“Come with me,” he said, leaning down to offer his arm.
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “A driver is coming for me.”
“He won’t make it. He’s likely stuck somewhere.”
The poor, frantic actress was garishly made up. On closer perusal, he could see blonde wisps escaping the bounds of her heavy black wig. Her tears smudged the theatrical kohl lining around her eyes, lending her an otherworldly look.
“I don’t know where to go,” she said. “I was to meet the carriage here, by the stage door.”
“You can’t wait for it. The fire’s just behind me, and they haven’t yet got it in check.”
She stared at him, frightened to numbness. He imagined he looked less than trustworthy, with no coat or hat, and his clothes disarranged. His horse started to dance, so Wescott braced himself and leaned farther, and pulled the woman up, depositing her in his lap, gown, wig, and all. She clutched at his shoulders, then at her wig as he galloped across the now empty square toward Parker’s Lane. Once he arrived there, he found the fire had circled around, cutting off his path to the north. He turned south again, cursing beneath his breath. Whoever’d begun this damn fire was causing a terrible lot of destruction.
“I c-can’t br-breathe,” the woman cried, choking on the words.
“Turn your face into my chest,” he said. “Cover your mouth and nose with that hair if you must.”
He covered his face too, drawing his collar higher against the smoke and ash in the air. She mumbled something else about her carriage, but he couldn’t help her locate it now. He had to find somewhere the two of them could breathe, and where his faltering horse could take water and rest. He turned east when he was able, praying the flames would die down, and the fire extinguish itself in the Thames before it made its way to Charles Street.
“How are you doing?” he asked the woman.
She didn’t respond, but he could feel her breathing in and out against his chest. He held her with one arm, guiding the horse with the other, disregarding propriety in service of keeping her safe. Her long performer’s wig covered her back like a cloak, and reminded him she wasn’t precisely a lady, so propriety needn’t be foremost in his mind. Still, he was a gentleman, a peer of the realm. He wouldn’t take advantage of an actress in a desperate situation.
She lifted her face and tried to speak, her voice catching.
“What?” he asked.
“There’s so much smoke. Where are we going?”
“Hold on to me, miss. I won’t let you come to harm.”
He rode with his trembling, sniffling passenger for half an hour, urging his mount eastward, until the ringing bells and shouts of the fire brigade faded and they found calmer, cleaner night air. His horse rallied, and the actress didn’t cough as spasmodically as she had, but he didn’t know where he was, or where he should go. He only knew he couldn’t turn homeward, not with the fire still burning, covering the streets in smoke.
“Hell and the devil,” he said, pausing at a trough outside a quiet pub to water his horse.
The woman stirred against him, roused by clearer air.
“Pardon my language,” he said as she peeked up at him. “I believe we’re out of danger. How are you faring, miss?”
In answer, she burst into tears. He stared down at his half-buttoned shirt—of excellent quality—now ruined by the smeared stage paint she wore. Despite the paint, he could see she had a pretty face, with wide eyes and elegant cheekbones, and full, appealing lips. He also could not fail to notice she possessed particularly alluring curves. She must have found it easy to make the stage with such accoutrements, and wondered how many admirers she had. Perhaps, like many actresses, she had a gentleman sponsor who spoiled and kept her. The thought displeased him as soon as it crossed his mind.
Why, do you wish to take her as your mistress?
A ridiculous idea to entertain as the actress leaked tears in her wig and ruined makeup, with both of them covered in smoky grime. He was of an age and status where he might take a mistress if he wished, sponsor a dancer or actress and buy her pretty things. He might even retain such a mistress after his eventual marriage, but that couldn’t be his focus tonight. He buttoned his shirt and made a loose knot of his cravat, a clumsy attempt to improve his piratical appearance.
“Don’t cry,” he said, being so bold as to run a finger down one of her sullied cheeks.
She shrank from the affectionate gesture, glancing around nervously. “I don’t know where we are.”
“I’m not sure either.”
“I waited for the carriage. I thought it would come.”
“You can’t worry about that now.” He wondered whose carriage had been coming to pick her up. Some gentleman who’d been waiting to spend the night in her arms? “It’s likely the driver couldn’t get through,” he said. “The theater had emptied by the time I got there.”