The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(87)
She no longer cared. Without Simon, nothing else mattered. “I might, yes. At the very least, I hope they allow me a pencil.”
He blinked and his gaze slid away as he tried to regroup. Sensing this was her moment, she lunged forward, pencil raised, and aimed for his shoulder or neck—any vulnerability at which she could strike to aid in her escape.
Her skirts rustled, betraying her movements, and his head snapped up in time to see her coming. He hadn’t a chance to aim the pistol at her, however, and the force of her body knocked it from his hands, the weapon clattering to the floor. Her pencil hit the flesh of his shoulder and he yelped, shoving her hard with both hands to send her careening back into the wooden table. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and she watched, helpless, as Cranford lifted a nearby burning lamp and hurled it into a stack of paintings and empty canvases.
“No!” she cried. With horror, she saw the lamp crash open, kerosene spilling, and the reaction was instantaneous. Flames erupted and engulfed the canvases, burning them at an alarming rate. Her heart raced. Fire was every painter’s biggest fear, considering the mineral spirits and oil of turpentine so necessary in every studio.
Movement caught her eye. She turned to find that Cranford had retrieved his pistol and was leveling it at her once more. The flames leapt higher and the acrid smoke from the burning oily rags seared her eyes. Cranford pulled the trigger, but the pistol misfired, and the heat pushed him back. He turned to the door and she knew she had mere moments before the cleaning fluids succumbed to the blaze and all was lost. The resulting explosion was sure to level the room and leave her no hope for escape. Maggie sprinted for the door, but Cranford was faster. He slipped into the corridor, and slammed the door shut before Maggie could reach it.
Just as her hands touched the wood, she heard him lock it from the outside. “Let me out!” she screamed, pounding on the flat surface. “Let me out! I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Just do not let me die in here!” She kept beating, her fists aching, yelling for him, Tilda, or anyone who might be within earshot. With all her strength, she threw her body against the partition—and met naught but resistance. “Damnation!” she cursed.
Looking around, Maggie realized with horror that more than half the room was already ablaze. The fire was mere inches from her solvents, and black smoke billowed toward the ceiling, burning her lungs with every breath. She knew she had a scant few minutes, if not seconds, to live.
She went to the row of windows and swallowed hard. Jumping down meant certain death. She looked up at the window in the ceiling but knew immediately it was of no help. Even if she could reach it, the sliver of an opening was too small to crawl through. She coughed, hardly able to breathe, and realized she had one choice. Quickly, she climbed out on the thin ledge that ran beneath the windows. It was no deeper than the length of her foot, so she flattened herself against the house as best she could, her nails digging into the stucco. Do not look down. . . . Do not look down.
Still worried about the imminent explosion, Maggie searched for a path to safety. Inching along the ledge carefully, she made her way to the side of the town house as quickly as possible. She’d never been happier that the town houses were so close together in London. Drawing in a deep breath, she leaped across the small divide to the adjacent building’s corresponding ledge.
When she landed, her feet wobbled and, heart in her throat, she clutched the building to steady herself. After a harrowing few seconds, she gained her balance and exhaled in relief. She pressed her face to the surface, so grateful she could nearly kiss the building.
Her troubles were not over, however; if her studio exploded, this house could very well go up in flames as well. It was imperative to reach the ground as quickly as possible.
Chapter Twenty-One
The moment he alighted from the carriage, Simon knew something was wrong. There was an eerie stillness to the night and a strange odor—
“Do you smell smoke?” Quint asked, sniffing the air.
Simon’s heart stopped. He had no idea of knowing which house was on fire, but painters frequently used flammable substances. If the fire was anywhere near Maggie’s studio, the entire building could go up in a flash.
“Look there.” Colton pointed. “Smoke in the back.”
Sure enough, plumes of black-gray smoke wafted from the rear of Maggie’s town house. “Oh, Christ,” Simon said and took off at a run toward her front door. “Colton, rouse the fire brigade!”
He threw open the door and raced in, Quint on his heels. The acrid smell, now decidedly worse inside, hit his nose. Was the fire in one of the bedrooms ? The kitchens? He had to find Maggie as quickly as possible.
Blood roaring in his ears, he flew to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Just as he hit the landing, Quint yelled, “Watch out!”
Simon spun to see a disheveled Lord Cranford leap out from behind a corner and heard the unmistakable crack of a pistol. He ducked, covering his head. A body hit the ground, and Simon whirled to see Quint on the carpet, clutching his neck. Blood welled from beneath the viscount’s fingertips.
Before Simon could help Quint, Cranford put a hand to the balustrade and vaulted over it, landing on the stairs below. Simon sprinted and gave chase, leaping over Quint’s prone body to reach the steps. Acting on pure instinct, he sprung off the top step, catching Cranford’s shoulders and knocking him off his feet. The two tumbled and slid down the staircase, Simon using his larger frame to advantage, directing most of the punishment of the fall at Cranford.