Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (4 page)

Perry shook his head. “If you already know
all about it, Marcus, why did you insist on coming here again? What
could be here today that wasn’t here last week, or last year? I
told you we should have stayed at Eastbourne. I hate London in the
winter. There’s nothing to do but stagger around this drafty old
pile, waiting for my best friend to break under the strain. It’s
not a pretty picture, I have to tell you, and I should think you’d
be concerned for my feelings in the matter, if not for your own
sanity. Damme, but it’s cold as a tomb in here. Lady Sefton has
sent us both invitations for the month. You know what we should do,
Marcus, old chum? We should leave at once. You know it will be
jolly good fun. Even Prinny might attend.”

“If our dear Regent plans to attend, no one
will miss either of us. Besides, he’d be bound to quiz me as to how
my search is faring. I had to tell him I was looking for ancient
treasure to get his permission to dig around in here, and he’s so
purse-pinched he believes me. I’ll probably have to produce a bag
of pearls from my own stock or some such trinket sooner or later,
just to quiet him. Now, come on, Perry. You must have caught your
breath by now. I can’t explain it, but I have this almost
overpowering feeling that I am finally close to an answer to
Green’s little fairy tale, as you call it. And the answer lies
somewhere in that room. You see, I have formulated this
theory—”

“Yes, yes, a theory. Of course you have. How
wonderful for you, Marcus. You must feel very gratified. Tell you
what, if you promise not to share it with me, I’ll be with you
shortly.” Perry leaned back in the chair and spread his legs out in
front of him, the action nearly sending him sliding to the floor.
“Stupid chair. I just want to rest here for a moment,” he said,
pulling himself upright on the hard overstuffed seat.

Without waiting for Perry, Marcus plunged
down the hallway, grabbing up a torch to light his way down the
long, spiraling staircase to the small chamber.

Yes, he could feel it building, this strange
urgency to see the chamber once more. His skin prickled, and he was
aware of a certain light-headedness akin to the sensation he’d
experienced at eighteen upon his initial sight of the dimpled
Covent Garden warbler who eventually became his first mistress.
Although he had learned to guard his emotions—and his purse—with
more care in the ensuing dozen years, he could still remember the
feeling. Something extraordinary awaited him in the chamber below.
He would bet his best bays and curricle on it.

He was nearly to the bottom of the stairs
when he heard it. Actually, he could have been at the top of the
stairs—or possibly still outside—and not missed it, for it had to
be the most prodigiously
loud
scream he had ever heard,
bouncing wildly off the stone walls to assault his ears from every
direction.

Three seconds later Perry cannoned into
Marcus’s back, nearly sending the two of them tumbling down the
remainder of the steps. “My God! Marcus—what
was
that?
Banshees? It sounded like a pig caught in a grate.”

Marcus held the torch high and used his free
hand to brace himself against the rough ragstone walls. “It was a
female,” he said, the pressure he’d felt in his chest all day
nearly crushing him. He reached into his high-top Hessians and
pulled out his stiletto. “Come on, Perry, stay close behind
me.”

“Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch. And
where did you think I was going to be—in
front
of you?”
Perry, bent nearly in half, held on to Marcus’s coattails as they
negotiated the last turn in the staircase and entered the small
chamber. Once his feet were safely on the stone floor he peeked out
from behind Marcus, who had replaced the stiletto in his boot and
was now standing very still and straight.

“Good Lord, Marcus,” Perry exclaimed,
bug-eyed as a strange blue mist evaporated into the air. “You were
right. It is a woman. And the chit’s
naked!
”

~ ~ ~

Cassandra heard a male voice and knew she had
been discovered breaking the rules. She should have realized she
wouldn’t get away with it; she
never
got away with it. Still
pressing her hands against her eyes, she struggled to envision how
Sheila would have handled the situation, for as surely as Cassandra
was freezing her pinched toes off in the damp room, facing possible
disaster, Sheila give-’em-hell Cranston could have stepped in this
same mud puddle of trouble and still come up smelling like a
rose.

But she wasn’t Sheila. She was Cassandra, and
she’d have to fake it.

She lowered her hands to find that,
thankfully, the strange, frightening blue mist had melted away and
the small room was now lit by a brightly burning torch held by—“Oh,
my God!”

Cassandra blinked, shook her head, then
blinked again. She walked over to where the men were standing, the
tall, handsome one very stiff and straight, the shorter, pudgy one
seemingly trying to hide in the shadows behind his companion.
“Hello there,” she said, forcing a careless tone into her voice,
hoping they would overlook her outburst. “I guess I’m out of
bounds, aren’t I, guys? I’ve heard of Mounties coming to the
rescue, but we’re not in Canada, are we? But don’t you both look
terrific! What are you dressed up for? I didn’t know they gave
performances here. Disney World comes to jolly old England,
what?”

Cassandra shut her mouth, feeling as if she
were giving her impersonation of Alice’s Ugly American husband.

The men made no move to answer her, which
convinced her she had been rude, if not unintelligible. Fear did
that to a person, she reasoned, then pushed on, knowing she was
behaving like a first-class idiot.

She inspected the two men and their
anachronistic attire, walking fully around them before standing in
front of them once more. “Regency Era, isn’t it?” she asked
conversationally, having taken note of their tight buckskins, trim
jackets, and intricately tied starched neckcloths. “They’re very
good. I was an assistant editor of our Regency line for nearly two
years, until just last month, actually, so that’s why I recognize
the clothes—from the cover art, you understand. Do you know it used
to take those guys
hours
to get their neckcloths just right?
You have to know a lot about that era in order to be an effective
editor. I’m not surprised they chose to dress you in Regency
clothes; it was quite a wonderful time in your history, wasn’t it?
Did you have to learn to tie them yourselves, or are those
clip-ons—you, know—like the ties?”

Still neither man spoke, although the tall
one had begun to smile down at her in a most disconcerting way. The
light cast by the torch he carried really wasn’t very good and it
cast weird, flickering shadows on the walls that were beginning to
give her the creeps. The quiet, staring men were giving her the
creeps. As a matter of fact, the whole cold, damp, dark place was
getting on her nerves, and she longed for the bright lights and
spiked pink hair of King’s Road.

The men stood directly in front of the steps,
keeping her from them, so Cassandra gave it another shot. “Did I
tell you I’m an editor? A book editor, actually—the paperback kind.
I work for Wilmont Publishing. In New York—that’s in America. Silly
me, you already knew that, didn’t you? You probably haven’t heard
of us because we specialize in romances—no spy thrillers or
anything—for women, you understand. I’ve been moved to
contemporaries now, but I really fell in love with England while
working on our Mayfair line. I’m just here for the weekend, to peek
in on your London Book Fair, but I’m coming back at the end of May
with some friends of mine who—hey, look—I must be boring you. How
about I come right to the point? I became separated from my tour
group, and I seem to have lost my way while looking for the gift
shop. I thought I’d buy a miniature headman’s ax for my nephew,
Todd. He’s a bloodthirsty little bas—”

Cassandra’s rambling monologue faltered, and
she bit her lip a moment, struggling for composure. “You know, I
had the strangest experience just now. It got all
foggy
in
here and I couldn’t see anything. I was really frightened—I may
even have screamed.”

She wrinkled her nose as she grimaced. “All
right, I admit it—I did scream. I guess you heard me and came
charging to the rescue. Sorry about that. Well, anyway, as long as
you’re here, you guys wouldn’t mind showing me the way to the gift
shop, would you? You know, the
gift shop?
The
souvenir
emporium?
”

This wasn’t going well. As a matter of fact,
it wasn’t going anywhere at all.
“Um”
—she said timidly as
the two men continued to stare at her as if she had been speaking a
foreign language or something—“you
do
talk, don’t you,
fellas? Come to think of it, Mickey Mouse doesn’t—speak, that is—he
just dances around and has his picture taken with all the kids.
That’s a shame. I’d really love to hear you talk. I’m not arrested
or anything, am I? Sam—Sam’s my boss—well, anyway, he’ll have a cow
if I’m arrested. Oh, Lord, why can’t I keep my mouth shut?”

The shorter man tugged on the other man’s
sleeve, looking up at his friend, his watery blue eyes wide. “You
know what it is, Marcus—I think the chit’s a witch. Do all witches
talk so much? She’s beginning to give me the headache. Do you think
she’ll turn us into toads?”

“Shut up, Perry,” the taller man said
quietly, still staring at Cassandra in a way that made her feel as
if she were a particularly rare bug squashed between slides under a
microscope. “Would you please be so kind as to give us your name,
madam?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Madam? Oh,
brother, I
am
arrested. I knew it. I have to tell you
something, guys, I don’t think it’s particularly sporting to have
security guards dressed up like part of the show.” She shook her
head, disgusted with herself. “Here I am, all grown up, and I’m
still getting called to the principal’s office. Will I never learn?
Madam! Nobody
ever
calls me madam.”

“My apologies,
miss
,” the taller man
amended promptly, handing the torch to the other man and removing
his greatcoat, to place it around her shoulders. “Here, you must be
cold, dressed as you are. And don’t be frightened, my dear. You
aren’t under arrest.”

“She should be, Marcus, tripping around
London all but jay-naked like that. Either arrested or put to trod
the stage. She’s got nice enough legs for it, I’ll give her that.
If only she didn’t talk so much.”

“Perry, for God’s sake, stifle yourself,” the
man called Marcus warned, smiling down at Cassandra, still with
more assessing curiosity than kindness in his piercing green eyes.
“Please excuse my friend, miss, as he has the most abominable habit
of speaking before he thinks—when he bothers to think at all,
having been forced to do it as a youth only to learn the process
fatigued him most prodigiously. Allow me to handle the
introductions. I’m Pendelton—Marquess of Eastbourne—and this is my
very good friend, the Honorable Peregrine Walton. We’re both
perfectly harmless, I promise you. Tell me—who is this Mickey
Mouse?”

He was the Marquess of Eastbourne? Sure, and
she was Madonna.
Who is Mickey Mouse?
What a silly question.
Were these guys brought here from some time warp or something?
Cassandra pulled the greatcoat more closely around her, Perry’s
avid stare making her feel decidedly underdressed. Was it her
imagination, or had the temperature dropped thirty degrees?

“Thank you. My name is Kelley. Cassandra
Kelley,” she answered at last, believing she owed them at least
that much.

Perry seemed to relax. “Irish, huh. That
explains a lot. At least I guess it does. Never did know an
Irishman that made a drop of sense, unless he was in his cups.”

Cassandra gave the man a dirty look, then
carefully hid her Irish temper. “I—I think I’d like to leave now,
if you don’t mind,” she said, taking a step, terribly aware that
she was all alone in the small room with two very strangely dressed
men. “Miss Smithers will be missing me.”

Marcus took a step as well, blocking her way.
“Miss Smithers? Is she your chaperon, Miss Kelley? I’d like to meet
her.”

“My chaperon? Miss Smithers?” Cassandra
laughed. “Hardly. She’s a retired librarian from somewhere in
Nebraska. No, I just met her today. Now, please, step aside.”

“Nebraska? Precisely where in Ireland is
that, Marcus, do you know? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the
place.” Perry, who had also taken a step forward, sighed, bent his
head, and returned to his original spot. “I know, I know—‘shut up,
Perry.’ I have to tell you, Marcus, this isn’t the most jolly time
you’ve ever shown me, stap me if it ain’t. As a matter of fact, I
might just go wait in the coach.”

“Do that, Perry,” Marcus said silkily.

“
Don’t
do that, Perry,” Cassandra
warned quickly, grabbing at the man’s arm and nearly dislodging the
torch as he shrank from her touch, “at least not without me. I,
too, should like to wait in the coach. You do mean a bus, don’t
you? Is it a double-decker? I just arrived in London late last
night and haven’t had a chance to ride in one yet.”

Did this Marcus, this mar
quess
or
whatever he called himself, really believe she was going to stay in
this dank room while his buddy, who seemed relatively harmless,
took off? Right. Sure. She could see the headlines now: STUPID
AMERICAN RAPED IN WHITE TOWER. No, thank you—not this stupid
American!

Marcus held out his arm to block her way to
the steps. “Not yet, I think, Miss Kelley. I have a few questions
for you first.”

Cassandra was getting angry. All right, so
she had broken a rule. Big deal. Cervantes couldn’t have had this
much trouble with the whole of the Spanish Inquisition. Taking off
the greatcoat, she threw it straight in Marcus’s face. “Now, look,
Mark, or whatever your name is, fun’s fun and all that, but I want
to leave now. I’m not entirely helpless, you know. I walk the
streets of Manhattan alone. It’s easy, you just walk with your head
up and carry a big purse.” She lifted her purse from her shoulder.
“See? Big purse. Big,
heavy
purse. I have mace in here.
Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret. Either arrest me or
let me go—but either way,
I’m outta here
.”