Eleanor had too much to do to wallow in missing him, and the day or so between his departure and hers flew by. She was excited not only to see Hart again, but to make a start on redecorating the house. The Grosvenor Square mansion had been left much as when Hart’s father had lived in it, and Eleanor was determined to give it a new life. She’d be hosting balls, soirees, and garden parties of her own there, and she’d need to make a hurried start.
Eleanor traveled to London with Ian and Beth and their two children, plus Ainsley and her baby daughter, Gavina. Mac and Isabella had already gone, their three children in tow, back to Isabella’s London social whirl. Cameron had returned south to his horses, and Daniel remained in Edinburgh at university.
Hart had a private car that was hooked to the back of the train in Edinburgh, Hart, of course, always traveling in luxury. The parlor car helped keep the three busy children contained, at least. Eleanor helped with them, enjoying the task.
She watched them with a secret hope in her heart. Her cycle was late, which could mean a child starting or could mean nothing. Eleanor hadn’t conceived when she’d been Hart’s lover years ago, and she was much older now.
Euston station in London was crowded when they arrived, so many people traveling up and down the country. The train glided into its empty platform, Hart’s car being the last in the line.
Eleanor was happy to alight, the overcushioned comfort starting to wear on her. Perhaps she should redecorate the car as well.
Hart was to come to the station to meet her, and her heart beat faster as she stepped down to the platform. He’d scoop her up for a kiss—Hart wouldn’t care that all of London watched. She’d let him know, when she could whisper it to him, that her arm felt much better.
Beth and Ainsley lingered with the children’s nannies to put everyone to rights, Ian protectively with them. Eleanor couldn’t wait. She excused herself, eager to find Hart and go home.
Eleanor lifted her small valise and started walking down the platform, ignoring the porters and the duke’s footmen, who looked shocked that she was actually carrying a bag by herself. She spied Mac’s tall bulk in the crowd in the main part of the station, Aimee on his shoulders, Isabella beside him. No babies, so they must have been left in the charge of Nanny Westlock at home. Aimee would have insisted on coming along.
But no Hart. Eleanor tried not to let her heart sink. Her husband had many things to do now, and some crisis had likely prevented him from leaving Whitehall. That was probably why Mac had come instead.
Eleanor waved across the platforms and crowd to Isabella, and Isabella and Aimee waved back. She walked quickly onward, making her way to the main platform. She could almost feel Isabella’s hug and kiss, and see Mac’s huge smile and hear the booming baritone of his voice in greeting.
How splendid to be part of such a family—a large, unpredictable family with her husband at its head. Eleanor walked faster, feet light.
When she neared them, Eleanor saw, at the far end of the platform, entering the station, the unmistakable form of Hart Mackenzie. With him was the tall David Fleming, he and Hart debating something as usual. The pugilist bodyguards trailed behind them.
Eleanor resisted the urge to run straight to Hart and stopped to hug Isabella and Mac.
“There’s Ian,” Mac said, looking across the platforms. He shaded his eyes. “What is he doing?”
Ian was standing at the edge of the platform, two over, where their train had pulled in. His gaze was fixed on something near the waiting room, but Eleanor, glancing that way, couldn’t discern what had caught his eye.
Her gaze was drawn back to Hart, and Isabella laughed. “Go on. He needs someone to be glad to see him.”
Mac snatched Eleanor’s valise out of her hand, and Eleanor thanked him and started pushing through the crowd toward Hart. So many people, so many bonnets and tall hats, so many bustles and folded parasols and umbrellas to wade through. Did they all have to be here today?
Hart loomed through the crowd, Fleming having dropped back. Across the space between them, Hart’s gaze met Eleanor’s. She felt warmed, happy.
She saw Hart stop, turn, scowl, then lift his hands to his mouth and shout Ian’s name. Eleanor turned to look, and her mouth went slack as Ian dropped from the platform to the tracks, sprinted across them, climbed the next platform, and dropped onto the next set of tracks, never minding the giant steam engine chugging into the station toward him.
Beth saw, and screamed. Hart kept shouting. Ian cleared the tracks and leapt onto the platform with seconds to spare, his kilt flying as he ran for Hart.
A loud noise sounded to Eleanor’s left, nearly drowned by the groaning breaks of the approaching train. Eleanor turned her head, heard a boom! then saw a giant cloud of smoke, rubble, and glass expand and rise to cover the entire platform and all the people on it.
Eleanor felt her body pushed backward. She fell against a man in a long wool coat and then slapped onto the surface of the platform. Then she was rolling toward the edge, the iron face of the engine coming at her, and she heard the horrible hiss of steam and squeal of metal on metal as the train tried to stop.
Chapter 19
At the last minute, Eleanor stopped her wild rolling and shoved herself away from the edge of the platform. The locomotive slid by, and Eleanor lay on her stomach, trying to catch her breath.
She heard screams and smelled smoke, saw bricks, stone, and glass raining like bullets onto the crowd. She dimly heard Mac swearing, and Isabella frantically calling her name.
Eleanor pushed herself up, blinking grit-stained eyes as she climbed painfully to her feet. Around her people lay groaning, crying, some trying to rise as she was. She peered through the smoke to where Hart had been standing not a yard from the explosion, and did not see him.
The train next to her was intact except for broken windows and frightened passengers looking out of them. Across the platforms, through the thick air, she glimpsed Beth and Ainsley running for her, the fearful nannies staying behind with the babies.
Eleanor shoved her way forward, ignoring Mac and Isabella, her heart constricting as she searched for any sign of her husband.
“Hart!” she shouted. She cupped her hands around her mouth, tears and smoke stinging her eyes. “Hart!”
She kept moving forward, gaining strength as she went, until she was running. “Hart!” She heard Beth’s voice shrill behind her, “Ian!” because Ian had vanished too.
Eleanor saw Hart’s bodyguards frantically shoving through the mob. They were searching, turning every which way, not finding him.
Eleanor’s limbs turned icy with fear. “Where is he? Where is he?” she screamed at the nearest bodyguard.
The man shook his head. “He was right there. He was right there.” He pointed a thick finger to a patch of platform that did not exist anymore. The wall of the station house was gone as well, and remains of vendors’ carts were scattered across the rubble.
Eleanor ran to the heap and started pulling away stones. Her hands were too small, her gloves too thin. The leather ripped, and her hands bled. The bodyguard started helping her, and others around caught on, reaching for stones.
A hand came into view, one groping for life. Eleanor clutched it. The bodyguard shifted a stone, then reached in and pulled the person out. An older woman, one of the vendors. She clung to Eleanor, and Eleanor held her, stroking her back.
Mac reached her, bellowing into the smoke and dust. “Where is Hart? Where is Ian?”
Eleanor could only shake her head. Tears fell, hot, to her face, and she held on to the woman at her side, having no comfort to give.
Mac started pulling away the rubble. He shouted orders in a harsh voice, and people hurried to obey. Isabella was suddenly beside Eleanor, and then Beth. Beth was crying and trying not to.
“He saw something wrong,” Beth said. “He ran to warn Hart. He ran to help him.”
Ainsley came to them, her capable arm around Beth’s waist. “El, Beth, you should
come away. The danger might not be over.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Inspector Fellows was supposed to arrest them all. He was supposed to find them.”
“He did,” Isabella said. “The newspapers were full of it. But there are always others.” Her eyes held tears as well as rage.
“I can’t go,” Eleanor said. “I can’t run for shelter while people are hurt. I have to help them. You take Beth and the children home.” She had to stay. She had to know that Hart was all right.
She kept expecting him to rise like a giant from the ashes, shouting orders and taking charge. And Ian with him, Ian who was the most resilient man she knew. But—nothing.
People were coming, women with white pinafores, men in dark clothes, rushing to help. Eleanor gave over the woman she’d helped rescue to one of the nurses and turned to other unfortunates lying in the rubble. Mac and the bodyguards kept lifting stones, joined by workers and others in the station.
Ainsley at last persuaded Beth to leave with her, the nannies having gotten the children safely out through the other end of the station. Isabella carried Aimee, following the two ladies as they went, arms around each other. Eleanor, left alone, helped the nurses—lifted stones, held people, comforted them, bandaged the hurt.
At one point she saw a man rush in who had Hart’s build and look, and her heart nearly stopped. But it wasn’t Hart; the man was Inspector Fellows. Mac went to him and both stood back to survey the mess and the crowd.
Eleanor kept working, helping, trying to calm people and reassure them. The station was clearing, the injured being taken away, others gone or helping search the rubble. They found more people buried inside, all still breathing when they came out, thank God.
But no Hart, no Ian. As the station darkened with night, the platform was cleared to reveal a great, gaping hole. A noisome smell came out of the hole, which was half filled with rubble. Mac, with Inspector Fellows, bullied men to bring in equipment, and they dug down into the hole and the sewers beyond.
But they never found Hart or Ian, not a trace of them.
Hart couldn’t breathe. He was choking, drowning, and someone was beating him, blows crushing his back and ribs.
Don’t cry out. Don’t let him know how much it hurts.
It was very important that Hart never let his father see him break down, never let his father win. The duke wanted Hart to be his slave, to obey his every wish, no matter how trivial or how vicious.
Never. Though he beats me until I die, I will never belong to him.
The old duke had never tried to drown Hart before, though. Only beating, usually with a birch cane or a leather strap—or if they were outdoors, any stray branch that looked sturdy enough.
Through the pain and fog in his mind, Hart knew there was something—something good—that he needed to remember. Something he could hang on to, which would see him through. Something that made his heart warm despite the dank chill surrounding him.
Hart opened his eyes. Or thought he did. He saw only inky darkness.
The beating went on. Dimly Hart remembered looking down the barrel of a shotgun into his father’s purple and enraged face, then the explosion of sound as the gun went off. It rang in Hart’s ears still. Was his father dead? He couldn’t remember.
Something roiled in Hart’s gut, and he rose on his hands and knees to vomit it out. He remained there, gasping and retching, but at least his father had stopped beating him.
The roaring in his ears wouldn’t cease. Hart had no memory of how he came to be in this dark place, but he was certain his father had something to do with it. I’ll bury you alive, boy. Maybe that will make you respectful.
He smelled something sharp under his nose, felt a cold, smooth edge on his lips, and then burning liquid in his mouth. Hart coughed and swallowed. The liquid seared his throat and slid to his stomach, and he felt a bit better.
The taste was familiar. “Mackenzie single malt,” he croaked.
The hand that held it could not belong to Hart’s father. The old man would never have given Hart a healing swig of whiskey, especially none this good. This was the reserve stock, which only Mackenzies got to drink.
“Where the hell am I?”
“Underground,” a baritone voice said next to him. “In one of the middle-level interceptor sewers.”
“One of the what?”
“Middle-level interceptor…”
“I heard you the first time, Ian.” Hart knew it was his youngest brother with him in the dark. No other man would explain their precise location with such patience, prepared to repeat it until Hart understood.
Hart rubbed his aching head, finding something wet, which, judging from the pain, was blood. “The sewers, eh? Two Scotsmen left to die in the midst of English filth. I spent my first years as an MP on various committees on sewage. The Dung Committees, I always called them.”
Silence. Ian would have no idea what Hart was talking about, nor would he care.
“We need to get out of this place.” Hart reached out in the dark, found the warm solidity of his brother’s arm. “Before Father finds us.”
More silence. Ian touched Hart’s hand. “Father is dead.”
In a rush, Hart saw the shotgun again, heard the roar of it, saw his father crumple to the ground.
I shot him. I killed him.
Relief made his body light. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God.”
More memories came at him, especially that good, warm one that pushed its way up and spread through his heart. But with remembering came fear.
“Eleanor. Is she safe? Did you see? Ian, is she safe?”
“I don’t know.” Hart heard anguish in Ian’s usual monotone. “I saw the man put down the bomb. I tried to reach you to push you out of the way, then there was the hole, and we fell and fell. Beth was too far from the center of the blast, and so were Ainsley and Mac and Isabella. I think Eleanor was too.”
“You think she was?”
“You were closest. I had to reach you.”
Hart heard his panic. Ian could go into what he called muddles, where he’d either lash out or start to do one thing over and over, unable to stop. Even now, Hart felt Ian rocking back and forth as he tried to deal with his distress.
Hart reached up the best he could and put his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Ian, it’s all right. I’m alive. You’re alive. You were right. If you say Eleanor was too far back, she likely was.” He barked a laugh. “I wager you could calculate the exact trajectory and spread of the blast.”
“I’d need to know the weight and type of explosive.” Ian still rocked but it slowed. “From the smell, dynamite, a few sticks. The package he had was small.”
“We need to go back and get the bastard,” Hart said. “In case he has another stick.”
“He died,” Ian said. “He did not walk away from the bomb. He lit it and stayed with it.”
“Dear God, save us from madmen.” Hart scrambled to his hands and knees again and tried to get to his feet, swallowing a curse when his head cracked on a low, stone ceiling. He fell, his head spinning. It wouldn’t stop spinning.
Ian pushed Hart back down. “Five feet of clearance until we reach the storm platform.”
“How the devil do you know that?” Hart asked.
“I learned the schematics of the tunnels under London. Water pipes, storm drains, rivers, gas lines, the London Metropolitan…”
“Yes, yes, of course you did. The question is why.”
There was more silence as Ian considered. “To pass the time.”
He meant the time before he’d met Beth, when Ian’s life had been tedious.
“I’ll put myself into your hands, Ian. Where is this storm platform?”
Ian took Hart’s hand and pulled it in front of him to indicate direction. “That way.”
Hart rubbed his head where he’d smashed it against bricks. He still couldn’t make this dark world stop spinning. “All right. Lead me.”
They had to crawl. As soo
n as Hart began to move, bile rose in his throat, and dizziness threatened to cripple him.
Thankfully, after about ten yards or so, the tunnel rose a bit, and they could stand. Hart and Ian still had to bend their backs, the round ceiling low above them, but no more going on hands and knees.
Ian led Hart onward, Hart hanging on to the back of Ian’s coat as they splashed through icy water. Hart’s hands were cut and bleeding, and his head pounded like fury.
The only thing that kept Hart going was the image of Eleanor disappearing behind a cloud of rubble and dust. He had to find her, to make sure she was all right. That burning need propelled him onward.