Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (29 page)

“Don’t look now, but methinks the jig is up,
old sport,” Cassandra whispered, then ducked under the covers,
leaving him to explain as best he could.

He took refuge in a lie. “Cassandra cried out
in a nightmare, Aunt, just as I was passing by her door on my way
down to my study to retrieve a book I had been reading,” he said,
avoiding her eyes. “I have just finished calming her and was about
to return to my own chamber. Isn’t that right, Cassandra?” he said
between clenched teeth.

She peeked out from beneath the covers. “If
you say so, Marcus,” she said, winking at him so that he longed to
bend her over his knee and spank her.

Aunt Cornelia approached the bed. Her
ramrod-straight body was wrapped in a heavy dressing gown and a
ridiculous frilled cap covered her rag-tied curls. She looked more
imposing than any uniformed, gold-braid-festooned general he had
ever seen, and twice as nasty. Aunt Cornelia gazed at him levelly
for a long while, so that he could feel his toes digging into the
carpet, just as if he were ten years old once more and had been
caught trying to filch sugarplums from his mother’s candy dish in
the drawing room at Eastbourne.

“I see,” she said, and Marcus knew that she
did see. She saw all too much, including his nightclothes, which he
suddenly realized were still sprawled at the foot of the bed, where
he had carelessly dropped them before joining Cassandra under the
covers. Obviously Cassandra saw them, too, for she had begun
giggling again, wretched child that she was.

“Corny—I mean, Aunt Cornelia,” Marcus heard
himself babble, “I can explain.”

“And it is an explanation I shall look
forward to with great anticipation, Marcus.” Aunt Cornelia turned
on her heel, dragging the hem of her dressing gown and her dignity
behind her, and headed for the door. “Your study, Marcus.
Alone.
Ten o’clock. I would advise you not to be late,” he
heard her say just before the door closed on her departing
back.

Marcus collapsed onto the bed, at last
beginning to appreciate the humor of the situation—which he
considered to be a good thing, for Cassandra was all but dissolved
in mirth. He didn’t want to appear too stiff-backed about the
business. After all, he was not a naughty child. This was his
house. As a matter of fact, this was his bedchamber, if one wanted
to nitpick.

“Oh, Marcus, did you see her
face?
”
Cassandra said, gasping for breath. “Poor Corny. I don’t know
whether she’s upset at finding us, or angry because she didn’t
suspect it long ago. What are you doing?”

Marcus had stood to untie the sash at his
waist. “Doing? What does it look as if I’m doing, my dearest? I’m
preparing to join you. That is what you’ve been wanting all along,
isn’t it—for the two of us to be open about our deepened
association? The way I see the situation now—with the interview I
have to endure in a few short hours—I may as well be hanged for a
sheep as a lamb.”

Cassandra looked toward the door, frowning,
then back to him, a slow smile beginning to tug at the corners of
her mouth. “Oh, Marcus, I
do
love you!” she exclaimed,
sitting up in order to pull her nightgown over her head.

“Of course you do, imp,” he answered,
slipping his long frame under the covers and reaching out to pull
her down on top of him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

~ ~ ~

“All right, Perry,” Marcus said, using his
fruit knife to point at the soup tureen. “Watch and listen
carefully. This is the House of Commons.”

Perry closed his eyes and sniffed, shaking
his head. “Do you really think we should be using turbot, Marcus? I
don’t suppose I would like it above half if you compared me with a
fish. Couldn’t we call back the roast beef?”

“Perry,” Marcus intoned tightly.

Perry held up his hands. “All right, all
right. It was merely a suggestion, that’s all. Please continue,
Marcus. The House of Commons is fish soup. It is very clear to me
now. What are those wilting pieces of carrot you’ve got propped up
next to the tureen?”

Cassandra leaned forward, peering at the
carrots. “I know,” she exclaimed, smiling at Marcus. “Those are the
columns in the lobby, aren’t they, darling?”

“Cassandra, please,” Aunt Cornelia cautioned
in a hissing whisper, inclining her head toward Goodfellow, who was
discreetly hovering in a corner of the dining room, being the only
servant Marcus would allow to attend them at this meal. “There are
rumors enough belowstairs without you spouting ridiculous
endearments every other moment. ‘The better part of valor is
discretion,’ my dear.”

“Who said that, Cassandra? That Kennedy fella
you told us about? Or was it Churchill, our own hero? I suppose I
like it, but not half as well as his ‘we shall fight on the
beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in
the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we
shall never surrender!’ Lord, Marcus, ain’t that the most inspiring
thing you’ve ever heard?” Peregrine grinned, proud of his great
memory, then picked up one of the carrot columns, nearly taking a
bite out of it before Marcus snatched it from his hand and replaced
it on the table.

Cassandra applauded softly. “Very good,
Perry. I had to learn that speech for my public speaking contest in
high school, but I’ve never done it so well. You’re a quick
learner. Only Churchill didn’t say that business about discretion
being the better part of valor. And the Kennedy quote was, ‘Ask not
what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your
country.’”

“Then who talked about this discretion
business?” Perry asked, clearly confused. “I’m sure I’ve heard it
somewhere.”

“Will Shakespeare, you brainless twit!” Aunt
Cornelia exploded, nearly beaning Peregrine with an apple she had
snatched from the fruit bowl. “Cassandra, I don’t know why you
bother with the man. It’s clear as the vacant grin on his face that
he understands next to nothing. Now pay attention, Perry, if you
can apply yourself for a moment. Marcus is about to show us how
we’re going to save Perceval.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” Marcus said, inclining his
head in her direction. He didn’t know how he had ended up allowing
his relative to be a part of their rescue plan, but his interview
with her in his study the preceding week would most probably always
be a little hazy in his memory. All he knew was that he had been
speaking about his love for Cassandra and his growing
apprehensions, and somehow Aunt Cornelia had wheedled the whole of
it out of him.

It was vaguely depressing, this new feeling
of vulnerability, but he knew he should welcome it, for it told him
that he was human. He had Cassandra to thank for that. For years he
had concerned himself almost exclusively with his experiments, his
theories, his writing, burying himself in books and research. Now,
facing death, he felt more alive than he had done in years.

When he had mentioned this new exhilaration
to Cassandra she had only nodded, saying it had something to do
with the thrill of “living on the edge.” She hadn’t seemed too
pleased, though, and added that it was “just like a man to get his
jollies thinking about matters of life and death,” whatever that
meant. Her further statements about sky diving and something called
bungee jumping he chose to ignore, for the moment. Later, if his
plans worked out, he would ask her about them again.

“Perceval is never alone,” Marcus explained,
reaching into his pocket and extracting some tin soldiers that had
been the playthings of his youth and placing them on the table. “I
have been watching his movements for several days so that I have
learned his habits. Thankfully, he never varies from his routine.
He arrives at the St. Stephen’s Chapel entrance at eight each
morning, leaves again between noon and one thirty of the clock, and
returns from three until six. The assault could take place during
any of those times, for he always enters and departs through the
main lobby. Any questions so far?”

Peregrine tentatively raised his hand, as if
afraid to be called upon to speak. “I have one, Marcus. Why don’t
we just tell the man? You said the murderer only shot him because
he was there—which, by the by, seems to be a very silly reason for
blowing a hole in anyone. Well, anyway, it stands to reason then
that if Perceval
weren’t
there, he wouldn’t be shot.” He
turned to Cassandra, who was busily setting up the soldiers near
the carrot columns. “Ain’t that right, Cousin?”

“Marcus already explained that, Perry,” she
answered, positioning the last soldier, the one with an X painted
on its chest in black. “We can’t tell Mr. Perceval anything because
we don’t really know anything. There’s no plot to murder him. He
just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s
no French plot, no uprising of the people. Just dumb bad luck. He’d
never believe us. We might,” she finished, looking up at Marcus,
“even end up in trouble ourselves. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“There she goes again.
Darling,
” Aunt
Cornelia said, sighing. “State secrets are one thing. Traveling
through time is another. But a hole-and-corner affair, taking place
right under their noses? This can’t be overlooked. Oh, the servants
will have a field day with this! We’ll be a part of dinner table
gossip all over Mayfair, with me to blame because I am in
residence. Oh, the shame!”

“Oh, cut line, Corny,” Peregrine said,
quickly snatching up one of the carrots and sticking it in his
mouth before Marcus could act. “Only Goodfellow knows for sure, and
mayhap Cousin Cassie’s abigail, and both of them know to keep their
yappers shut. Ain’t that right, Goodfellow?” he asked, calling to
the butler, who still hovered in the corner. “You wouldn’t cry rope
on the marquess, now would you?”

Goodfellow rolled his eyes as he bowed in his
lordship’s direction, then returned to his job of slicing the ham
that made up the rest of the third course. Obviously, to the loyal
butler’s mind, Peregrine’s question did not deserve an answer.

Peregrine chomped on the carrot, satisfied on
two heads—his reading of the butler and his success at claiming one
of the carrots for his own. “See? What did I tell you, Corny?
You’re going to worry yourself half to Bedlam if you don’t stop,
you know that? Now let’s get on with it. Marcus—you were
saying?”

The marquess opened his mouth to speak, but
Cassandra beat him to it. “All right, Perry, Aunt Cornelia—here’s
the plan. We will go to the House of Commons at the crack of
dawn—”

“The crack of dawn!” Aunt Cornelia
interrupted. “Impossible! I never rise before noon.”

“You did a fairly good impression of someone
rising at dawn one day last week, Aunt, as I recall,” Marcus
interjected meanly before reaching for a restorative sip from his
wineglass. When had he lost control of this meeting?

“We position ourselves inside the lobby as
soon as the doors open. Marcus’s consequence will see to that. No
one will dare to deny him entry,” Cassandra continued, avoiding his
eyes as she struggled to control a laugh. Obviously it still amused
her that he had been read a stern lecture by his aunt, like a
schoolboy remiss at his sums. “Marcus, would you like to use your
toy soldiers to show us how you plan to place us?”

He stepped forward once more, leaning down to
pick up one of the soldiers. “I beg you to bear in mind that these
are not toys, Cassandra, any more than we are indulging in a game,
much as I seem to be the only one cognizant of that most pertinent
fact.”

“Oh, lighten up, Marcus,” Cassandra
retaliated, leaning her head against his sleeve. “There are four of
us and only one shooter—the shooter is the guy with the gun. That’s
what they’re called—shooters. Anyway, we know he’s coming, but he
doesn’t know we’ll be there. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to
figure out that the odds are all in our favor.”

Marcus looked at the other occupants of the
room in turn. Corny, who certainly could not be counted upon to
wrestle the man to the ground if he should appear beside her;
Perry, whose intentions were good, but who had never seen action
more dangerous than crossing the street when the stage was coming
in to the White House; and Cassandra, who seemed to think that the
whole dangerous business was a great adventure, and would most
probably try to save Perceval herself, and end by getting in his
way when he went to disarm the “shooter.”

“Goodfellow,” Marcus said, motioning for the
old man to join him at the table, “you served some time in the
army, didn’t you?”

“Yes, my lord. Served king and country for
six long years, I did,” the butler said proudly, then bowed his
head. “But that was a long time since, my lord. The rheumatism has
slowed me down a bit. But I would be proud to make up one of your
party, my lord.” He raised his hand in salute, wincing as the swift
movement gave him pain. “For king and country, my lord!”

“Oh, good grief,” Cassandra muttered, resting
her head in her hands. “Why not recruit Rose as well, Marcus? She
could hit the shooter over the head with my purse. Or, better yet,
why not your wonderful French cook? Raoul would probably delight in
taking a meat cleaver to the fellow. Or one of the footmen. They
could—”

“Enough!” Marcus brought his fist down on the
table, the force of the blow toppling the carrot columns and
scattering the tin soldiers. “Aunt, you and Goodfellow are
dismissed. No arguments. Just go—please,” he ended, his tone
softening. “I have decided that Perry and I will do this on our
own. Each person we add only multiplies the possibility of
disaster.”

Aunt Cornelia allowed the butler to help her
rise from her chair. “We’re old now, Goodfellow,” she said, leaning
heavily on his arm as he led her toward the door. “Old and
unwanted. Would you like a glass of sherry, Goodfellow? I think we
deserve a treat, don’t you?”