Chapter Five

B y the time she climbed into bed, Francesca realized it was not lack of desire that kept him from her but respect for her situation. George would never take advantage. He was that rare breed, a true gentleman. And in the peace of her own bedchamber, reflecting on the disrespect she had received from the villagers since Percival's death, she was grateful. His care made her feel precious.

And yet her body clamored for love. Even while the rest of her rejoiced at the emotion within her, and within him. She smiled and closed her eyes, meaning to think of him a lot more before sleep claimed her.

However, she fell asleep almost at once, and dreamed not of George but of Percival.

He stood at the foot of her bed, managing to look both sad and excited as he did when he was leaving her for a few days or weeks. She smiled back because she understood he would be happy for her. He would want her to move forward with her life, find renewed happiness. He would have done the same had she been the one to die.

She was content with that, though sad because she had loved him so much, and he was never coming back.

And then everything changed. The curtains of the bed burst into flames, and Percival was no longer smiling but shouting at her.

"Francesca! Fran! Francesca!"

She could not move. She was paralyzed by sleep.

"Francesca! Can't you see the fire? Get up !"

She woke with a gasp, her heart hammering. Of course the bed was not on fire, but she could still imagine she smelled smoke, heard the crackling of flames. A quick glance showed her the guard still before the smoldering embers in the fireplace. But the sense of urgency, of panic, remained.

She leapt out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and opened the shutters to peer out of the window. An ominous glow came from the end of the house.

"Dear God," she whispered.

She bolted across the floor, pausing only to shove her bare feet into slippers and seize a shawl from the end of the bed before dashing through the connecting door to Mark's room.

She touched his shoulder, forcing herself to shake him gently. A panicked child would be less easy to control. "Marco, wake up, sweetheart. We have to leave the house for a little. Come, out of bed."

With shaking hands she forced slippers onto his feet and seized him by the hand before snatching the night lamp. "Take your coat," she said as they passed it hung on the back of a chair. She had no hands free to carry it for him.

George. She had to wake George.

*

George had not meant to fall asleep. He had lain down on his bed fully clothed, smiling because he had read the beginnings of love in Francesca's eyes, and she was a happiness he had never thought possible.

Afterward, he never knew if it was dream or reality, but a man he knew was Percival Hazel was shaking him. "Fire," he shouted. "It is up to you to save them!"

With a jolt, reality swamped him. The smell of burning, the bright orange glow through the window he had not shuttered, the sound, surely of cracking flames. And not in his hearth. That fire had gone out. He leapt up, seizing the still-burning lamp from his bedside table, and burst out into the passage. He ran toward the main stairs to bang hard on Francesca's door.

From here, he could see the smoke billowing downstairs. And on this floor, further toward the servants' stairs. He was just about to burst into Francesca's room when she emerged from the next door along, grasping Mark in one hand and a small lamp in the other.

"George!" she cried in relief. "We must get out! I don't know how bad it is…"

"Stay with me," he said grimly, and led the way down the stairs. Increasingly, smoke made him cough, but at least there seemed to be a clear path to the front door.

"Oh, God, Ada and Martin!" she exclaimed.

"Where are they? Where do they sleep?"

"Downstairs, the room to the left of the kitchen—"

"Hopefully they're outside already, but I'll make sure. You take Mark straight out and well away from the house."

To his relief, she did not argue. Mark had to be her first concern. Already starting toward the front door, she cried out over her shoulder, "Be careful, George!"

The desperate concern in her voice spurred him on through the baize door. Here, the smoke almost choked him. No wonder. The kitchen was ablaze, especially to the right, blocking the way to the back door into the yard.

Ignoring that for now, he located the room off the kitchen's left-hand side. Noticing a towel, he dunked it in the pail of water he passed, and burst into the old couple's bedchamber. He peered through the thick smoke, raising his lamp and holding the wet towel over his nose and mouth.

They lay side by side, perfectly still.

*

Francesca threw back the bolts of the front door. They felt warm, as though the whole house was heated by direct sunshine. She wrenched open the door, still grasping the silent Mark by one hand, and all but staggered into the open.

Even the outside air stank of smoke, and she could see at once that one side of the house was in flames.

"Oh dear God," she whispered. She grasped Mark's hand more tightly and ran down the path toward the garden.

"There! Undressed!" a gleeful voice cried out of nowhere.

Startled—could it be help arrived from neighbors?—she halted and peered at the two men on either side of the old oak tree, behind which they had apparently been hiding.

"What d'you expect?" the second man said derisively. "It's the middle of the night. The question is, is he in his nightclothes too? And you must admit, he ain't with her."

Francesca stared at them, her jaw dropping. It was Jack Forest and Bill Kell. "You are betting on the fire in my house? Instead of helping?" she said in disbelief. "My son could have died! My servants, whom you have known all your lives, still might." George. Oh God, George…

And then, seeing Jack's forceful nudge before they backed away, another, even uglier suspicion hit her.

They had started the fire.

As a bet to see if she and George emerged together as lovers. And no doubt as revenge for the thwarting of their well trick this afternoon.

"Dear God," she whispered with utter contempt.

*

Martin sat bolt upright like a stage ghost, without using his hands. And coughed.

Flooded with relief, George could hardly speak. "Fire, Martin. We have to get out. Wake Ada."

The room was already unbearably hot and the old couple all but overcome. There was no time or strength to search for other exits. George made a swift decision and broke the window, battering the glass out, so that it would not cut them to ribbons.

"Hello!" shouted a voice outside. "Anyone in there?"

"The Martins!" George gasped back as loudly as he could while struggling to breathe. "I'll pass them out to you!"

Only Ada's choking sounds told him she was still alive. He picked her bodily from the bed and passed her through the window. Somewhere, he registered that it was the innkeeper from the village who took her at the other side. Martin staggered toward him in his nightshirt, and George hefted him over the sill. Eager hands took the old man from his grip. Hastily, George dragged the covers off the bed and pushed them through, too. They would be needed.

The fire was spreading rapidly toward him, licking under the bedchamber door. From long-ingrained habit, George doused the lamp he had earlier set on the dressing table, and laughed at himself as he jumped and threw himself through the window.

Helping hands caught him, dragging him away from the heat of the building. He could see the old couple, wrapped in blankets, and several local people, including the innkeeper and the blacksmith. Desperately, he sought Francesca and Mark, but he could not speak to ask.

And then, like a whirlwind, she landed in his arms, sobbing, "Oh, thank God, thank God!" And for one blissful moment, her lips pressed to his cheek, his mouth, and his arms closed hard around her.

It was only an instant before he realized the innkeeper and his wife were subtly sheltering them from view. Which at least brought enough sense back to George to draw her away from him.

"Mark?" he said urgently.

"Safe with Mrs. Gates. You brought the Martins out alive, George, thank you!"

And then she fled toward the Martins, who might have been alive but were still struggling to breathe.

George realized that the hands helping him away from the building belonged to Mr. Paston, the magistrate.

"Thank God you're all safe," Paston said fervently. "I'll never forgive myself for not warning those two today as I should! If I had not thought to tell the constables to patrol past the house tonight, it could have been so much worse."

George wrestled his foggy brain into understanding. He stared at Paston. "You are saying the fire was started deliberately?"

Paston nodded. "By Forest and Kell. Not with intention to injure, I'm sure. They're just too ignorant to realize how quickly a fire can spread. I believe the aim was to see if you and Mrs. Hazel emerged together. A stupid, dangerous wager. And yet if you hadn't been there, the Martins would be dead."

George shivered with memory, gazing toward the burning house. It would never recover from this. All Francesca's married life, her home and her son's, were burning to the ground. Had some shade of her husband really warned him? If he had not, would George ever have awakened? Would Francesca or Mark have?

"Where are they?" he asked Paston with rare savagery.

"In custody. They'll be locked up until charges are brought."

George swallowed. His throat felt as if was full of hot razers. "Does Mrs. Hazel know?"

"Most of it. You must all come up to Paston Hall. My wife is expecting you, and the doctor has been summoned there."

Paston was tugging him toward a carriage. But George could not help looking back at the blazing house. Was the remnant of Percival Hazel still there? Peering hard, he could almost imagine a ghostly figure in the flames.

Thank you, he mouthed silently.

And it seemed as if a voice answered directly into his head. Almost an echo. Thank you.