His voice grew quieter. "I stayed behind to make sure everyone evacuated. Went through every room, every floor. The smoke was so thick I could barely breathe, couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. But I had to make sure. Had to know everyone was safe."
"Andrew."
"The staircase collapsed while I was on the second floor." He said it matter-of-factly, but she saw his hand tremble as he raised the brandy to his lips. "I had to jump from a window. Landed wrong, hurt my ribs. But everyone else was out by then. Everyone was safe."
"And the building?"
He met her eyes, and she saw the devastation there. "Gone. The whole thing. By the time I got out, the entire structure was engulfed. The fire brigade arrived, but there was nothing they could do. I watched it burn, Isobel. Watched everything I'd built over the past twelve years crumble.”
Silence fell between them, heavy with the weight of what he'd lost.
Isobel finished bandaging his arm and moved to examine the burn on his neck. Her fingers were gentle as she tilted his head, exposing the angry red mark that disappeared beneath his collar.
"Take off your shirt," she said quietly.
"Isobel."
"Don't argue. I need to see if there are more burns."
He obeyed, wincing as he shrugged out of the ruined coat and began unbuttoning his shirt. She helped him ease it off, and her heart clenched at the sight of more burns scattered across his chest and back—nothing life-threatening, but enough to tell her how close he'd come to serious injury.
She cleaned each wound with methodical care, her mind reeling.
He'd been trying to step back from the club. For her. He'd been at the Mayfair Fox making arrangements so he could be homemore, be the husband she needed. And while he was doing that, while he was trying to fix things, his entire life's work had gone up in flames.
And she'd been standing in a ballroom, angry at him for choosing the club over her, when he'd actually been choosingherover the club.
“What of Dalton?” Isobel asked quietly. “Was he taken away in irons?”
Andrew shook his head. “No. He was there — we’re certain of that. The lamp oil, the timing, all of it points to him.”
He paused. “But after the blaze was set, he vanished. No one can find him.” Andrew stared at the floor. "He came there to destroy me, and he destroyed himself instead."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" His laugh was bitter. "If I hadn't run that club, if I hadn't let my reputation become what it was, if I'd just been a normal Duke instead of the Mayfair Fox…"
"Then you'd still be your father's son living in ruins," Isobel interrupted sharply. "Andrew, you can't blame yourself for what a desperate, drunk man chose to do."
"Can't I?" He looked up at her, and she saw the raw anguish in his eyes.
His eyes searched hers, desperate for reassurance she wasn't certain she could give. Not when her own hurt was still so fresh.
But before she could say more, Dr. Richards arrived, bustling into the room with his medical bag.
"Your Grace," he said, moving immediately to Andrew's side. "Let me see what we're dealing with."
Isobel stepped back, letting the physician work. He peered at the wound, examining it from a careful distance with practiced efficiency, asking a series of clipped questions as he worked and checked him over with professional thoroughness.
"You're lucky, Your Grace," Mr. Richards said finally. "The burns are painful but superficial. Your ribs are bruised, not broken. You'll be sore for several weeks, and you'll need to keep those wounds clean to prevent infection, but you'll recover fully."
"Thank you, sir," Isobel said quietly.
After giving instructions for care and leaving several tinctures and bandages, Mr. Richards departed. The first light of dawn was creeping through the windows.
Isobel and Andrew sat in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on them.
"The club is gone," Andrew said finally, his voice hollow. "Everything I worked for. Everything I built. Just... gone."
