Others started sniffing, turning around.
Treadle, eyes widening, met Gerrard’s gaze, then stepped back and hurried out of the room.
“I’m really very sensitive when it comes to smoke,” Lady Trewarren went on, “and I do believe it’s getting stronger-”
“Fire!”
It was a maid who screeched from somewhere upstairs.
The crowd in the parlor tumbled out into the hall. The smell was more distinct, but there was no other evidence of flames. Everyone stared up at the gallery; with a thunder of feet, a group of footmen raced across, heading into the south wing.
“All the ladies into the drawing room.” Barnaby started herding them in that direction. Some protested, wanting to see what was afire; Sir Vincent smothered an oath and went to help.
Treadle appeared at the head of the stairs. He came hurrying down. “It’s the old nursery, sir.” He glanced at Gerrard. “And your room, Mr. Debbington. The drapes have caught well and truly there. We’re ferrying pails up the service stairs, but we’ll need all hands possible.”
“I’ll help.” Matthew Brisenden started up the stairs. The other men exchanged glances, then swiftly followed.
Jacqueline hung back. As Barnaby and Sir Vincent hurried back from the drawing room, she put a hand on her father’s arm. “I’ll check with Mrs. Carpenter, then return to the drawing room and make sure the ladies remain safely there.”
Gerrard had dallied on the stairs to hear what she intended; he caught her eye, nodded, then turned and took the stairs three at a time.
Her father patted her hand. “Good girl. I’ll go and see what’s to do.”
She watched him start slowly up the stairs. Confident Treadle would keep him from any harm, she headed for the kitchens.
As she’d expected, pandemonium reigned. She helped Mrs. Carpenter calm the maids, and organize them to help the stablemen lug pails from the well to the bottom of the south wing stairs. A chain of grooms and footmen hurried the pails up, some to the first floor, others to the attics.
Mrs. Carpenter looked grim. Once the maids were occupied, she drew Jacqueline aside. “Maizie found the fire in Mr. Debbington’s room. She said it was arrows-arrows with flaming rags around them-that were tangled in the curtains. That’s how the fire started. She was babbling on about how we shouldn’t think it was coals dropping from the grate and her to blame-I told her no such thing, but thought you and his lordship should know.”
Jacqueline nodded. Arrows. An arrow had been shot at Gerrard, and now there were more arrows. She hadn’t heard the details of how Gerrard had been shot at, but the only way an arrow could have hit Gerrard’s curtains was if it had been fired from the gardens, and she knew the gardens well. Knew there was no close, clear line to Gerrard’s windows; the archer would have had to be a good way off, and skilled enough to allow for the cross breeze.
It was quiet living in the country; the local youth had plenty of time to perfect their archery skills, yet only a few were skilled enough to have made those shots, especially if, as seemed likely, they’d shot to the attics, as well. As she hurried back through the house, she considered the possible culprits.
Reaching the green baize door, she pushed through, into the back of the hall.
“Jacqueline!”
She whirled.
Eleanor, hair tumbling down, gown crumpled, frantically beckoned from the end of the north wing corridor. “Come quickly! There’s another fire broken out along here! They said to fetch you. We’re struggling-we need every hand.” She didn’t wait, but plunged back down the corridor.
Jacqueline’s heart stopped, then she picked up her skirts and raced after Eleanor.
Millicent’s room was in the north wing.
She swung into the corridor just in time to see Eleanor dash into a small parlor nearly at the end of the wing-below the room in which Millicent lay. Jacqueline ran faster. She would have to call some of the stablemen from the kitchens-she’d look first, then she’d know-
She rushed into the parlor.
No flames. No smoke. No footmen beating out a fire.
She skidded to a halt. Behind her, the door closed.
She whirled.
Jordan stood two paces away, watching her, his gaze cold, contemptuous-calculating.
She stared. Was it he…?
Her heart thudded; her breath clogged her throat. Looking into Jordan’s eyes, she reminded herself that people who loved her were the ones at risk-she’d never been-still wouldn’t be-in danger.
And her mother’s murderer, Millicent’s attacker, could be only one man-Eleanor’s lover.
Eleanor moved away from the door, drawing her attention.
Dragging in a breath, Jacqueline took a step back.
Eleanor came to stand by Jordan’s side, close, just behind his shoulder. Then she put a hand on his arm, sank closer still, and smiled-sweetly, yet patently-openly-insincerely.
The blood chilled in Jacqueline’s veins. The hair at her nape lifted.
She stared into Eleanor’s eyes; this was not the friend she’d known for years…She looked at Jordan. He appeared much as he always did, arrogant, superior, supercilious. Cold dread was creeping over her. Moistening her lips, she asked, “Where’s the fire?”
Jordan held her gaze, then evenly replied, “What fire?”
Then he smiled.
Eyes wide, Jacqueline knew-suddenly saw what none of them had-knew what her mother must have stumbled on, why she’d looked so haggard, why she’d been killed, why Millicent had been flung over the balustrade, why Thomas had been coldbloodedly murdered all those years ago.
It came to her in a heartbeat.
She hauled in a breath and screamed.
A aargh!”
With two footmen, Gerrard heaved the huge bundle of paint-spattered drop cloths out of the nursery window. They fell to the terrace below, out of reach of any embers.
Catching his breath, his back to the window, he paused, taking in the charred rafters and smoldering walls. They’d smothered the flames just in time, before they could take hold in the roof and spread.
A woman’s scream, faint but distinct, abruptly cut off, wafted past the window, carried on an updraft from far below. For one fleeting instant, it sliced through the stamping and thumping, the oaths, the noisy chaos as footmen and gardeners used sacking to beat out the last flames.
Gerrard’s senses pricked. He swung back to the window. He’d rushed to the attics, leaving Barnaby to see to his bedroom; he knew more about the dangers of paint-spattered wood and cloths, and the other deathtraps that lurked in artists’ studios.
Dense smoke billowed out of his bedroom below, but it was thinning; the crackle of flames had subsided.
They’d saved the house.
It must have been a maid who’d screamed, but why now? Why from outside?
The premonition of wrongness intensified. He hesitated, staring unseeing down at the gardens, then he swore. “Wilcox!”
The head gardener looked up from where he was beating out glowing embers. “Yes, sir?”
“Round up your men and get down to the terrace. Something’s happening down there.”
Leaving the footmen to finish damping down the attics, Gerrard flung through the door and pelted down the stairs.
Behind, he heard Wilcox rallying his men. “C’mon, you lot-downstairs. Look sharpish!”
Gerrard hit the corridor and ran. His chest felt tight-from smoke, and nascent fear. He raced to his room, barreled through the open door, spared barely a glance for the charred mess, not as bad as in the nursery. Leaping over debris, he saw Barnaby and pointed to the balcony. The telescope stood where he’d left it, safe and untouched on its tripod in the corner; he grabbed it, swung it up and pushed past the milling figures onto the balcony.