"You're not fine." She moved toward him despite herself. "Sit down before you fall down."
"I need to explain."
"After you sit." She guided him to the settee, her hands gentle on his uninjured arm. He didn't resist, sinking onto the cushions with a barely suppressed groan. "Mrs. Brendan!"
The housekeeper appeared with impressive speed, as if she'd been waiting just outside. Her eyes widened at Andrew's state.
"Water, clean cloths, and the medicine kit," Isobel ordered, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "And more brandy."
"At once, Your Grace."
Andrew caught Isobel's wrist, his grip weak but insistent. "Isobel, please. Let me explain what happened."
"After we tend to your injuries." She pulled away, moving to the sideboard to pour brandy with trembling hands. She pressed the glass into his hands. "Drink."
He obeyed without argument, which frightened her more than his appearance. The Andrew she knew never obeyed without at least teasing her first.
Mrs. Brendan returned quickly with supplies. She placed them on the table beside the settee. "Shall I fetch the physician, Your Grace?"
"No," Andrew said immediately.
"Yes," Isobel countermanded.
"Isobel."
"Don't argue with me." She met his gaze, and something in her expression made him close his mouth. "Mrs. Brendan, send for Dr. Richards. Tell him it's urgent."
The housekeeper curtsied and hurried out.
Isobel knelt beside the settee, carefully rolling up Andrew's sleeve to expose the burn on his arm. It was red and blistered but not as deep as she'd feared. She wet a cloth and began cleaning it with careful touches.
Andrew hissed through his teeth but held still.
"Talk," she said quietly, not looking up from her work. "Tell me what happened."
He was silent for a long moment, and she could feel the weight of his gaze on her.
"I had a plan," he said finally, his voice rough. "I went to the club tonight with my solicitor, Mr. Davies. I was going to give Annette, the Dowager Countess of Halford, more operational control. Let her manage the day-to-day affairs while I stepped back."
Isobel's hands stilled on his arm. "Why?"
"Because I wanted to be here. With you." His voice cracked slightly. "I wanted to be at the ball, by your side where I belonged. I thought if I could just arrange things properly, I could have both—the club running smoothly and a real marriage with you. I was trying to do the right thing."
She resumed cleaning the wound, her throat tight. "What happened?"
"We were in my office, signing papers. Annette was there, going over the operational procedures. And then—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "And then Lord Dalton showed up."
"Dalton?" Isobel looked up sharply. "The man from the garden party?"
"The same." Andrew's expression darkened. "He was drunk. Raving. Kept shouting about how I'd ruined him, how the Mayfair Fox had destroyed his life. I tried to calm him down, tried to get him to leave peacefully, but he?—"
He broke off, and Isobel saw his hands curl into fists.
"He had lamp oil," Andrew continued, his voice flat now, emotionless. "He threw it everywhere—on the curtains, across the floor, on the tables. Before anyone could stop him, he lit a match."
Isobel's breath caught. "Oh God."
"The fire spread fast. Too fast." Andrew stared at nothing, his eyes haunted. "The curtains went up first, then the wooden paneling. Within minutes, the whole room was ablaze. I could hear people screaming in the main hall—patrons, dealers, the serving women. Annette was trying to help me grab the ledgers, the important documents, but I pushed her toward the door. Told her to get everyone out."
