Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (37 page)

“No, she ain’t,” Peregrine answered as Marcus
caught him eyeing the wide tester bed—probably attempting to
measure the comfort of the mattress he would sleep on for the first
time that night. “Just there, Marcus. Didn’t see her. Didn’t linger
either. Your aunt is dead set on making a man out of me, or so she
says. Keeps telling me I mustn’t eat so much, and learn to dance
without tramping on m’partner’s toes. Do you think she plans to
marry me off? I can’t say I like the idea. Oh, well, she’ll show
up.”

“Who will show up, Perry,” Marcus asked
facetiously, already heading for the door, “Corny, your heretofore
unlooked-for bride, or Cassandra?”

“Why, Cousin Cassie, of course,” Peregrine
answered testily, beginning to breathe heavily as he followed
Marcus, who was striding down the hallway in the direction of
Cassandra’s bedchamber, “I saw her just after luncheon. She was
looking for one last portrait to paint in her little black
box.”

Marcus halted so quickly that Peregrine
cannoned into his back. “The camera, Perry?” he asked, beginning to
feel uneasy. “She’s already pointed that thing at everything and
everyone inside the house. Are you telling me that Cassandra is
taking pictures, as she terms it, somewhere? She didn’t go outside
dressed in her own clothing, did she?”

Peregrine stepped back a pace, shaking his
head. “Couldn’t have. She could get into trouble going outside with
no clothes on. Stands to reason, considering how she looked when I
happened upon her earlier. I had forgotten how she looked when
first we clapped eyes on her. Goodfellow blushed beet red to the
top of his head when he brought us some tea in the drawing room.
No, Cousin Cassie wouldn’t go outside. Would she?”

Fifteen frantic minutes of searching and
pointed questions later, Peregrine had his answer. Marcus was
pacing the carpet in his study, cursing softly, fluently,
endlessly, under his breath. Cassandra’s blue cloak was missing.
Rose had taken a quick inventory and discovered that fact. A few
discreet inquiries in the servants’ hall had disclosed the damning
information that one of the underfootmen had seen Cassandra
slipping out the front door dressed in that same missing
cloak—although he couldn’t recall seeing her slip back in
again.

The underfootman also remembered hearing the
clock in the drawing room strike two times as Cassandra closed the
door behind her. She was nowhere to be found either in the mansion
or in the garden leading to the mews. Now, just as the clock was
rapidly moving toward the hour of six, it was obvious that the
impetuous Miss Kelley had gone missing.

“Earthquakes! Always earthquakes!” Marcus
exclaimed at last, slamming a fist into his palm. “I’ll give her
this much, Perry—the girl doesn’t exaggerate. Come with me.”

Peregrine scrambled out of the chair in which
he had been sitting, having become faintly exhausted merely from
watching Marcus pace. Crumbs of the strawberry tart he had been
nibbling spilled from his waistcoat onto the floor. “Come with you
where, Marcus? Where are we going? And shouldn’t you tell Aunt
Cornelia? She’s that worried.”

“No, I won’t tell her, Perry. She’d be
completely beside herself if I told her where we’re going.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Aunt Cornelia
said as Marcus reached for the mahogany case containing his dueling
pistols. “Hawtrey’s got her, hasn’t he? It’s the only thing that
makes sense. The gel didn’t have time to make more than one enemy.
Cassandra knows you must get to the White Tower before midnight.
Procure a pistol for me as well, if you please. My father taught me
to shoot. I may not be able to blow the pips out of a playing card
at ten paces, but I should be able to hit that interfering, fat
flawn of a Lady Blakewell if I put my mind to it.”

“Hawtrey?” Peregrine asked, clearly aghast.
Obviously that unpleasant thought had not occurred to him. “Oh,
never say so, ma’am. He’s evil. Marcus, what are we waiting for? We
must rescue Cousin Cassie.”

“Have Goodfellow bring the closed carriage
around, Perry,” Marcus ordered tightly. Locating a third pistol, he
gingerly handed it to Corny, who took it with the air of a person
who was familiar with firearms. Just as he was about to leave them
forever, the members of his household were surprising him with
depths of loyalty and affection he was having difficulty accepting
without a nearly overwhelming gratitude. Rose, Goodfellow, Aunt
Cornelia—even the emotional French cook—everyone had rallied around
wonderfully, and no gossip of their resident time traveler had
passed beyond the front door of the mansion.

“And, yes, Corny,” he said now, “Cassandra
must be in that chamber in the White Tower before midnight. I
cannot vouch for her safety, or the future of our child, if she is
not transported back to her own time tonight.”

“And you, Marcus?” Aunt Cornelia asked as
Peregrine raced from the room, a man with a mission. “Can you
attest to your own safety if you rescue Cassandra from Hawtrey’s
greedy clutches, only to miss your own opportunity, your own
appointment with destiny?”

“I don’t know, Aunt,” Marcus said, taking her
arm as he escorted her toward the foyer. “And, frankly, madam,
without Cassandra by my side, I don’t particularly care!”

~ ~ ~

Cassandra sat alone in the small, windowless
room, still tightly wrapped in her cloak, wondering for the
hundredth time what was keeping Marcus. Surely he had figured it
out by now. She had been kidnapped, pure and simple.

Real
simple.

Simple
minded,
that is.

How could she have been so stupid? Hadn’t she
read all the books? Hadn’t she seen every plot twist imaginable,
all of which had ended with the heroine stumbling into trouble by
way of a villain straight out of Central Casting—and all just so
that the hero could come riding to the rescue?

So why hadn’t she used her head? Why had she
set her wandering feet outside today, of all days, and allowed
herself to be kidnapped by a man intent on—what? Ravishment? She
shivered. The hell he would! Handing her over to his aunt was one
thing, but satisfying his bruised ego by “having his wicked way
with her” first was strictly
verboten,
not to mention
terribly trite.

She had begun her imprisonment calmly enough,
after rousing from her faint while still in the carriage and
learning that their destination was well within the confines of
London. Hawtrey, the twit (as Aunt Cornelia would call him), had
obviously taken her to his own house. The guy wasn’t exactly a
brain trust—and Marcus should arrive at any moment, to punch his
lights out and free her.

So thinking, Cassandra had passed the first
hour singing “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” but by the
time she had wound down to fourteen bottles, her bravado had
suffered a serious dent. Maybe Hawtrey hadn’t taken her to his own
house. Maybe she was being held in some anonymous building, and
Marcus had been reduced to looking for the proverbial needle in a
haystack.

She opened her purse and looked at her watch.
Seven o’clock. If Marcus didn’t show up on his white charger soon,
she was going to have to take matters into her own hands and rescue
herself.

Her stomach growled, reminding her that in
her excitement she had barely touched her lunch. Coupling that fact
with the knowledge that she hadn’t been able to eat more than dry
toast for breakfast in weeks, she knew she’d have to find some food
soon or she’d be sick again.

And then she remembered her purse. Marcus had
insisted that she pack everything she had brought, leaving nothing
behind. That included the Hershey bar she hadn’t eaten, as well as
her remaining cigarettes, for although she had smoked one pack
since her arrival in Regency England, she’d had none since
discovering that she was pregnant.

“Let’s all hear it for chocolate!” she said
aloud, digging into her purse in an attempt to locate the candy.
Her fingers closed around her disposable lighter.

“Now this might prove helpful,” she said,
holding the lighter up in front of her and eyeing it speculatively.
“I’ll bet good old Reggie hasn’t seen one of these. Bing Crosby
might have had that handy eclipse in
A Connecticut Yankee in
King Arthur’s Court,
but I’ll have to wing it.” Laying the
lighter in her lap, she dug through the rest of her belongings,
finally locating the chocolate bar.

Cassandra munched on the chocolate bar,
hating the fact that her hand trembled as she raised it to her
mouth. She was putting up a brave front, mostly to benefit herself,
and to protect her baby, but she was growing more frightened with
each passing minute. She had to get out of here!

She had to get to the White Tower.

De-part de-era, de-sooner de-better. Fifty
ways to leave your time warp.

She’d settle for one. Now. Sooner if
possible.

Cassandra flinched as the single door to the
room opened and Reginald Hawtrey stepped inside, locked the door
behind him, and slipped the key into his pocket. “Good evening,
Miss Kelley. Please excuse my prolonged absence, but certain
preparations had to be made, certain parties assembled. You will
forgive me,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“I don’t speak French, Reggie,” Cassandra
informed him coldly.

He launched himself into a torrent of that
language, his tone more snide than romantic.

“Only Spanish.”

That stopped him. “Spanish? No one speaks
Spanish. What would a lady be doing speaking such a heathen tongue?
Perhaps you are a spy after all, sent here by Bonaparte, and not
Irish at all. And not a foreteller of futures either. What
is
Eastbourne up to?”

It worked once,
Cassandra thought.
Besides, I’m too frightened to think up a good lie.
“What
are we about, Reggie? Why, I thought you had guessed. We’re time
travelers—or at least I am. Marcus is going to make his first
flight tonight. Want to come with us? There’s a singles bar on East
Forty-eighth Street that’s right up your alley. I’ll even buy you a
gold chain.”

“Enough!” Hawtrey ordered, covering his ears.
“I won’t listen to any more of your nonsense words. My aunt wants
you, and that’s good enough for me,” He took the key from his
pocket and opened the door. “One of your
handmaidens
will be
attending you shortly, to prepare you. You’ll be given a bath and a
gown. Wrapping yourself in that cloak has not cooled my ardor, if
that was your hope. Cooperate, Miss Kelley, and you might even find
yourself enjoying the evening.”

And then he threw back his head and laughed—a
stock villain move, not that it was without effect.

Cassandra’s panicked mind whirled back to
that first evening she had encountered Reginald Hawtrey. Either
Marcus or Peregrine—most probably Marcus, for Perry wouldn’t be so
outspoken—had said something about Reggie and orgies. She decided
to call him on it. “You wouldn’t be planning a Black Mass or
anything, would you, Reggie? They’re really not ‘in’ this
season.”

“Witch!” Hawtrey spat the word as he stabbed
his index finger toward the center of her chest. “I’ll soon see
your arrogance silenced!”

And then he was gone, and she heard the key
turn in the other side of the lock.

Cassandra slumped in the chair, totally
defeated, and more frightened than she had been in her life. “Oh,
God, he
is
planning a Black Mass. I don’t believe this. I
don’t believe any of this.
Marcus!
Marcus, where are
you?”

~ ~ ~

“I’ll ask one last time. Where is she?”

Lady Blakewell fanned herself with her
handkerchief, her usually sallow complexion strangely pink. “And I
will answer you one last time, my lord. I haven’t the faintest idea
what you are talking about. My Reggie would never do such a thing.
Kidnapping Peregrine Walton’s nobody of a cousin? Why would Reggie
stoop so low?”

“Why?” Marcus questioned, his dark eyes
narrowing as he felt his temper threatening to explode beyond the
boundaries of his rigid self-control. “Why not, madam? I’ve learned
never to underestimate the ambition of stupidity—or the
ruthlessness of greed. Hawtrey did it for
you,
madam. He did
it for your money.”

He was losing time, precious, precious time.
He had been forced to change his clothes before leaving Grosvenor
Square—and he had wasted a frustrating half hour fighting the crush
of vehicles surrounding Hyde Park before all but breaking down
Hawtrey’s door, just to be told that the man was not there.

Now he was forced to deal directly with Lady
Blakewell, and the Reverend Ignatius Austin, who was hovering
behind the settee like some oversize black crow. A wickedly
grinning black crow, his yellowed teeth taking the place of that
winged predator’s beak.

“You have harbored one of Satan’s own spawn
in your bosom,” the vicar said now, pointing a bony finger at
Marcus. “You have sown the wind, and ye have reaped the
whirlwind!”

“Oh, stubble it, Ichabod,” Aunt Cornelia
snapped, reaching into the pocket of her cloak and pulling out the
long-barreled pistol. “Enough of this, Marcus. I say we shoot
him.”

Marcus would have laughed out loud at this
abrupt change of tactic, but Corny’s actions seemed to have done
the trick. Falling on his knees behind the settee, the vicar hid
his head behind Lady Blakewell’s turban and began loudly pleading
for Aunt Cornelia to spare his life. “Shoot her instead!” he
exclaimed, lifting a hand to point at Lady Blakewell’s head.
“
She
made me tell what I knew.
She’s
the one what
wants to lock her up and make her tell the future. I know nothing
of any kidnapping, I am innocent! I am a man of God!”

Lady Blakewell turned on the settee and began
beating at the Reverend Mr. Austin’s head with her ivory stick fan.
“Shoot me?
Shoot me?
How dare you, sirrah! Shoot him! Shoot
him!
”