Page 120 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

Turning to get his bearings, he tripped over a roll of canvas. Close by, a tin of paint varnish ruptured, spattering him with burning-hot liquid. Choking down a cough, he scrambled to his feet, intent on reaching the open window. But a sudden wall of fire shot up to block his way, fueled by the oil paints and solvents.

The smoke was getting thicker and heavy with noxious fumes. He spun around and plunged blindly through the swirling clouds in search of the door.

CHAPTER 27

Henning grabbed Charlotte’s arm to hold her back. “You promised you wouldn’t interfere, lassie.”

“The building just exploded into flames!” she shot back. “So I daresay that means the earl is either dead or in need of assistance in escaping the fire. I think that good reason to amend the original agreement.”

“The code of honor governing promises is rather rigid—it doesn’t bend to individual interpretation.”

“To the Devil with gentlemanly strictures!” responded Charlotte. She shielded her eyes to the flare of blindingly bright light that exploded through one of the windows. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I tend to make my own rules. Wrexford may chastise me for it if he wishes, but it would be like the pot calling the kettle black.”

Expelling a bemused grunt, he let his hand fall away. “I’ll come with you. I’m not very good at obeying orders either.”

“No! I need you to stay here with the lads.” She darted a glance back at the stairwell, where Hawk had fallen asleep in his brother’s arms. The noise of the fire had not yet roused them, but she feared they would both fly into danger as soon as they awoke.

“Please,” she added.

Henning hesitated. “Auch, you’re putting me on the horns of a hellish decision—”

Charlotte darted away, making the choice for him. The earl had risked his life for one of her dear little weasels. She wasn’t going to leave him to fend for himself when all hell was erupting within the warehouse. Her racing steps cut through the thin skirling of smoke in the passageway between the buildings. Hawk had described his escape route, but as she rounded the corner, she saw that a blaze of flames made the window impossible to enter.

Unwilling to accept defeat, she retraced her steps and headed for the front door, hoping against hope to find it unlocked.

Damnation!The latch, already hot to the touch, wouldn’t budge. In frustration, she slammed her shoulder against the paneled oak—and felt it give a little. Heat was buckling the molding. Charlotte hit it again and heard a crack. Stepping back, she threw herself forward at a dead run.

The bolt popped free.

“Wrexford!” she screamed, as she stumbled into the fiery maelstrom. All sense of sound and space was distorted. The whoosh and crackling seemed to swallow her words.

Was that an answer? Or merely wishful thinking?

Wincing from the heat slapping at her cheeks, Charlotte called again.

This time the voice sounded more real.

Drawing a sooty breath, she moved into the corridor and saw a flare of red-gold flames licking out from a room on the right. She rushed for the half-cracked door and kicked it all the way open. A blast of heat drove her back, but hunching low, she called again.

“Wrexford!”

A dark shape materialized within the swirls of pewter smoke.

Charlotte stumbled forward and grabbed the earl’s coat. Her eyes were stinging, her throat was burning. Holding on for dear life, she yanked as hard as she could.

Both of them fell into the corridor. Scrabbling up, she hauled him to his knees. “Move!” she cried into his ear. “We have to move!”

Somehow, she managed to get him upright and stumbling for the exit.

“What in blazes are you doing here?” he croaked.

“Gathering all the details for my next drawing, what else?” she replied, dodging a piece of falling plaster. “You know what a stickler I am for accuracy.”

Wrexford turned his head, the firelight igniting a flash of blue in his eyes. “You’re incorrigible,” he muttered. But the stern line of his mouth gave way to a quicksilver smile.

She smiled back at him. “By now that shouldn’t astonish you.”

“You never . . .” He ducked away from more crumbling plaster. “You never cease to surprise me, Mrs. Sloane.”