The Book Of Scandal (21 page)

Mr. Gibbs started for the east door, then paused and said sheepishly, “Locked.” He turned and hurried diagonally across the room and out the open western door, through which they had entered.

Evelyn held up the candle, looking around at the empty orangery. She would make it a lovely place to be once more, and just in time for winter. She did not allow herself to dwell on the idea that she might be here in the future.

She was startled to hear the western door close and looked over her shoulder. No one had entered, but the door was definitely shut. Evelyn started toward the door when she heard someone behind her and paused, turning partially to look back.

“I’d have sworn the door was locked,” Mr. Gibbs said with a shrug as he walked into the orangery, carrying a small jar.

Confused, Evelyn looked back at the western door.

She felt the explosion before she heard it. The force was so great that it knocked her off her feet and sent the candle flying. Evelyn fell hard, hitting her head on the slate-tiled floor. The blow made her head spin; she pushed herself up and saw flames quickly engulfing the southern end of the orangery.

She screamed with terror and rolled onto her knees as smoke began to fill the room. “Mr. Gibbs!” she shouted, and picked up the hem of her gown, holding it over her face as she desperately crawled toward Mr. Gibbs. She could feel the heat at her back and knew the fire was spreading quickly. “Mr. Gibbs!” she shouted again.

He was on his knees, crawling toward her. Evelyn changed course, for the door. When she reached it, she rose up and grabbed the levered handle, but it would not open. She dropped her gown and tried with both hands—but the door would not budge. “No!” she shrieked. She and Mr. Gibbs would die in this inferno. She tried again, yanking with all her might.

Nathan and Frances heard the explosion as they raked Robert’s grave. Nathan jerked upright at the sound, turning in the direction from which it had come. He could see the smoke billowing, and for a moment, he tried to understand where it was. It was too far to the east to be part of the house, and too close to him to be the stables. It could only be the orangery.

The orangery…Evelyn!

Something almost preternatural came over him. He dropped the rake and started running, oblivious to Frances’s shouts, or those that were now coming from the house. He ran, vaulting over the iron fence that surrounded the graveyard, hurling himself into the trees and vegetation that grew between the graveyard and the orangery, his legs powered by the strength of his fear.

When he reached the orangery, it looked almost completely engulfed. Evelyn was on the outside, wildly pounding on a window. Her gown was streaked with ash and her hair had come partially undone. Nathan quickly shrugged out of his coat. “Evelyn!” he shouted as he reached her, and tried to pull her away, but she fought him.

“Mr. Gibbs is inside!”

Nathan pulled her back, all but tossing her into Declan’s hands, who had rushed to help him. He wrapped the coat around his arm and took a swing at the window. The glass shattered, cutting his skin as a rush of hot air and smoke blasted his face. Using his arm as a battering ram, he knocked glass away and climbed in through the window.

Thick, black smoke made it almost impossible to see. The fire had covered the walls and the ceiling. But somehow, by some miracle, he saw Mr. Gibbs’s crumpled figure near the door. Nathan fell to his knees and rolled the man onto his back, saw that Gibbs’s nose and mouth were smudged with smoke, his eyes closed.

Terror rose up in him. “Gibbs!” he shouted, and slapped his face.

Gibbs coughed. Thank God, he was alive. Using his coat, Nathan felt for the door handle. With one mighty tug, he opened it.

“What the devil!” he heard Lambourne shout, and then there were hands on Nathan, hands on Gibbs, pulling them out.

The servants had gathered and were queuing to form a bucket brigade under Benton’s quick thinking. Every other free hand was beating the embers that flew from the building onto the grass around them, or digging a fire line between the orangery and the other outbuildings. As men carted Mr. Gibbs away, Nathan spotted Evelyn sitting on the rise, and groped for one of the blankets someone had tossed to him.

He hurried to put the blanket around her shoulders. She looked stunned. “Dear God, Evie, are you all right?” he asked desperately as he ran his hands over her body and limbs looking for any blood or broken bones. “Are you hurt?”

Evelyn responded by coughing.

“Water!” he shouted at a groomsman running by. He cupped Evelyn’s face in his hands. “Can you speak? Can you tell me what happened?”

She shook her head, grabbed his wrist, and coughed again. The groomsman appeared with water. “Mr. Gibbs,” she said hoarsely.

“He’s all right and out of the orangery.”

Nathan held the tin cup to Evelyn’s lips. She coughed, drank thirstily, but pushed the cup away when he tried to give her more, shaking her head.

“Fetch a doctor quickly!” Nathan ordered the groomsman, and turned back to Evelyn, stroking her head. “What happened, Evie?”

“I don’t know,” she said hoarsely, and rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing more ash. “Mr. Gibbs asked me to look at a stain, but he went out to fetch a solvent, and the door closed, but no one was there, and I couldn’t see very well by the light of a single candle, but then everything exploded—”

Another coughing spell came over her, and she clutched his arm. When at last she could breathe, she looked at him with hazel eyes filled with terror. “Nathan, I think it was intentional.”

“No, no, darling, I am sure it was an accident,” he said reassuringly, and honestly believed that was true. He stood up, pulled her to her feet. “We must get you inside.”

W ilkes met them at the door in a cloak, on his way out. “What has happened?” he asked anxiously.

“The orangery is burning,” Nathan said.

“Dear God. No one was hurt?” Wilkes asked, casting a worried gaze at Evelyn.

“By the grace of God,” Nathan said gruffly, and pushed past Wilkes, who shouted after him that he’d go lend a hand.

In spite of Evelyn’s hoarse protests, Nathan carried her up the winding staircase to her rooms. He kicked open the door to her dressing room and marched through, stepping over and around her things where he could, but earning a cry of alarm from her when he managed to walk across the silk train of a gown that was draped over a chair.

He walked through the adjoining door into her bedroom and deposited her on the bed. “Don’t move,” he ordered her. “Not as much as an inch.”

She groaned and rolled onto her side, overcome again with a painful cough.

Nathan found a linen handkerchief and soaked it in the basin, then returned to the bed to clean the ash from her face. He’d scarcely touched her when the door from the corridor swung open with a bang, startling Nathan.

“My lady!” Kathleen shrieked. “Lord help us!”

“For heaven’s sake, woman, she is not dead,” Nathan said sternly, and wiped Evelyn’s face.

“Oh my lord, I shall do it, shan’t I?” Kathleen asked anxiously, reaching for the handkerchief. “You’re apt to scrub her skin right off the bone.”

The thought horrified him—and in the moment of his hesitation, Kathleen took the handkerchief from his hand. It was just as well—he was needed outside. He backed away from the bed. “You’re not to leave her. Mind you keep her here until a doctor comes,” he said, and hurried out.

The orangery was completely engulfed in flames. The staff—joined by some of the tenants now—were all working to keep the fire from spreading by digging ditches and beating back the flames with whatever they had available. Nathan shrugged out of his coat and took a shovel from one of the groundsmen and began to work.

They worked for hours. A wind picked up late in the day, and they didn’t dare slow their efforts, lest the embers spread. It was late into the evening before Nathan felt the fire was suitably contained; the groundsmen would keep vigil through the night with the help of some tenants.

The weary residents of Eastchurch Abbey began to fade into the night. Nathan was still stomping out small embers that scattered with the wind when Benton appeared at his side. In all the many years Benton had served at Eastchurch Abbey, Nathan had never seen as much as a single hair on Benton’s head out of place, but tonight, ashes blackened his face and his suit was in complete disarray. “The doctor has come,” he said. “He awaits you in the salon. Mr. Gibbs has been put in a guest room and is resting comfortably, as is Lady Lindsey.”

Nathan nodded, relieved. “See to it everyone is fed.”

“It has been arranged, my lord,” Benton said, as if they were standing in the foyer on any given day.

Nathan blinked, then shook his head. He clapped a hand on Benton’s shoulder. “You do amaze me, sir. Thank you.” He walked on, anxious to have a word with the doctor.

Dr. Bell met him with his hand extended, in spite of Nathan’s sorry appearance. “My lord,” he said, nodding his head. “It has been quite some time since we have had opportunity to meet.”

“That is the good news, sir.”

“Shall I have a look?” he asked, nodding at Nathan’s arm.

He glanced down—it was the first he’d noticed his shirt was torn and he’d been bleeding. “I’m fine, I’m—what of Mr. Gibbs?”

“His throat is inflamed, as would be expected. I have given him a tincture and instructed his wife to leave all the windows open through the night. He needs fresh air to heal his throat and lungs quickly, but I believe he will recover fully with proper rest for several days.”

Thank God for that. “And my wife?”

“Ah yes,” the doctor said with a smile. “I hadn’t heard that Lady Lindsey was returned to the abbey.”

Bloody hell if he hadn’t. Nathan rather imagined the entire shire was completely tantalized by her return.

“I am certain she will recover completely as well. In fact, she should be recovered by morning, save a bit of discomfort in her throat. She wasn’t exposed as long as poor Mr. Gibbs. I have given her some laudanum to help her sleep, and she should have fresh air as well.”

Nathan shoved a hand through his hair. “Thank you.”

“The fire is contained?” Dr. Bell asked as he started toward the door. When Nathan confirmed that it was, the doctor sighed. “What a tragedy. What do you suppose started it?”

“Carelessness, I’d wager. I’ll see you out.” Nathan said no more, convinced Evelyn’s candle had somehow touched a solvent.

When he’d seen Dr. Bell out, he returned to Evelyn’s suite. He was too impatient to wait to be invited within; he opened the door and stuck his head through. Kathleen was busily gathering up clothing and linens; Evelyn was washed and sitting on the bed, propped up against what looked like a dozen pillows, her golden hair—made dull by the ash—spilling around her shoulders.

“Am I intruding?” Nathan asked as he entered the room.

“No, my lord,” Kathleen answered. She gathered up the mound of clothing and linens and walked to the door. “I was just on my way out to take these soiled garments to Fran. I suspect she’ll have her hands full in the laundry this week.”

“I suspect you are right,” he said, and stepped out of the woman’s way, holding the door so that she might quit the room. When she’d gone, he quietly closed the door and turned round.

Evelyn was watching him, her arms folded across her body, her lids heavy. “I’m quite all right,” she said hoarsely.

“I would see for myself,” he said, walking to her bedside.

“Here you are, then,” she said, gesturing to herself.

She looked so small; the pillows seemed to swallow her almost whole. So small, so fragile…he remembered thinking the very same of her after Robert died. Then, she’d seemed almost childlike, curled up in the chair she had pulled up to the window, staring out into a bleak landscape.

“What of the orangery?” she asked behind a yawn.

“Lost.”

She winced. “Everything?”

He nodded solemnly.

She sighed and leaned her head back against the pillows, her eyes closed. “I cannot imagine how it might have happened.”

“Perhaps an ember from the fire.”

“But the hearth was cold,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at him. “I didn’t see even a brazier.”

He frowned and took a seat on the edge of her bed. “Then a candle, perhaps.”

She adamantly shook her head. “I had the only candle. I…”

Nathan’s frown deepened. “What is it, Evie?”

“I heard something odd before it happened,” Evelyn said. “Someone closed the western door. It was open, I know it was open, for Mr. Gibbs went through it. But he came back through the east door and said he thought it had been locked, and then there was the explosion.”

He did not see the significance and shrugged. “A breeze must have shut it.” Evelyn shook her head. “Evie,” he said patiently, “I suspect a breeze caught the door and the flame of your candle, and perhaps you didn’t realize it, but the flame may have touched a solvent.”

“No,” she said stubbornly. “It happened just as I told you, Nathan.”

“I believe you, but I think you must have missed a detail or not seen the solvent. Perhaps Mr. Gibbs was careless with it, but it is the only logical explanation,” he tried patiently.

“It is not the only logical explanation. Have you considered that perhaps it has something to do with you?”

“Me?”

“Just consider it—we were set upon by highwaymen on a rarely traveled road only days ago.”

“I don’t see what that possibly has to do with this.”

Evelyn sank deeper into her pillows. “You are known about England as the Libertine of Lindsey—I would imagine that in earning your name, you attracted an enemy or two along the way.”

He reared back, surprised. “Do you honestly believe that a bit of gambling and hard hunting would lead to the sort of enemy who might try and burn my house?”

She shrugged and rolled onto her side. “I don’t rightly know, Nathan. I am merely suggesting you consider the possibility before blaming me or an innocent groundskeeper. You are so quick to assign blame for tragedies.”

It seemed there was no end to the wounds between them. “I never blamed you or Mr. Gibbs.”