Miss Pymbroke's Rules Read Free Page A

warned. “You’re Lord Carrisworth, ain’t you?”
    Staring at what was left of his family townhouse, the marquess nodded. “What of the upstairs?”
    The fireman shook his soot-blackened face sadly. “I’m sorry, milord.” He wiped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. “You’ve got yerself a pretty mess, but the house’ll hold up. I’d figger on six months o’ work, though, to put it back to rights. Can’t tell you how many fires I’ve put out that got started by an overturned candle.”
    Carrisworth’s gaze swung to the man’s face. “An overturned candle?”
    “That’s what it was, milord. An accident, to be sure.” Tugging at his forelock, he prepared to take his leave. “Well, you won’t be needing us any more this night.”
    After the man left. Lord Carrisworth went outside to stand on the stone steps. The crowd had dissipated. He spotted one of his footmen walking with a halting step toward him.
    “My lord! What ’appened?”
    “As you can see, my townhouse has been heavily damaged by fire. When the other servants return, board everything up. Exercise caution, though, I do not want anyone injured. When the house is secure, everyone is to go to Duxbury House. I shall bring you back to Town after the repairs have been made.”
    The footman was young and unsure of himself in front of his master. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he asked, “My lord, when you say, er, everyone is to go to the country, do you mean even Mr. Wetherall?”
    A long-suffering sigh escaped the marquess’s lips. “Devil take it! No, I am sure I do not. Tell Wetherall I shall engage a room at Grillon’s, and that he may meet me there. I daresay he will deliver me a rare trimming for this night’s work.”
    The footman bowed his way back down the steps and hurried around to the rear of the house.
    Carrisworth remained where he was. What a birthday celebration, he reflected wryly. For a moment, he closed his eyes and thought of the paintings of his father and mother and of his ancestors, which hung upstairs. What had become of them? Not that he cared a snap of his fingers for the portrait of his mother. But the others ... probably burned beyond repair, he decided with a twinge of self-disgust.
    The Watch called out the hour—-three o’clock. The night was clear and crisp. The stars shone down as if their brilliance was just for Mayfair.
    Suddenly, a plaintive wail sounded from the direction of the marquess’s feet. “Miaoooow.”
    His lordship opened his eyes, looked down, and swore roundly. Then, he recognized the cat. “Good God, Empress, is that you?”
    “Miaow!”
    “What are you doing wandering around outside at this hour?” He bent down and picked up the animal. Examining the paw Empress had been favoring, Carrisworth muttered, “Lady Iris will have my head if you have hurt yourself during this cursed fire.”
    At the marquess’s touch, the cat gazed at him innocently with wide blue eyes and began purring.
    Unmindful of the picture he presented, his lordship cradled Empress in his arms and started down the steps. Dispensing with the use of a coach, he walked in an easterly direction, turning left when he reached South Audley Street.
    The cat shifted position in his arms, causing a shower of hairs to land on his lordship’s coat. Lord Carrisworth spared a moment imagining Wetherall’s reaction when the valet found cat hairs clinging to what was now his master’s only coat.
    But, there was nothing for it. Lady Iris’s pet must be returned to her at once. The marquess knew his grandmother’s dear cousin often spent wakeful nights, and he did not want her to discover Empress missing at this hour.
    Lady Iris was indeed awake when the marquess arrived on her doorstep. Not wishing to disturb the butler, she answered the door herself. “Carrisworth! Empress! Here’s a pretty kick-up!”
    She swung open the heavy door, her gaze taking in the marquess’s disheveled appearance. Soot stains