Do You Want to Start a Scandal

“I can’t. Not without her.”

“Go, now. I can carry her if need be, but I can’t carry you both. You’ll be in the way.”

“But—”

But who will carry you, if you’re overcome?

Before she could respond, he’d vanished into the smoky corridor. She stood numbly for a moment, staring after him. Then the wave of smoke began to curl about her shoulders, stinging her eyes.

Her body’s will to survive tugged her in one direction. Her heart pulled at her from the other side.

“Charlotte?”

She swiveled in place, turning toward the voice.

Delia stood in the doorway of her own room, coughing.

Charlotte rushed to her friend’s side, sliding an arm under her shoulder. “Lean on me. We’ll take the servant stairs.”

Together, they hastened toward the dark, narrow staircase and fumbled their way down the steps. Delia faltered on a warped riser, but Charlotte steadied her. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, they turned and stumbled down a narrow corridor. They kept at best two steps ahead of the smoke, which pursued them like a malevolent demon.

When they finally plunged into the night, they gulped the fresh, cool air like water in the desert, then hurried to join a huddle of servants and family in the back garden.

“Delia!” Lady Parkhurst ran to embrace her daughter, drawing her away from Charlotte’s side and toward the bench where Frances sat trembling.

Sir Vernon held a torch aloft as he shouted to the footmen and grooms, organizing a bucket brigade to deliver water from the pump to the fire’s source. Even young Edmund was pressed into service, bringing leather buckets out from the stables.

Charlotte turned back to look at the house. It was so dark, and the footmen running in and out made it even more difficult to see. With every moment her wait stretched, her heart climbed further into her throat.

The two most important people in her world were caught in that hell of smoke and heat.

If she lost them . . .

The tension was unbearable. She couldn’t stand there any longer. She ran back toward the servant entrance, weaving her way around the manservants. If Mama and Piers were in peril, she would help them—or die trying.

Just as she reached the doorway, Mama emerged in a flutter of lacy white nightgowns, her cap askew.

Charlotte ran to her and flung her arms around her mother’s neck, overcome with relief. “Mama. Thank heaven.” Once she’d drawn her mother away from the house, she asked, “Where’s Piers?”

“He turned back to help the men extinguish the flames.”

Of course he had. Always the hero.

Oh, Lord. Charlotte pressed her hands to her mouth, holding back a sob.

“Come.” Mama put her arm about Charlotte’s shoulders. Her voice was steady. “Come sit down with me.”

“I can’t. I need to help him.”

“He’s strong and more than capable. You will help him best by keeping yourself out of danger. And in the meantime, we’ll pray.”

Pray? Charlotte’s thoughts couldn’t be settled enough for anything but the most desperate, inarticulate petitions. They went something like this:

Please, please, please, please, please.

After a few minutes, she noticed the pace of the footmen carrying buckets had slowed. A man emerged from the building and conferred with Sir Vernon, and then Sir Vernon came to join their group.

Charlotte rose from her bench. Mama rose with her, holding her hand.

“The fire is extinguished,” he announced, making a calming gesture. “The men are a bit singed, but no one has been grievously hurt.”

Charlotte’s internal babbling immediately changed.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

“The flames were contained to one room, fortunately. The entire wing will need a good airing out to clear the smoke, but no further damage was done.”

“What caused the fire?” Charlotte asked.

“I was planning to ask you that question, Miss Highwood. The fire was in your bedchamber.”

“What?”

“From the looks of things, the flames started on the floor, in a heap of piled garments near the hearth. Then it spread along the carpet to the drapes and bed hangings.”

Oh, no. Did he mean to say this was all Charlotte’s fault?

Lady Parkhurst turned to her. “Did you tip over a candle, Charlotte? Fail to bank the fire?”

“I . . . No, I don’t believe so.”

However, she had rifled through a great many things in a quest to find her most alluring dressing gown. Perhaps a stocking or shift had fallen too close to the grate.

Sir Vernon frowned. “You must have some notion. Surely you noticed the flames, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Do let her be,” Delia said. “She’s suffered a shock. Obviously, she was fortunate to escape with her life.”

“It wasn’t good fortune.” Frances’s gaze sent daggers at Charlotte. “And she can’t tell you how the blaze started, Papa. She wasn’t in her room at all. She was in Lord Granville’s bedchamber.”

Everyone stared at her now. Charlotte didn’t know where to look. She drew her dressing gown tight around her body, holding it closed at the neck. For the first time since she’d escaped the house, a chill went through her.

Delia, good friend that she was, leapt to her defense. “You must have been mistaken, Frances. The whole house was in an uproar.”

“I saw them clearly,” Frances said. “Leaving his room together. I’m not mistaken. Am I, Miss Highwood?”

Charlotte swallowed hard. There was no use denying it. “No.”

The ensuing silence was painful.

“Charlotte?” Delia’s expression was wounded. “I thought we had plans. You said you wanted nothing to do with him.”

“We do have plans. That hasn’t changed.”

“But then why would you . . . ?”

“Murder!” Edmund shouted. “It’s murder! He’s been trying to murder her for weeks now. I heard it myself. Eek, eek, eek. And then grrra—”

Lady Parkhurst clapped a hand over her son’s mouth.

“Muh-urr,” he insisted, despite the muffling.

“I tried to warn you,” Frances said to her sister. “Gossip is always at least partly true. You saw in the Prattler how she is, but you wouldn’t believe it. Now you know the truth. She’s been using you.”