No Clue at the Inn (Pennyfoot Hotel Mystery Book 13) (30 page)

She had caught his interest—she could see it in his eyes. For a moment hope leapt like the flames up a chimney, then he said brusquely, "It's out of the question, Cecily. How the devil do you concoct such harebrained schemes?"

Dismayed, she rose to her feet. "But Bax, darling—"

His roar startled her. "Don't 'Bax, darling' me! I will not allow my wife to work, even if you are the cause of our financial ruin. Now, leave me! I have to finish these infernal accounts. Just leave me in peace."

Angry herself now, she placed both palms on the desk and leaned into him, nose to nose. "You had better watch that sharp tongue of yours, Hugh Baxter,
and
that insufferable attitude, or I might just be tempted to leave you altogether." With that, she spun around and headed for the door.

Unfortunately, her heel caught in the hem of her skirt, tripping her. Her outstretched hand slammed into the door, causing her to gasp in pain. Incensed now, she tugged the offending door open, ignoring Baxter's quick query of concern. To blazes with him. If she had broken her hand, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

More upset at ruining her exit than of any damage to her fingers, she stomped down the hallway to the library. Perhaps a few minutes admiring the magnificence of a Christmas tree would calm her.

Carefully she pushed open the door to the library and peeked inside. To her relief, the room was empty. She really wasn't in any mood for polite conversation. All she wanted was to have a few moments to herself, where she could cool her temper and collect her thoughts.

She wasn't about to give up on the idea of taking the manager's position. She was well qualified, having owned the Pennyfoot at one time, and even though Baxter would be attending to his business, he would be there to advise and guide her, should she need it. In any case, there had been a long period, when he had left her employ and moved to London, when she had managed the hotel quite well without him. Thanks to an incompetent replacement manager.

As for his objection to her working, that was adding insult to injury. He knew very well how she felt about such matters. Her association with the Women's Movement had been a bone of contention with him, but he had never openly opposed her opinions and beliefs in that respect.

Women were entitled to do what they wished, and if working for a living appealed to them, no one had a right to prevent them from doing so. Not even their husbands. Especially not their husbands. She had given up all thoughts of working upon marrying him because it was her choice. Even though she had allowed him to think it was his decision.

But now the decision was up to her, and the more he opposed her, the more determined she would become.
Sooner or later he would see things her way. At least, she very much hoped he would.

Her heart aching, she wandered over to the tree. She needed the solace of gazing at its lush branches, now laden with delicate ornaments and pretty velvet bows.

As she came closer, however, she could smell something other than the fragrant pine she had enjoyed earlier. A smell of burning? Surely . . . ?

She advanced around the side of the tree to where the back was hidden against the wall. In disbelief she stared at the tiny flames licking along the branches. Someone, it seemed, had lit the candles on the back of the tree. Not only that, but several of them were tipped over, so that the wicks lay on the dry needles. Who on earth . . . ?

Startled, she watched the flames suddenly leap to the branch above. Thoroughly alarmed now, she attempted to blow out the candles, but it was too late. Even as she gathered a deep breath, a loud pop sounded above her head, and the entire top of the tree became engulfed in flames.

Black, oily smoke poured from the melting ornaments, and glass popped and shattered at her feet. She backed away, aware that there was nothing she could do except summon help as quickly as possible.

She looked around for the bellpull, but it had been removed for some reason. No doubt Edward had thought it less troublesome for the kitchen staff if they were not constantly summoned to the library. She would have to go back to Baxter for help.

The smoke was already stinging her throat as she hurried across the room to the door. Grasping the handle, she turned it and tugged. To her amazement, the door
refused to budge. In disbelief, she rattled the handle and tugged harder. There was no doubt about it, someone had locked the door.

Cecily frowned. The library was never locked as far as she knew. It certainly hadn't been when the Pennyfoot was a hotel. The key to it was on the set of master keys behind the reception desk, and presumably a copy on the set that was kept in the manager's suite. Someone must have used one of the keys to lock the library door behind her.

Turning back, she stared at the burning tree, now completely enveloped in the greedy flames. Whoever had lit the candles had to be the same person who had locked the door.

For a moment she thought it might be Lionel Fitzhammer, but then, in a burst of enlightenment, she realized who it was who wanted her dead. Of course. How stupid of her. She'd had all the clues right in front of her and hadn't put them together. Until now. Now that it could very well be too late.

Fearful for her life, she lifted her skirts and ran for the French windows. As she'd expected, they were jammed shut. A walking stick had been thrust through the handles. The smoke was choking her, burning her lungs. Heat from the burning tree made her feel faint.

Coughing uncontrollably, her eyes streaming with tears, she reached for her shoe. Her only hope lay in breaking the window and removing the cane. Even as she raised her hand with the heel of her shoe poised to strike, the strength sapped out of her knees and she sank to the floor.

As the darkness whirled around her, she heard the tree crash to the floor. She thought she heard Baxter's beloved voice calling her name. "Forgive me, my darling," she whispered, and knew no more.

Baxter took the kitchen stairs two at a time and strode swiftly across the foyer. He'd been looking for Cecily for the last several minutes. No one seemed to have any knowledge of her whereabouts. He'd sat for a while after she'd left his office earlier, fighting his own dratted pride. His anger had faded the moment she'd smashed her hand into the door, his concern for her easily outweighing his temper.

She'd left without a backward glance, and he'd nursed his hurt feelings awhile longer before surging to his feet. Enough was enough. It was time to make amends with his wife and put an end to this ridiculous squabbling.

If he were honest, he'd have to admit that her solution to their current difficulties held some merit. He hated the thought of losing his business, after working so long and hard to build it up. He was just beginning to make a name for himself in the city, and this time away had already cost him some transactions. He was itching to get back to it, and with Cecily managing the club, with his limited help, he could easily pursue his profession from Badgers End.

On his way to the suite, he'd faced the fact that no matter how he felt about his wife being employed, he was unlikely to prevent Cecily from doing what she wanted to do. As long as her work didn't interfere with their marriage, he could tolerate it. At least they would still be together under one roof, which was all he really could ask.

Disappointed at finding the suite empty, he had proceeded to the dining room. Moira had told him she'd seen Cecily go into the kitchen, so he'd gone straight there, only to be told that she'd left a few minutes earlier.

There was only one place where she could be now, and that was the library. As he hurried down the hallway, he was aware of a strange sense of urgency, and he quickened his pace.

He saw the smoke wreathing from beneath the closed door when he was still a few strides away. Raymond was coming toward him from the opposite direction, and Baxter shouted out to him. "Get everybody down here with buckets of water. We have a fire in the library. Now!"

After one startled glance at him, Raymond raced for the foyer, yelling at the top of his voice.

Thankfully Baxter heard him tell the clerk to ring for the fire brigade, though he knew it would be some time before they would arrive. His heart pounded hard in his chest when he thought what this could mean. If the fire took hold, the Pennyfoot could burn to the ground.

He turned the door handle, and was stunned when he realized it was locked. Apparently alerted by Raymond, two of the footmen were rushing toward him, and he yelled at them. "Help me break this down. All together, with your shoulders. Now!"

Within seconds the door burst open, sending all three of them stumbling into the room. One horrified glance told him the story. The room was filled with smoke. The tree had overturned and was lying across the fireplace. Fortunately, a good deal of the smoke was drifting up the gaping chimney, and the marble hearth had prevented most of the flames from reaching the floorboards.

He saw one corner of the carpet smoldering, and rushed to stamp it out. It was then that he saw her. His wife, lying on her side, her eyes closed and her dear face heavily smudged with smoke.

With an agonized cry, he leapt to her side and gathered her into his arms. Weak with relief, he saw she was still breathing, and he scooped her up in his arms.

He barely had time to register that a walking stick had been thrust through the handles of the French windows, before he lifted his foot and smashed it against the doors. They flew open, breaking the stick in two. With a muttered curse, he stepped through them and carried her into the life-giving fresh air.

Behind him in the library he heard people shouting to each other, while across the rose garden several men ran toward him with buckets filled with water, presumably from the fish pond.

In the distance, he could hear the faint clanging of the fire bell. They must have harnessed the horses in record time. Then he forgot about everything except for the white, lifeless look on the face of his beloved wife.

She was cold. So cold. Which was odd, because the last thing she remembered was the heat of the flaming tree. The fire! She had to escape!

She opened her eyes, and blinked. Instead of the burning room she'd expected to see, she saw instead the wide expanse of a gray sky. A snowflake drifted down and landed on her nose. She barely felt it. She was too engrossed in looking at her husband's face.

She was lying on the ground and he was huddled over her, chafing her cold hands in his warm ones, with tears clearly visible in his wonderful gray eyes.

"Thank God," he kept whispering over and over again.

She was aware of several people standing around,
murmuring expressions of relief. . . . and then they had disappeared and only Baxter remained.

Her throat hurt like the devil, but she managed to speak. "The last time we did this," she said unsteadily, "I seem to remember you proposing."

His smile warmed her heart. "Did you accept?"

"I think so." Her voice sounded odd, and she cleared her throat, then winced when the effort stung. She caught her breath. "The fire?"

"The fire brigade is here. They have saved the hotel, but I'm afraid the library and the suite above it will have to be renovated. The hallway, too, will need some attention, but we were lucky. The fireplace saved quite a lot of damage."

He reached for her suddenly, gathering her into his arms. "Oh, Cecily, what I fool I've been. What a stubborn, selfish fool. My pride would not allow me to take the blame for losing our home, and so I blamed you. Then, when I thought . . . all I could think about was how would I possibly survive without you?"

Vastly appreciating the warmth of his body, Cecily murmured, "You would survive quite well without my reckless behavior to impede you."

He sighed, resting his chin on her head. "Ah, but it is reckless behavior such as yours that brightens my world, and fills it with the spirit of adventure. Were it not for you, my love, I should be a lonely, miserable recluse, poring over my accounts like Ebenezer Scrooge."

She managed a hoarse laugh. "I shall remind you of this moment the next time you howl at me for landing you in trouble." She sobered, lifting her head to look at
him. "I am truly sorry, Bax, for all the trouble I've caused. I am devastated that we have to sell the house, and I quite understand if you do not wish to stay here at the Pennyfoot. After all, it will serve as a reminder of everything we have lost."

"Perhaps, but then again, the Pennyfoot owes us a debt. This would be a good way to collect it."

She stared at him. "Are you saying you will stay on here as manager?"

"No." He smiled at her. "I'm saying that you will manage the Pennyfoot, as you so ably have done in the past . . ."

"With your help."

"And without it if I recall."

"And you will continue with your business?"

"Precisely."

"That is wonderful news." Now she really felt better. "There's just one thing I have left to do now."

He looked concerned. "I don't think you should be attempting to do anything just yet. You have just been through a traumatic experience. You need to rest."

"I will," Cecily told him. "Just as soon as we have taken care of one small task."

He shook his head. "What is so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow?"

She sat up, then waited for her head to clear before allowing him to help her to her feet. She felt a little weak, and none too steady, but she was determined to see this through. "First of all," she said more firmly, "you must ring the police station and ask Inspector Cranshaw to get here just as soon as he possibly can."

Baxter frowned. "The inspector?"

"Yes." Cecily lifted the hem of her skirt and stepped gingerly across the porch to peek in the shattered French windows. The scorched walls and burned curtains made her feel like weeping. Then she noticed the shattered stick at her feet. She had been extremely fortunate. She could well have died in there.

"Come," Baxter said, taking her arm. "We'll go around through the front door. And you can tell me why it is so urgent to send for the inspector."