“Of course, my lady.”
Caillen went down to the second floor, determined to find something on Viscount Pembrock before she was banished from Astley’s home. There was a reason Astley wanted the War Office to have Pembrock’s name, and she was certain it had something to do with her father’s death.
Yet, the conversation that had just transpired with Astley in the past half hour occupied her thoughts. Distractedly, Caillen opened the door to his study and stepped inside the masculine domain. Her very first venture into Astley’s study had been a shock. She hadn’t expected the man, who was serious about absolutely nothing, to have shelves of books on history and warfare mixed with Shakespeare and a bit of whimsey in his private collection. His study wasn’t just a place of work; it was a den for masculine escape. There were the obligatory decanters of brandy and scotch, but the high-backed chairs next to the fireplace suggested Astley enjoyed whiling away his time in this very room, away from the prying eyes of his staff and family. Not that his family visited London often, but there were the infrequent visits to town.
Astley’s private book collection held not only recent books by Byron and Shelley, but by Wordsworth and Blake. More surprising, were the sonnets written by Charlotte Smith. His personal library had fascinated her beyond measure on her first visit when he’d asked her to write a letter to Sir Williamson over a fortnight ago. That short missive had led her to see a side of Simon she would have never known. Since then, she had spent her free time exploring his collection. The main library of the house had been a gift of insight into the earldom, but his study had given her an understanding of the man who had saved her, and she suspected no one else had been gifted with that privilege. With that, of course, she’d also found his collection of less than reputable readings that her sister Iseabail would have encouraged her to read.
She’d avoided them like the plague.
She glanced up and down the hallway before closing the door to his study. The room was cozy and warm, thanks to the stoked fire keeping the chill from the night air. Caillen made her wayacross the room to Astley’s oversized mahogany desk, her silk skirts swishing with each step in the silence.
Her heart slammed to a stop. A small lantern behind the desk illuminated a menacing masculine form. Crouched low behind the desk, the man gazed up at her, but the brim of his hat sat low on his forehead and concealed his identity. Fear skittered down her spine.
“Who are you? What are you doing?” Her voice trembled. Her hands shook as she grasped the muslin at her thighs. Slowly, she took a few steps backwards, and then another as if to hide her retreat, and her utter fear. It didn’t.
The man stood, radiating menace. His oversized, dingy coat was covered in coal dust and masked his true shape. He raised the small lantern, blinding her view of his face even further. But his size was unmistakable. He was her height, no taller. That bit of knowledge gave her a surge of confidence she seized.
Silently, he rounded the corner of the desk and exposed his crime. Stacks of Astley’s papers were strewn about the floor, scattered in such a fashion to display desperation.
“What are you doing in the earl’s desk? What are you looking for?”
Without a word the man tossed the oil lamp into the curtains. The glass bowl and chimney shattered. Oil splattered, covering the window dressings, wall, and the rug in flames. Caillen gasped as the fire grew.
“Are you mad?” She screamed.
Her question was left in the air to reverberate, like an echo of the past threatening to swallow her in the mania of violent men. Her blood went cold.
Abruptly he ran at her, his shoulder crashing into hers. Pain radiated through her arm and chest. She was thrown to the floor with such force, her head bounced on the floorboards. Starsdanced in front of her eyes as she heard the muffled sound of the door slamming closed.
Head throbbing, Caillen struggled to her knees. She swayed and grasped the table between the two comfortable chairs she had admired and pulled herself to her feet. Blinking rapidly, she tried to regain her equilibrium. Smoke filled the room, and she looked back at the spreading flames.
Caillen staggered to the door and flung it open. “Fire! Fire! Bring water now!” She screamed.
She turned and ran to the window, fear pushing her forward. Yanking on the bottom of the heavy curtains, she pulled as hard as she could. Embers flew, as the curtain dropped to the floor in a heap of flames. She jumped back, nearly falling into the chair as she avoided the engulfed curtain.
“Help me!”
Mandal, Astley’s elderly butler, ran into the room first. “Step back, Lady Griffith!”
“Sound the alarm! Have my maid, Jane, take my son and Sébastien out of the house and have the footmen get the earl! They must be evacuated now!”
“But my lady?—”
She turned and grasped the butler’s wrist. “Please, get the children out of the house.”
“Of course, the children and the earl are the priority.”
“Do it now! Then call for the maids and footmen to bring in water and start the bucket brigade. If the earl is insured, notify the fire brigade as well!” she yelled, as two footmen entered the room, one wearing only his shirt and trousers. She tore the second curtain from the rod, dropping it to the floor in a shower of embers.
“Yes, Lady Griffith.”
She didn’t have time to address anyone else, but knew Astley’s butler to be more than capable to handle the servants and their duties.
Mrs. Bernard was at her side in moments. They grabbed two pillows from the chairs and began beating the flames on the downed curtains, but the wall was fully engulfed. The fire was spreading quickly toward the ceiling. Shelves of beautiful leather-bound books behind the desk began to burn. Smoke furled in the room and choked them as they beat at the flames. The first group of servants with water rushed into the room, emptying their buckets onto the hot flames, but their efforts had little effect on the rapidly spreading fire.
“Go, get some air!” She ordered the housekeeper who was bent over at the knees gasping.
As she looked at the carnage, Caillen saw the papers strewn about the floor igniting in the spreading fire. That man had been looking for something important. Something he didn’t want anyone else to find. She raced to Astley’s desk, and began pulling out every ledger, every slip of loose parchment and every correspondence Astley had tucked inside the drawers of his desk. She had no idea as to the importance of the documents beyond estate matters, but she knew he was in possession of something someone desperately wanted to destroy.
