The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(88)

When they finally hit the bottom, Cranford didn’t move. His eyes were open and he seemed to be gasping for breath. Simon shook him roughly. “Where is she?”

Colton appeared through the front door. “Flames are coming from the top floor in the back. Fitz is fetching the brigade. I’ll handle this bastard. Go, Winchester!”

“Quint’s been shot,” Simon shouted. “He’s on the landing. Get him to safety first and then send a groom for a doctor. Cranford is in no shape to do us any more harm.”

Simon raced back up the stairs, now thinking only of Maggie. On the landing, he saw Maggie’s servant hurrying down from the upper floors. “My lord! I cannot get in to her studio,” the woman said. “The door’s locked and the heat is something awful in there.”

“Is there another way in?”

“The roof !” the woman said urgently. “There’s a vent on the roof !”

Simon started toward her. “How do I get up there?”

“There’s a door at the top of the servants’ stairs. Follow me, my lord.”

By the time Simon stood atop the studio, he was forced to hold the air in his lungs and squint through the thick clouds of smoke. His panic doubled when he realized neither of them could fit through the small opening. How in the hell would he get her out? He kicked at the window and screamed to be heard above the roar of the fire.

“Maggie! Can you hear me?” He heard no response and feared the worst. He ran to the edge of the roof and bent over to look for another way into the burning studio. Startled, he saw a figure clutching the front of the neighboring town house. His knees nearly buckled. Oh, thank God. “Maggie!”

He could see her lips moving, knew she was yelling, but couldn’t hear a thing over the roar of the fire. She began waving her hands, indicating he should move away. All he cared about was getting to her.

He retreated a few steps, drove his legs full speed, and leapt across to the adjoining flat roof. Once he landed, he hurried to the edge and leaned down. She tilted her head to look at him. With her hair disheveled, and soot on her face and clothing, she’d never appeared more beautiful. His chest pulled tight, he called, “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, panic etched into her delicate features. “The window is locked. I cannot get inside! Hurry, Simon.”

He straightened and quickly located the door to the inside—and kicked it with all his might. The wood splintered and another few heavy blows gained him entrance. He navigated the stairs and the top floor until he spotted Maggie through a bedchamber window.

Seconds later, he lifted the sash and was reaching for her. Once her feet hit the floor, Simon dragged her into his arms. “My God, woman. You gave me a—”

She pushed him away roughly. “No time for that. Fire. Solvents. Explosion. Move!” She shoved him toward the hall.

Simon grabbed her hand and raced out of the room. As they continued toward the ground, they yelled of a fire to alert anyone who may be within the town house. They were halfway down the main stairs when a crashing thunder echoed, shaking the building, and Simon tugged her more firmly to the street.

They flew out the front door and onto the walk. Chaos had ensued. It seemed all of Mayfair had lined up along Charles Street, not to mention that the fire brigade had arrived. Men were shouting and giving orders while others struggled to keep the throng of people at bay. The pump poured water toward Maggie’s house—to little effect. The flames had engulfed the interior of every floor, and Simon cringed at each snap and pop of burning furniture or timber. Maggie might still be inside, if not for her quick thinking.

Maggie began striding toward her house, but Simon put a hand on her arm. Ignoring her surprise, he enveloped her into a tight embrace. He could feel her body trembling against his own. “You nearly scared the life out of me, Mags,” he whispered into her soot-covered hair. “Try not to ever do that again.”

She gave a weary chuckle and squeezed him. “I shall try, Simon. Now let me go see to my staff.”

“And I need to look in on Quint,” he said grimly.

“Quint? Why?”

“Cranford shot him.”

She gasped, turned, and began pushing her way through the crowd on the street, leaving him to follow. When they found Tilda, he learned that Quint had been taken to a neighboring house, with the doctor having arrived moments earlier. He pulled Maggie aside before leaving to check on his friend.

“I fear your house may not make it.” He wiped a black smudge off her cheek with his thumb.

“I fear you are correct.” She raised a brow. “I wonder why you seem pleased by that information.”

“First, everything lost can be replaced. That you are safe is what matters. And second”—he leaned to her ear—“I’m smiling because I happen to know where you’ll be sleeping tonight.”




The heat stung Maggie’s eyes, the air so hot she could scarcely breathe. Panic and smoke filled her lungs. She fought her way up off the floor, struggling to avoid the flames—but they moved too fast. She couldn’t get away—it was as if her legs were stuck in treacle.

She screamed for help.

“Maggie, wake up!”

Maggie awoke with a start, a gentle hand shaking her shoulder. Sweat trickled down her brow and she was gasping, every muscle clenched. A dream, she told herself. It had only been a dream. She was out of the fire, alive.