Rollins gripped the edge of the bar and leapt over it. Whipping off his jacket, he smacked at the flames as he dragged Eleanor away. With her gown merely charred, he lifted her in his arms and hurried over to me, placing her back on her feet. “Get out of here, both of you.” Without sparing us another glance, he went back to the fire, battering it with his jacket, kicking furniture out of its path.
Bobby emerged from the kitchen, his eyes flaring wide before he, too, leapt into action. He hollered for Timothy, and the twoof them set to trying to douse the fire with buckets of water they filled from the kitchen.
I pushed Eleanor in front of me, prodding her out the door.
“We can’t leave him.” She coughed, a tear trickling down her cheek.
“He’s not alone. Bobby and Timothy are with him.” And the three of them had better know when it was time to get out. I loved my club, but it wasn’t worth their lives. “If you want to help, find Bernard. Have him send for a night watchman. And then wait on the street.”
“But—”
“Go!” I pushed her lower back, and finally, she went.
Lifting my skirts, I trotted to the Great Room at the back of the club. From there I made my way forward, checking every room, calling loudly. I found a couple of women in the Greek Room, a few more playing darts. Once I was assured that all my members were out, I joined Eleanor on the street and watched as the flames flickered through the windows, praying for a miracle.
I looked at the sky, but it remained cloudless above. There would be no saving rain.
A crowd gathered. The flames continued to crackle.
Eleanor took my hand, gripping it tightly as all the hopes I’d put into my club burned before me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Frederick
The Tea Roomwas 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 beforeclosing 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.
