“Right. I’ll go back. Mr. Earnshaw, head that direction, and you’ll find people who can help you.” Daniel pointed up the lane toward where the Thorndike carriage sat at the far end. He caught sight of his cloak, still draped around Lady Juliette. She was bent over someone lying on the ground, and the red sash indicated the man next to her was Duke von Lowe.

Daniel shoved down the uncomfortable feeling in his chest at seeing them together and entered the warehouse once more.

Coatsworth, to his credit, followed Daniel back into the building, and this time they went deeper into the structure, entering the passage that must lead to the offices. At the far end of the stone hallway, shadows moved through the smoke and steam, pouring water on hot spots. Soot streaked the walls of the passageway. The machines and inner workings of the mill must have been destroyed, but perhaps the structure could be saved.

Montgomery would have a long task ahead of him to rebuild.

Two bodies lay in the hallway, strewn atop a pile of half-burned flour sacks that had spilled from a cart. This must be where they had been shoveling the flour Earnshaw mentioned. Daniel checked both men but found no sign of life. The blast must have sucked all the air out of the hallway and tossed them hard against the stone wall. He shook his head at the viscount and checked the office door opposite.

The top half of the door had once contained a glass window, but that opening now gaped. The rest of the door looked as if a sneeze would disintegrate it.

A blizzard of paper—some with charred edges—lay in drifts over every surface, and in the center of the room, sprawled like an abandoned rag doll, lay Mr. Montgomery.

Daniel rattled the door handle, surprised when the door remained firm. It was sturdier than he had thought. He reached through the broken glass to open it from the inside, but nothing happened. Feeling lower, he tried to locate the key, but only the keyhole met his fingertips.

“Stand back,” he said to the viscount, who peered over Daniel’s shoulder before shouting “Garfield!” upon seeing Mr. Montgomery on the floor.

Daniel shoved him away, stepped back a pace, and raised his boot, kicking hard at the latch. Thankfully, the door splintered, rocketing open and thudding against the wall before listing on its hinges.

Coatsworth nearly ran Daniel over getting to Montgomery’s side.

“Garfield.” He dropped to his knees and took the man’s hand, leaning over to press his ear to his chest.

“Is he alive?” Daniel squatted and touched Montgomery’s neck. Nothing. He brushed aside some debris, and his hand stilled.

A perfectly round hole perforated Mr. Garfield Montgomery’s forehead.

He had not been pulped by the explosion.

He had been shot.