“There’s a fire coming this way, milords, a terr’ble fire burning up Parker’s Lane,” he cried. “We’re getting everyone out, right now. Berta, Ellie, put on clothes and run for yer lives, quick like. Take yer money and yer coats!”
Wescott helped Berta to her feet while Marlow ran to the window. The women scrambled to grab gowns, perfume, and baubles, the pleasing erotic tableau of moments ago exploded into panicked activity.
“Don’t stop to collect things,” scolded Charlie. “Gents, you must go too, with the clothes on your back.” He waved the women out as August fumbled to button his shirt and Marlow did up his trousers.
“Leave your damn cravat,” Wescott shouted to August. “We’ve got to get away, get to the coach.”
They herded frightened, half-dressed harlots as they went, and avoided the eyes of their fellow customers, lords, and some ladies, who’d come to Pearl’s for a pleasurable night. When they made it down the stairs and through the door into the open air, a flood of people had already filled the streets, fleeing surrounding buildings. The dry, warm fall had primed London for a spark to catch flame. Smoke poured toward them, advancing like a wall.
“Such a fire,” a rasping man croaked beside them, “and the wind’s blowin’ toward Drury Lane.”
“We’ll take the horses,” Wescott said, his senses sharpened despite the smoke in his eyes.
August covered his mouth with his shirtsleeve, his words muffled. They’d left their tailored coats and waistcoats behind. “It’s spreading south,” he said. “No way to go home.”
“Getting away will be enough.” Wescott wove between panicked groups, pulling his friends to the side lane where his coach-and-four waited. His groom stood near the shifting horses, watching anxiously in the direction of Pearl’s.
“Release the horses,” Wescott shouted as they arrived. “We must get away quickly.”
The groom untethered the beasts with dexterous speed, aided by Wescott and his friends. They were finely trained stallions, standing still for the men to swing onto their backs, even amid the crowds and threatening flames. The groom paused at the last horse and shouted to Wescott. “I’ll take the reins now, my lord, and try to roll the coach home.”
“Nonsense. Ride the horse and leave the coach to burn.”
“But my lord—” He coughed through billowing smoke.
“You’ll never get the coach through the crowds, damn it. I can buy another. Go, and I’ll meet you at the house.”
The fire brigade clattered past, their massive carriages parting the crowds as they made their way back toward the flame and smoke. Men labored over pumps and levers, many of them half dressed and half asleep. Wescott’s friends were already away.
“Go on, then,” he yelled at his groom, and to his relief, the man obeyed, freeing the lead horse and riding him bareback through a break in the crowd.
Wescott patted his stallion’s mane, taking care to give the animal clear signals as he navigated the chaos. The fire advanced at a terrifying pace, so he was forced to turn east as another engine arrived with groaning cisterns of water. He urged his mount in the direction of Broad Street, leaving the straighter path of escape to those on foot, but the fire followed, crackling and hissing in the dry night air.
“The theaters,” a gentleman bellowed in the middle of the exodus. “If the brigade can’t stop the fires, they’ll burn.”
Indeed, the evening’s opera would just be ending at this hour. As Wescott came to Exeter Square, the crowds ballooned as London’s upper crust poured from the theaters’ ornate doorways into soot-filled roads. Many carriages had gotten away to rattle down the street, but others were abandoned by their owners, left to burn. He spared a thought for his luxurious coach, with its custom interior and painted doors. This very moment, the silk-paneled walls might be melting under the flames.
He patted his horse’s neck to calm him, keeping a firm, easy grip with his thighs. He’d learned to ride bareback on the wild Welsh moors of his mother’s childhood manor. He wished he were there now, in the open, fresh air, rather than this flame-choked corner of the city. People fled en masse, peers and commoners alike, their mouths covered and heads bowed against the smoke. Ladies pressed their pristine gloves to coughing lips, running, however unladylike, across crowded streets to cleaner air. The menfolk guided them, urging them forward when they wilted. This was no time to fall out in a swoon.
Amidst the clamor of exodus, Wescott noticed a woman cowering against one of the theater’s grand columns, as if she might find shelter there. She was a performer, perhaps an operatic actress, considering her bright, Italianate costume and hip-length black curly wig. She coughed, clutching at her clumsy skirts, looking about for rescue, but everyone around her had already fled. Behind him, he could hear the advancing crackle of fire and the shouts of the brigade. They were chasing the flames, which were still heading this way.