Chapter Six
Beaufort had again found himself watching Amgen House.
Earlier, he had spent time with Julia, but he had not departed the small house he had presented the woman as his mistress satisfied with the outcome of their joining.
Whether he would admit it or not, he had only been able to release his pent-up desire when he imagined a fetching redhead beneath him, instead of Julia’s familiar form.
With Honfleur’s absence, traffic along the street had slackened greatly, especially with both Parliament and the Season winding down.
The others had been pulled away to trace after many of the key players in not only the banknote fraud, but a variety of other acts of sedition.
Only one man was required, and, tonight, it would be his occupation.
“The girl walked about the house today,” Kepper told him.
“I have not seen any of the servants for three days now. The cook has come twice in the last week, assuredly not daily. I am not confident the young lady is eating. If I thought she would answer the door, I would deliver her some food. How can any human treat another thusly?” The new man’s small tirade spoke of Kepper’s true self, and the man earned a bit more of Navan’s respect.
“We could probably leave her a basket on a regular basis,” Navan suggested.
“That would be an excellent idea. I considered something similar, dressing as a servant and telling her the cook sent over the food,” the man said. “Would Lord Duncan object?”
“I will clear the idea with Duncan. Lionel Carter could do an admirable job,” Navan suggested.
“Thank you, my lord,” Kepper said. “I know it is not…”
“It speaks to your compassion that you show humanity, Kepper. There is no reason to apologize.”
The man nodded his acceptance of Navan’s words and departed.
Meanwhile, Navan adjusted the lens on the looking glass so he might watch Miss Moreau in private.
He checked each window until he found her in the drying room.
“Do not tell me Miss Moreau is sleeping there. Her choice or was it required of her?” he asked with a frown.
Soon, the light in the drying attic disappeared, and Navan sat back in the chair and relaxed, assuming the girl had claimed her bed.
“Another long night,” he said as he stood and stretched.
He wondered if he had time to heat some water and take a bowl bath.
Customarily, he bathed at Julia’s house, but this evening he wanted nothing more than to escape his mistress’s cloying mannerisms.
Making his way to the kitchen, he filled a bucket at the water pump and claimed part of it to make coffee and placed the rest in a large kettle to hang on a hook over the fire and returned to the cupboard to search out the grinder to prepare the coffee beans.
Once that was completed he poured the hot water over the grounds and let it steam over the fire.
Stripping off his jacket, cravat, and shirt, he poured two large bowls of hot water, claimed a cloth and a crude bar of soap and worked them together in order to wash away not only his sweat, but his exhaustion.
“I should permit Kepper and the others to watch the house. It has been a week since I appeared in Parliament, not that anyone there would miss an Irish lord,” he grumbled as he rinsed the cloth and then dried his chest and arms. “Better,” he declared as he washed his face.
Next, he dropped his breeches and small clothes to his knees and washed his member and his buttocks.
He paused when his manhood came to life, but he purposely ignored the opportunity to release himself again.
With a heavy sigh, he dressed as best he could, even tying a simple knot in his cravat before he poured himself a cup of coffee.
It was too hot and nearly burnt his tongue, but the distinct bitter flavor and aroma, along with the makeshift bath had renewed his energy.
Knowing assurance that everything was put away properly, he grabbed a small loaf of bread from the table and the coffee and climbed the stairs again.
He sat heavily in the chair and leaned back to close his eyes.
Sleep tempted him, but he shook off the idea.
Instead, he swallowed another large gulp of the coffee.
Then he smelled it: smoke. A fire in a town of London’s size could be disastrous. History had once seen half of London on fire in 1666.
Thinking he had not properly banked the ashes in the hearth, Navan rushed to the kitchen, expecting to find a fire crawling across the floor, but discovering nothing out of the ordinary had him momentarily frozen in place.
Then it struck him.
“Her house!” he cried as he jerked open the back door to circle the house he occupied to view smoke pouring from the back of Amgen House.
“Dear God!” he gasped and rushed across the empty street, all the time wondering if Miss Moreau was dead or alive.
Audrey had left the weapons’ room and using the single candle she had allotted herself made her way down the servant stairs to the kitchen.
She already knew what was in the basket on the table: a chicken broth, two small loaves of bread, a chicken stew, which appeared to be leftovers from the cook’s own meal, and a small wedge of cheese, which she had eaten earlier.
“Must be either the stew or the broth,” she acknowledged as she shot a glance to the cold embers in the hearth.
It had been put out by Cook when she departed the house on the day Audrey’s uncle set out for France.
“Never made a fire,” she murmured as she studied her options.
Even sitting on the table, there was a layer of fat on both the chicken dishes, which made Audrey want to gag.
Earlier, she had attempted to remove it, but it had cracked and was too slippery for her to skim it off the vegetables and chicken and eat the dish cold.
“I could simply eat the bread,” she murmured, but earlier she had thought she should save the bread in case the cook did not bring her more meals.
“There is nothing I can do if she has abandoned her duties. Even if I had enough courage to leave, which I do not, I possess no money of my own to purchase anything, even if I knew where to look.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I must learn how to light a fire or starve before my uncle returns for me.” She looked around the kitchen.
“Paper rolls to light the fire.” She searched the cabinets but found none.
“Uncle’s study, but I have been ordered not to enter it.
” Finally, she recalled there was some paper where they had unpacked the weapons.
Leaving the kitchen, she climbed the stairs to claim the paper and, upon her return, she smartly remembered the stored matches used to light the wall sconces.
So far, she had been changing out the candle of only one of the sconces, the one at the top of the stairs, to conserve the candles left in the house.
The streetlight and the moon provided her enough light to work her way through the house during the evening hours and the nights.
Luckily, the daylight stayed longer this time of year than it would in winter.
Feeling quite intelligent for having solved her own problem, Audrey returned to the kitchen.
“All I must do is light the paper roll, which I can do from the candle. Then, I must simply place the paper in the cold embers, and they will catch again.” She added two extra paper rolls and set her lighted roll on top of the others.
Feeling quite confident she would soon have a proper fire, she retrieved a knife from a tray and began to slice the bread while she hummed a tune similar to the one in which she danced with Lord Marksman.
She hummed and swayed to the tune, reliving her one moment of the children’s tale all young girls preferred—the one of the handsome prince.
She was still humming when she realized there was something very warm behind her.
Audrey turned to find a fire, not in the hearth, but on the small rug before it.
The room was filling with black smoke. She caught the hem of her gown to hold over her mouth and nose and rushed to open a nearby window and then the door.
She knew she should simply leave and seek assistance, but her uncle said she could not leave for any reason.
Instead, she caught up the first of three pitchers on the worktable and tossed the contents of the first one on the fire, but it must have had some beer in it for it simply sputtered and then burned brighter.
Beaufort called her name as he rounded the corner of the house to find black smoke pouring from the open back door. “Miss Moreau!”
“Here!” she responded, but he still could not see her until he ducked beneath the plume of smoke to discover her in the kitchen, attempting to beat out a fire on the floor before the hearth with a straw broom which was also on fire.
“Give it to me!” he ordered. She held it tightly, but he managed to jerk it from her grasp.
“Stand back!” He caught what was left of the cloth rug and wrapped it about what was left of the broom and tossed both out the door to land against the small brick wall where a vegetable garden should have been planted.
“Water!” he ordered. “Throw it on the hearth!”
She appeared bewildered, but she responded by pouring the contents of first one pitcher and then another onto the hearth and floor, while he caught a second rug to beat out the fire in front of the hearth before he did the same with what remained of the first rug in the yard.
After several hectic minutes, they both stood huffing and puffing and searching for the least spark to reignite.
“Are you well?” he asked cautiously from the still open doorway.
She looked up at him, her bottom lip trembling, but she did not burst into tears, as would have most women.
“I did not know what to do. I kept thinking about Lord Amgen.”