Chapter Twenty-Three
Frederick
The Tea Room was a disaster. Even as high as it was, the cream coffered ceiling was coated with soot.
Two-thirds of the hardwood floor planks were either warped from the heat or eaten right through from the flames.
Perhaps a few chairs and settees along the far wall could be salvaged, but the rest were charred, torn, and reeked of smoke.
In a stroke of luck, the antique mahogany bar remained unblemished, along with the many bottles of liquor racked behind it.
“This is only the second time I’ve seen this.
Nasty business,” the marshal of the London Fire Brigade said, shaking his head.
“And shortsighted. No matter how much someone might not like this establishment, if you and the other boys hadn’t stopped this fire, it could have set off the whole block.
Damn, the whole neighborhood for that matter. ”
Frederick thought trying to burn The Minerva Club was bad enough. And anyone rash enough to commit this act wasn’t sound enough of mind to consider all the possible consequences.
The Runner toed at a bit of clay by his boot.
“What exactly was it? These two clay jugs came flying through the window, and the next thing I knew, flames were everywhere.” Including burning Miss Lynton’s gown.
His stomach curdled. He’d never forget how he’d felt when he’d seen her on the floor, a red-gold flame licking up her skirts. He never wanted to feel such again.
Frederick was never one to avoid the truth.
He had feelings for Miss Lynton. He could no longer deny it.
He’d almost kissed her in the park, in broad daylight.
It had only been the appearance of a young family strolling along the path near them that had brought him to his senses.
The thought of what could have happened to her if she’d been closer to the window when it shattered, or closer to the jug that had started the fire… .
“We call them burn bottles.” The marshal rubbed his pinkened cheek.
Frederick didn’t know if it was the result of catching the tail end of their fire and getting too near, or if his face had just gotten too much sun earlier in the day.
“Mix alcohol with a bit of tar, stop up the bottle with a bit of cloth to use as a fuse, set it alight and throw it at yer target. When the bottle breaks, the alcohol spreads and sets everything near alight. Nasty business,” he repeated.
It was nasty. Frederick ground his jaw. Was it targeted at Lady Mary’s club because of the moral outrage those two pieces in the paper had raised, or did it have anything to do with Lady Richford’s death?
He rubbed his forehead. At the moment, he didn’t care.
He wanted to throttle the individual responsible, regardless of motive.
He looked at the shattered remains of the clay jugs again.
Or two someones. The jugs had flown through the window at almost the same moment.
It would have been difficult for one man to throw two of them, unless he was very talented with both of his hands.
“You’ll send your report to me?” he asked the marshal.
The man grunted. “As soon as you come by and sign your witness statement, you can pick it up.”
Frederick nodded, not wanting to get into a pissing duel with the insurance company that ran the fire brigade.
He made sure that Timothy and Bobby knew to board up the windows before closing up the club, then stumbled out.
All his muscles ached, his lungs burned.
He was sore and irritated and out of patience.
The knot around his chest loosened when he caught sight of Miss Lynton standing with her arm entwined with Lady Mary’s.
A few stragglers lingered, but most of the crowd had wandered off in various degrees of relief that their neighboring homes and businesses were safe and disappointment that a more exciting outcome had been averted.
He crossed the street to the women. “How are you?” he asked Miss Lynton. “Do you need a surgeon?”
She shook her head. Did he imagine the relief that crossed her face when she’d seen him? “Aside from needing a new gown, I’m fine.”
Something about her tone alerted him. Her voice was too light. Too airy.
He gripped her waist, walked her two steps back and hefted her onto the waist-high stone wall that fronted the office building across from the club.
“Put me down.” She slapped at his hands, but he ignored her.
He squatted and raised the charred edge of her skirts. Her protests ended in a shocked gasp.
The gas street lamp nearby wasn’t bright, but it illuminated enough. He traced around the edges of the burn on her calf. “There is a slight reddening of the skin, but there will be no lasting harm.”
She flicked her skirts back down to cover her legs, glaring. “As I said, I need no doctor. It does sting like the devil, however.”
“I’d recommend whiskey for that kind of hurt.” Lady Mary pulled her lace shawl closer about her shoulders. “Brandy and sherry are too civilized for burnt flesh.”
His stomach hardened. Miss Lynton needed a safe home to retreat to, someone to provide her care. Instead, she had a mother who needed her own care, a home that was more danger than refuge. Muscles tense, he turned to Lady Mary. “I will see her home. Can I drop you along the way?”
Lady Mary blew out a breath. “I’ll send for my carriage after I assess the damage. How far did it spread?”
“The fire was contained in the Tea Room, although the paper lining the walls in the hall next to that room might smell of smoke for a while.” He lifted Miss Lynton down.
It had been warm enough earlier in the evening for him to leave his greatcoat at home.
And his jacket was burned to ashes. He had nothing to offer Miss Lynton to warm her.
A hackney rolled a block up at the cross street. Frederick brought his fingers to his mouth and loosed a piercing whistle. The jarvey looked their way, and Frederick held up his hand. “Let’s get you home,” he told Miss Lynton, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
She must have been more shaken than she let on for she didn’t utter a protest. Saying their farewells to Lady Mary, they walked down the street to the waiting hackney. Once he’d handed Miss Lynton in, he gave the driver his direction.
She started to poke her head back out. “That’s not my home.”
He climbed the steps, forcing her back inside. He shut the door tightly before sitting back on his bench. “No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”
She was silent a moment. Then, “Why?”
The hell he knew. But he had to come up with some reason.
“I want to take a better look at your burn.” That at least was the truth, but he could have examined her in her own parlor.
She seemed to have decent servants, loyal, at least he’d found after his few conversations with them.
He wouldn’t be leaving her untended there.
But not only did he want to go home, he wanted her in his home, as well.
“Mr. Rollins—”
“Frederick,” he growled. They were past formalities.
“When we’re in private, you’ll call me Frederick, Eleanor.
” He rolled her name over his tongue, like it had substance, like he could taste it.
“I don’t want you at your house. Not now.
You need to be somewhere safe, where you can recover without further threat. ”
She looked down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “She wouldn’t hurt me, not truly. She isn’t thinking clearly at times.”
Whether it was from a disturbed mind or malice made little difference to him. The end result was the same. Eleanor needed relief from her mother. He had yet to determine how best that relief should be obtained.
“Nevertheless, I want to examine your burns somewhere quiet.” Somewhere they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He sank back on the seat, suddenly exhausted.
When the hackney pulled to a stop in front of his lodging house, he was almost too tired to climb down.
It was only Eleanor’s nervous glances, the twisting of her fingers, that had him moving.
He didn’t want her feeling unsure, not when he’d never been more sure of anything in his life.
He’d known it the moment she’d screamed in terror. Known he’d do anything to prevent her fear in the future.
This woman was his. It didn’t matter that he didn’t deserve her. That she had her pick of dozens of men better than him in both understanding and status. She was his. He was hers. There was no going back.
He led her up to the first floor, to his rented rooms on the right of the staircase. Settled her on one of his two chairs in his small parlor. Kindled the coal on the fire, more for comfort than for heat. Then dug out a small box he kept in a chest at the foot of his bed.
“Lift up your skirts,” he told her when he returned. He knelt in front of her, wishing he had a rug instead of just the hard wood beneath his knees.
Eyes wide, she inched up the burnt cotton. The top edge of her boot came into view, then the cuff of her stocking, the skin of her calf. It would have been sensuous if the skin she exposed hadn’t been swollen and reddened.
He swallowed. It could have been so much worse. He knew how precarious life could be; he saw it every day in his job. But this had rattled him.
He pulled a bandage from his box, a container of salve.
As he tended to her burn, he wanted to demand she leave off investigating Lady Richford’s murder.
That she stay locked away at home until he discovered the culprit, but remaining at home wasn’t safe for her, either.
He examined his options, and liked none of them.
Short of kidnapping Eleanor and keeping her in his rooms… .
His hands paused.
No, he couldn’t do that, no matter how appealing. He finished the knot on the bandage, letting his fingers linger a moment longer on her soft skin before rolling back onto his heels. “All done. You will survive.”