Chapter 23
Finn O’Leary leaned against the street corner on the opposite side of Portman Square. A smug smile curled his lips. His plan had gone better than he could have hoped. The bottles he’d tossed through the downstairs windows had practically exploded on impact.
Flames had already devoured the curtains before he’d finished throwing the final bottle. A blaze soon filled what he presumed to be the parlor, and then the front door had opened. Several servants rushed out onto the pavement, their horrified expressions filling Finn’s heart with endless joy.
This was Croft’s destruction.
Whether or not the man himself remained within, valiantly trying to save those loyal to him, made no difference. If he survived, Finn would finish him off later.
For now, he’d merely savor wrecking his life, for he would surely lose a great deal over this, regardless.
And Finn would move on. With a new location, a new crew, and the means by which to crush whatever remained of the Crofts after tonight.
* * *
Peter Kendrick was just preparing to leave the Bow Street offices for the evening together with Gabriella, when Lewis arrived, red-faced and panting.
“Fire.” The word, a breathless wheeze, made Peter straighten. “There’s…a fire. Portman Square. Croft…House.”
Peter shared a quick look with Gabriella, whose eyes had gone wide.
Her complexion paled, and then she breathed, “The baby.”
A sick sensation settled in Peter’s stomach. “Let’s go.”
He picked up his hat and exited the room, confident Gabriella and Lewis would follow.
By the time their carriage approached Portman Square, the night was no longer as dark as it had been on Bow Street.
An eerie glow illuminated the sky above all the nearby rooftops.
Traffic blocked every street leading into the square.
As soon as the carriage drew to a halt, Peter opened the door and leapt down. He helped Gabriella alight, told Lewis to pay the driver, and started striding toward whatever horror awaited around the next corner.
It was worse than any nightmare he could have envisioned.
“Dear merciful mother of God,” Gabriella whispered. Her hand tightened around Peter’s arm as he led her onward, to where a crowd of onlookers had gathered.
Flames stretched their way through the broken windows and up the exterior walls. They licked at the roofline while thick plumes of black smoke billowed around the entire building.
Chest tight, he told Gabriella, “Stay here.”
He wanted her at a safe distance and was glad when she didn’t protest.
The sound of shattering split the air. Then came a chilling groan that Peter recognized as the wood flooring collapsing from somewhere within the inferno.
“When did this start?” he asked of a man who stood nearest the building and looked like a servant.
A blank expression met Peter. The man’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Shock. Unsurprising under the circumstances.
Peter glanced around, searching for someone else he could ask.
Until…
Thank Christ.
He recognized that man as one of Croft’s footmen.
And in his arms, face averted, was an infant.
Peter strode through the throng of people that stood between him and the man, his hope for a positive outcome to what could have been a terrible tragedy, rising with each step he took.
“When did this start?” he asked of the footman, repeating the question he’d posed before.
“Maybe half an hour ago?”
And yet the house was already engulfed. “Have the insurance companies been notified?”
Even a footman ought to know which one the Crofts used, in case of emergency. The Sun, Hand-in-Hand, or The Globe, would each have their own brigade. It was therefore vital they be alerted so they could dispatch it before there was nothing left but ash.
The footman stared at him, his stricken expression a testament to the disaster unfolding before them. Instead of answering Peter’s question, the man returned his attention to the burning house. “She’s still in there. It should have been me, but… She handed me her child.”
Peter looked to the infant the footman held. “What about Mr. Croft? Where is he?”
A shake of the footman’s head informed him he’d no idea. Peter placed his hand on the man’s upper arm to convey solidarity. “Stay here so I know where to find you. I’m going to see if I can gather more information.”
He strode off, stepping between other bystanders while moving closer to the fire.
The only upside at the moment was that Croft House was one of the only two detached homes in the square, the other being Montagu House.
This would lessen the chance of the fire spreading to other homes since there were at least two yards between it and the neighboring buildings on either side.
Peter reached the front of the crowd and spotted the butler, who stood with his arm around a weeping woman.
A hopeless expression slackened his features, which appeared to be slightly blackened by soot.
His clothes looked charred, the left upper sleeve of his jacket burned through to reveal the shirt underneath.
“Who’s the insurance company?” Peter asked as soon as he reached him.
The butler blinked. “Chief Constable Kendrick. Thank God.” He eased the woman away from his person and pressed a handkerchief into her hand.
“The insurance company,” Peter pressed.
“Um…The Globe. I sent one of the hall boys to their offices as soon as I saw that the parlor was burning. This must have been at least half an hour ago, though I confess I’ve lost track of time.
” His face rumpled with emotion. “I doubt there’ll be much left for the brigade to save by the time they arrive. ”
“I understand Mrs. Croft is still inside,” Peter said.
Pain stretched across the older man’s face. He nodded. “I tried to go back in after her when Emma here told me she’d handed Baby Alexandra to Stewart. But by then the flames were filling the foyer and blocking the stairs. The smoke was so bad I couldn’t breathe.”
“You did well to retreat,” Peter told him, unsure if the words would comfort the man or not.
Heading into that building for any reason would have killed a young man in his prime. The butler, who appeared to be well over sixty, wouldn’t have stood a chance.
As expected, he shook his head. “I should have—”
“Adrian. Wait!”
The shouted warning snapped at Peter’s attention. He turned in the direction from which it had come, seeking the man whose booming voice had penetrated the air.
There. The commotion breaking out several yards away put Peter in motion once more.
He left the butler and pushed his way through the ever-increasing crowd of onlookers.
One would think most people would be in bed at this hour.
Many had been, he realized, noting the robes and nightcaps worn by some of those who were more focused on the possible danger afoot than by how they appeared.
He stepped between a couple of men who were likely servants from neighboring houses, judging from their appearances: well-dressed, albeit in understated outfits.
Beyond them, several people were shouting now, pushing and shoving at Mr. Croft who was clearly hell-bent on getting past them, while being pulled back by a man who was equally set on restraining him.
Marsdale.
Peter recognized him by his build and brownish blond hair, which was highlighted in the bright glow from the fire, even as another disturbance distracted him briefly.
Two horse-drawn fire wagons had managed to enter the square, no doubt thanks to Lewis directing the vehicles blocking the streets, forcing them to turn back.
He made a mental note to commend the Runner’s efforts later, then stepped directly in front of Croft.
A mixture of rage and terror filled his vision, making Peter wonder if he would be able to find the words required to dissuade the man from rushing toward what would surely be his demise at this point.
“Unhand me,” Croft seethed when Peter grabbed him by his shoulders. “Both of you.”
“Not. Happening.” Marsdale sounded equally angry. “You’ll die if you go in there.”
“I just need to know Samantha and Alexandra are safe.” He attempted to wrestle himself out of Peter’s and Marsdale’s grasps.
Together, however, they were stronger than he and were able to keep him firmly in place.
“Everyone in that house is my responsibility. I have to know if they managed to get out of there. If…if…”
“I’ve spoken to Elks,” Peter said, hoping some positive news would appease Croft a little. “He and Emma are both out of the building. So is Stewart. He has your daughter and is keeping her safe.”
A brief hint of relief loosened some of the tension in Croft’s face. But then he looked directly into Peter’s eyes and said, “You haven’t mentioned Samantha. Where is she, Kendrick?”
Peter swallowed, stalling, he realized, since what he said next would make the ground vanish beneath Croft’s feet. “According to Stewart, she ordered him to protect Alexandra while she went to check the servants’ quarters for—”
“Are you saying she’s in there?” Croft’s eyes glistened with raw emotion, his face a mask of indescribable anguish as he looked toward the blazing building.
“As far as I know,” Peter confirmed, his words flooding Marsdale’s expression with a degree of helplessness that he himself felt to the core of his very existence.
“Then you must let me go,” Adrian murmured, his voice no longer angry but rather pleading in a way that ripped Peter’s heart wide open. “I beg you, Kendrick. Let me do whatever I can to save her. Or die trying.”
“If you go in there, you surely will perish,” Marsdale muttered, his hold on Croft slacker than earlier — more comforting now than anything else.
“Then so be it,” Croft said. “To suppose I could go on without her is absurd. I need her, Edward. I’m nothing without Samantha.”
“You’re a father,” Peter said, deliberately reminding Croft that there was much more at stake than the possibility of him becoming a widower tonight. “Alexandra is safe. One of your servants has her, but she’s going to need you. Don’t put her at risk of losing both parents.”
Hopelessness filled Croft’s gaze. “If I’d only returned home sooner, then…”
He shook his head, the tension from earlier seeping out of his body, giving way to something far worse. Acceptance.
“Your wife is a capable woman,” Marsdale said, releasing his hold on Croft completely.
Peter agreed. “If anyone can help those who might still be trapped in there and survive, it is she.”
“I don’t see h—” Croft’s comment hung unfinished in the night air, his attention suddenly fixed on something that made him go rigid. “Look there. On the roof.”
Peter turned and looked up, following Croft’s line of vision until he glimpsed movement.
He took a sharp breath.
Someone was on the roof. A man. And now a woman too.
A glimmer of hope erupted inside him.
He prepared to tell Croft to check on his child while Peter entered the neighboring house. Only Croft was no longer at his side, and neither was Marsdale.
* * *
The gentleman stared at the raging flames devouring the prominent Portman Square home.
Plumes of smoke blocked the night sky, which was lit by an orange glow.
An eerie stillness had long since settled over the crowd of onlookers, as though the devastation unfolding before them had caught them all in a trance.
The only thing the gentleman knew was the simmering anger burning its way through his veins. Whatever the reason behind this disaster, it did not align with his plans. All it would lead to was another distraction from the crucial issues he wanted Croft to deal with.
As it was, his wife and child had already stopped him from looking into the men behind Lady Edwina’s disappearance. According to Miss Hastings, her husband had gotten nowhere with that. Worse, Wrengate’s sister was once again missing, with Mr. Henshaw and a man identified as Mr. Grover both dead.
Clearly, they’d been involved somehow, but who had killed them?
It wasn’t Croft, for the gentleman had spoken to him while hell broke loose at The Albion. And now this.
He firmed his jaw and curled his hands into fists.
If only there were a way for him to ensure nothing else stopped Croft from fully embracing his destiny.