The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

The sight dragged Mosgrove from his daydream. “For all the saints. We’ve no hope of putting it out.”

They threw the contents of their buckets at the wall, but the faint sizzle sounded more like a sneer of contempt.

Mosgrove threw his bucket on the floor, coughed once or twice into his coat sleeve and then hurried to the window.

“Don’t!” Nicole cried, but Lord Mosgrove pushed up the sash and tried to swish the billowing smoke outside. “The fire will only spread more quickly.”

They had no hope of saving the manor now. And so their priority was saving themselves.

“We must leave.” Nicole hurried back to the stairs and had descended a few steps when she felt Mosgrove’s hand at her back, tugging, and pushing.

The flames roared above them. Flakes of charred wallpaper, the edges glowing amber, rained down on their heads.

Nicole covered her mouth with her arm. Every breath of toxic air burnt her lungs.

“For God’s sake, hurry.” Mosgrove barged past her as he raced down the stairs.

She hit the wall, tripped and stumbled.

Time slowed.

And then she was falling, hitting every other stair with a thud. She smacked her head on the tiled floor as she landed, saw Mosgrove’s hazy figure rushing into the dining room and then everything went black.

Oliver gave his horse a reassuring pat as he slowed to a trot. He’d ridden as though the devil were chasing his heels. Sweat radiated from the animal’s coat. Cyrus had proved almost as quick as a carriage, but the black stallion was tired and needed a drink and somewhere to rest.

Morton Manor was half a mile ahead.

Fear threatened to choke him at the thought of what he might find there, but he shook it away. Jeremy Asprey was a weak, insipid man. Mrs Asprey was the sort who sat in a carriage all day long with the sole intention of snooping.

But what could they do?

Even if they had followed Nicole to the manor, Jackson would not permit them entrance. You could hit the coachman with a metal bar and he’d barely flinch.

With his mind appeased, Oliver looked out into the distance. The moon shone full and bright in a cloudless sky. The air was warm. As the trees lining the road to his left gave way to fields, he noticed the plume of thick grey smoke, spiralling up towards the heavens.

The smell of wood smoke invaded his nostrils. With a narrow gaze, he stared into the darkness, saw a flash of orange light amid the ghostly silhouette of Morton Manor.

Bloody hell!

He gripped the reins, dug his heels in and hoped that Cyrus had the energy for one last gallop.

A few minutes later he charged into the courtyard and jumped down from his horse before the poor creature had time to stop. The sight that met him robbed him of breath.

The top floor of the manor was ablaze.

“Nicole!” Oliver cried out, swinging around and around in the hope she’d come running out of the shadows.

A sudden crack filled the air as the glass in one window shattered under the intense heat.

“Nicole! Jackson!” He shouted their names countless times.

Good God!

Oliver scanned the facade, searching for a sign, some indication that he should attempt to enter the burning building. Then he noted the figure climbing out of a downstairs window. Relief flooded his chest. Despite the trembling muscles in his legs, he raced over to find Lord Mosgrove with his hand to his mouth as he gasped for air.

“Mosgrove? What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Nicole?”

Mosgrove coughed and spluttered, rubbed his bloodshot eyes and crumpled to the floor like a marionette with broken strings.