Juliette eased her head to the side, trying to unknot her neck. She hadn’t been knocked unconscious by the blast, but she had been toppled onto her back, landing at an awkward angle in the bottom of the carriage and hitting her head on the far door. And she’d been stunned for a moment or two.

Just as well she’d been wearing her bonnet, which cushioned her head—though that bonnet would never see a walk in Hyde Park again. Still, better a hat crushed than her skull.

Surreptitiously, she felt along her thigh for her pistol. At least this time she’d fastened the holster securely. Not even being tossed about in an explosion had dislodged it.

“Do you think he was in there?” Agatha’s hand shook as she brushed a red ringlet off her cheek. “Do you think Alonzo and Mr. Swann will find him?”

“Let us move away.” Duke Heinrich made shepherding motions up the lane. “The smoke and dust are very bad.”

Heinrich’s arrival had shocked Juliette nearly as much as the blast. His excuse, that he was concerned about her well-being, puzzled her. Why had he thought she needed his aid when she was in the safe company of Daniel, Agatha, and Alonzo? Should she be flattered or concerned that he had followed them? His proprietary air bordered on smothering.

“We cannot leave. Mr. Swann said he would bring my father here.” Agatha gripped the handle of the carriage door as if she expected the duke to haul her away bodily. “I must be here when they return.”

At the far end of the street, the roof on the house beside the mill burst into flames, sending tongues of fire high into the air, black smoke billowing. Those who had been fighting the blaze were forced to back away.

Please, God, let everyone have escaped. Juliette bit her lip. Was Mr. Swann safe? Was he, too, trying to combat the fire? Or was he somewhere inside the mill, searching for survivors?

“Surely there is some way we can help? We cannot merely stand here as spectators.” Juliette stepped aside as two men, with a third man’s arms draped over their shoulders, slowly made their way up the street. The third man’s head hung low, and he did little to help them, covered in dust and soot … and blood.

Her stomach roiled. Why? Why did You give me this weakness, God? It’s not rational. How can I help people if my knees turn to water and my thoughts become sparkling pinwheels every time I see blood?

She shifted restlessly. “Agatha, if we just stand here and wait, it will seem interminable. Let us lend aid. Drag the seat cushions out of the carriage. Heinrich”—she abandoned formality—“find us buckets of water and blankets. Knock on doors and get sheets or tablecloths to use as bandages.” Though at the moment, how she would bind wounds without fainting was beyond her. However, she must try.