No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(72)

“Yes, sir.”

She didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye before she was lifted again, this time slung over Mostyn’s shoulder and carried through the smoke-filled building. Outside, Mostyn didn’t pause and lower her to the ground. He continued walking until they were well away from the burning Ox and Bull. Then he set her down, not exactly gently, but carefully at least, and turned to look behind him.

Julia found her balance and followed his gaze. The building was engulfed in flames. The dark sky was lit with a haze of red and orange. All around them men and women rushed toward the building. Some carried buckets of water, but most just wanted to watch. In the rookeries of London, few buildings were insured in case of fire. Even if they had been, the fire brigades were unlikely to venture into those parts of Town. If a building caught fire, it burned. Attempts might be made to save the nearby buildings, but if those caught on fire, the best one could hope for was a dousing rain.

Julia watched the smoke billow up from the burning alehouse in great plumes. Neil was inside. Neil and Billy. Billy was only a child. He had made a poor choice to go to the Ox and Bull, but he did not deserve to die. She would hold herself responsible if Neil died. He hadn’t wanted to take responsibility for the orphans and the orphanage, and she had put him in a position that left him no other options. In fact, since she’d met him, he’d done nothing but take care of her and the boys, thinking of her needs before she even thought of them herself.

And then instead of urging him to get out of the burning building, she’d likely sent him to his death. She had made many mistakes in her life, but this was the first she truly wished she could undo.

“Wait here,” Mostyn said, his voice low and filled with gravel from the smoke. In fact, even away from the fire, the smell of smoke still rose from her clothing and choked her throat closed.

Or perhaps that was fear and guilt.

She nodded, pressing her lips together and watching the flames lick at the roof through watery eyes. What else could they do but wait?

“I’ll go back for him.”

Her gaze snapped to Mostyn. “You’re going back? You can’t!”

“Wait here,” he said and walked away, his long legs taking him out of sight before she could think of an argument.

“Idiotic men,” she muttered. “Who walks into a burning building?”

She would have to spend the rest of her life feeling guilty for the death of three males. She was such a fool. She should have listened to Wraxall in the beginning. She should have brought an army of men into the orphanage to keep the boys safe and Slag out. She didn’t know where she would have found the funds for such an army, but that seemed like a paltry concern at the moment.

And now Slag was dead. Neil’s blow might not have killed him, but the fire would. Would his cronies come after her? Would they know she had been responsible, indirectly but still responsible, for his demise?

Julia took a deep breath and tried to quiet her mind. A group of men ran past, and she pushed herself into the shadows. She knew where the orphanage was from here, but she dared not go alone, especially now that she’d lost her cloak and her copper hair would be a beacon to anyone looking for her.

But how long should she wait for Mostyn to return? What if he never returned? What if he returned carrying the lifeless body of Neil? Please let him be alive, she prayed. She had no right to ask God for anything after the sins she’d committed today. Sins for which she was not even sorry, for the pleasure Neil had given her seemed a small price to pay for a mark against her name, if indeed St. Peter was keeping track.

“Lord,” she whispered, “if you save him, I promise to entertain no more impure thoughts and refrain from any further impure behaviors. Just save him.”

She opened her eyes and a woman with a scarred face and loose but matted brown hair stared at her. Julia inhaled sharply—immediately wishing she hadn’t, for the woman smelled truly rank—and pressed farther back. But she was up against the building and had no room to hide herself more.

“Was you praying?” the woman asked, her accent so thick even Julia could hardly understand her.

“I was.” Her voice shook from fear and emotion. “My friends are in that fire.”

“Good.” The woman stepped forward. “Then they’ll be no one to ’elp you.” She moved closer, so close that she pressed against Julia, who was forced to turn her head to the side to avoid touching her nose to the woman’s as well as the stench.

“What do you want?” Julia asked, trying not to breathe too deeply.

“I want yer blunt.” As she spoke, her hands grasped hold of Julia’s waist, then skittered like bony beetles all up and down her sides. “Where do ye keep yer purse?” She felt for pockets in the dress and, finding them, delved inside. Julia resented the violation and pushed the woman back.

“Leave me alone. I don’t have any coin with me.”

“Come, now. Fine lady like you.” The woman looked her up and down, then shoved one shoulder into her chest and continued patting Julia. Julia tried to catch her breath even as the woman’s hands felt up her arms and over her breasts.

“Remove your hands! I’m no fine lady. I live at Sunnybrooke Home for Boys.”

The woman leaned her head back. “Where?”

Julia blew out a breath. “St. Dismas—the orphanage. I don’t have any blunt.”