Page 46 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
They’d arrived at the cottage gate. She halted and stared up at him. He wasn’t angry? Or calling her too clumsy? “You would teach me to use the cane?”
He shrugged. “Everyone should be able to defend themselves.” He shoved open the gate they’d left unlocked to lure in their suspect and removed a knife from his boot.
“Do you smell smoke?” Verity whispered, letting him shield her. She had wanted him to rest for a few minutes. This was not restful.
He muttered under his breath and started for the side of the house. “Stay here.”
“Alone? No, sir.” She stayed a length behind, her cane clutched tightly. He ran faster—definitely the smell of smoke. A bell rang alarmingly in the distance.
“He’s getting away,” Rafe shouted, breaking into a gallop. “Fetch help.”
And let her home burn?Again?
Shouting, “Help, help, fire!” Verity followed Rafe to the back, where the pump and pails were.
With his long legs, he was out the back gate, racing toward the frantically ringing bell, before she emerged into the garden. Sheprayed he caught the culprit, but she had to save her home. Leaning on her cane, she searched for the source of the smoke—so many flammable shrubs and brown flower stalks she should probably cut... What was burning?
Mrs. Holly’s head abruptly bobbed above the hedge. Did she wear springs in her heels? The old lady flung more pails over the hedge. “Back step, dearie!”
Swinging around, Verity discovered smoke billowing from a pile of dead weeds and branches at the back door. Even as she watched, the embers flared into flame in a breeze and licked at the wood, bubbling the paint.
Terrified for Rafe, terrified for her cottage, Verity threw down her cane to pump water into pails. Limping, she lugged them to a fire that had grown in intensity while she pumped. She dumped both pails, sending up clouds of smoke and steam. The flames caught on new fuel.
Striding through the back gate, Mrs. Holly filled two more pails. “Been trying to watch, but I fell asleep. She coulda burned us all down!”
“She?” Verity took Mrs. Holly’s pails and stumbled back to dump them on the fire while the old lady filled the empty ones. The elderly and the crippled did not make a good fire-fighting team.
“Stout old worm wearing a hat like yours,” Mrs. Holly declared. “Thought it was you.”
Herhat? She still wanted to snatch the thief bald, but she had her hands full.
The alarm bell had stopped clamoring, and a tall lad raced through the back gate. That must be Ned, the deaf mute. Did that mean they’d caught the culprit? His silence verified she couldn’t ask.
While Verity pumped, Ned and Mrs. Holly carried. The stench was dreadful, the flames scorched the door but didn’t spread. Verity kept an eye on the thatch, but the embers hadn’t carried, thanks to good timing and good neighbors.
As they brought the fire under control, shouting voices had her praying for Rafe’s safety. Wearily, she pumped a mug of water for Ned. The poor lad had been sitting in a tree while everyone else ate and drank. She hoped someone had at least fed him. He gulped the water, handed back the mug, and dashed back out the gate, no doubt to follow the shouts. She thought she heard Rafe’s voice, but she couldn’t make out the words.
She swallowed hard and told herself the sergeant could take care of himself. She offered Mrs. Holly a mug and indicated a garden bench. “Please, sit down. I owe you so much?—”
Now that events had settled, tears seeped down her cheeks. She started shaking as she studied the scorched walls and door and saw how close they’d come to losing the cottage. Holding her elbows, she tried to steady herself. She could have lost this home too.
Why her?Was she being punished for surviving?
“Give me a minute to catch my breath, and I’ll fetch a broom.” Mrs. Holly settled her wide skirts on the bench and shook her head. Her salt-and-pepper hair straggled from its tight bun. “I never saw the like. I thought it would be good to have folks in the manor again, but not if this is the trouble they bring!”
“I don’t think the manor folk killed Miss Edgerton. They hired Rafe to find the criminal.” Verity wanted to look inside, but the blackened door was too hot to touch.
She needed to go in the front to fetch a broom, but she feared what she might see and lacked the energy to fight any longer. Using her cane, she dropped wearily to the bench beside Mrs. Holly, wishing for the earlier mist.
The shouting stopped. She’d heard no gunfire. What did she do now? Her safe cellar hadn’t taught her how to deal with the real, frightening, world.
“Shovel in the tool shed, dear,” Mrs. Holly suggested. “Dump the ashes on the burn pile.” She nodded at the tall foliage concealing the far corner.
Burn pile. Rubbish had to be disposed of somehow. She should have explored the yard more.
Wearily, she pushed up, found the shovel in the cobwebbed shed, and had started digging up charred rubble when she heard voices approaching. She didn’t think she’d be offering anyone refreshments yet, but she glanced up eagerly, hoping...
Rafe strode through the back gate, looking even more exhausted but triumphant—and carrying her lovely hat. “We have him! We’ve caught the b—” He cut himself off to stare at Verity. Only then did she realize she must look like a dumpy, broad-beamed Guy Fawkes figure with her scorched hem and soot-coated face. She leaned against the shovel and wished to disappear into the ground—but at least he was safe.
