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“He must be touching up the lacquer on one of the ships,” Mr. Ellerby said. “You can smell the turps on him from here.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. Sophia occasionally used turpentine to clean her paintbrushes, but the aroma never traveled with her. The man must have spilled a full bottle on himself.

They reached the carriage, and Prescott opened the door for them.

“I’ll be on my way, Mr. Dennington,” Mr. Ellerby said. “A very good evening to you. And to you, miss.”

“Thank you, Ellerby,” her father said.

Hannah inclined her head. “We appreciate your assistance, sir.”

“Anytime, Miss Dennington. Happy to be of service.”

He stepped away, and somewhere on the water beyond his shoulder, an orange glow illuminated the darkening sky.

“What is that?” Hannah pointed. “It looks like fire.”

Both men swung around. Mr. Ellerby cursed, and without another word, he took off running toward the building that doubled as his office.

“Come, Hannah,” her father said. “There is nothing we can do here.”

He’d no sooner spoken than an explosion boomed across the wharf, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Hannah’s father staggered. The carriage horses reared, neighing nervously.

“Father!” Hannah cried. “Get into the carriage and off your wounded leg.”

Prescott had his hands full attempting to calm the horses. All along the water’s edge, men were shouting. Some were running toward the explosion farther down the wharf, but others were jumping into boats and pushing off toward the ever-growing orange ball out in the Thames.

“Quickly.” Hannah held her father’s arm as he took an unsteady step into the vehicle.

One of the horses neighed again, and the carriage shifted slightly. What on earth was happening? The faint smell of smoke reached her, but Hannah forced herself to focus on helping her father into the vehicle.

“Was it our warehouse?” Her father dropped onto the seat, his eyes fixed on the small portion of the wharf he could see through the carriage door.

Smoke was adding to the poor visibility.

“I cannot tell,” Hannah said. “Stay here. I shall see if it was affected.”

“No!” her father ordered. “It’s far too dangerous.”

“You know full well that neither of us will rest until we know if our warehouse was the target,” she said. “I shall return in just a few minutes.”

And then, before he could demand that she join him inside, she closed the carriage door, lifted her skirts, and ran back the way they had come.

Chapter 23

Samuel and Jealous had scarcely walked through the door at Number Four Bow Street before Jealous was shouting for Brogden.

“I need all the magistrate’s record books for between one and two years ago!”

“Nice to see you, too, Jealous,” Clarke said, appearing from Sir John’s parlor.

“Can you remember when John the Painter came through?” Jealous asked, ignoring Clarke’s jab.

“Sometime last year, I’d say.”

“Third quarter,” Sir John added, the swish of his cane preceding his exit from the parlor. “I associated that slight Scottish accent he has with the coming of the colder weather.”

Brogden arrived, staggering under the weight of eight to ten tomes. Samuel stepped up to help him.