Page 17 of From the Ashes
I climbed inside while Lincoln spoke to the driver and secured our luggage. He joined me moments later. Drips of water trickled down from his hairline into his collar. His hand left a wet patch on the seat when he lifted it to wipe his forehead.
"Sorry," he said, out of the blue.
"The weather is hardly your fault." I peered out the window because I liked looking at him too much, and looking at him played havoc with my emotions. "Are Seth and Gus too busy to collect us?"
"They left."
My head whipped round to face him. "Pardon?"
"They no longer wished to work for me."
I blinked. "Oh," was all I could manage.
"They might come back when they learn you're home."
Seth and Gus gone. Surely they had too much at stake simply to walk away. They both needed the work, and they both believed that unmasking the killer was important. Lincoln must be wrong. No doubt they'd expressed their anger with him over sending me away, so perhaps he'd interpreted that anger as something more.
"Or they might decide to stay away," he went on. "If that's so, I'm sure they'll visit you."
I removed my soggy hat and set it on my lap. "What about Cook?"
"He's still at Lichfield, as far as I know." He pulled his watch out of his pocket and flipped open the case. "I have to go out again after we get back. The supernaturals listed in the archives need to be warned that their life is in danger."
"Not all of them, surely. Only the ones whose magic could be used to bring back the dead."
"I'll start with them."
"You've made a list?"
"I don't need to."
Of course. Everything was safely stored in his perfect memory.
"You need Seth and Gus to come back and assist you. Fetch them first then split the list by three."
"It'll be faster if I work alone."
I doubted that but I was in no mood to argue with him over his stubbornness again. I wouldn't win.
It wasn't a long drive to Lichfield Towers, thank goodness. I couldn't decide what was worse—the tense silence or my wet clothes. The familiar high fences and hedges of the beautiful properties at the edge of Hampstead Heath made me forget both, however. Glimpses of the lovely homes through the gates shed my dreary mood, and quickened my heart. Despite the awkwardness between Lincoln and me, despite the grim weather, and the prospect of Seth and Gus not returning, I didn't want to be anywhere else.
My breath caught in my throat as we drove through the heavy iron gates and along the winding drive. Lichfield loomed ahead, its wings spread in a welcome. I used to think it gloomy, its central tower forbidding, but no longer. There was nothing more homely than its gray stone walls and the smoke drifting from three of its chimneys. If Seth and Gus no longer lived there, why were there three fires? Had Lincoln told Doyle when to expect us?
The butler greeted us at the doorway with two umbrellas. He opened the carriage door and gasped upon seeing me. "Miss Holloway!"
"Good afternoon, Doyle. You weren't expecting us?"
He looked quite foolish with his mouth ajar and his eyes wide. "No. I, er, was given no warning." He glanced past my shoulder to Lincoln then handed me an umbrella. "Welcome home."
"Thank you, Doyle. It's wonderful to see you again. But I insist you call me Charlie."
He held out the other umbrella to Lincoln, emerging behind me, but he refused it, and once again got thoroughly wet as he took down the luggage. I hurried up the steps and glanced at my surroundings. Little had changed. The only difference was the calling cards in the salver on the table by the door. Visitors had called in Lincoln's absence. Five, in fact, all women, and very well to-do going by the thickness of the cards and the toff sounding names. I stamped down on the pang of jealousy screwing into my chest. His callers were none of my affair anymore.
I continued to the kitchen, stepping lightly so as not to alert Cook to my presence. He stood at the central table, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, his hands buried in dough. He did not look up.
"God, I missed these delicious smells," I said with a smile.
He glanced up. Without so much as a dusting off of his hands, he rounded the table and scooped me up. He was warm and soft, like one of his soufflés, and smelled like flour and butter and spices.
