Chapter 23
The morning sun streamed through the windows, painting golden squares across the floor where Arabella sat, her considerably rounded belly making the simple act of sorting baby clothes more challenging than it should have been.
"You're nesting," Lucien observed from the doorway, watching her fold and refold the same tiny gown for the third time.
"I'm organising."
"You're nesting. Like a very particular bird."
"Birds don't have to worry about their offspring being corrupted by criminal dogs."
As if summoned, Thistle appeared, carrying what looked suspiciously like one of the baby's new bootees.
"Where did you get that?" Arabella demanded.
Thistle wagged his tail, clearly proud of his acquisition.
"From the drawer I just organised, I'm guessing."
"The closed drawer?"
"He's been practising with Cordelia again."
"We need to stop that."
"We need to lock them in separate wings."
"That seems extreme."
"Our dog can pick locks, Arabella. Nothing is extreme anymore."
It had been six weeks since the incident with Harrington.
Six weeks of blessed peace. The news that he'd escaped custody three weeks ago had initially sent them into a panic, but when nothing happened—no fires, no threats, no mysterious appearances—they'd slowly relaxed.
The magistrate assured them he'd likely fled to the Continent.
Julian had contacts watching the ports. Life had returned to its chaotic version of normal.
"Have you seen the paper?" Cordelia asked, breezing in with her morning enthusiasm. At some point in the last weeks, she'd transformed from timid mouse to confident young woman, though Arabella suspected teaching Thistle to pick locks had been the turning point.
"What's happened now?" Lucien asked with the resignation of a man who expected disaster with his morning tea.
"Nothing bad. Lady Potts’ daughter is betrothed. To a poet."
"Oh, my goodness."
"A wealthy poet," Cordelia clarified.
"Is there such a thing?"
"Apparently. He inherited a fortune and writes sonnets about flowers."
"That sounds terrible," Arabella said.
"That sounds perfect for Lady Potts’ daughter. She collects pressed flowers."
"A match made in botanical heaven," Lucien observed dryly.
"Speaking of matches," Cordelia said with studied casualness, "Lord Ashby's son has asked to call."
"No," Lucien said immediately.
"You don't even know which son."
"Doesn't matter. No."
"The younger one. James. He's quite nice."
"No."
"He has a degree from Oxford."
"Still no."
"He breeds dogs."
Lucien paused. "What kind of dogs?"
"Spaniels."
"Absolutely not. Can you imagine Thistle with access to a breeding program?"
"He'd create an army," Arabella agreed.
"A criminal army."
"The worst kind."
"Or the best kind?" Cordelia suggested hopefully.
"No," they said in unison.
Cordelia sighed dramatically. "You're impossible."
"We're protective," Arabella corrected.
"Same thing."
"Different thing. But equally restrictive."
"I'm old enough!"
"And living under our roof," Lucien reminded her.
"By your invitation!"
"Which can be rescinded."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
They had a brief staring contest, which Cordelia lost when Thistle chose that moment to deposit the baby bootee at her feet, apparently picking sides.
"Traitor," she told the dog.
"Smart dog," Lucien countered.
"Criminal dog," Morrison said from the doorway, having arrived with his usual impeccable timing. "He's stolen Cook's best ladle."
"Again?" Arabella asked.
"Different ladle, my Lady. He appears to be collecting them."
"Why would he collect ladles?"
"I've given up trying to understand his motivations, my Lady."
"Fair enough."
"Was there something else, Morrison?" Lucien asked, noting the butler's unusual hesitation.
"Two of the footmen didn't report for duty this morning, my Lord."
"Which ones?"
"Thomas and the new man, Porter."
"Porter's only been here a month," Arabella said, frowning.
"Five weeks, my lady. Came with excellent references."
"From?"
"Lord Harrington's household, actually."
The room went silent.
"Harrington?" Lucien's voice had gone dangerously quiet. "The man who tried to burn down our house had a servant in our household?"
"Former servant, my Lord. Left his employment months before the... incident."
"And we hired him?"
"The references were impeccable."
"Morrison, the man tried to kill us."
"The references were written before that, my Lord and after the incident nobody quite thought of the connection."
"That's not better!"
"It's chronologically accurate."
"Morrison..."
"I'll investigate immediately, my lord."
Morrison departed with more haste than usual, leaving them all uneasy.
"It's probably nothing," Arabella said, though she didn't sound convinced.
"Two footmen missing, one with connections to Harrington?"
"Former connections."
"Still connections."
"You're being paranoid."
"I'm being protective."
"Same thing with you."
"Different..."
The argument was interrupted by Mrs. Fielding bursting in, her usual composure completely shattered.
"Fire!" she gasped. "The west wing!"
Lucien was moving before she'd finished speaking, Arabella struggling to follow with her changed center of gravity.
"No," he said, turning back. "You stay here."
"Lucien..."
"You're eight months pregnant. You stay here with Cordelia. That's not a request."
The authority in his voice would normally have sparked argument, but the fear in his eyes stopped her.
"Be careful," she said instead.
"Always."
He was gone, following the sounds of shouting and the smell of smoke that was already creeping through the house. Arabella stood frozen for a moment, then her instincts kicked in.
"Cordelia, get everyone out. Start with the servants' quarters."
"What about you?"
"I'm checking the nursery wing."
"Lucien said to stay..."
"Lucien's not thinking about the fact that there are multiple fires. Can you smell it? It's coming from different directions."
Cordelia's eyes widened as she realized Arabella was right. The smoke wasn't coming from just the west wing.
"Harrington," she breathed.
"He's here. Has to be. This is planned."
"We need to..."
"We need to get everyone out. Go!"
Cordelia ran, and Arabella moved as quickly as her condition allowed toward the nursery wing. The smoke was thicker here, and she could hear crackling that sent ice through her veins.
The hallway stretched before her like a tunnel, smoke billowing from beneath doors, the wallpaper already beginning to curl from heat.
Six weeks of peace had made them careless.
They'd dismissed Porter's connection to Harrington, hadn't questioned why two footmen would disappear on the same night, hadn't considered that Harrington's escape from custody might mean immediate danger.
Now the house was burning, and she was eight months pregnant, struggling through smoke toward crying she could definitely hear.
"Is anyone here?" she called again.
"My lady!" Jane's voice, from the servants' stairs. "The back stairway is blocked!"
"Come through here!"
Jane appeared with three of the younger maids, all coughing and terrified. One of them, Betty, barely sixteen, was crying hysterically.
"He locked us in," she gasped. "Thomas locked us in!"
"Thomas the footman?"
"He said it was for our own good, but then we smelled smoke."
"Get to the main stairs," Arabella ordered. "Get out! Now!"
"What about you, my lady?"
"I'm right behind you."
But she wasn't, because she'd heard something else—someone coughing from the direction of the storage rooms. The smoke was thicker here, the heat more intense. Her eyes streamed, her lungs burned, but someone was trapped.
"Hello?" she called, then coughed as smoke filled her lungs.
"Help!" A voice she didn't recognize. "Please! Anyone!"
She found Porter, the missing footman, tied up in a storage closet, smoke seeping under the door. His face was streaked with tears and soot.
"Lady Blackthorn! You shouldn't be here!"
"Neither should you." She worked at his bonds with fingers that shook—from fear or smoke, she couldn't tell. "Harrington?"
"He made me help. Threatened my family; my mother, my sisters. He said he'd burn their cottage if I didn't...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Apologise later. Run now."
The bonds came free and Porter scrambled up, then froze, his face going pale. "He's here. In the house."
"Where?"
"I don't know. He had Thomas too, and someone else. Someone he paid. They set three fires, all timed to trap..." He stopped, horror dawning. "You're the target. This whole wing, it's meant for you."
"What?"
"He knew you'd come for the servants. He said you were too noble for your own good. This is a trap."
The door slammed shut behind them before Arabella could respond. They both spun to find Harrington standing there, wild-eyed and smoke-stained, holding a lamp that flickered dangerously.
"Lady Blackthorn. How perfectly predictable."
"Let us go."
"No. This is better than I planned. He couldn't save Matilda. Let's see if he can save you and your child."
"We're married!"
"Now. But were you when it was conceived? Or did you trap him with a baby like the fallen woman you are?"
"How dare you?"
"Matilda was pure. Innocent. You're nothing but a lake-diving fortune hunter who..."
His words were cut off by Arabella swinging a nearby candlestick with all her strength. It caught him on the shoulder, sending him stumbling.
"Run!" she shouted at Porter, who didn't need to be told twice.
But Harrington recovered quickly, rage making him strong. He grabbed her wrist, twisting until she dropped the candlestick.
"You're going to burn," he hissed. "Like she did. Alone and afraid."
"I'm not alone."
"No? Where's your precious Beast? Saving others, like the hero he pretends to be. He'll have to choose, you see. You, Cordelia, or the servants. He can't save everyone."
"He doesn't have to. We save ourselves."
She brought her knee up hard, catching him in a place that made him release her with a howl. But as she turned to run, pain shot through her abdomen—sharp, wrong, terrifying.
"No," she gasped, her hand going to her stomach. "No, not now."