Christian shook her hard in warning. “Shut up! Shut up, and listen to me, before I lose what bloody little patience I’ve left! You’ll take my carriage and go directly home,tu me comprends? Go directly!” His tone brooked no argument. He waved a hand, signaling his driver.
“I cannot go now!”
He jerked her arm, warning her without words to be silent.
She stumbled slightly, tripping over her skirts. “Oh! You! Give me one accursed reason I should do as you say—just one!”
His lips curved contemptuously as he peered down into her face, his eyes shadowed. “Because, my love,” he said, “you care too bloody much for your cousin to see him hang, that’s why!” Shoving her into his carriage, he hailed the driver off, and then disappeared into the darkness, toward the docks.
Jessie watched him go, fear gripping her heart.
“Jean Paul!”Christian’s angry summons slashed the darkness of the warehouse.
“We found it, Hawk. Here!” As proof, Ben swung the lantern quickly over the wooden crates in question.
Pistol in hand, Christian made his way quickly to where they stood.
“The rest have already been hauled aboard the ship.”
“Good—get the bloody things up and get out of here! St. John knows.”
Christian belted his pistol to help with the crates, but no sooner had he seized up one end when there was a muffled hiss from across the room. Within seconds, a thunderous report ripped through the air. Jean Paul’s end of the crate crashed to the floor; he took a single step, floundered, and then collapsed upon the crate.
“Halt in the name of the Crown!”
Two more shots rang out and the lantern Ben was clutching swung sharply through the darkness, plummeting downward. It shattered against the splintered wood, bursting into flames.
16
Pacing the confines of her room, Jessie was torn between fury and fear—and then she heard the cry and fear won.
“Fire!”
A chill swept down her spine.
Racing to the window, she peered down below just in time to hear the man call out once more. “Fire! Fire at the warehouse!” He scurried down the street, bellowing at the top of his lungs; one by one, windows lit along the shadowy lane. Across the alley, a man came stumbling out in his nightwear. Sprinting into the middle of the street, he snatched off his nightcap as he ran, waving it wildly, hailing the crier, who was even now turning the corner to Church Street. More doors burst open. Within moments the narrow lane became congested with the curious and alarmed. A loud rapping at Jessie’s bedroom door startled her away from the window.
“Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie!” cried the voice behind it.
Jessie hurried to the door, thrusting it open to reveal a pudgy, sweet-faced black woman. “Miss Jessie!” the maid squawked. “They’s a man downstairs, waitin’ fo ya at the backdoe—he says that Mastah Ben’s in trouble! He tole me to fetch you and only you, not Mastah Robert! He says you is the only one who can help him! Should I wake Mastah Robert?”
Fear clutched at Jessie’s heart; she shook her head. It might be Christian! “Not yet; let me see what the man wants.”
Leaving the door open for the maid to enter, Jessie turned to snatch up her cloak from the wooden peg upon the wall. Too distraught to worry over her appearance, she flung the cape over her shoulders and slipped her feet into the soft blue leather slippers she’d discarded earlier in the eve.
Immogene appeared scandalized. “Oh, Miss Jessie! Ain’t you gonna dress?”
“Once I’ve discovered what the man has to say, I shall.”
Jessie hurried past the fretting maid, into the corridor and down the elegantly carpeted stairwell.
“Well, then I’m comin’ with you!” Immogene hurried down after her, adding, “Ain’t fittin’ fo a lady to be runnin’ round wit’ nothin’ on but her nightie!”
“I’ll be fine,” Jessie swore. “Just see that Aunt Claire and Uncle Robert are told about the fire.”
“Fire?” Immogene halted behind her upon the stairwell. “Lawdy, Miss Jessie, what fire?”
“The warehouse—though I don’t know which one as yet! Please go tell them!”
