Page 7 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Letting out a disgusted noise, Sloane started out of the room. Before he’d taken two steps, there was a furious pounding at the front door. Frowning, he turned toward it. The pounding continued, along with someone shouting his name. Sloane reached the entry hall just as the footman opened the door and began an indignant dressing-down of the boy before him.

But the boy on the doorstep paid no attention and shoved his way past the footman, calling again. “Mr. Rutherford!”

“Timmy.” Sloane strode toward the door, alarm rising in him. “What is it? What the devil are—”

“It’s the docks, sir. Mr. Haskell sent me. You’ve got to come quick. The new warehouse is on fire.”

CHAPTER TWO

SLOANE TORE OUT of the house, not pausing to throw on a jacket. Timmy had the foresight to order the hack to wait, thank God. He jumped in, and the boy followed right behind him. The vehicle rattled off, the driver spurred by Sloane’s promise of a double fare if he got to the warehouse quickly.

“What happened?” Sloane turned to the boy.

“I dunno, sir. ’Twas burning when I came to work, and Mr. Haskell sent me right off to tell you.”

When Sloane arrived, the warehouse was almost fully ablaze, smoke boiling up from it. The insurance company’s firefighters were there, as were several of Sloane’s employees, doing their best to keep the fire from spreading to the buildings around it. It was clear that the warehouse itself could not be salvaged. As if to prove the point, the rear of the warehouse collapsed with a great crash. The front was still standing but obviously wouldn’t remain that way for long.

Sloane started forward to help the others, but Haskell intercepted him. “Mr. Rutherford. I don’t know how it happened. When I got here, it—”

“Who was on guard last night? Where is he?”

Haskell looked blank for an instant, then his face was washed with fear. “Baker! I forgot.” He glanced all around them. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.” He turned and looked toward the warehouse. “You don’t think—”

“He’s still inside?” Sloane asked grimly.

“Yes. I didn’t think. I should have looked.” Haskell turned his frightened gaze to Sloane, but Sloane was already running toward the building. Haskell followed, calling out, “Sir! Wait! It’s too dangerous.”

Sloane reached the nearest door of the warehouse. The heat was pouring off the place in waves, eating its way through the building. He jerked open the door and went inside. Smoke filled the air, and only yards away the flames were licking along the crates and walls.

Coughing, he pulled out his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose and moved forward, looking all around. It was difficult to make out anything in the thick smoke. He stumbled across a crate and fell to his knees. And there, just feet away, lying partially behind another crate, were a man’s legs.

Sloane scrambled over and grabbed the legs, pulling the man out from behind the crate. It was Baker, the guard. Sloane managed to pull him up to almost a sitting position so that he could get his own arms under the man’s shoulders. Sloane was strong but Baker was large and, unconscious as he was, he felt doubly heavy. Sloane struggled to drag him backward while keeping track of the path behind them. He did his best to keep away from the flames, but even so his skin felt as if it were bubbling. Suddenly there was a large crack like the sound of a cannon and the fire surged toward them, running over Sloane’s head along the roof and down the wall.

A second crack came, even louder than the first, and a roof beam crashed to the right of them, sparks flying out as it slammed into the ground. Embers rained down over them, burning little holes through Sloane’s jacket and shirt to the skin beneath. The building let out another huge groan and crack, and Sloane staggered through the doorway as the walls gave way. With a great crash the building fell down behind them in a cascade of fire.

Haskell ran up to Sloane, Timmy by his side, and among the three of them, they carried Baker away from the roaring fire.

“It’s him,” Sloane said. “I’m fairly certain he’s still breathing.” He leaned over Baker, turning his head gently to one side. Blood was congealed on the side of his head and neck. Sloane brushed away soot and ashes. “He’s been hit on the head.”

“You think something fell on him?” Haskell asked, his tone skeptical.

“I doubt it. The wound’s here, just above his ear,” Sloane replied grimly. “More like someone bashed his head from the side.” He turned to Timmy. “Fetch Dr. Borden. Tell him I sent you.” He gave him an address, and Timmy hurried off.

“Come on.” Sloane rose to his feet. “We’ll discuss this later. They need all the help they can get with this fire.”

The next two hours were a battle to keep the fire from engulfing the warehouse’s neighbors, but the firefighters were able to keep the damage to the building next door down to one scorched wall.

By the time the fire died down to smoldering embers, Sloane’s arms were aching from carrying buckets, and he was covered in soot and ash, his clothes dotted with holes where sparks had hit him. He left several men to keep the embers from flaring up again and pulled his foreman away from the crowd that had gathered to watch the excitement.

“How is Baker?”

“He came to, sir. The doctor cleaned up the wound and wrapped his head. He’s got a giant headache, but he seems to still have his sense. I had Timmy see to it that he made it home to have a lie-down.”

“Good.” Sloane crossed his arms, studying the ruined building. “What was in the warehouse?”

“Silk, tea, hemp. Brandy. We just unloaded a ship yesterday.”

“Nice fuel for a fire,” Sloane said grimly.