Swearing, he heaved the stone at the gate again and again, until he was sweating and his hands were bleeding from the stone’s jagged edges. After perhaps the tenth try, she said calmly, “Stop it. It isn’t doing any good and you’re only hurting yourself.”
He swung to face her, his breath shuddering his chest. “Do you have a better idea?”
“We could try to set fire to the door. Someone might see the smoke and come to investigate.”
It was a crazy idea, but not without merit. He eyed the distance to the door at the top of the stairs. “And how do you propose we do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Still breathing hard, he went back to select a fist-sized chunk of rock from the rubble. “Here, hold this,” he said, handing her the rock. He stripped off his groom’s coat and waistcoat, then pulled his shirt off over his head. The damp chill of the subterranean vault sent a shiver through him. He hadn’t thought to check his boot to see if they’d missed his knife. They had.
“Do you always carry that?” she asked, watching him slip the knife from its hidden sheath.
“Always.” He flashed her a smile that showed his teeth. “I even threw it at your father once.”
Using the blade, he sliced his shirt into strips and began to plait them. Her mind was quick. She said, “Let me help.”
He wrapped the plaited shirt around the rock like a long wick, then opened the hinged tin and horn door of the lantern.
“Don’t put out the candle,” she warned.
Grunting, he kindled the torn edge of the shirt, watched it flare and catch. Thrusting his arms through the iron bars of the gate, he held the burning, weighted shirt as long as he could. Then he hurled it at the door above.
It flew through the air, a flaming catapult that illuminated the shadowy stairwell and hit the stout door with a solid thud. Falling to the stone lintel in a shower of sparks, it burned up bright for one shining moment and went out.
“Hell and the devil confound it,” he whispered, then added, “I beg your pardon, Miss Jarvis.”
She stood beside him, her hands, like his, gripping the bars of the gate. “That’s quite all right.”
He swung to look at her, assessing the sturdy cloth of her riding habit. It wouldn’t burn any better than his coat or waistcoat.
She said, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Your petticoats.”
“My—” She broke off. He thought for a moment that she meant to refuse him. But what she said was, “Turn around.”
He went to select more rocks from the rubble. She said, “I’m finished.”
He threw his coat up to the door first, followed by his rough waistcoat, not even bothering to try to light them first. “Why?” she asked as he set to work ripping the first of her fine petticoats.
“They’re fodder. The lawn of the petticoats will burn fast, but the wool coat will smolder.”
“We hope.”
“We hope,” he agreed.
He threw the first petticoat-wrapped rock short, so that it burned in a bright, useless heap on the second step. The second try landed square.
“Thank goodness,” she whispered, pressing against the gate, her gaze on the small fire above.
It burned for a time, long enough to fill the air with smoke and the pungent odor of singed wool. Coughing, she said, “Will it kill us, do you think? The smoke, I mean.”
“Probably not if we go to the far end of the chamber, near the rubble. I could feel air coming in there.”
But in the end they had no need to retreat. Once again, the fire sputtered and went out. They had part of one petticoat left.
“It isn’t going to work,” he said.
“It has to work.” She pushed away from the gate. “Start ripping up the last petticoat,” she said, setting to work on the brass buttons of her riding habit. “Your coat was wet from lying on the stone.”
“You’ll be cold,” he said.
She stripped off her habit with angry, purposeful jerks, the white flesh of her arms bathed in gold by the dim light of the flickering lantern. “Just hit the door.”
Both parts of the riding habit landed with satisfying plops atop his coat and waistcoat. He’d have added his breeches, too, but they were of buckskin and would never burn. Clad only in her short, lightweight stays, a thin chemise, boots and stockings, she watched him carefully kindle the last petticoat. He let it flare up until it was almost burning his hand, then lobbed it at the pile of clothes above.
This time, the cloth beneath the burning missile caught, blazing up hot and fast. The air filled with the crackle of flames, the smell of singed wood. They stood and watched it burn, the big bell of St. Clements tolling four times in the distance. Then, as the small bell began to toll again for those who might have miscounted the first bell, this fire, too, hissed softly and went out.
Chapter 41
