Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (21 page)

“No kidding? You mean besides the thought
that I might have been drawn here to meet you, for all the good
it’s doing me?” She was immediately all attention. Slipping into a
nearby chair, she placed both feet flat on the floor and folded her
hands delicately in her lap—the model of Regency perfection. The
pose didn’t fool him for a moment. “Go on,” she said tightly, her
intelligent eyes unblinking. “What have you found?”

Ah, those clever violet eyes. They could see
through any artifice. Marcus winced and scratched a spot behind his
left ear. “I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted, carefully
measuring his words so that he wouldn’t say too much. “Do you
remember what we discussed the day I took you driving in the
park?”

“You mean before or after I told the Reverend
Mr. Austin that I
flew
to England?” Cassandra asked,
grimacing. “And you told
me
not to swear! I’m not kidding,
Marcus, you could have blistered paint with some of the words you
used on our way home. And then, once we were alone in your
study—”

“I have already apologized for my language,
Cassandra,” Marcus interrupted her. He sat on the edge of the desk,
aware that he had to anchor himself somewhere sooner or later and
get down to business. “And you were very good at Lady Blakewell’s
later that evening.”

“I was too frightened to be anything else
but
good, the way that woman was milking me for information.
I’m sure the vicar has convinced her that I’m a witch,” she said
self-deprecatingly, sitting forward in her chair. “But that’s what
I came to talk to you about this afternoon and why I sent Perry
chasing off to Bond Street with Aunt Cornelia. I lied when I said
he’d be joining us Marcus”—she hesitated, then went on after a
moment—“I’ve figured something out these past two weeks. I’ve
figured out that while I do know some things about Regency England,
I know only enough to make me dangerous. Dangerous to you, and
dangerous to myself. You’re right not to allow me out in company,
Marcus, and I was wrong to think I could help people like that poor
Marquess of Anglesey, much as I wish I could.”

She leaned back in the chair and spread her
hands. “So, now that I’ve admitted what an idiot I’ve been, why
don’t you forgive me and tell me what you’ve discovered? What sort
of test? And why do we need a test?”

Would she ever cease to amaze him with her
clear, if slightly belated, deductive reasoning? “We need a test
because what we are dealing with is a theory, and theories must by
rule be tested,” the marquess answered, picking up the guidebook
and opening it to the page he had already marked. “Here,
Cassandra—read this. And read it out loud, if you please.”

“Out loud?” Cassandra put out her hand,
accepting the guidebook with all the wariness of a person being
handed a loaded pistol. “Here? Where you’ve marked the page? All
right. It says ‘Known as the New Palace of Westminster, the Houses
of Parliament continue to rank as a royal palace even though it has
not been in use as such since the reign of Henry VIII, who moved to
Whitehall Palace. In 1547 the Royal Chapel of St. Stephen, as was
the case with all private chapels, became secularized, and by 1550
the building took on the name Palace of Westminster and was used as
the meeting place of the Commons. The Chapel was a tall,
two-storied edifice and, as it had no aisle, it was wonderfully
suited to its new use as a debating chamber. The Members were
seated in choir stalls and the Speaker’s chair was positioned where
the altar had formerly been. Indeed, the custom of bowing to the
Speaker’s chair can most probably be traced to the genuflection to
the altar.’ Marcus? This is all very interesting, but—”

“Keep reading, Cassandra,” Marcus intoned
gravely, suppressing the need to rise and begin pacing once
more.

“All right. ‘Once the canons of St. Stephen’s
were dismissed in 1547 and, considering that the Palace was no
longer a royal residence, Members and officials of both the House
of Commons and the House of Lords began to occupy many of the
vacant chambers in the huge building. This continued until 1834,
when the building was all but destroyed by fire. The existing
Parliament, including the Clock Tower, home of Big Ben, was not
completed until 1858, and the House of Commons sustained extensive
damage during bombing in 1941, when it was rebuilt once more.’
Marcus? Other than to prove what I’ve been saying about World War
Two, and learning that the Parliament I saw was not the one that
exists now—what am I supposed to be reading here?”

He rose, going to the drinks table to pour
them each a glass of wine. “Go to the last paragraph, if you
please.”

Cassandra read silently for a few moments,
then turned the page, reading aloud once more. “‘—And on May 11,
1812, at the height of the Napoleonic Wars, Prime Minister and Tory
manager Spencer Perceval was assassinated in the lobby of the House
of Commons by a bankrupt broker who had come to St. Stephen’s to
kill one Leveson Gower, whom he blamed for his financial problems.
As Gower was not available, the man shot the Prime Minister
instead, thus throwing the government into upheaval.’
May
eleventh, 1812? Oh, wow!
”

“Indeed,” Marcus said, handing her one of the
glasses. “Perceval dies in less than a month—unless we can prevent
it. A pity your guidebook doesn’t name the assassin. It certainly
would make our job easier.”

Cassandra absently sipped at the wine. “Yeah,
well, Marcus, you can’t have everything. So—are you saying that I
was sent here to help you prevent this guy’s murder? No—no, you’re
not, are you? You called it a ‘test.’ Marcus—are you planning to
use this murder to see if we can change history?”

He nodded, knowing he was getting to the more
difficult part of his theory. “If—if we can stop Perceval’s murder,
perhaps we can change—change another bit of history as well.”

“But not the Marquess of Anglesey, or any of
those people I’ve seen in the park? I’m not here to save the world,
but only one person? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Bottom
line, Marcus,” Cassandra said, pinning him to the carpet with her
violet gaze. “
Whose
history are we supposed to be
changing?”

He broke eye contact with her, not without
some effort. “This might be terribly self-serving, but I’d like to
think it’s mine,” he said quietly. “According to everything I’ve
read in the guidebooks, it is my conclusion that I am to die on the
last day of May.”

“Die? You?” She sprang from the chair in one
fluid movement, the wineglass dropping from her hand, its contents
making a puddle on the pale carpet. A deep red stain, like spilled
blood. “Oh, God, Marcus—how? Why?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t know.” Marcus bent
to pick up the glass and placed it on the desk beside his own. “I
have no enemies that would want to see me dead, or at least I don’t
believe that I do. Perhaps I walk in front of a carriage, or choke
on a peach pit. I have no idea. But according to your guidebook,
the one that is a general informational pamphlet on rural England,
Eastbourne, my family seat in Sussex, reverts to the Crown on May
thirty-first, 1812, upon the death of the fifth marquess. I, my
dear, am the fifth marquess. What happens to my cousin and heir I
cannot know, any more than I know what happens to me. It is my
theory—indeed, my devout hope—that you have been sent to me as a
most personal messenger, delivering a warning that will prevent
history from taking its course.”

She put her hand on his arm, her eyes
brimming with tears. “You mean that I have been sent through time,
not to be with you—but to
save
you?”

“Possibly. As I said, this is only a theory,
and scarcely scientific. I have been aware of the Perceval
information for some time. If we can save the Prime Minister, it
would stand to reason that we can alter my future—or should I say,
my seeming
lack
of a future. And if we can’t save
Perceval—”

“—if the Prime Minister dies, you die.
Oh,
Marcus
—how could you have kept this a secret from me? We’ve
wasted so much time!” The marquess stood very still as Cassandra
wrapped her arms around him and pressed her head against his
chest.

“And,” he continued stiffly, “that is why I
have decided—hoped, actually—that you will travel back to your own
time on or before the last day of May, an event we must begin to
prepare for now, so that Perry can help you if I’m no longer able
to be of assistance. I cannot conceive of your remaining in my time
once I am not here. The fates wouldn’t be that unkind.”

He put his arms around her and held her close
to him, shamelessly feeding on her youth and her strength,
jealously seeking her love when he knew it to be the height of
selfishness. But Cassandra broke from him and began pacing the
carpet as he had done not so many minutes ago. Her forehead was
creased in a thoughtful frown.

“All right, Marcus, let’s see what we’ve got
here,” she said dispassionately, delighting him with her lack of
feminine hysterics. “It’s only the second week of April. We’ve got
time—plenty of time. First things first. We’ve got to save this
Perceval guy. May eleventh, you said. Okay, let’s suppose we can do
that. From the way it’s described in the guidebook, all we’ll have
to do is stake out the lobby of the House of Commons, looking for a
wild-eyed guy with a bulge in his jacket—the gun, you understand.
Then what?”

Marcus leaned against the desk, smiling as he
watched Cassandra. He could almost hear her brain working, its
gears whirling about, seeking questions; weighing theories,
searching out answers. How could he have waited all this time to
tell her? Why had he allowed her to avoid him, when all he wanted,
all he needed, was to have her by his side, on his side, working
with him toward what, he hoped with all his heart, might be their
shared future? “Then what?” he repeated, picking up his wineglass
and draining its contents. “Why, I suppose we will just have to
take it one day at a time, until the thirty-first.”

She ran across the room and took hold of his
arms, shaking him. “Are you nuts? It’s obvious you haven’t watched
detective shows on television. Boy, could you have used a few
episodes of Miss Marple or Perry Mason. We can’t just sit back and
wait. I mean, you could die, waiting for the thirty-first. You
could be shot tomorrow—today—and not die from your wound until the
end of May. You didn’t think of that one, did you, Marcus? You
could be challenged to a duel, or run afoul of some desperate
French spy, or stumble onto a plot to overthrow the Prince
Regent—or even be poisoned by your supposed heir. Or perhaps your
mistress will hire someone to slit your throat. Those things happen
in books all the time. And don’t tell me you don’t have a mistress,
because Perry has already told me her name. Marianne Carruthers—so
there! Although Perry says you haven’t visited her since I dropped
in on you—which only gives her more reason to want to see you dead.
You see?”

She shook him again. “There’s a whole world
waiting out there to kill you. I’m not kidding. We have to be on
our toes all the time, Marcus. Marcus? Are you listening to
me?”

“You know about Marianne?” He couldn’t
believe Perry would be so indiscreet. No wonder Cassandra had been
avoiding him, the man who had all but seduced her in the music
room. She knew about Marianne. “What do you know?”

“
Oooh!”
Cassandra let go of Marcus’s
arms and punched him squarely in the chest. “I don’t
believe
you! Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

Marcus snapped himself back to attention,
rubbing a hand across his chest. Cassandra might be little, but she
was strong. Must be those “aerobics” of hers. “Of course I’ve been
paying attention, my dear. I’m a target for everyone from Boney on
down. I can’t imagine how I shall have the courage to lay my head
on my pillow tonight, for fear someone will jump out of the shadows
to destroy me by way of some terrible wound that will lead to a
long, lingering, undoubtedly unpleasant death.”

She dipped her head. “You think I’m being
ridiculous, don’t you?”

“Only slightly,” he said, putting a finger
under her chin and tipping her head up so that he could look into
her eyes. “But I do appreciate your concern.”

She shifted her gaze, eluding his. “Yeah,
well—don’t go reading too much into it, okay, Marcus? It’s just the
way I am. I’m kind to dumb animals too. I mean—”

“Cassandra,” he said, slipping his arms
around her waist, “don’t spoil it. You care. That’s enough.”

She looked up at him, tears once more
standing in her eyes. “You’re really going to die if we can’t
change history, Marcus? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? After
that day in the music room, I thought—I thought—well, you have to
know what I thought. What I hoped. But then there was that mess at
the park, and Lady Blakewell’s questions, and—well, I thought you
had decided I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“So you, in turn, began avoiding being alone
with me,” Marcus said, helping her with her explanation. “And
Marianne Carruthers had nothing to do with it?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe a little. But
not much. I can’t blame you for what you did before you met me. No
man lives like a monk, I suppose. Besides, Perry has promised me
that you haven’t seen her in weeks. Perry is right, isn’t he?”

“And if he isn’t?” He was teasing her, he was
sure she knew it.

“That’s simple enough. If he isn’t,
I’ll
murder you, and I won’t wait until the last day of May
to do it,” Cassandra replied, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I
may be liberated, Marcus, but I’m not generous. I was always
getting into trouble in grammar school because I wouldn’t
share.”

The slight trembling of her fingers on his
cheek told him that she was nervous, perhaps even as nervous as he
was. He pulled her almost roughly against his chest, threading his
fingers through her short curls. “Cassandra—do you remember that I
was apprehensive about your ability to have an emotional
involvement during your stay in my time? And do you remember, since
you saw yourself standing at the bottom of the stairs, longing to
climb upward, that I believed you had wanted to come to my time—to
me?”