Smitten by the Spinster (11 page)

She decided there and then to marry the person she liked best, title or no title, and to hell with what Quinn or any of her other so-called family thought about it. When the crops went to hell, maybe she’d send them a few bags of grain. Maybe she’d invite them to her estate one day. Maybe she wouldn’t.

After she was done being outraged at the message from home, she dug around some more, to find something so strange, she had to sit down on the edge of the bed. It was a letter written in her brother Lachlan’s own hand, giving a load of detailed instructions to Quinn on how to handle the farm, and the clan, and even her. The end puzzled her most of all. It begged Quinn’s forgiveness, and if Quinn should tell her the truth, he prayed she would forgive him as well. The truth about what? Why should he need her forgiveness? Her hands shook so badly, she had to place the page on the bed to read it through again. Questions flew through her mind like screaming crows, jostling at one another for her attention, but she couldn’t focus on any one thing. It was all too confusing.

Her brother had been killed in a fire that had been set during a battle. He’d married Isobel Glen, the daughter of their perpetual enemy, and subsequently became laird of that clan after her father died. Lachlan’s death had been sudden and unexpected. When did he have time to write all these instructions?

She realized there was more on the back, and not sure she could take any more, stared at the wall for a few moments before gathering her wits to read it. What she read so shocked her, she stood and paced the room, completely forgetting she was trespassing and needed to be mindful of the time. Her brother could return at any moment and then she’d be in trouble. Her shock turned to anger as the worry about Quinn’s return set in. Let him find her with the letter. She had loads of questions for him. What could he possibly say to her that would explain what she’d read?

The back of the letter had the strangest and most frightening instructions, what seemed to be a spell for moving around in time. It involved chanting words Catie didn’t understand, a variety of herbs, and the worst, the most horrible, the blood. It seemed like the darkest witchcraft. Had her beloved brother Lachlan gone mad before he died, and was Quinn following in his footsteps?

Quinn had his faults, some might say he was a bit degenerate, but he’d always seemed of sound mind and good character to her. His gambling and occasional drinking were just ways to blow off steam from the extreme amount of pressure Lachlan always put on him when he left on his raiding or hunting expeditions. She knew in her heart he was a good man. Both her brothers were. Weren’t they? What she’d seen on the back of that page froze her to her bones. Blood and chanting and time travel? Her mind reeling, she realized she needed to get out of there and hurriedly put everything away the way she’d found it.

And now she was about to ransack her chaperone’s room. Her anger and confusion had settled in her chest and she wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed to justify to herself the reason for searching Miss Burnet’s things as well as Quinn’s. If she was caught, they’d send her back to Scotland without blinking. Just a few days earlier that would have been fine by her, but now she quite liked London. Her kind new aunt would be so ashamed, and she’d never see her new friend Oliver again. The thought of Oliver, and his smiling, kind eyes, almost made her turn around and go back to her own room to try to sleep away the disturbing things she’d learned.

It was the recollection of Quinn and Miss Burnet’s many exchanged looks to one another that kept her heading up the stairs. It was possible they were just flirting. It was completely probable given Quinn’s reputation, but now that Catie had the seed of suspicion rapidly growing in her mind, it shadowed any sensible thoughts that might have made her turn back. She wouldn’t put it past Quinn to have chosen Miss Burnet for reasons other than merely guiding her through the morass of society. Perhaps they were in cahoots together!

She’d worked herself into a fine frenzy of indignation and only felt the slightest twinge of guilt when she opened Miss Burnet’s small wooden jewel box. Disappointment welled when all that it held were a few pieces of cheap jewelry. She rifled through the book on the bedside table and carefully sorted through the chest of clothes, finding the most bizarre and spectacular pair of shoes she’d ever seen. They were wispy, with tiny silver buckles and thin shiny straps, and the highest, most tottering heels she’d ever seen. Her foot was way too big as she compared them against the bottom of her slipper, but she tried one on anyway, holding onto the headboard of the bed for balance as she teetered on the magnificent shoe. ‘Made in Italy’ was neatly written in gold on the sole, and on the bottom of the inside she made out the words ‘Genuine Leather Sole - Balance Man Made’, along with the number 37.

She shook off the fascination with the shoes and put them back under all the other clothes. She had a mission to find information, not try on all Miss Burnet’s things. That was just creepy, and wasn’t her intent. Pushing down her shame, she lay flat on the floor and peered under the bed. Her heart raced when she saw a box under there, and reached for it, getting a face full of dust bunnies for her trouble.

The box was wrapped four times with string. Catie made sure to count as she unwound it, feeling like a foreign spy, and realizing with a jolt that was exactly what she was right now.

“This is wrong,” she whispered, her hands poised over the lid of the box. There was still time to turn back and keep a bit of her integrity. “Bugger it all,” she muttered, flipping off the top. There was no turning back now.

All she found were a few tatty old books, mostly plays and a couple filled with musical scores. Unable to pinpoint why she was disappointed, she started to close the box back up when a bit of bright white at the bottom of the pile caught her eye. It wasn’t a book, but a folded up envelope. She turned it in her hand, admiring the crisp, bright paper, then unfolded it and held it for a moment. If she opened it and read what was inside, she might find out something she didn’t want to know, very much like she had in Quinn’s room. Or she could just end up invading her new friend’s privacy and be a truly horrible person.

“I’ve gone too far already,” she said, glancing around. There was no one to agree with her, or give her any reason not to do it, so she opened the envelope and slid out its contents.

The paper was odd, with its torn edge dotted with neatly placed holes and blue lines running all across it. The message written on it was preposterous and made her head spin even more than it had in Quinn’s room. It couldn’t be real. It was just something to do with the books of plays that were along with it in the box. Pure fantasy, nothing more. But it was made out directly to Miss Burnet, her name was on the envelope as well. Catie sat on the floor, reading it over and over until she’d memorized it, feeling sicker with every pass of her eyes across the page. Who was Miss Burnet?
What
 was she?

Her eyes blurring with tears, she hastily put everything away, too distraught to remember to keep order or count wraps of the string. She shoved the hateful box back under the bed and staggered to her own room. The party was now a distant memory, as if it had happened months ago and not just that evening. Catie knew she had to deal with her new information, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it at the moment. As much as she wanted to find Quinn and make him tell her everything was fine, she knew she could no longer trust him. If Lachlan was still alive and by some dark magic gone to another time, if Miss Burnet herself was a part of it, neither one of them could be trusted.

When she got to her own room, she collapsed on the bed and burrowed under the covers, dejected and shaking. A new, devastating idea grew until it surpassed every other bleak thought in her head. What if Lachlan was in trouble? What if he’d been coerced into leaving them? She tossed and turned until the sun glowed through her curtains, then finally fell asleep, hating everyone.

Lizzie paused in front of the alley and looked up and down the street. It was extremely dangerous for her to be out so far past dark, and the little knife in her pocket didn’t seem as comforting to her as it did during the day. The closest light seemed miles away, not a soul in sight, and the shadowy depths of the alley seemed to go on forever. If she had to go down it, she decided she’d rather just go back to the house and await further instructions. No information about getting home could lure her into that smelly passage. She turned to leave, so spooked she was about to break into a run, when a skinny man stepped from the alley. He stopped a respectful distance from her and nodded a greeting.

She took a step away. He wasn’t much taller than her, and he looked sickly, pale and angular in the moonlight. One of his buggy eyes twitched at her and he swept his black knit hat off his head and clutched it to his chest. His clothes weren’t right at all, and against her better judgement she leaned in to get a closer look. He wore an oversized tuxedo jacket over a ragged sweater, which was jammed bulkily under a striped waistcoat, the only thing that could have remotely been from this time. On his lower half, it looked like he had on tight fitting jeans tucked into motorcycle boots. All the air left her lungs in a shocked wheeze.

“Who are you?” she gasped.

He smiled and slapped his hat back on, then dug in his jacket pocket to produce a card. “Solomon Wodge,” he said, surprising her further by sounding like a posh Cambridge professor. “My calling card.”

She took the card, and unable to read it in the dark, tucked it into her sleeve. “When are you from?” she hissed.

“Whenever I want,” he said, staring at her disconcertingly.

Frustrated and feeling the edges of fear, she clenched her fists at her sides. “Why did you want me to meet you here? Is there a new message from Lord Ashford? Is he still going to be able to make it?”

Wodge’s hand snaked forward and grabbed her wrist, jerking her into the dark opening of the alley. “When is he coming?” he demanded. “Are you in league with the witches?”

She was good and scared now and shook her head. “What? Witches?”

A part of her wanted answers from this man who clearly came from another time, and a part of her wanted to kick him and run. Though he wasn’t much bigger than her, he was wiry and strong and his fingers dug painfully into her wrist.

“Tell me when Lord Ashford arrives,” he said slowly, narrowing one eye at her.

“I don’t know,” she lied.

He shook his head and her skin crawled as she realized he didn’t believe her. “In league with the witches,” he said sadly, pulling out a knife.

Almost blinded by her terror, positive she was about to be murdered in eighteenth century London, she wrenched her wrist out of his grasp and kneed him in the groin. It knocked him back a half step, but because of her weighty skirts, didn’t damage him enough to keep him from advancing toward her again, knife extended.

Screaming wasn’t an option, she knew no one would come to her aid, not here. A knife fight with this madman didn’t seem a smart idea. Really, why had she ever thought her tiny blade would keep her safe? She turned to run and heard a crack and a thud, then was being smothered in a wall of … plaid?

“It’s me, lass. Ye’re safe now.”

She shoved away from Quinn and leaned over, trying to catch her breath and quaking with the adrenaline rush of nearly being killed. Wodge lay in a heap in the mouth of the alley, blood gushing out of his nose.

 “Did you follow me?” she asked, turning to Quinn.

“Well, aye,” he said. “And a good thing, dinna ye think?” He took her arm and led her away at a brisk pace, not slowing until they were several blocks away from the scene of the crime.

“Did you kill him?” she asked, more curious than concerned for Wodge’s welfare.

“I dinna think so, just hit him in the face rather hard.”

“Uh, thank you for that,” she said.

They walked on in silence and were close to the Amberly’s townhouse before her breathing returned to normal, her heart slowed its frantic beating. Quinn had kept a light, reassuring hand on her arm the entire way and she swallowed hard and looked up at him. His profile was stark in the moonlit night, his brow furrowed and lips set.

“I suppose you want to know what that was about,” she said awkwardly.

He glanced down at her. “Do ye want to tell me what it was about?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“That’s as well, then, as we’re home now.”

She sighed with relief as they made their way stealthily around to the back entrance. The cook let them in and Lizzie knew she’d have to work a combination of bribery and threats to ensure her silence as they made their way past her interested gaze. Quinn paused at the doorway of the library.

“Lady Amberly has offered me free range of her fine whiskey. I shall bid ye goodnight, Miss Burnet.”

“You’re going to have a drink?” Lizzie asked.

“I am going to get drunk,” he corrected, opening the door.

She paused for a second, watching him lower himself into one of the armchairs and reach for a bottle and glass. To hell with it, she thought, following him in. She’d never get to sleep. A drink would help to shake off the effects of the disturbing attack. And Quinn’s presence had been so comforting, she didn’t want to leave him yet.

“Better pour me one, too,” she said, falling into the chair opposite him and returning his delighted grin.