chair crashed to the ground with a splintering thud and smoke poured out the newly created orifice. A second later, flames that had been hugging the ceiling of the room lunged for the night air, licking outward along the manse walls.
'Corinne!' Edward roared.
The only reply was the crackle of fire eating everything in its path. After the initial burst of oxygen-starved flames, the blaze retreated back into the room, spurring him into action.
Edward spun around and caught up the damaged chair. With a mighty heave, he thrust the cracked rear legs into the flower bed and supported the padded damask back against the manse wall. He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around his forearm, then climbed atop the wobbly seat.
'Corinne!' he yelled, his damaged lungs seizing in protest.
Turning his head away to protect his face, Edward used his shielded arm to knock away the jagged glass that rimmed the broken sash frame. One thick piece was too firmly anchored and it sliced through his coat, shirtsleeves, and into the flesh beneath. He hissed, but refused to turn away.
Her precious face appeared, streaked with soot and trailed with tears. Corinne's pale hair clung to her reddened skin in sweat-soaked tendrils and her nose ran copiously.
He had never seen anything so lovely.
'Christ,' he gasped, near dizzy with relief. 'Come out of there.'
'James,' she whispered, her shoulders coming into view as she pushed weakly to her feet.
Admiration for her strength filled him. He knew how much it must have taxed her to break the glass.
'Yes, love. Come to me.' He held his arms out to her.
She swayed haphazardly and toppled out the window in a dead faint, her voluminous skirts catching in the protruding shards of the broken pane and tearing with a hideous rending noise.
Edward caught her and tumbled off the collapsing chair, twisting his body to absorb the entirety of the impact on his back. The breath was knocked from his beleaguered lungs. His spectacles were knocked from his head and, if he was not mistaken, presently crushed beneath him, but Corinne was in his arms, alive.
For now. She required the care of a physician immediately. Every breath she took rattled in her lungs and bubbled back out in black ooze upon her bloodless lips.
Coughing through his charred throat, Edward accepted the comte's minimal assistance to regain his footing with Corinne held securely in his arms.
He gathered the tattered remnants of her gown and strode quickly toward the front of the house.
Simon raced toward the rear of the manse. He had checked every window as he passed it, searching for the source of the scream he'd heard just moments ago. He could not reach her through the door, but perhaps he could find her still. He had to try.
The clanging of bells carried news of the fire through the city. The night air smelled of char and heat, and sobbing told the tale of woe that ended an event meant for revelry.
He reached the rear lawn and saw a handful of servants running to and fro with sloshing buckets of water from the stables. The stunned and terrified guests huddled in various-sized groups, paralyzed and useless.
'Halt!' Simon roared, his voice carrying through the night.
The servants paused, gasping, their buckets more than half-empty from the jostling required to cover the distance from the mew to the manse.
Simon gained the terrace, then leaped atop the wide marble edge of the fountain.
'They cannot battle this blaze alone,' he yelled, gesturing to the servants. 'Every able-bodied man must assist if we are to end this! There are others trapped inside in need of rescue.'
No one moved at first. Simon searched the huddled mass and spotted a young man of seemingly fine physical condition. 'You,' he ordered, pointing with his finger, 'come here.'
There was a brief hesitation before the man came forward. He was disheveled, his shirtsleeves hastily tucked into his doeskin breeches, his waistcoat and coat unbuttoned. From the cut and quality of his garments, Simon was certain he was a member of the peerage. But Simon did not care. Rank had no bearing in his mind when lives were at stake.
Grabbing his elbow, Simon lined him up by the terrace doors. He looked about and more men approached under the weight of his condemning stare. Some were sluggish and reluctant, but as the line formed from the door to the fountain, the level of enthusiasm displayed increased.
Simon grabbed a bucket from a servant, plunged it into the fountain, and passed it to the first man in line. It moved down, man-to-man, the participants gradually moving forward until the procession stretched from the interior gallery door where the fire raged to the terrace.
Of their own accord, the men changed positions-the lead man retreating to the cool air of the outdoors with an empty bucket, while the second man stepped up and discharged his ration of water before retreating to collect more and pass it along the line.
Once the water was flowing steadily into the house, Simon risked a glance toward the lawn and saw Lysette standing with two other women, watching him from behind the crimson mask. Relief filled him at the sight of her safe and unharmed, her white gown glimmering like a pearl in the moonlight. Then his relief was replaced by fear.
Her presence goaded him like a painful spur in his flank. There was danger here and he could not fight it while concerned for her safety.
He abandoned his post without thought, striding toward her with a clenched jaw.
'I need you to go home,' he said when he reached her, sparing a brief nod of acknowledgment to her two companions-one wigged, the other a brunette.
The wigged woman grabbed Lysette's elbow. 'I was just saying the same to her.'
Lysette opened her mouth to reply, but the set of her shoulders forewarned him of her intention to argue.
'Now,' he ordered brusquely. 'I cannot think while you are here.'
Simon led the way along the side of the manse, his gait so long and rapid that the three women had to scamper to keep up with him.
They reached the drive and Simon whistled sharply, drawing the eye of every coachman. The brunette took the lead then, hurrying to a well-appointed equipage and herding the other two inside.
Lysette reached out to him. 'Come with us,' she begged.
Simon caught her gloved hand and kissed the back. 'I am needed here.' He retreated and closed the door, glancing at the coachman with a silent order to set off. 'Godspeed.'
With a crack of the whip, the carriage rolled forward. The other coaches moved to open a pathway and within a few moments it was out of sight.
The knots of tension in Simon's shoulders loosened appreciably. Now he could focus on the grim task ahead.
He pivoted on his heel and headed back.
'Simon Quinn,' Lynette and Solange answered in unison.
Lynette glanced at Solange with raised brows.
'I would be remiss if I did not know the name of so handsome a man.' Solange smiled lightly, and Lynette was pricked by jealousy.
It was obvious from the conversations she'd overheard that Mr. Quinn was the object of an inordinate amount of female lust, but now that she had held him intimately, she had no desire to share even a small piece of him. His passion was addicting and she wanted the whole of it for herself.
Marguerite's gaze moved from the window.
'No one knows for a certainty.' Solange shrugged. 'However, I had a paramour who had the ear of Talleyrand and he was convinced the man is an English spy.'
'He is Irish!' Lynette protested.
'He is a mercenary,' Solange corrected. 'His loyalty is for sale.'
Perhaps that should have mitigated Lynette's fascination. It did not.
'Why did he act as if he knew you?' Marguerite queried with an accusatory note in her tone.
