Page 57 of All Duke and Bothered

“Certainly, Your Grace,” said Sam.

“No, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Brown. “That is, I am fine and would stay here to watch over things. Kitty, the kitchen maid, is coughing quite badly. And Peter, the groom, cut his arm when he broke the window in the sitting room to carry the furniture out. They can ride in the carriage.”

“Good,” said Preston. “Let them come. And anyone else who will fit. I leave it with you.”

“Come,” said Penelope, supporting him at the elbow. “Let’s get you inside the carriage.”

He threw a last glance Chalworth, flames shooting into the black sky like moving, living walls. His heart shrank at the loss of this ancient mansion that had so recently begun to feel like home.

After everyone was gathered, they drove to Sumhall. The streets of Mayfair were full of the reek of smoke, but it was only a ten-minute drive.

When they stopped before the tall, pristine white walls of Sumhall, Preston thought how this house, with its fashionable classic architecture, always felt so starkly different compared with Chalworth Place, which was dark, cold, and medieval. The house was big, with four stories. The front façade of the building boasted a series of elegant bow windows, each one gracefully curving outward. These distinctive windows were positioned one atop the other on each floor, creating two striking vertical lines. They were placed twenty feet away from either side of the entrance door, which was under a long portico supported by a row of six thick columns with scroll-like ornaments on top and bottom. The triangular roof structure above had decorative motifs of garlands of flowers.

Two figures burst from the shadows under the portico. “Preston! Penelope!”

As Preston got out of the carriage, his feet burning against the icy cobblestones, he saw it was Calliope and Richard who hurried down the stairs. Their butler, Teanby, followed them in a brown dressing gown and with a gas lamp in one hand. Even from here, Preston could see the butler’s face wrinkled in worry, his perfectly combed, thick white hair in disarray. Teanby had joined the household when Preston’s papa was an adolescent. He had seen all the Seaton siblings grow into the people they were today. And Preston knew Spencer’s death had aged the man as much as it would have aged a grandfather losing his grandchild.

Behind him, Mrs. Girdwood, the housekeeper, followed. Her white nightcap sat askew, revealing her tangled pale red hair. She wore a dark blue nightgown and carried a gas lamp, as well. She had joined the household only five years ago, but was already beloved and respected by everyone. Behind her, two maids and three footmen hurried, everyone in their nightclothes.

“Jason, Finley,” barked Teanby over his shoulder at the footmen, “help His Grace!” Then he stopped before Preston and looked him over. “Your Grace, may I inquire after your well-being?”

Preston coughed, then nodded. “I’m all right. Thank you.”

“And Your Grace?” he asked Penelope.

“I’m fine, thank you, Teanby,” said Penelope. Thankfully, her voice wasn’t as raspy as it had been when Preston woke up seeing Chalworth Place burning. “Could you and Mrs. Girdwood please make sure the servants from Chalworth are taken care of?”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Girdwood with a kind smile and a sharp, worried look over Kitty and Peter. “Your room is already prepared, the Sapphire Room for you and for His Grace—”

“One room will suffice,” said Preston before lapsing into a coughing fit. “We’ll take my old room,” he said when the fit passed.

Mrs. Girdwood nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. It’s all ready for you.”

“Here, brother,” said Richard as he stood on Preston’s left side and put his arm around Preston’s back. “Let me help.”

Richard looked so much like Papa, Preston’s chest squeezed. While Spencer and Preston had their mama’s coloring, Calliope and Richard had inherited their slightly darker skin tone from Mama, but their auburn hair, their bright blue eyes—they were from Papa.

“Thanks, brother,” said Preston as he gladly accepted Richard’s shoulder.

“The physician is on his way,” said Calliope, taking Penelope’s hand.

They entered the familiar interior. Inside, the house was all Mama. When she’d said she didn’t like Chalworth Place and wanted to live in another house, Papa had bought Sumhall, and she’d redecorated it like she wanted. She’d brought the Mediterranean here. The large entrance hall had pale turquoise walls with golden and terra-cotta ornaments, paintings of Spanish landscapes with palms and sunlit pale rocks against the bright sea. The drapes on the windows had patterns of palm leaves and oranges.

Sumhall was much smaller than Chalworth, but it was warmer and cozier than the duke’s grand London house, which always felt to him much more like a museum than a home. And now it was burning down, and who knew if it would even be possible to restore it.

“How did this even happen?” asked Richard as they walked through the foyer towards the grand stairs that led to the first floor and the bedrooms.

“I have not the slightest idea,” said Preston. “Do you know, Penelope?”

She breathed out. “Yes. Sam told me they think the fire started in the study. And he saw someone running away from the house.”

Worry brushed an icy hand down Preston’s spine. “Who?”

“I don’t know. He couldn’t see. But since the fire started soon afterward…”

“Arson?” asked Richard, his voice deadly flat.

“No,” said Preston. “That cannot be. Who would do such a thing? And why? I’ll talk to Sam.”