least he was satisfied that some progress had been made.

Kenneth spent the second evening sketching in his studio, which had the advantage of sparing him the sounds of Rebecca preparing for bed when she retired. Perhaps he should sleep on the narrow bed in the studio. The night before, the knowledge that she lay only a few feet away had made rest impossible.

It was well past midnight by the time he was ready to retire. The rest of the house was silent. He set aside his sketchbook and went to the window. It had rained earlier, but now a waxing moon was shining through fitful clouds. Perhaps he should do a painting of a night skirmish, with moonlight sliding coldly along rifle barrels and the edges of slashing sabers. It could be eerily effective.

Seaton House stood on a corner, and his attic view let him see a man walking along the side street just outside the garden wall. Kenneth's gaze sharpened when the man halted. There was something oddly purposeful about the action.

Then the man made a swift, hurling movement. A spark of light flashed through the air toward the house, ending in the sound of shattering glass somewhere below Kenneth. A few seconds later, an explosion rocked the building.

"Jesus Christ!" Kenneth bolted from his studio.

As he ran down the narrow hall, he pounded on the servants' doors. Then he raced down the steps three at a time. He reached the floor below as Rebecca and Sir Anthony were emerging from the bedrooms in their nightclothes. With Sir Anthony was Lavinia, obviously spending the night with her lover.

"My God, what has happened?" Sir Anthony gasped.

"There's a fire!" Kenneth called over his shoulder as he headed for the next flight of steps. "In your studio, I think. Make sure the servants are awake—we may have to evacuate the house."

Lavinia headed for the attic while Rebecca and her father followed him down the stairs. Both were only a few steps behind when Kenneth threw open the door to the elegant studio.

Choking smoke billowed from the room. A great fire snarled and hissed, already nearly out of control, and smaller blazes were beginning to take hold in the carpets and furnishings. Kenneth swore as a jug of linseed oil exploded, hurling more burning fragments around the room. A houseful of priceless artwork was on the verge of utter destruction.

"Oh, God, my paintings!" Sir Anthony cried with anguish. He darted toward the portrait of the twin countesses and their husbands, which stood on an easel below some burning draperies.

The draperies began to collapse with unholy majesty. Rebecca screamed, "Fatther!"

Kenneth yanked Sir Anthony to safety an instant before the blazing fabric dropped onto the painting. "For God's sake, take pictures that are farther from the fire!" He seized a small carpet and began beating savagely at the leaping flames.

Sir Anthony seized two paintings from the wall and carried them from the room. A moment later he returned for more, Rebecca at his side. Kenneth would have laughed if he could have spared the breath. Leave it to artists to ignore danger to save art.

The two young footmen thundered in, carrying pitchers of water collected from various nightstands. Kenneth yanked off his cravat and soaked it before tying it around his mouth. Then he and the footmen splashed the pitchers onto the largest blaze.

Smoke billowed up in eye-stinging clouds, but the fire was cut in half. Kenneth retrieved his carpet and attacked the remaining flames and managed to beat them out.

But fires still blazed around the room. The dancing flames illuminated the studio and the adjoining salon with a hellish orange and yellow light. From the corner of Kenneth's eye, he saw Rebecca and her father carrying
Horatius at the Bridge
from the salon. Only a few small tongues of flame had crept into that room, so Kenneth beat them out, then closed the double doors.

The butler, Minton, appeared with a long hooked pole usually used for opening upper windows. He used the pole to smash several glass panes, then began hooking smoldering furnishings and tossing them out into the rain-soaked garden.

Several female servants appeared with pails of water lugged up from the kitchen. Kenneth ordered, "Pass the buckets to me."

He drew as close to the blistering heat as he dared, then hurled water over the largest remaining blaze. Without looking, he handed back the bucket and took another as it was put into his hands, lift. Throw. Lift. Throw. Again.
Again
.

They were winning. When there was water, he threw it, choosing targets carefully. When there was none, he fought with his scorched carpet. The taste of charcoal filled his mouth, and he was half blind from smoke and tears. But one after another, the fires were being drowned or pounded into oblivion.

After an interminable hell of smoke and flame, the last flame was finally gone. Kenneth lurched into the corridor and folded onto the floor, gulping the cool air into his lungs.

Almost unrecognizable in his blackened nightclothes, Sir Anthony gasped, "We did it. Or rather, mostly you did it."

Kenneth coughed, his throat painfully raw from smoke. "More water should be put on anything still smoldering."

Lavinia quietly gave orders for more water to be brought up, though at a less furious pace. Rebecca knelt beside Kenneth, a basin of water in her hands. Her delicately embroidered nightdress was smudged with soot and her bare feet were black. "Are you burned, Captain? Your hands don't look good."

He glanced down and saw soot, red skin, and blisters. The sight made him aware that his hands hurt like the devil. Wincing, he flexed his fingers. "I think the damage is minor."

She lifted a wet doth and sponged his right hand. Then she spread a salve over the blistered area, never lifting her eyes.

Her loose muslin gown fell away from her body, revealing the curve of her breasts. The skin was creamy white compared to the sooty haze where she had been exposed to the smoke. His reaction to the sight was clear proof that he was not seriously injured.

He looked away. She finished his right hand and began treating the left with the same cool, impersonal competence.

Sir Anthony returned from a survey of the studio. "The furnishings are completely ruined and five paintings were incinerated. Trivial compared to what might have been. But how did it happen? No candles or fires were left burning. Surely the linseed oil didn't explode spontaneously."

"It was arson," Kenneth replied grimly. "I happened to be in my studio looking out the window when a man threw some kind of incendiary device at the house. At a guess, he filled a bottle with black powder, plugged it with wax, and devised some sort of fuse that would burn for a few seconds before setting off the gunpowder. It wouldn't have been difficult."

"But
why
?" Sir Anthony said with bewilderment.

"Who knows? An art critic. A jealous rival. An angry husband. A Bonapartist who doesn't like your Waterloo pictures." Kenneth got wearily to his feet. "I recommend hiring a couple of guards to patrol around the house all night for the indefinite future."

"An excellent idea," Lavinia said. "But for tonight, I suggest brandy all around. Then back to bed."

Kenneth's gaze scanned the servants who were standing in the hall, their faces revealing the same blend of fatigue and triumph that he felt. "Without the efforts of everyone here, Seaton House would have burned, and possibly half the block with it. In recognition, you will all receive bonuses."

Sir Anthony gave a nod of approval as a small buzz of pleasure went through the bedraggled staff. Then he went off with Lavinia's arm around his waist. Kenneth watched as Rebecca followed, her gaze still avoiding him.

He dismissed all the servants except the footmen and the butler. Together they policed the studio to make sure there was nothing to ignite new fire. Then he told the servants that they could go to bed while he kept watch until morning.

Minton said, "I shall take that duty, my lord. Your efforts were greater than everyone else combined. You are reeling with exhaustion."

When Kenneth tried to protest, the butler said firmly, "Go."

He smiled crookedly. "In the army, that would be insubordination."

"This is not the army, my lord, and the most you can do is discharge me."

"Small chance of that." Kenneth rested his hand on the butler's shoulder for a moment. "Thank you."

Then he went tiredly up to his bedroom. He opened the door, and found Rebecca waiting for him. To his regret, she had donned a heavy robe that thoroughly disguised her figure.

Her cool expression made it clear there was nothing romantic about the visit. She got to her feet and gave him a filled glass. "I thought you could use some brandy."

"You thought rightly." He took a deep swallow. The brandy first scorched, then numbed his raw throat. His water pitcher had been returned full, so he washed the soot from his face and hands before turning to his visitor. "Events have moved from the realm of vague possibilities to undeniable violence."

She bit her lip. "Then you think there is a connection to my mother's death."

"Perhaps not, but it's more likely than the possibility that your family has two deadly enemies." He piled his pillows against the headboard of his bed and sprawled heedlessly across the counterpane, muscles and throat aching. "So far, there have been three incidents: your mother's overdose of laudanum, her fatal fall, and tonight's incendiary device. Each had been more dramatic and deadly than the one before."

Her eyes darkened. "Anyone who risked killing a dozen innocent people over a private feud is utterly vicious. You said an enemy of my family, but my father must be the target. No one knows me well enough to want to do murder." Her mouth twisted. "Except you, perhaps."

He said soberly, "Believe me, Rebecca, I have never had any desire to harm you."

She glanced away. "Perhaps we should tell Father your theory that the fire is part of a larger pattern."

He thought, then shook his head. "There's no real advantage. After tonight, it should be easy to persuade him to be careful even if he doesn't know my suspicions."

"Very well." She got to her feet. "Good night, Captain."

He had an almost unbearable desire to take her into his arms and draw her down to the bed. Not to make love, but to be able to hold her. To be in harmony again.

No chance of that. With a sigh, he set his empty glass on the nightstand. "Do my efforts tonight do anything to allay your resentment of my past actions?"

She paused by the door. "I never doubted your courage, Captain. Only your honesty." Then she was gone.

Her unhappiness was so intense that he wondered if she was suffering from something more than anger toward him. Perhaps his duplicity had triggered some deeper source of pain. Her first youthful love had proved disastrous, and her father, though much loved, was not exactly a model of parental care and steadiness. It must be easier for her to believe that men were unreliable than that they could be trusted.

If that was true, he might never be able to win her forgiveness, for he was far from a paragon himself. It was a profoundly disturbing thought.

Kenneth forcibly turned his attention to the arsonist. What had the man looked like? In the darkness, he'd seen nothing distinctive. Medium build, perhaps a bit above average height.

He was on the verge of going to bed when a soft knock sounded on the door. "Come in," he said tiredly.

Lavinia entered. He started to get to his feet, but she waved him back to the bed.

"Sorry to disturb you," she said, "but since you and Rebecca are still feuding, I thought you wouldn't mind."

"You notice too much," he said wryly.

"Someone around here needs to be normal."

"Won't Sir Anthony wonder where you've gone?"

"He's fast asleep." She closed the door behind her, then asked bluntly, "Is Anthony in danger?"

"I think he might be."

She perched on the edge of his only chair. "What can I do?"

Realizing that Lavinia, with her perception and wide circle of acquaintances, might be helpful, Kenneth asked, "Can you think of any enemies who might want to physically harm Sir Anthony?"

She shivered and pulled her robe more tightly around her ample curves. She looked her true age, her stark expression very unlike her usual flamboyant manner. "A man as successful as Anthony is bound to be resented, but I can't think of anyone who would want to burn him alive, along with his whole household."

Kenneth said quietly, "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

"Since the day we met," she said simply. "I was seventeen when I first modeled for him. I was tempted to try to seduce him, but I didn't want to be merely another passing affair. I thought that friendship would last longer, and it has." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Helen said once that if anything happened to her, I should take care of Anthony. She didn't want him to fall into the hands of some dreadful harpy who was interested only in his fame and wealth."