Out of the Blue (A Regency Time Travel Romance) (38 page)

“Pitiful, ain’t it?” Peregrine remarked
sorrowfully, drawing his own pistol as the vicar made a break for
the hallway. “So, shall I take aim at this autem-bawler, Marcus? I
will if you want me to, but I won’t blow a hole in anyone just
because Lady Blakewell here wants it done. I wouldn’t want to do
anything that might make
her
happy.”

While Peregrine kept his pistol trained on
the vicar, and Aunt Cornelia, clearly enjoying her role of Regency
Boadicea, kept hers leveled at Lady Blakewell’s ample bosom, Marcus
looked at the mantel clock just as it struck the hour of nine. He
didn’t like what was happening—it was barely civilized and totally
out of character for a gentleman—but Aunt Cornelia’s tactics
certainly seemed to be proving effective so far.

“Where is he, Lady Blakewell?” Marcus
demanded again. “Where does your devious little nephew go when he
wishes to indulge his basest whims? Speak up quickly, madam, for I
cannot control my aunt much longer.”

Less than two minutes later he, Peregrine,
and his most remarkable aunt were back in the closed coach, the
pertinent information in hand.

Goodfellow, who had volunteered—nay,
demanded—to ride on the box (the French cook sitting beside him, a
large, ugly meat cleaver in hand), sprang the horses. Corny
discreetly covered her eyes, for Marcus was already pulling his
slacks over his pantaloons and boots, before stripping off his
jacket and neckcloth, to reveal the sprigged muslin shirt hidden
beneath it.

“That was very good, Marcus, by the by,” Aunt
Cornelia said when she had been told she could uncover her eyes. “I
never would have thought to tell that fat cow not to breathe a word
of what just happened or I would inform Lady Hertford of her plans
to usurp her in Prinny’s affections—not to mention hinting that she
had resorted to witchcraft in order to seduce our dearest King. As
for that twit, Austin, I do not believe he will stop running until
he reaches John O’ Groats.”

“That’s for certain, Corny,” Peregrine said
“That fellow will be playing least-in-sight for months, until his
bony knees stop shaking.”

“Needs must when the devil drives, my
friends,” Marcus countered, lifting the leather window flap to peer
out into the foggy twilight. He could see that they were still a
good three miles from their destination, a small house next to the
World’s End Tavern, which was an extremely congested four or more
miles from the Tower. “Goodfellow!” he cried out, dropping the side
window and sticking his head outside the coach. “Make haste,
man!”

“I’ll lay the whip on with a will, my lord!”
Goodfellow bellowed back at him as the cook, raising the cleaver
and swinging it above his head, called out loudly,
“Vive le
Mademoiselle Kelley! Vive les french fries!”

C
assandra never did
get that bath Hawtrey had promised her. A scant fifteen minutes
after he had locked her in the windowless room once more, the door
opened again, admitting a mismatched pair of painted ladies who
looked as if they would feel very much at home lying on their
backs.

Oh, yes, Hawtrey was planning mischief, that
was for sure, even if it wouldn’t quite be a Black Mass. Hawtrey
couldn’t really believe in the devil. His sort believed only in
themselves.

“Strike me, Mab, but
she’s
a pretty
’un,” the first woman said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Oi’ll be
takin’ ’er cloak fer m’pains.”

“Oh, do ye say that, do ye? Well, the divil
you will, Peg,” Mab, a redhead of obvious Irish descent answered
shortly. “And I say we draws for it, fair and square.”

“And
I
say you can have it!” Cassandra
announced quickly, seeing her chance for escape. “Here you go,
ladies—now don’t fight.” With that, she untied the cloak and threw
it at them, revealing her vee-necked sweater, run-filled panty
hose, and—in her mind, the
piéce de résistance
—her
miniskirt. “Who said I don’t know any French?” she rhetorically
asked out loud a moment later as the two women stood in front of
her, transfixed, staring at what to them must have seemed to be
extremely outlandish clothing.

Pulling the lighter from her skirt pocket,
Cassandra then held it straight out in front of her, flicking it to
life with a quick movement of her thumb. “That’s right,
ladies—stare! What’s the matter, didn’t good old Reggie tell you
that I’m a witch? Well, I am. I’m a witch, and I can make fire with
my fingers.”

“Coo, Mab,” Peg whispered, her eyes wide as
saucers, “look-ee at dat, would ya? That gentry mort ain’t paid us
enuf to deal wit
dat!
”

“Bingo, Peg, you go to the head of the class.
Now stand away from that door, before I show you the little trick I
do with
this!
” She reached into her other skirt pocket and
extracted the camera.

Mab jammed her beefy fists on her hips. “And
what would that be, dearie? It’s nothing but a bit of a box—ain’t
it, Peg? Nothin’ to be afeared of. And it’s many a trick with fire
I’ve seen back in County Cork. Ye can have the cloak, Peg. It’s
them clothes I wants, and don’t ye know it.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. Leave it to a
fellow Irishwoman to prove herself more brave than wise. There was
no film left in the camera, but the flash still worked. It wasn’t
much in the way of magic, but it had certainly impressed Peregrine.
Besides, she didn’t have any more tricks up her sleeve.

Waiting until Mab made a swipe at the camera,
Cassandra pushed the button. Quick as a flash the Irishwoman
stopped in her tracks, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“Sweet Mither of Gawd!” Mab exclaimed with gratifying overreaction,
covering her eyes with her hands. “It’s blinded I am,
Peg—blinded—with pretty blue lights everywhere! Run fer it, Peg,
save yerself! I’m done fer, I’m done fer!”

“No wonder the critics say the best actors
are all Irish,” Cassandra murmured appreciatively. She walked
boldly through the doorway, the camera still held high as Peg
flattened herself against the wall, making the sign against the
evil eye.

Once outside the door, however, Cassandra
felt her fears come back in a rush. She wasn’t safe yet, not by a
wide margin. She had to get out of this house, for one thing, and
she had to find Marcus. Minus her cloak, for she hadn’t dared to
take the time to retrieve it, she would have a tough time walking
through the streets or trying to hire a hack to return her to
Grosvenor Square.

Glancing at the watch that she had strapped
to her wrist once more, she felt her stomach do a small flip when
she saw that it was past nine. She had to get to the White Tower
before midnight. Get to it, get in it, and find her way to the
small room where the blue mist would appear.

But how?

The muffled sound of men’s voices came to her
from behind a set of double doors on her right. Hawtrey! He was
probably drinking with some of his cronies, getting themselves good
and drunk before they got on with the “ceremony.” She shivered,
thankful for the miracles of modern technology that had saved her
from such a fate.

Cassandra inched her way along the hallway,
heading for the front door. At least she had lucked out a little.
There was no way she could have forced herself to make her way
downstairs, or past long hallways of doors—any of which could open
at any moment, exposing the leering Hawtrey.

Her hand was on the handle when the front
door was pushed open, sending her sprawling against a table, vainly
clutching at a vase of wilted flowers and missing it, so that it
crashed loudly to the floor.

“Marcus!” she shouted as the tall, powerful
figure of her beloved took three giant steps into the foyer,
followed closely by Peregrine, Aunt Cornelia, Goodfellow, and
Jacques, the chef. They were all looking very stern, and were armed
to the teeth—even Aunt Cornelia. They were also, Cassandra decided,
more welcome than Superman, or Batman, or the entire quartet of
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles—and their rat-faced friend. “Marcus!
You’re here!” she cried.

“Cassandra!” Marcus exclaimed, dragging her
into his arms for a moment, then pushing her away, his eyes
searching her face and form as if for evidence of injury. “He
didn’t hurt you, did he? The bastard! I’ll kill him!”

Cassandra grabbed his bare forearms, some
small part of her mind realizing that he, too, was dressed for
their journey. “There isn’t time for that, Marcus. We have to get
to the White Tower. How far away is it?”

“At this time of night, with carriages
to
ing and
fro
ing to Carlton House, Almack’s, and two
dozen other places?” Aunt Cornelia remarked, rubbing at her temple
with the barrel of an evil-looking pistol. “We’ll be lucky to do it
in less than two hours.”

“Two hours? Oh, no! No! That’s cutting it too
thin. We have to go faster than that,” Cassandra argued, trying to
take hold of Marcus’s hand and drag him through the door.

“In a moment, my dear,” he answered with
maddening calm before, elegantly lifting her hand to his lips, he
pressed a kiss in her palm. “It would appear we have succeeded in
rousing your host.”

“Hawtrey.” Peregrine growled the name low in
his throat and took a single step forward. “Let’s get him!”

“Shoot him, Marcus!” Aunt Cornelia ordered,
leveling her own pistol at Reginald Hawtrey’s diamond-studded
neckcloth.

“Yes, my lord,” Goodfellow urged, “blast a
hole in the bounder!”

“
Oui, monsieur,
give to heem
une
boule dans la gorge
—ze ball in ze t’roat!” Jacques supplied,
helpfully translating his suggestion when he saw Cassandra’s
uncomprehending frown.

Cassandra could almost see the gears turning
in Marcus’s brain as he weighed the need for revenge against the
rapidly diminishing window of opportunity that—according to his own
theories—was the White Tower from now until the last stroke of the
clock at midnight. “Marcus, no,” she pleaded, tugging on his
forearm again. “I’m fine, honestly I am. Let’s just get out of
here!”

Marcus looked at Hawtrey, who was showing
signs that he would give a lot to be anyplace else, and then back
at Cassandra. “Perry—take Miss Kelley away. All of you, get out of
here. Wait for me in the coach. I believe I shall dispense with a
second to stand by me at this time. No sense landing you in the
basket with Bow Street if I kill my man.”

“No! This is no time to play the macho man!”
Cassandra cried as Peregrine lifted her bodily and carried her out
into the foggy May night. “Perry, I’ll murder you!” she vowed as he
deposited her on one seat inside the coach and handed her his
greatcoat. “We’re wasting precious time—don’t you men know that?
Corny—
tell them
!”

But Aunt Cornelia shook her head. “You
Americans never did quite understand, did you? This is a matter of
honor, Cassandra, legal or not. Marcus can do no less than
challenge Hawtrey to a duel. I suggest you make the best of this
time, my dear, by shutting your mouth and offering up a silent
prayer for your beloved’s safety.”

Cassandra fell silent, folding her hands in
her lap and bowing her head. But no prayers would come, only the
vision of her dearest Marcus lying on that dirty foyer floor among
the shards of that ugly vase and those wilted blooms, a red stain
slowly spreading on his chest.

A moment later two shots rang out, startling
the horses so that they reared and pulled against their leads
before Goodfellow could bring them back under control.

The door to the coach opened and Marcus, his
face split with what she could only describe as a devilish grin,
vaulted inside, calling to Goodfellow to drive neck or nothing for
the White Tower. He collapsed against the seat beside Cassandra as
the horses began to move. “Well, that’s done,” he said, slipping
the still slightly smoking dueling pistol into the holster built
for it on the coach wall.

“You’ve killed him?” Cassandra couldn’t
believe it. Her Marcus. Her scientific, calm, collected Marcus had
just blown a man away—just like in the movies. “You’ve actually
killed
Hawtrey?”

“No, more’s the pity,” he answered as
Peregrine leaned forward on the facing seat as if unwilling to miss
a single word of Marcus’s explanation. “He fired early, on the
count of two, and then ducked behind a potted plant to save
himself. I fear I only wounded him. His ‘friends’ are supporting
him now, in his time of need.”

“Pity,” Aunt Cornelia agreed, shaking her
head. “But at least he will be out of commission for the remainder
of the Season—and quite possibly forever, if Lady Blakewell has
anything to say about the business. I don’t believe she is best
pleased with her nephew this evening.”

And then, surprising Cassandra, and everyone
else in the coach, Aunt Cornelia began to cry.

~ ~ ~

“For God’s sake, Marcus, can’t Goodfellow
make this coach go any faster?”

“Hush, darling,” he answered, kissing the top
of her head. “He’s doing the best he can. It’s only eleven thirty.
Even after being caught up in that crush of carriages near St.
James’s Park, we are sure to make the White Tower with minutes to
spare. You are so full of impatience, my love. Impatient to be
moving, impatient to arrive at your destination. I have my best
cattle in the shafts, sixteen-miles-an-hour tits, if they can only
be given their heads.”

“Marcus,” Cassandra countered testily as she
shook herself free of his hold and lifted the leather window
curtain to peer out into the night, “my
car
goes eighty-five
miles per hour—and for God’s sake, once we’re in my time—and
especially when my mother’s around—
don’t
call your horses
‘tits.’ Oh, look—there it is, there it is! The Tower of London!
Marcus, we’re going to make it!”